Chapter Text
art by DontOffendTheBees
If anyone were to ask Thomas King of Cannery Automotive Repair what he’s doing on this quiet Sunday afternoon, he would say that he is dreadfully busy. In truth, the only thing he’s currently occupied with is his own ennui. But then again, if anyone could make ennui a full-time job, it'd probably be Thomas.
He sent Meatball and Honda out on an errand for the garage ages ago, which was honestly a total car crash on his part. While his trusty mechanics are good with machines, they're even better at wasting their boss’ precious fucking time time. Thomas assumes they're probably out right now cruising the streets of London, trading gossip back and forth while they hotbox the beater car they finally got running again just last week.
They've worked for Thomas long enough to know that if they bring him back a halfway decent joint as a treat, he won't say shit about their little detour. Still, he can't do much for Asha’s old Fiesta without the parts they're picking up, so he's made the executive decision to spend the afternoon flipping through a donated box of pinup magazines for new prints to hang around the garage. Since he was able to buy Cannery Automotive Repair outright from cranky ol’ Dagfinn nearly seven years ago, the shop has become known around town for its inclusiveness — a principle Thomas insists starts with having wide variety of sultry, diverse pinups on display.
As engrossed as he is with his search, Thomas nearly topples off the stool he's perched on when someone clears their throat from the door. “Fucking fuck!” he shouts as he steadies himself, shooting a glare in the general direction of the disturbance.
His annoyance fades into pleasant surprise when he realizes it's none other than Edwin Payne, the hot, stuffy little British tease he likes to play with whenever Edwin deigns to grace the shop with his presence.
“Is that any way to greet a paying customer?” the student scoffs, his fancy leather loafers tapping haughtily against the concrete of the garage floor as he approaches. As always, Edwin looks wildly out of place with his coiffed hair and his tailored dress pants and his pristine white button-down and his neat little rolled-up sleeves.
Thomas wants him carnally.
In fact, Thomas wants him so badly he doesn't even mention the fact that he hardly ever makes Edwin pay him at all. “Well, if it isn't my favorite Payne in the ass,” he greets with a sardonic grin. “Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot! You Brits say arse, don't you? I'd hate for anything to get…lost in translation.”
If he didn't know any better, he'd say Edwin almost looks impressed — as if Thomas would forget that the prettiest creature to ever step foot in his garage is studying linguistics at the local university. “However unfortunate for me,” Edwin snarks lightly, “I never fail to understand you loud and clear, Thomas.”
Thomas doesn't even try to hide how he preens upon hearing his name in that crisp, to-die-for British accent.
“What brings you in, sweetheart?” Thomas drawls as he stands. Edwin’s sharp emerald gaze tracks the way he wipes some magazine ink from his fingers onto his tight-fitting jumpsuit, which Thomas mentally tallies as a point under his own name in their little game of cat and mouse. “Because you just got Dorothy's oil changed last month, and she was purring like a kitten when you left. So you must be here for…something else?”
If his tone sounds pathetically hopeful, well, there's nothing to be done about that. It's not until he saunters closer to Edwin that he sees that the younger man’s fists are pressed together tightly in front of him, betraying some sort of underlying nerves.
“Edwin,” Thomas frowns. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes!” Edwin nods quickly, but the remaining furrow in his brow does not exactly inspire confidence. “Er, well. Not exactly.” Edwin takes a deep, steadying breath and squares his narrow shoulders. “I’m here to ask you for a favor, I'm afraid.”
And that? Well, that is downright intriguing.
“A favor?” the mechanic purrs curiously. “Why didn't you say so, sweetness?” Thomas smoothly lifts himself up onto one of his work benches and nudges the stool next to him forward in a way he hopes is enticing. “Come on, then. Sit down! Might as well make yourself comfortable while you tell me all about what you need from little ol’ me.”
The favor in question must be absolutely fucking massive, because Edwin humors him by sitting down primly on the wheeled garage stool without any of his usual holier-than-thou protestations.
For a second, Thomas almost misses them.
Edwin clears his throat carefully and crosses his leg at the knee, revealing adorable argyle-print socks that Thomas wants to remove with his teeth. “Very well, then. I could not help but notice that you have a sign in the window that says you are hiring.”
Huh.
Thomas was certainly not expecting that.
“You mean the sign that's been there since before I bought the place?” he asks with a raised brow. “Why, are you thinking of making a career change?”
“Not as such.” Edwin folds his hands together in his lap and has the audacity to ask, “Will you honor it anyway?”
Thomas always feels at least a little bit stupid when he's talking to Edwin, but right now he is down-right baffled. “Honor the…sign?”
Edwin finally shows mercy on him by heaving a sigh that deflates his perfect posture by a hair. “Yes. You see, a friend of mine has recently found himself in a bit of a,” he struggles visibly to find a the right phrase, “transition period, as it were. He is in need of work.” Before Thomas can say anything, Edwin adds, “And a place to stay.”
Thomas’ second perfectly manicured brow raises to join the other one. “And this guy can't stay with you in your uppity little uni flat because…?” When Edwin opens his mouth to retort, Thomas interjects, “No, wait! Let me guess. He's your jilted ex-lover, the latest in the long line of broken hearts that man-eater Edwin Theodore Payne has left in his wake?”
As if comforted by Thomas’ theatrics, Edwin finally relaxes enough to roll those pretty emerald eyes of his with a huff. “Hardly.” After a moment, like he just can't help but to correct Thomas, he tacks on, “And my middle name is not Theodore.”
Thomas waves him off. “Regardless,” the mechanic says, “there has to be a pretty compelling reason for you to want me to shack up with your mysterious little fuck toy. I mean, really, if you wanted a ménage à trois with moi, all you had to do was—”
“His family knows where I live.”
Ah. Well. Thomas is unfortunately starting to get the picture. Of all the questions he wants to ask, he settles for, “Why me?”
The younger man’s lips twitch up at the corner — a ghost of the smile that has haunted Thomas since the first time Edwin Payne sashayed into his garage. “You seem to make a habit of picking up strays.”
He's not wrong, is the thing, and they both know it. Over the years, the spare room in Thomas’ flat above Cannery Automotive Repair has seen its fair share of transients and vagabonds. Thomas rolls his neck to buy himself some time, succeeding in drawing Edwin’s whip-quick gaze to the “v” of his jumpsuit. “What's in it for me, baby cakes?”
Despite the pet name, Edwin’s expression grows unusually wistful. “Charles is excellent at this sort of thing. He's always tinkering with something or another, and he's quite keen with his hands.” Apparently Edwin still turns bright red when he's flustered, which is a delectable little tidbit to be gifted. He coughs primly. “Well. In any case, I have no doubt that you will find Charles to be quite brilliant.”
A Cheshire grin grows on Thomas’ scarred lips. “Aw, so he's just like you?”
Edwin snorts. “Absolutely not.”
“Then really,” Thomas drawls, “how brilliant can he be?”
Conversations with Edwin are a bit like playing chess — and Thomas has always sucked balls at playing chess. Which is probably why Edwin manages to catch Thomas completely off-guard when he shifts gears from vinegar to honey, batting his eyes and saying with the utmost sincerity, “It certainly would mean a great deal to me if you were to take Charles in.”
Thomas heaves a sigh and waves his hand in the air dismissively. “Yeah, sure. Fine. Whatever. But if you two are some sort of deranged serial-killing duo, at least promise to make the crime scene photos cinematic, m’kay? I want the Netflix true crime doc about us to stay in the Top 10 for weeks.”
Edwin’s answering look is wry, but not displeased. In fact, it's unfortunately rather hot. “Is that a yes?”
“Yes,” Thomas agrees before he can think better of it.
“Good,” Edwin declares, standing abruptly. “Because he’s waiting outside.”
Thomas actually balks at that, scrambling after the long-legged bitch currently booking it across his garage. “What the actual fuck, Edwin?” His pitch raises with each word that tumbles out of his mouth. “What if I’d said no, huh?”
Edwin whirls around on his heels, steeples his hands, and asks plainly, “Are you saying no?”
And, well. When it really comes down to it, Thomas can't seem to bring himself to deny a pretty face, or maybe just not this particular pretty face. He does, however, pout about it — at least until he follows Edwin out the door and lays eyes on the gangly, doe-eyed little shit leaning against Dorothy’s hood. He has a crooked smile and nervous hands and a pair of dimples Thomas inexplicably wants to sink his teeth into.
The younger man’s dimples only deepen when he looks up from his phone and spots Edwin and Thomas. “Oi! You must be Tom, yeah?” He pockets his phone quickly, sticking out a polite hand that suddenly makes Thomas feel like an old man about to be helped across the street by a Boy Scout.
“Thomas,” he corrects automatically. “And that must make you Charles.” A smirk tugs at his lips as he belatedly takes the offered hand. Charles’ handshake is firm but friendly, and for as pretty as he is, his hands are delightfully calloused.
When Thomas sneaks a glance at Edwin and catches his lovesick expression, the pieces start to fall into place. “Oh, I get it,” Thomas chuckles. “You two are…special friends.”
If looks could kill, Thomas would be struck down by the force with which Edwin turns his glare on him. A fucked up part of him is just happy to have Edwin’s attention once more. “We are best friends, if you must know,” Edwin huffs, folding his arms over his chest.
The first hint of a frown momentarily threatens Charles’ sunshine-y demeanor, but he smooths it over in a flash. “Yeah. Edwin’s my best mate, isn't he?” He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket boyishly, which is more charming than Thomas cares to admit.
“Edwin,” Thomas clicks his tongue as he gives Charles an overtly appreciative once over. “I’m disappointed in you. You didn't tell me my new roomie was going to be, like, a total babe! Though I suppose I should have guessed. Birds of a feather tend to flock together, don't they?”
Charles studies Thomas with big brown eyes, like he's trying to solve a damn Rubik’s cube or something. “So, how d’you two know each other, anyway?”
Thomas must be off his game today, because Edwin answers first. “My Uncle Richard recommended I go to Thomas for maintenance on Dorothy. She's had a laundry list of issues over the years, as you know, which means we have begun to…make one another’s acquaintance.”
The response is curiously rehearsed. On top of that, it's also total horse shit — not in the sense that it's untrue, per se, but in that Edwin is totally minimizing to the max.
“Acquaintance, huh?” Thomas remarks lightly. “See, I remember things a wee bit differently.” Thomas revels in the way Charles perks up a bit in curiosity, and he revels even more in the way Edwin prickles because of it. “Picture this! I was working in the garage one day about two years back, just minding my own business, when in walks this tall cup of piping hot English tea — posh, scholarly, and oddly handsome to boot! He was like a fish out of water, but don't you worry! I managed to woo him with my chiseled physique and my sensual charm.”
“‘Wooed’? Is that what we're calling abject rejection now?” Edwin scathes, crossing his arms chillingly.
“Okay, ouch.”
Charles’ face as he watched the two of them bicker is hard to read, with his polite smile smothering an expression caught somewhere between annoyed and amused.
“As I was saying,” Thomas huffs, “I didnt understand why Edwin would show up on my doorstep of all places until I saw Dorothy.” His smile turns bittersweet. “Turns out he inherited the old girl from his uncle, who left my business card in the glove box. We swapped stories about Rich — who had spent years saying I'd get on swimmingly with his favorite nephew, by the way — and now Edwin graces my presence whenever he needs to be…serviced.” Only when Edwin makes an indignant noise does Thomas amend, “His car, that is.”
Edwin breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth like he's the face of a damn self-help video. “On that note,” he remarks dryly, “I'm afraid I best be heading off. My next class takes attendance, which is worth nearly half of my grade.” Still, he hesitates, looking to Charles for some assurance.
And, well. Thomas can't let himself be outdone in his own shop, now can he?
So Thomas stands on his tiptoes and slings his bare arm over Charles’ bony shoulder, grinning up at Edwin like that cat who got the cream. “No need to worry about a thing, sweet cheeks!” he says as he gives his newest employee an exaggerated squeeze. “Your best friend is in very, very good hands with me.”