Chapter 3

Late at night, the workshop gets real quiet.

It's not like reaching the end of a record, where all the sound cuts out all at once. The end of the sound starts with the departure of the last customer from the showroom floor. That's when you can tell that the day is ending. You stop hearing the strained smiles that come with a day of convincing people to buy a Shelby American automobile (though, if they're coming out this far, they're usually pretty serious) and start hearing a more relaxed conversation about sales figures

and production targets. It's nothing Ken ever has to concern himself about - the cars he builds aren't for sale.

The next, which you'd think would be the most obvious sign that the hours in the day have dwindled, is the power tools, or lack thereof. As different people start to pack it in for the day, the workshop grows quieter and quieter still.

Soon, the only sounds left are the quiet radio, and Ken's steady breathing as the tin roof tinkles, settling in for the cooler night ahead.

"Do you want me to leave the radio on?” Phil asks as he wipes his hands on a clean rag, signalling that he's finally done trying to out-pace Ken, and ready to go home.

"No need, Pops,” Ken responds, "I got plenty of thoughts in this old noggin' of mine to keep me company,” Using a wrench, he gestures vaguely at his head, and the radio is switched off.

Ken kept working. When he was on a roll like this, he found it was hard to stop. Not only that, but it was always easier to work without any distractions walking around the shop.

Okay, there was really only one distraction that Ken usually had to worry about, but Shelby didn't make it a habit to hang around this late into the night. He generally leaves in the middle of the pack; not so early that anyone could accuse him of slacking off, but not so late that people feel obliged to work overtime because Mister Shelby of Miles-Shelby hadn't left yet.

They didn't seem to mind leaving the Miles part of Miles-Shelby to his business, though. Over the last couple of weeks, it had become a not uncommon occurrence for Ken to be the last to leave the workshop, and he was often one of the first to arrive. They didn't feel the need to keep up with Ken like they did with Shelby.

Just one of those things , he guessed. What was it they used to say? That Generals Die in Bed . Seemed pretty apt.

Not that anyone could really compare Shelby with the Generals from the war days, and Ken definitely didn't. There was just always something different in the ways people talked to Shelby compared to the ways they talked to Ken. They both put in a day's hard work, in their own ways. While Ken was more wrapped up in developing and testing their new GT, Shelby juggles helping Ken with attending to the customers who made the special trip out just to buy a car from the famed Carroll Shelby of Shelby American himself .

Seems like a lot of work to Ken.

And that's not to say that they don't sometimes ask for Ken too. Sometimes they even spot him in the shop and take themselves over to meet him, an exercise that should have proved futile. But it became a part of the experience . Tell Ken Miles which car you're planning on buying, and he'll give you a laundry list of what's wrong with it. The shorter the list, the better the car.

After a while, Shelby stopped trying to stop them.

"Ken Miles keeps Shelby honest about what he's selling,” Ken heard someone tell Phil one day as he handed them the keys to their new Mustang.

Still, it was more of a distraction than he cared for. Maybe that's why he preferred to hang back for these quiet night hours.

Wait.

Is that…

Is that the fucking sun?!

Jeezus. Okay. So, it's not actually that late at night.

Turns out it's quite early in the morning.

Ken wheels himself out from under the GT, and he sits on the dolly, rocking himself forwards and backwards on the spot. He's searching for the energy to get up when someone starts rattling their key around in the rolling garage door. Ken doesn't want any of the guys to know that he never made it home that night - though the smell of him might give it away - Ken jumps to his feet, and scurries away into the break room. His fingers fumble on the knob for the hotplate, and most of the water he tries to pour into the kettle ends up down the sink, and maybe the intruder on his peace won't notice that they had to unlock the door to get inside, even though Ken was already here.

The kitchen is well-sized, with a couple of rectangular tables pressed up against each other to create one long table with chairs tucked in on both sides. A couple of humming fridges line one wall, the intersecting wall lined with benches, one with a large, stainless steel sink set into it. There's a pair of coffee percolators, and the lone hotplate that's newer than anything else in this kitchen hissing as it starts to evaporate the water spilled over the side of Ken's kettle.

Ken busies himself with fishing his yellow metal mug from an overhead cupboard, along with a box of tea bags. He drops a tea bag into the mug.

"Huh.”

The sound comes from the entrance to the kitchen, and as Ken turns around, nothing could prepare him for the sight he's greeted with.

Carroll Shelby stands in the doorway with a towel holding on for dear life around his hips.

Ken blinks.

Shelby's holding two eggs in one hand.

"You, uhhh,” Ken clears his throat, "You alright there, Shel?”

As Shelby shifts on his feet, the slit where the edges of the towel fail to meet splits open, almost all the way up to his hip.

Ken swallows. The collar of his coveralls is too high, too constricting all of a sudden. He pulls at the zip on the front, but it gets stuck, and he doesn't want to draw attention to it, so he just lets the discomfort settle in.

Shelby plants his weight on one leg, and slightly extends the other, carving himself into a sort of imitation of the Statue of David, except he's wearing more clothes (shame). Except, he doesn't look like David. Not even David looks like David. The statue is a caricature of manhood; giant hands too large so you could see the veins pop out of them from a distance. Because David wasn't created to be admired up close. He was designed to be looked up at from the ground, while he stands high above on the top of some church that Ken didn't know the name of. But he never made it up there. Never rose to his full potential.

Shelby's form isn't trim and defined and carved from marble like David. He's stocky, with a chest full of blonde hair that dives down his belly, darkening as it dips below the towel wrapped around his hips. His strong jaw is lined with stubble. If it were raining, he could collect water in his collar bones.

Ken thinks he looks better than David.

"Yeah,” Shelby takes a step into the kitchen, and Ken's breath hitches in his throat, "As you're well aware, I've been living in that trailer park across the way there,” Ken didn't know that, but he decides it would be impolite to say so, "But my damn stove kicked the bucket last week, so I've been taking advantage of that of yours hotplate here,” he gestures to the hotplate to Ken's left with the hand full of eggs. "Hope you don't mind.”

Ken picks up the aforementioned kettle, which is now boiling, and pours some water over his pre-prepared teabag. "Not at all,” he says, and he puts the kettle to the side, gesturing to the hotplate as he sweeps to the side, "Far be it from me to stand between a man and his eggs.”

"I don't usually have company for breakfast,” Shelby admits, coming to stand next to Ken at the kitchen bench, "Thus I hadn't thought to change,” He means get dressed, and as it dawns on him that there's quite a difference between changing and being dressed , Shelby turns on his heel, and heads for the door. "Actually, I'll go do that now, and I'll make you eggs, assuming you haven't eaten yet? And before you say anything, no, tea does not count as a meal," He's rambling as he leaves the kitchen, and Ken can hear him continue as he crosses the workshop floor.   

Left alone now, Ken sips his tea, and presses his lips together, the corners twisting into an amused smirk. He hadn't exactly had the chance to politely turn down Shelby's offer, but as he's standing there, waiting for Carroll Shelby's miraculous return, his stomach starts to grumble.

Ken finished his first cup of tea, and re-boiled the kettle for a second one by the time Shelby came back. He clears his throat in the doorway, announcing his return, and as Ken looks up, he sees that Shelby has donned his full armour. His light cotton pants hug his hips and thighs, and he's dressed up his dark polo t-shirt with a snappy blazer. And though it's still very early in the morning, his stenson is perched on his head, and sunglasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. In his hands, he's holding a bowl filled with un-labelled spices, hot sauce, a few choice vegetables, and extra eggs.

Full Carroll Shelby Armour, plus eggs.

He's probably overcompensating for being caught off guard before, and that's fine . Ken's definitely not taking it personally.

Shelby refuses Ken's offer to help - "Did I not tell you I was making you breakfast?” - so he busies himself with setting up the percolators for the day. When he realises that Shelby's coffee mug isn't in the kitchen, Ken darts out to collect it.

When he comes back, Shelby has transformed his various ingredients into actual edible food through the magic of cooking. There's scrambled eggs piled on a plate that Shelby has laid out beside himself. He looks up at Ken returning with his dirty coffee cup.

He has a full mug of coffee next to his plate, and a mouth full of eggs as he says, "I started without you,” He washes down his mouthful of egg with coffee, "Sorry.”

Shelby's taken his sunglasses and Stenson off. It's a small mercy.

Ken shrugs, drops Shelby's mug in the sink, and takes a seat next to him. Shelby's made Ken another cup of tea, so he's not going to be too upset about Shelby starting without him. They're sitting so close that their elbows are touching as they quietly share this meal. Shelby has organised some toast for them, to accompany the eggs. Ken can feel a very easy calm washing over him as they just sit and eat together.

Falling back into place with Shelby is effortless. Conversation returns to them as the food and caffeine wakes up their minds and bodies, and though Ken feels like he could just fall through the floor and sleep for a couple of days, he stays at Shelby's side as they finish their breakfast, clean up their dishes, and help each other clean up the kitchen, cleaning off the evidence of their early-morning meal from existence.

Once they've finished Ken sits on the tabletop. Leaning back on his hands, Ken stares up at the ceiling, and he feels the weight of his mistake topple directly into his eyeballs. Dear God, he's so tired that not even tea is helping now.

"So,” Shelby starts, and Ken throws his head forward to look at him again. He's holding an apple, which he takes a bite out of and talks around, "I wasn't going to ask, but seeing as you don't want to talk about it voluntarily, I kind of have to.”

Ken makes a face, not liking where this was headed.

"Because the way I see it is that, you know, I had a reason to be here this early in the morning,” He swallows and takes another bite out of his apple, as if talking with his mouth full was going to take the edge off, "And when I got here, the doors were locked, which I know you do when you're working late. Kinda got me wondering,” Shelby's really beating around the bush here, "If everything was alright,” He pauses, dipping his head as he realises that's not a complete sentence, "Between you and Mollie, that is?”

Frowning, Ken lets his head fall back again, mostly because he couldn't bear to be under that scrutinising gaze a second longer, "Cor, yeah,” He says, "We're on our oil tot.”

He can feel the confusion mounting in the silence that stretches out between them.

"You wanna repeat that in words this lousy southerner will understand?”

"We're, uhm,” Ken puts on his best/worst impression of a southern drawl, "Happier than a tornado in a trailer park.” When he looks back at Shelby, the other man is wincing, and he's still got some funny look in his eyes.

"Really?” Shelby asks.

"Really.”

"No issues at all?”

"None.” And strangely enough, that was the truth. Well, part of the truth, but the truth all the same. Telling the full story was out of the question. Too risky, letting the whole cat out of the bag. Instead, he settled on opening the bag, and giving Shelby a glimpse inside before he snatched it away again.

"Well,” Shelby shrugs, and makes his way to the door leading out of the kitchen, "Given that everything is so fine, you should probably head home. If nothing else, you could use a shower and some shut eye,” He gnaws the last mouthful of flesh from the apple, and dunks the core in the bin near the doorway. "You're no use to us falling asleep at the wheel," Shelby tells him, throwing a cheeky fucking wink over his shoulder as he leaves.