Chapter Text
Getting but static from the old TV hanging above the fridge had been more common than not, but it doesn’t mean Thomas Lawrence would not still be up on his roof at the crack of dawn trying to fix it.
The weather forecast had been an integral part of his job, or at least that is what he would say to himself while making his way up the ladder with his tools, back aching and knees cracking.
The truth is after so many years on this island he had become pretty good at predicting the weather himself. There wasn’t really a need for someone on the mainland to tell him it was going to be wet and foggy.
It was always wet and foggy.
And that was the way Thomas liked it. That’s what he had come to Shetland for.
Telling his commander that this was the life he wanted for himself took some convincing: even back when he started tending to the lighthouse it was considered a dead profession, as well as more isolating than most could bare.
He reached the top of the roof and looked out at the sea, the clouds still pink and soft against the light orange sky. He could not imagine himself happier anywhere else.
Although even he could admit it was getting, perhaps, a little too lonely.
It was easier when O'Malley was still around. Not only for the privilege of having a younger man around to perform tasks such as climbing up ladders at first light, but the comfort of sharing the space with another person. Thomas had always considered himself a loner, when he learned he would have to have Raymond with him on the Island he was quite irked— but quickly learned the other man was likeminded, and grew fond of him. He had a big family back in Ireland, and would always share with Thomas the things they would write to him. Ray never failed to make him laugh. In return Thomas would bore him with old man anecdotes, which Ray didn’t seem to mind, and he would always allow Thomas his space, which was the final tip of the delicate scale that made this arrangement truly work.
But alone is fine as well. Alone was what he wanted. Wasn’t it?
The antenna was fine. Seems the wind was simply not in his favour— no TV today then. It’s probably for the best.
He went through his daily checklist diligently. Check the bulbs, clean the glass panes, fuel the generators. All busy work, really. But work was easy. Work he knew how to do.
The old man’s rugged fishing boat docked today. He does it sometimes, takes his lunch on the Island. But this was later than he would usually show up, past 12 PM unlike his usual 11:30.
As the boat docked slowly, hesitantly, Thomas could tell something was different. The only thing he could not tell is how different his life was going to look now, as a slightly younger man came out of the familiar old boat, tying his rope around the allotted pole.
From this distance he couldn’t quite tell what the man looked like, but it was not the bearded gentleman he would occasionally greet. This man was slightly shorter, and thinner, no hair adorning his face, nor his head from what Thomas could glean from under the knitted seamed cap. The arms looping the rope around the pole seemed strong. Slightly hesitant from inexperience, but with a solid build and a good grip.
Thomas kept watching from afar as the man sat down on the dock and started eating a sandwich. He didn’t seem to notice the lighthouse keeper staring at him, instead having his attention directed towards a seagull gawking at his food.
Thomas started to approach, unknowingly, halting as soon as he noticed himself drifting. Now that he was a bit closer he could notice the man looked about the same age as him. His face betrayed no noticeable emotion, except for the slightly furrowed brow. He appeared deep in thought.
The stranger did nothing more, just sat there with his lunch. Thomas turned around, back to his business, picking up trash and scraps washed to shore after the storm. There were some interesting finds— a few peculiar sharp rocks, a rusty bottle cap from a brand he has not seen since childhood, a crab claw, and a penny from 1936. Each find perfect for their respective collections.
By the time he turned back around, the boat was already gone.
-
Thomas didn’t know why he even still had that alarm clock. The sound was irritating, and at his age he would wake up by himself before it even rang. Nevertheless he kept it, laying in bed until that horrible ring filled the room, freeing him from the prison in his mind that did not allow him to get up beforehand.
The water here did not get hot enough to his taste. With Ray here he could afford more trips off the island, enjoying every third week showering in scalding hot water every day. Now his visits were limited to two days of socialising and supply restock. Here he preferred to take his time, boiling the kettle several times, enough to make himself a warm bath. There was something comforting about the warmth that Thomas could not put his finger on, but it came hand in hand with a strange sense of emptiness.
The sun peeked through the clouds today. The sun was his signal that he could indulge a bit. It was rare enough to use an excuse to skip some of his more tedious chores and instead have lunch on the beach.
When the time came, he was sitting down on the rocks when he noticed the old fishing boat approaching. That was unlike the old man to come by twice in a row, Thomas thought, until he remembered the person he saw yesterday was not the same fisherman he distantly knew.
This time Thomas was much closer, but if the stranger noticed him, he did not show any sign to it. He tied his boat, and sat down with his sandwich. Once he was done with his food, he opened a small book. From his angle, Thomas couldn’t tell if he was reading or writing, but he sat there with it for about an hour, not pulling focus away except for when, once again, a seagull came by to hassle him for leftovers.
Thomas enjoyed watching him. He was used to staring at the same thing for a long time. It’s not as if there was much else to do around here in your free time. It was nice, for a change, to look at something new. At a living thing that was not a bird, something unpredictable.
The man closed his book, and untied his boat. This time, though, despite the distance, Thomas swore he looked right at him for a brief moment.
The boat sailed away, and in the spirit of indulgence, Thomas allowed himself to wonder who this man could possibly be.
-
The next day around 12 o'clock Thomas found himself anticipating seeing the boat approaching the shore. A mundane routine is only as enjoyable as the occasional surprise to break that routine. It was a pleasant thing to occupy his time with, solving the mystery of the new fisherman. He’d read enough detective novels to learn what details to pay attention to to be able to gather new information. But the afternoon hours came and went, and no boat docked at the island.
Instead of putting an end to the mystery in Thomas’s mind, it only added yet more questions, so after the weekend when he showed up again, he had to stop himself from practically running down to the shore and greet him.
Instead he watched.
He watched as he got more confident in docking the boat. As his hands had an easier time tying the ropes. He watched as his small notebooks would get filled (definitely writing in them— not reading.) Watched as he got more and more annoyed with the birds surrounding him whenever he was holding food. And sometimes he watched as the other man watched back.
Well, he didn’t watch, per say, not like Thomas did, but he did look back at him. His expression was still as neutral as it was that first day, but there was no mistaking that he was looking at Thomas. There didn’t seem to be anything behind it, he wasn’t urging Thomas to stop, as far as he could tell, simply acknowledging that he’s there. That they share the shore.
This became the new routine, for the next few weeks. Sometimes the boat should show up, sometimes it would not. On the days that it did Thomas watched the man eat and write and sail away again, while the stranger spared him a glance back each time before leaving. The slight erraticness of his arrivals kept Thomas on his toes, preventing the occasions from becoming mundane.
While there wasn’t really a pattern to the fisherman’s arrival, Thomas could tell on certain days, determine that he would be there for sure. Sometimes he came by when there were slight drizzles, but never when it fully rained. If the skies were clear, Thomas knew to wait by the beach in advance, because on these days he took a longer lunch, even leaving his usual spot on the docks and strolling along the beach.
As for his detective work, this was what he gathered so far; first of all, no wedding ring. Could be divorced or even a widower, but the man was rather tan and Thomas could see no ring line. He was likely never married.
His arms were thick. He was able to lift heavy things, likely used to physical labor of some sort, but his palms were always red from the rope. They were sensitive, unlike men who’ve spent years at sea, getting callus and numb to the itchiness of the hemp. So, physical labourer, delicate hands. Perhaps a mover, or a heavy goods delivery person. He could picture these arms lifting big glass cabinets and laying them down gently in their place.
He was a little over dressed for a fisherman. His sweaters seemed very nice, Thomas was almost a little sad to know they would probably get ruined from the salty air and smell of fish. But Thomas would not judge a man for the crime of wanting to look respectable.
The sandwiches, well, they were interesting enough to catch Thomas’s attention as well. When Thomas makes a sandwich for lunch it has a slice of ham and a tomato, some lettuce if he’s feeling fancy. It’s for practicality, not enjoyment. This man though, as far as Thomas could tell he had a different kind every day. Of course he could not exactly tell from a distance, but it was clear there was effort put into making them. What if he used to be a chef? But that would not explain his strength. Besides, when would a fisherman have the time and energy to prepare such elaborate meals each day? Someone must be making it for him. But he already established— no wedding ring. This man was far too old to have what people might call a “live-in girlfriend”. No, that seemed far too improbable. Unless… he did have some sort of live-in partner. One that he simply could not, for some reason, marry. Perhaps he had a partner back home who cooked lunch for him and made sure his sweaters were pristine, that admired those strong arms as they lifted all the groceries from the car in one single go. Someone he shares his life with, married to, in anything but the legal definition.
Of course, it would be rude to make assumptions about another man’s preferences, but it wasn’t as if he was accusing the fisherman of homosexuality in the middle of the town square. It was merely a thought exercise. An interesting way to pass the time.
And so the mover-turned-fisherman would come, eating his lunch prepared for him by his chef lover back home. On the days he did not show up, or when Thomas was too busy to go down to the beach to watch, he built up on this story. Maybe he bought the old man’s fishing boat to help his partner’s seafood restaurant, cutting off middlemen to help the business flourish. What does the life of two men living together in a small fishing town even look like? Are they walking together hand in hand in the street? Or do they keep up appearances, claiming to be nothing more than business partners and close friends?
Thomas never had to consider these kinds of things. He never had any close enough relationships for it to matter. He knew he was attracted to men as well as women since his teenage years, just as he knew from that young age that he wanted to join the navy, not raise a family at home. He had some short flings after enlisting, surrendering to temptation was easy when you think you might not survive the next day, but none actually stuck. No one was important enough to risk it all for, and the higher Lawrence climbed through the ranks, the higher that risk became. For most of his life that was truly what he wanted, his work and service always came first. Only in recent years he began to wonder sometimes, what if? With a sense of loss panging in his chest. He would have to remind himself he had lived a full life, and never truly lost anything. Had he been married, had a family, worked a standard 9-5, he would probably feel the same sense of yearning for the life that he has now.
Walking along the beach, Thomas had a mission today. His next visit off the island would be for his niece’s 18th birthday. He hasn’t seen her since her last one, when it seemed her latest obsession was a group of five young men with questionable style choices and a music style that to Thomas sounded metallic and strange. There was nothing he could really do with that, so, it was time for the old reliable method of bringing her the biggest conch shell he could find.
It was a daunting task, most were too small or too broken, but he knew that if he started looking enough weeks in advance, he would run into something eventually.
Nothing of note today. No shells, old trinkets, special rocks or strange new fishermen on old boats.
-
As the warm ray of sunshine filtering through the small window landed on his face, Thomas knew this would be a good day to take on the daunting task of walking along the island’s entire coastline. It was not a big island but it would still take most of the day. He needed to do it from time to time— to clean up, take note of any changes in the animal population and plants, make sure that there were no rogue interlopers who somehow managed to dock here (rich young people looking for a place to drink, mostly) but most importantly gather any and all special gifts the sea decided to share.
He packed a small backpack (mostly empty, leaving room for his findings), ignored his usual yellow raincoat, instead putting on a lighter jacket, and began heading downhill. He decided to head north— not his usual path. He figured if he started there, by lunchtime he would arrive at his usual spot, where he knew he could sit comfortably to enjoy his meal.
The hill was steeper on this side. Thomas wished he had a walking stick to lean on, but the thought of relying on external aid due to his old age filled him with such disgust he dismissed it all together. He’s been going down this path for years by himself and there was no reason today would be any different than any other time.
If anything broke, well— he was good at fixing things.
The whole island is empty, but on this part is where you could truly feel it. In a straight line from here, there was absolutely nothing but sea until the north pole. Thomas stopped just by the edge of the water, breathing in the cool salty air. He felt small, which was a sort of comfort to him. As if he was untouchable. Out here he slipped through the cracks, he was ignored by the merciless whims of the universe, allowed to just be.
There used to be a time he was scared of himself, for feeling this way. For wanting to disappear, for resenting all the people he was responsible for, as if it was their fault he was higher ranked than then, that they had to follow his orders. He knew he had to lead them. He just felt like he was managing them.
There was no managing the sea.
Nothing really washed up here, not at this time of year at least, but it was still worth checking. Sometimes the sea delivers interesting insights on icelandic garbage habits.
He took his time walking, both to not tire himself, and because, he suddenly remembered; the fisherman would arrive today, and he was actually hoping to have the island to himself. Even when Ray was here he would save these trips to the days when he was gone. He felt as if running into someone would somehow ruin the day. So, he knows the fisherman arrives at noon, he just had to drag on for a bit and arrive at the dock at 1, after he left.
At 12:30 he realised his severe miscalculation as he noticed the faintest shape of someone approaching his direction in the distance. It was a beautiful, sunny day, the kind the stranger would always take advantage of to take a longer lunch and walk along the beach. Well, nothing to be done about it now. If they were both likeminded in the opinion that it was a good day to stretch their limbs, they were both hopefully of the desire to do so alone.
The clearer the shape of the man became in the horizon, Thomas realised this would be the closest he’s ever been to him. They were always at a good enough distance as to not have the social obligation to acknowledge one another, but with the thin coastline and opposite walking directions they were on a set collision course. For some reason it set Thomas’s heart beat faster ever so slightly.
As they were walking,Thomas kept stealing glances at the fisherman, who seemed to have his gaze set forward, upwards, at his feet— never at Thomas, who had the slight feeling he had become a ghost. Wanting to be alone is one thing, but this was lacking any social decorum, to completely ignore a man standing right in front of you—
And just then, as these thoughts passed through Thomas’s head, when he didn’t realise he was staring directly at the other man for a long while now, there it was. A nod. Big, rich, brown eyes caught his, with longer eyelashes he’s ever seen before on a man to his recollection. Thomas startled at the unexpected gesture, but was quickly happy to return it as their paths crossed. He could see his face clearly now. The lines adorning it, the light glasses resting comfortably on his nose. He looked dignified, respectable, nothing about him reminded Thomas of the worn features he was used to seeing on other seamen. His face seemed much more gentle, despite the seemingly stern expression. Thomas thought this was a kind of face better suited for a scholar, it would look more in place at a library than on a distant, desert island.
Should he greet him? Say something? The split second he asked himself these questions, the man was already gone. Thomas glanced behind, seeing him walk further down the beach, introduction still lingering on his lips.