Happy Holidays, Dashicra1!
Jan. 1st, 2024 04:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeNotes: 1794-95: Exceptionally severe winter. The cold began on Christmas Eve, and lasted until late March, with a few temporary breaks. January was particularly cold, with a CET of 0.8c. It was the coldest January in the instrumental era, beginning 1659. The Severn and The Thames froze, and 'Frost Fairs' started up again. An extremely bitter temperature of -21c was recorded in London, on January 25th. In early February, there was a rapid, but only temporary thaw. Flooding ensued. The severe cold returned slightly later (mid February) and continued well into March. There were many recorded snow events. The winter was anticyclonic (High Pressure dominated) and Easterlies were dominant throughout. (https://www.netweather.tv/weather-forecasts/uk/winter/winter-history )
Title: Frostsmitten
Rating: TWarnings: Homelessness (on par with canon)
Summary: The winter is already shaping up to be the coldest in living memory when Crowley loses his job and has to find a way to survive a blizzard on the streets of Soho.
January the 14th in the year 1795
Whickber Street in Soho, London
If he wasn’t so cold, Crowley might be angry, might give in to the coiling rage at the core of him that never seemed to settle, no matter how content he was in the moment. He might rail at the world at large, or perhaps he’d vent his fury on the foreman who refused to allow him to work indoors[1], or the captain of the fishing boat who didn’t understand why he needed to wear oiled gloves and a heavy coat, no matter how hard the labor. Maybe then he’d feel a bit better, even if nothing else about his circumstances had changed.
But, it was cold and Crowley was tired and the rage felt very far away just then.
He staggered away from the docks, a tanner and a ha’penny in his left sock and the captain’s regrets in his ears. Turned out you couldn’t work on a fishing boat if the cold made all your muscles seize up. Dangerous thing, that.
The rub of it all was that Crowley knew that, of course he did. He’d suffered through the long, bitter winter months his entire life. He knew how the cold made his thoughts slow and his joints ache. It was just that usually it wasn’t a problem.
Growing up he’d spent the dark months with his clan. They worked hard the other three seasons so they might retreat deep into the Earth after the last of the harvest was brought in. There, in the never-ending gloom, his family would gather around smokeless fires and share the stories they’d gathered from the surface world over the course of the year. They’d eat freshly roasted fish, so hot off the fire that it burned their fingertips, but so delicious that it was always worth the momentary pain. The winter months were for stories and courting and celebrations of life and death and now they were for everyone in his clan except Crowley.
Lucifer could have at least granted him the dignity of kicking him out with more than a few months to get himself established before the first freeze. But then, Hastur and Ligur had been hissing in his ears and Lucifer had never been one to hesitate once a decision was made. So, with barely more than a day to say his goodbyes and gather his things, Crowley had been ejected from his cottage and his clan.
The ha’penny slipped a bit further into Crowley’s sock, the cold metal making his skin ache along its entire path. Exhausted, he dreamed of the paltry warmth of his bed, dangling that image in his mind’s eye as motivation to traverse the final few streets that lay between him and the snuff box rooms he’d been letting. His stomach growled, but he knew from bitter experience that it was a bad idea for him to eat when he had no guarantee of being able to digest the food afterward.
The lodging house had been wedged haphazardly between two buildings that managed to survive the Great Fire[2]. It was a narrow, mean place with a single shuttered window per floor and a predilection for infestation. But, the landlord was lax about collecting his dues and the protection of the two larger buildings on either side meant that the harsh winds only rarely found their way to Crowley’s room.
Just then, it was the most beautiful sight Crowley had ever seen. He pulled his threadbare coat tighter around himself and shouldered the front door open, wincing as the wood shrieked its protest. His room was on the second floor, so he trudged his way up two flights of stairs, mind already halfway to sleep. When he reached his door, he was obliged to remove one hand from the paltry warmth of his pocket and fish out his key. His hand shook, but he managed to avoid dropping the key long enough to slide it into the lock and unlatch the door.
“‘Fraid we need to chat, Mr. Crowley.”
Crowley froze, squeezing his eyes shut behind his tinted spectacles. One more day, he just needed one more day. He could get back out on the streets and find another job, something that might pay him upfront so he could pay the rent he owed and—
“I’ve tried to be patient,” the landlord went on[3], “but you’ve not paid me for the last four weeks.”
“I know,” Crowley snapped, because he did know. It was all he thought about, really. Rent. Warmth. Something strong to drink.
“I’m not running a charity, Mr. Crowley. If you can’t pay me tonight, I’m going to have to ask you to return that key forthwith.”
A tanner and a ha’penny. That was all Crowley had to his name. The tiny room with its single tick mattress and creaking floorboards cost a shilling a week.
“I’m good for it, you know I am,” Crowley said. “I’ve just had some… trouble with steady work. But I have a few leads[4]!” He did his best to sound charming and sure of himself[5]. “I can pay half of this week’s now and I’ll bring you the rest as soon as I find work.”
The man snorted, his face twisting cruelly. “I know nothing of the sort. Now, either pay or leave.”
And so, Crowley left. He took the time to bundle up his hard won quilts and put on his extra pair of socks, and then he left without a backwards glance.
The wind had picked up by the time he stumbled back out into the night, cutting through his layers like a fang through fur. Something in the air had turned and he knew in his bones that there would be snow on the ground by morning. He’d never survive the night outdoors.
With the cold already slowing his thoughts, Crowley did the only thing he could think to do; he visited Mrs. Sandwich.
Mrs. Sandwich ran a tight stew; gentlemen callers[6] knew better than to try and avoid paying their due or abuse the whores under her protection. In return for their good behavior and money, they were granted access to private rooms and a wide range of talented misses. Crowley had never had reason to call on her for her services as a bawd—his own tastes ran more towards the other clients than the whores—but he’d met her on his first visit to the city when he was only barely out of his youth and made a point to visit whenever he had the opportunity.
Once, when he was fifteen, he’d spotted a young man sleeping on a sofa in the receiving area. His clothes had been far more ragged than those worn by the men who were there to partake and so Crowley had asked Mrs. Sandwich about him. She’d waved a dismissive hand and said only that he was an old friend in need of a place to sleep and it was a slow night.
So, praying the night was slow, Crowley made his way through the barren streets to Mrs. Sandwich’s stew. The combination of his armload of quilts and the increasing bite in the air made for slow going, but he managed to stagger through the doorway just as the bells began to ring for evening services[7].
“Oh no, no no no. Turn that tiny arse of yours around, Anthony!” Mrs. Sandwich manifested at his side. Dressed to impress, as always, she was nearly as tall as he was and far more colorful. Just then, her brows were drawn low and the corners of her mouth were tight.
“But—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know—”
“I see those blankets. We’re full up here tonight. Unless you’re going to pick a girl, you’ll have to go.” She waved her hands towards the still open door, gems glinting on her fingers.
The chill air ate at the back of Crowley’s neck. “How much?”
“More than you can afford, m’dear.” Oh how he hated that pitying tone. His cottage back when he lived with his clan had been large and neat and clean. He’d had a little patch of land on the surface and a comfortable nest filled with soft down in the caves. He’d never wanted for anything. The rage in his gut coiled tighter at having been brought so low.
“How much?” he said again, biting back the harsh words that wanted to escape.
Mrs. Sandwich sighed. “The best I can do is a farthing and thruppenny and that’s already an insult if we’re being honest.”
“Fuck,” Crowley groaned. “You really don’t have a spot I could kip for the night? Any random corner will do.”
She looked genuinely regretful as she shook her head. “I’m sorry lad. We’ve got some girls from out of town visiting and we need all the space we can get. The lasses are clearing out at the end of the week and I’m more than happy to put you up then, but until then—”
“I’m on my own.” Crowley’s voice was far more bitter than he’d like, but Mrs. Sandwich didn’t seem to take offense. “Can I leave my things here while I look for someplace else to stay?”
“Of course, dear.”
Snow had begun to properly fall when Crowley emerged from Mrs. Sandwich’s stew. He tried to fluff his bedraggled scarf up a bit higher around his ears, but it flopped back down immediately. Time was the enemy here. Every moment he stood outside in the cold meant slower blood, slower thoughts, heavier torpor. Humans might be miserable in weather like this, but he'd be dead long before morning if he didn’t find some money to rent shelter for the night.
But, short of doing freelance for Mrs. Sandwich[8], he was struggling to come up with options for who might be willing to hire him at this time of the evening. Moving would help. Keep his blood flowing. Thoughts moving. Moving was good and maybe he’d spot a shopkeeper in need of help.
He made his way up one side of Whickber Street and down the other, peering into shop windows and shivering the entire way. Snow had begun falling faster even as the temperature plummeted and the wind howled through the alleyways. By the time he returned to Mrs. Sandwich’s intersection, Crowley could barely string two thoughts together.
Maybe he needed a lie down? Just for a few minutes, just long enough to rest his eyes before getting back to the hunt.
Maybe just a short nap…
He made it as far as sitting on the nearest stoop before he heard his mum’s voice hissing about what a fool his elder cousin had been, falling asleep in the cold. That was a surefire way to never wake up again.
He struggled back to his feet, grabbing the doorknob of the shop behind him with numb fingers. His legs didn’t want to cooperate and he was sure that if he let go of the doorknob, he’d collapse back to the step and that would be it for old Anthony Crowley. He’d nearly made it all the way vertical when the doorknob twisted under his grip and the door swung inward. Startled by the sudden loss of support, he staggered and fell into the darkness.
As he lay there allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark, Crowley wondered just what else could go wrong in one night? He’d lost his job (the second that week), been kicked out of his rooms, denied a spot at the stew, and now he was, apparently, breaking and entering without meaning to do either thing. He had just about decided to attempt standing again when he spotted it.
His salvation.
The unattended cashbox.
Aziraphale Fell, of the Summer Court Fells, generally enjoyed his life. He had a lovely little flat over a lovely little bookshop in a lovely little corner of London. He was friendly acquaintances with most of his neighbors and was proud to call a few of them genuine companions. Even his Court obligations took up very little of his time, leaving him free to live amongst the humans of Soho in the manner most befitting his personality. He spent his days repairing books and writing correspondences to other bookshop owners to inquire about specific tomes his clients were interested in acquiring. In the evening he often dined with his aforementioned neighbors, sometimes even traveling further afield to sample new delights brought from faraway places. Anathema was a particular favorite of his[9] and they passed long hours drinking wine and sharing news of their respective Courts.
That had been how he spent the previous evening. They ate a new cheese brought over from France and drank a wine from Germany and gossiped about the Winter King’s upcoming nuptials, and when the sun began to set and the snow began to fall, Anathema had smiled and bid him goodnight. He hadn’t bothered to clean the mess up, only pausing to put out the candles before making his way upstairs to where the fire had been banked since late that afternoon. He gathered up a few coals and tossed them into the little copper bedwarmer he’d purchased the previous winter and settled beneath the covers to sleep away the night.
Thus, it was rather a shock when he was startled awake not long after midnight by a crash from downstairs. At first he thought perhaps it was just some of the detritus of his and Anathema’s evening falling to the floor, but then he heard the voice. It was low and so quiet he could almost trick himself into thinking he was simply hearing things were it not for the faint shuffle of leather slippers on the hardwood floors. Moving as quietly as he could, Aziraphale reached over the side of the bed and took up the iron poker he kept there for just such occasions, making sure to hold it by the end wrapped in thick fabric to avoid burns of his own. So armed, he carefully slid out from beneath his covers and into the shadows that pooled around the baseboards of the room. Aziraphale made his way downstairs, hopping from shadow to shadow as he went. He would really prefer sneaking up on the intruder by becoming a shiver down their spine or the creak of the floorboards, but those were harder to achieve while holding iron and he was loath to approach unarmed.
The trespasser crouched low, peering with narrowed eyes at the cashbox where it was bolted to the countertop. Aziraphale hopped from the shadow to a dust mote, drifting closer on the light draft from the poorly fitted window across the room. As he approached closer, the muttering resolved into actual words; a vicious, slurred litany of invectives and threats[10]. If Aziraphale had been inclined to helping thieves accomplish their goals, he might point out that a hatpin was not the most effective tool for lock-picking. If he was feeling particularly generous, he might direct the other man to the skeleton key hanging from a nail in the post not an ell away.
But, he was not feeling generous, so instead of offering advice, Aziraphale drifted back and forth in lazy circles around the dust mote and observed the burglar-to-be. The other man was tall, taller than Aziraphale himself by at least a few inches, with red hair that tumbled around his ears in the shaggy sort of cut that came from using one’s knife without a mirror. His skin pale and dotted with freckles, thicker of the slightly arched bridge of his nose and across his delicate cheekbones. The tips of his ears were ever-so-slightly pointed, speaking to at least a fey ancestry, if not a member of a Court in his own right. He wore tinted spectacles despite the gloom of the shop and had bundled himself up in a genuinely absurd number of scarves.
After a few minutes of thwarted efforts, the man snarled in frustration and threw the hatpin into the dark. He cast about the immediate area until his gaze lit upon a heavy metal bust of Caesar. He snatched it up, lifted it above his head, and Aziraphale decided it was probably time to step in.
It was the work of less than a second to condense himself back into a solid form and when Aziraphale opened his eyes, he was seated cross-legged atop the counter.
“I cannot help but feel that your plan is less than well thought through,” he said. The man jumped, scrambling back away as Aziraphale kept speaking. “You see, if you were to follow through with that,” he raised his eyebrows in the direction of the bust, “you would not only be stealing from me, but damaging other property as well, compounding your offense.”
The man stared up at him, clutching the bust close to his chest and panting heavily. He pressed himself against the wall behind the counter, as far from Aziraphale as he could get in the confined space.
Aziraphale rolled the iron poker along the tops of his thighs, ignoring the slight tingle of forged metal through the fabric. The man appeared to be shaking and the tiniest bit of pity seeped into Aziraphale’s heart.
“What are you called?” he asked.
Breath hissed out from between the man’s teeth, a faint cloud in the chill air. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.
“I am not asking for your true name,” he said, voice as dry as bones. “You may call me Fell, if it pleases you.”
Another rapid hiss of air, and then the man spoke, voice low and pleasingly raspy in the quiet of the empty shop. “Crowley,” he said. “You can call me Crowley.”
“Charmed,” Aziraphale said.
The brief exchange seemed to have given Crowley a chance to gather himself, because he leaned to the side and placed the bust on the floor, using it for leverage as he pushed himself to his feet. His fingers splayed wide across the crown of Caesar’s head, the sharp leaves of his marble laurel poking into delicate skin. Dirt rimmed his nails; something about the detail made Aziraphale’s stomach feel a bit shaky, though he wasn’t sure what.
When he reached his full height, Crowley swayed sharply to the left but recovered before Aziraphale felt more than the first impulse to reach out and help. He wrapped his arms around himself tightly, tucking them up under the pile of scarves.
“The rules of hospitality would say that it’s rude to watch someone struggle and not offer help,” he said in a tone of voice completely at odds with his crumpled posture.
“Surely the greater offense is to attempt to take what belongs to another in the first place,” Aziraphale returned with a smile.
It seemed Crowley did not have a reply to that. He looked down at his hand and the bust he still held. Glancing around, he spotted an empty spot atop a kneehigh stack of books. He leaned over to set the bust down, and this time he did topple over, landing on the floor with a grunt.
Aziraphale stood from the counter and moved to loom over him. He had grown bored by the conversation and the warm coziness of his bed upstairs called to him. It was time to get to the business of either scaring the thievery from Crowley’s soul or consigning him to Underhill in payment for his actions. The latter had never been his preference, but there had been times in the past when it became necessary and the offering of tributes did help to keep the others from interfering in Aziraphale’s life more than absolutely required.
“This has been an interesting diversion,” Aziraphale said, “but I’m afraid it is at an end.” He allowed something of the void to slip into his being. The gaps between the particles of his human presentation widened; there was nothing that visually changed to human eyes, but they could sense the change in their souls, bound as they were to the physical realm, rebelled against the shift. In the past, opening himself up in this way had lead to ruffians falling to their knees, genuflecting before him and swearing to change their ways[11].
But, to Aziraphale’s deep consternation, Crowley did not move.
Aziraphale reached out with the iron poker and prods at Crowley’s shoulder. When that received no response, he leaned down to see Crowley’s face. The other man’s spectacles had slipped down his nose. His eyes were open, but hazy. They moved sluggishly as he tried to focus on the poker. It occurred to Aziraphale that he was shivering badly, though the bookshop was significantly warmer than the street outside.
“Dear boy, I hope you won’t find this question impertinent, but whatever is the matter with you?”
Crowley’s upper lip curled in a snarl, but his hissed declaration that nothing was wrong with him was rather undercut by the violent shiver that rattled through him as he finished speaking. Dark patches appeared on his skin and when Aziraphale examined them, he realized they were scales. Understanding swept over him.
“Oh! You’re a snake!” Aziraphale bit his tongue, embarrassed by the faux pas. One usually did not mention one’s own species in polite company, much less blurt out someone else’s so candidly.
Crowley peered up at him from under lowered brows, no sharper than they were before but possessed of the thinnest sliver of good humor despite his clear torpor.
“S’a bit rude,” Crowley said, tongue tripping over the consonants. “Not wrong, ‘course, but rude.”
Aziraphale inclined his head in the silent apology common between their people. “Perhaps I might help you back to your lodgings?” He said. “I am more than willing to put this ugly business—” he gestured to the still sealed cashbox “—aside. Provided, of course, that you do not return with the same intent.”
Crowley snorted, rolling his head back a bit so he could look Aziraphale in the eye. “Pretty short walk, that.”
Aziraphale blinked in surprise. Soho was not large, surely he’d have noticed someone so… striking if they were neighbors. His surprise must have shown on his face, because Crowley kept talking.
“Used t’live down by the river,” he said, voice slow, “Lost m’job.” Crowley held up one of his hands, showing off faintly blue fingernails and knuckles cracked and swollen with the cold. “Hard to fish when you can’t feel the ropes.”
The picture grew still clearer in Aziraphale’s mind; Crowley’s gaunt cheeks, the violent, painful shivering, the uncontrollable spread of tiny scales that spoke to exhaustion so deep his hold on the human form was slipping…. By all rights, Aziraphale should banish Crowley Underhill. He had broken the laws of hospitality, tried to steal from a Principality of the Court[12].
But really, could he fault someone for stealing when it seemed they had no other options? Would that not make him the inhospitable one? Equally, it would be irresponsible for him to just allow the poor, frigid creature back out into the world where he would steal from someone else or perish; neither option reflected well on Aziraphale.
Moreover, there was something about the faint hints of a smile he’d seen dancing around the corners of Crowley’s eyes. Something charming and clever—he’d responded so quickly to Aziraphale’s comments before the cold got to him.
Before he could think himself out of it, Aziraphale made what was likely a very stupid decision.
“Perhaps, we might make a bargain,” he said.
Crowley blinked at him and did not speak.
“The terms would be simple,” Aziraphale went on. He was beginning to feel that he needed to get this over with sooner rather than later lest Crowley be too cold to speak at all. “You will drink wine with me and accompany me to the opera when the weather is not too unpleasant for you to be about.” Crowley’s eyes were very wide and very yellow, staring up at him in confusion. Aziraphale forged on, determined to get it all out before he ran out of steam and began regretting speaking at all. “You will sleep on my sofa and eat my food when you’re hungry.”
“What—” Crowley paused and licked his cracked lips. “What would you ask of me for all that?”
Aziraphale smiled. “In return I will forgive your mistake tonight and when the weather warms, I will accompany you on walks to the park to feed the ducks.”
Crowley coughed, biting his lower lip between teeth far sharper than a human’s. “That seems… less than equi- equit— Less than fair.”
More sure that this was the right thing to do by the moment, Aziraphale held out his hand to Crowley, palm up.
“I don’t believe it is,” he said, “And as I am the wronged party here, I think that’s all that matters.”
Crowley stared at his hand. “But, why?”
Deciding that perhaps a little honesty would put the other at ease, Aziraphale allowed his smile to soften at the edges. “You didn’t actually take anything and you didn’t try to hurt me,” he said. “I think I might enjoy a little company rattling around this old shop.”
Crowley didn’t move for a few seconds, his breath barely visible as his chest rose and fell. Eventually, a forked tongue darted out, wetting his cracked lips.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. “I think I can agree to that arrangement.”
He took Aziraphale’s hand.
1. We don’t need the Lady seeing those damned eyes, boy.↩
2. The larger of the two still showed the singe marks, even a century and a half later.↩
3. He hadn’t. Or rather, he had but only because he lived on the far north end of the city and could only be arsed to come this far south once every third week or so.↩
4. He did not.↩
5. His mum had always called him her little snake charmer, a joke that made his da laugh every time.↩
6. And most of them were gentlemen, despite the area of the city in which Mrs. Sandwich operated.↩
7. Were he not so cold, he might waggle his brow and make a joke about arriving just in time for evening service.↩
8. An option he’d be far more open to if humans weren’t so precious about what they expected to find in people’s pants.↩
9. And the only other member of the Good Folk living nearby, though she was a member of the Winter Court and thus prone to wild fancies and strange delights that he could not always keep up with.↩
10. Though, Aziraphale wasn’t sure how exactly the cashbox’s mother was meant to have done those things.↩
11. In fact, his acquaintance with the proprietor of the tavern up the street had begun in just such a manner.↩
12. This was a technical truth, not a practical one, as Aziraphale had not visited the court for longer than an afternoon tea in decades. But, technical truths were the more important sort for the Folk.↩
(no subject)
Date: 2024-01-02 03:59 am (UTC)The little hints about his mother and father are also making me heartbroken :’( He deserves their love!
Oh! The Fair Folk! Delightful!!! And Anathema, I’ve missed her, and I’d love to see her and the Winter Court and their wild fancies :D And the way Aziraphale moves through shadows and dust motes is SO cool. I want to see this as an old animated movie with orchestral sound effects :D
Yes, that sounds like a good arrangement, to me :D
This is such a unique take! I love the setting, and I love the way you took the folklore here and applied it to them in a way that fits so well. Just the thing to warm my heart on a cold night :)
Wonderful
Date: 2024-01-02 09:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2024-01-02 11:31 am (UTC)