Chapter Text
Charles likes everything about fishing, and especially at the little fishing shack on Sharon's Maine estate — the one he and Raven, and sometimes Cain, would run off to, in order to play at Lord of the Flies, and drink, and sometimes actually fish, when their combined parental units were being especially intolerable. He likes the low winter light, and the salty scrape of scales. And thinking quietly, with an open bottle and a book beside him (most likely Thoreau, because you must choose appropriately and respect the moment.) Waiting for the moment there's a twitching, bouncing rod announcing a visitor.
He likes fishing alone, or with family and friends, singing their especially filthy rousing choruses of fishing shanties while getting thoroughly soused, more than any herring has ever been nor will ever be.
But most of all he likes to take a date for a fishing weekend: to subject them to the hardcore boredom and alcohol marinade of a fishing weekend. To show off his catch, exaggerate its size, to gut and scale it in front of his amour of the moment. To see if they can take it, or if they gag and squeal and run for the hills, and civilization.
He isn't sure about this Lehnsherr fellow. He seems a bit too much of a dapper City gent, in his nice navy blue lambswool coat, over an even nicer suit, and his fresh shave and expensively brutal haircut.
Charles thinks this might just finally see him off, the very ultimate straw. Well, it's always better to know in advance. Before one gets too attached.