Chapter Text
June 9th 1853
The pub was actually charming, in an understated fashion, Charles mused. Better suited to raucous drinking and spinning tales, at the very least. The iron welding suspended from the rafters and outfitted with candles twice as thick as his arm was not so luminous as the chandilers he was more accustomed to, but the light was certainly warmer than that refracted by manifold cuts of glass.
Though, a larger table would have been nice. It did manage to seat the three off them, but only just. And Logan, as he preferred to be called, had secured most of the rounded little table for his numerous drinks.
“I didn’t see much of him, like I said, it was dark, but he was tall -- normal looking. Wouldn’t have given him a second thought if I hadn’t seen him crouch down over the other guy. Guy let out a scream, but only the one. I shouted at the, uh, I guess we’re calling him a ‘vampire,’ and he took off. So, I went over to the other guy, found out his name was Mortimer Toynbee, something, and sure enough he’s got these two,” here Logan held up two fingers, curling them slightly and spacing them apart before reaching over to tap them to Charles throat.
Lehnsherr’s hand was wrapped about Logan’s wrist in what seemed to be a fraction of time.
“Hey, bub,” growled Logan, and he jerked his hand away with a deep scowl.
“Please, do go on,” Charles injected in the hopes of circumventing an argument. He nudged Lehnsherr’s foot under the table.
“Right, the guy has a bite mark. Like a snake got him.”
“Does he live here? Would we be able to speak with him?” asked Charles eagerly. Logan rolled his shoulders back and took a drag from his cigar.
“I’ve seen him around the docks, usually trying to swipe something.
“Thank you,” said Charles.
“Yeah, thanks for the drinks and,” he raised his cigar, a curl of smoke following the motion.
Charles looked to Lehnsherr, “Shall we go, sir?”
Perhaps he was enjoying it a bit more than he ought, but it was the same pub Lehnsherr had found him in the evening before and it would have been quite strange indeed to have him return in worse attire.
Lehnsherr rose from the table, leaving a few more gunina than was necessary. Once they were outside the eatery and safely enclosed in a hansom, Lehnsherr asked, “Do you believe him?”
“I’d like to see the wound myself, but, yes, I do. I’ve come to the conclusion that this vampire may not be a malevolent force. If you notice, he has not once killed his victims, and, perhaps, has some... method of healing. This Mortimer Toynbee character is the only one said to have visible injury, possibly because Logan prevented him from employing whatever technique he utilizes.”
“You truly believe that?”
“Almost without a doubt. Varney certainly did not enjoy drinking blood, but still he was compelled.”
Lehnsherr stared at his hands with complete absorption, which naturally stoked concern in Charles.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, Charles.”
The distance in Lehnsherr’s tone did very little to assuage his worries as the carriage plodded along the earthen roads. It was quiet for a time, before Lehnsherr spoke again.
“I do not feel we should see this business through. You have determined for yourself he means no harm, why then should we pursue him?”
“To understand, of course. Aren’t you curious? Perhaps we can even be of assistance, convince him to cease his attacks on residents here. I thought you might appreciate that sentiment, but if you wish to leave off, I assure you I will be fine.”
Charles made no mention that should he find this vampire he had every intention of offering his own blood. He knew the vampire could abstain from killing his victims, so perhaps he could serve as a voluntary source of blood. Considering how troubled Lehnsherr already seemed to be, he could guess his friend would find the idea disagreeable.
“There is nothing that might induce you to leave the matter be?” asked Lehnsherr plaintively, of all things.
“I confess I do not know why this distresses you so, I am only attempting to help.”
“Charles, I withdraw my words, you are not an ounce of what I claimed you to be that night, now please let this vampire alone.”
The carriage slowed to a halt and Charles studied the lines of worry etched in Lehnsherr’s countenance. He gripped the door latch and leaned forward.
“110 Gloucester Avenue, please,”
Lehnsherr let out a breath and Charles made swift work of opening the door and jumping down from the hansom as it pulled away. The landing had been significantly less graceful than the one Charles had aspired to, but he reasoned that more dirt did little to lessen his pretense.
The docks were quiet, only a handful of ship in the process of being unloaded, largely by men with nearly a foot on Charles and several stone besides. If they noticed him picking his way through then they paid him no mind.
“Charles,” was spoken with great restraint on Lehnsherr’s part, which only garnered a smirk from him.
“You decided to join me then, how wonderful.”
“Let’s find him so that you may ask your questions and be done.”
They went to the dock workers and in short order were pointed in the right direction. They found him, and discovered that Mr. Toynbee was not an attractive man, and he smelled something awful, but he was agreeable enough to answer Charles’ questions for a few guinea.
Unfortunately, he offered no new information, only the bite mark. It was enough to go on, Charles supposed. They could start afresh tomorrow.
June 17th, 1853
It was Erik’s habit to travel closer to the evening hours and Charles would not force the vice from him when he could so easily adjust his own habits to match. In years past, he had found it a struggle since his front parlor was beset by the comings and goings of callers. This season, however, the number of visitors was considerably smaller, dwindling down to a meager one or two excluding Erik’s near daily visits and the occasional on from his foster sister.
Charles had given it growing consideration now that he was unable to convince himself that it circumstantial. He had been in town for months, so it was not that his presence was unknown, and his acquaintances could not be so constrained that they were completely unable to make calls. Were it not for the distraction of Erik’s calls, ones that with regularity extended into the less conscionable hours, Charles might have made more of an endeavour to uncover the reason. Perhaps when he was not so preoccupied, for at the moment this vampire business had his full attention.
As such, it was to his great surprise that the knock upon his door at half-past four was not Erik with a hansom cab waiting for their excursion to Cheapside.
“Miss Kin--,” he sucked in a breath and corrected himself, she had married while he was away, “Mrs. MacTaggert.”
“Hello, Sir Charles,” she answered. Curiosity touched upon her features and Charles glanced down so that he might observe whatever she had seen. Perhaps it was something of a curiosity, a baronet dressed in a yellowed button-up and a poorly sewn vest-both the wrong size- and answering his own door instead of someone in his employ. Ink spots were not so uncommon when he was buried in his desultory studies, but faded and moth-eaten...
He huffed a laugh. “I was about to head--”
“To Cheapside, I’d heard. With Mr. Lehnsherr.” Her tone was flat, but her words sounded chopped, almost curt. There was no warmth in her countenance either, which was baffling.
“Heard from whom?”
“A number of people, I thought you should know; there’s been a lot of speculation about you and your intimacy with Mr. Lehnsherr. None of it good.”
Charles swallowed, suddenly parched. “We’ve been making inquiries about those bite victims. My interest in the matter has not been hidden.”
“You are not a detective.”
“Because we all know what a shining beacon Detective Inspector MacTaggert has been to them,” he replied, not as sardonically as he could have, but it did cause Mrs. MacTaggert to exhale through the nose.
“Sir Charles, I came to warn you before you find yourself under investigation.” Her words cutting through the layers of gentility and delicacy to reach the heart of the matter. “There is talk; everyone has taken notice of the late hours and your strange clothes. And just how many letters do you send him while you are back in Oxford?”
“He is my dearest friend--”
“Stop. I have no desire to hear your reasons,” she interjected, then her expression softened and she continued with a kinder inflection, “I said I had come to warn you, and now I have. All I ask, Sir Charles, is that you be careful.”
Charles watched as she turned and climbed down the steps to join her valet, a mirror of Erik stepping down from his hansom.
Charles followed after her. If he was rumored a sodomite and inquiry made and she was found abetting, even in such a subtle way, it was more than her reputation at stake.
“Why?” He asked to her back, he was grateful when she turned. She wore a smile as though she were amused by the question, but there was great sorrow in her eyes.
“You don’t know?” she asked, “You didn’t know that if you had asked for my hand I would have happily given it to you?”
Charles felt his heart turn to stone and found he could formulate neither thought nor phrase as the meaning pressed upon him from all sides. He hardly noticed Erik’s arrival beside him.
“Sir Charles?” Erik asked, his low regard towards Mrs. MacTaggert evident for he doubtlessly blamed her.
“I am fine, my friend,” he said, and then re-affixed his attention on her, “Thank you, and... I am sorry.”
Erik’s confusion was obvious, but ignored for the moment. Mrs. MacTaggert smiled, wistful and resigned and achingly beautiful. “Goodbye, Charles.”
“Goodbye... Moira.”
He lingered as her deep green skirts disappeared into the sea of other fine fabrics.
“Has your mind been changed?” asked Erik, “Shall we stay in?”
But Charles felt sick at being confronted by the very reason he was currently ostracized. He felt sick as he watched familiar faces passing with not even a nod, as any attempt to meet someone’s eyes had them averting theirs swiftly and with the same natural effortlessness that water flowed.
How had he not noticed?
Finally he met Erik’s eyes, their mercurial green fraught with uncertainty and concern, and the answer was abundantly clear as to how he had been oblivious for such a long time.
“We should leave, before it grows dark,” Charles told him and headed for the hansom, Erik just behind. He climbed the step, keenly aware of Erik’s hand on his waist - to steady him no doubt.
June 20th, 1855
Erik offered Charles a hand to assist him off the table as he took a final swig of ale. There was a ruddiness to his face that could have been brought about by the excitement of out drinking another patron, or more likely, the sign that he had perhaps consumed enough for the evening.
“You seem unnaturally skilled at making friends,” said Erik, forced to whisper in Charles ear by the out pour of chants and cheers.
Charles laughed, brash and uncouth but entirely honest. “That is only because you are so very unskilled.” He pulled at the collar of his shirt, “Cor blimey, it’s hot.”
Erik found his gaze drawn to the movement and he swiftly tore it away, focusing again on Charles’ flushed face.
“Shall we take our leave, then?”
“No,” said Charles, and pressed his emptied mug to Erik’s chest, “I heard that the vampire last bit a Mr. Hyatt, we have to ask him about that night.”
“We can do so tomorrow. It’s a quarter past ten, Mr. Hyatt is all too likely preparing for bed.”
“Oh,” said Charles, no doubt finding the time a surprise, “very well then. On the morrow.”
Erik offered his arm to steady Charles and to guide him out of the pub. It was dark, but the lamps were lit and it was more than what Erik needed in order to see. The night air certainly did Charles some good, robbing some of the redness from his face; still his arm remained around Erik’s for assured balance.
They walked for a time, and Erik could not remember what he’d said, but whatever it had been earned a laugh that Charles was fighting to contain. He was fond of that laugh, and something in him rather enjoyed being the cause of the laugh lines taking shape.
The laughter died away when three figures began to move from out of the shadows.
“The pair of you are awful chummy. I’ve seen you takin’ ‘im home e’ery night, it makes a bloke wonder. A gent like yourself wit a rat on the streets.” said the shortest of them. His clothes were tattered, just as the other two, but he seemed to have more layers and fewer patches.
“He is staying with me until he can afford a place of his own,” Erik said carefully, “not that it is of your concern.”
“I disagree,” the first man continued, taking a few steps closer and flanked by the taller men, “see, a man has a duty. To Queen and Country, and looks to me and mine that you two are buggers.”
Charles stepped away and held out his palms. “I assure you that we are not, it is as he said. We’re cousins, and he has been attempting to aid me in finding work.”
The short man shook his head and stepped into Charles space.
“I know what I seen, and I’ve seen the of ya lookin’ at each other and it ain’t a bit decent.”
The other two moved in closer, and Erik knew it hardly mattered what they said. These men would not be satisfied until they drew blood. The bearded man threw the first punch, which Erik caught by the fist. He could crush the tiny bones, but that would indubitably prompt questions he was not yet prepared to answer.
A sharp cry followed by a grotesque chuckle arrested Erik’s attention and his head swiveled to catch a glint of metal. A knife. Charles.
Erik crushed the balled fist and with his other hand gripped the man’s head and pulled it back until it snapped. He shoved the body into the third man --who dropped it and fled-- as he went for the short one. A base part of him enjoyed the wide eyed expression, and he wrested the knife from the man.
He forced the scent of Charles blood out of his mind long enough to plunge the knife down his throat, ripping it out sideways and before the man could react he lodged the blade into whatever twisted thing he dared call a heart.
“Mr. Lehnsherr...” it sounded weak and wet, and in an instant Erik was at Charles’ side, his eyes unable to see past the dark crimison color blooming across the linen shirt. Oh, the smell of it was so sweet, so rich and horrifying. Charles coughed and more of it splattered.
Erik felt Charles falling and so he guided him down as gently as was possible, cradling him carefully in his arms.
“You...”
“Don’t,” warned Erik. He ripped the shirt open and found the wound, the thing only an inch across, so small for so much blood. He leaned down to swipe it with his tongue, the taste unbearably decadent, exactly as he had refused to imagine. He laved over the injury until it closed, and then he forced himself to draw back trembling.
Charles let out another hacking cough and more blood spattered.
“No,” Erik said, “no, Charles! No!”
Charles was choking on it, with half his chest rising with each gasping, spluttering breath. Erik could hardly hear the beat of his heart, an uneven staccato in place of the steady rhythm. No. He couldn’t lose him, not like this, not to men like that.
“I... I’m sorry,” Charles murmured, pinkish fluid spilling out and garbling the words.
“No,” Erik repeated, firmer. He would not lose Charles. He refused to.
“This may hurt,” he warned only scant seconds prior to letting his fangs descend and leaning down. His mouth hovered over Charles neck, his resolve flagging for a moment, and the he bit, his teeth sinking in.
Charles gasped, but then tilted his neck to allow Erik access. Erik had to suck hard in order to direct the flow of blood from elsewhere, and he was quick to pull away when he’d had enough.
He bit into his forearm and swiftly brought it to Charles mouth.
“Drink,” he instructed, and when Charles struggled, “Drink.”
Blessedly, Charles began to, at first lapping at the blood and then latching on and drinking thirstily, his throat bobbing with each swallow
“Yes,” Erik whispered, “oh, yes.”
He bade Charles to continue for some minutes before he pulled his arm back. He was then riveted by the sight of Charles licking at the last traces of blood on his lips. Erik’s gaze panned upwards to glassy eyes and at once the weight of what he’d done pressed upon him.
But Charles was alive.
The rest no longer mattered.
---
Erik made quick work of summoning a carriage; enthralling the driver into parting with it for a number of florins. Carefully he placed an unconscious Charles inside, nestling him under his coat and drawing the curtains closed with their braided fastenings.
Erik pushed the horses on into the morning, riding out into Oxford --the only sanctuary he could conceive of-- while Charles slept and regained strength. In the early hours of the morning he reached the ancestral home. He knew it for its unparalleled size and the crest that was also found on the seal of Charles’ letters.
The estate was empty, with Charles’ servants either away or at his residence in London. It suited Erik, who would not need to explain why he kept Charles covered, leaving not an ounce of skin to be seen as he entered.
He wandered the halls, as wide as some of the rooms in Erik’s home and with a higher ceiling to compound the effect, until he stumbled at last on a bedroom. He laid Charles carefully on the bed and immediately closed the drapes to ensure no sunlight would find its way through.