Chapter Text
Crowley had almost reached the door when the wind picked up.
It was a nice door, he had noticed from the curb. All shiny and red, reflective in the midmorning sun. There was a nice arch above it, with little curved panes of glass fanned out so that it looked almost like a peacock’s tail. And, right next to it, in polished brass, was the same number that was on the labels stuck to the parcels under his arm (which he’d known, because he’d checked it three times. His postal academy training had yet to fail him).
He cleared his throat (though there was no one there to hear it), patted his mailbag, and started up the front walk. He made sure his saunter was self-assured and nearly majestic, but without the pompous arrogance that commanded attention. Postmen weren’t supposed to call attention to themselves; they were simply meant to be an accessory to the monotonous life of everyday suburbia (at least according to A Comprehensive Guide to the Postal System and A Mailman’s Job, 13th Edition).
He was about to go slide the letters into the box affixed to the wall beside the door and leave the parcel on the doorstep when the wind started.
Now, it wasn’t a gentle breeze. It was more of a gust, like the kind that is welcomed on hot summer days or that makes autumn days all the more autumn-er, but Crowley hadn’t been expecting it. And, as is the usual with unexpected happenings, they often lead to unexpected consequences. And, in this case, the unexpected consequences also happened to be unpleasant, and quite unfortunate.
He was shaken by the air, just enough so that he doubled over slightly. His feet tripped. His gloved hands fumbled. And the stack of letters he had to deliver were swept up in the gust, dancing along in the air stream like paper butterflies.
“Wait!” Crowley cried. He wrenched himself up from his hunched position and took off after the letters, the wind propelling him forward. Unfortunately for him, the wind also served as a source of speed for the letters as well.
The streets gradually became more congested as the escaped letters led Crowley further into the city. His chase became perpetuated with breathless excuse mes and I’m sorry, can I get by? The letters continued to race forwards. Every time he would get close, another breeze would come and blow them just out of his reach. His breathing grew more labored with each step. This, he thought, was never covered in the postal academy training.
He continued to run, bypassing pedestrians and horses, cobblestones thudding painfully on his sore feet. Noises flew around him, all from the daily lives of the people he passed. And, all through it, the wind blew persistently, nearly taunting him with its relentlessness.
The chase continued through the winding city streets, leading him all the way to the docks. The smoother and opener landscape allowed Crowley to finally gain some ground. The wind also seemed to grow tired of blowing so ceaselessly and slowed down a bit, which gave Crowley the burst of motivation he needed. With a running jump, he leaped up and forward, neatly snagging the letters out of midair.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, face alight with triumph. “Got you now, you little— ooomf.” In his distraction, he hadn’t been keeping his eyes forward. He’d ran headfirst into… something. Something furry and warm and… smelly.
Gagging, he backed up, taking in the sight of the horse flank he’d run into. The horse whinnied indignantly, and Crowley suspected that if horses had eyebrows, it would be raising them reproachfully.
“Ah… sorry,” he said, backing up. After he was safely on the side of the road, he noticed the absent feel of paper between his fingers. Damn. The letters were gone. His eyes frantically searched the sky above him, hoping for a glimpse of white paper or the flash of a wax seal. He spotted a few birds and a cloud that looked remarkably like a postage stamp, but no letters.
He sank to the ground. His legs sang with the reprieve of his weight, but his heart was heavier than ever. His hands went to cradle his head, holding it aloft over the sea of sadness within him.
As he wallowed, the voice of his old professor at the postal academy came to him, echoing in his head. The package is the most important part of a mailman. Whether it be a letter or a box, always make sure it is safe. People expect a flawless delivery, and heaven forbid you damage it. And above all, never, EVER, lose your package!
Crowley was just about to envision what he’d tell the postmaster about he’d lost the letters when he spotted a flash of white among the dust and stones of the road. Could it be?
He squinted. Sure enough, it was the letters, looking a little rumpled but otherwise fine. His job on the line, he scrambled over on his hands and knees, desperate to reach them before they blew away again. People on the street swerved to avoid him, and several angry mutterings reached his ears. Streams of apologies left his mouth, all halfhearted. He had to get those letters.
He pounced on the ground where he had seen them last, breathing heavily. Finally. It felt so good to triumph.
He scooped up the letters (which, by now, were looking worse for wear and extremely dirty) and tucked them into his mailbag. He took a deep breath and started forwards, back to the house he was supposed to be at.
He didn’t get very far before he found he couldn’t walk any more. It was almost as if he was stuck on something. He turned, expecting to have to undo a thread from his coat from around a fence post or something of the like, but was met with another surprise.
“You!” he exclaimed. The horse’s doleful eyes glanced up at him, the strap of his mailbag in its mouth, slowly being chewed through by the horse’s dull teeth.
“No!” He slid the mailbag strap off his shoulder and took it in his hands, hoping to tear it from the horse’s mouth, but its grip was surprisingly tight.
He struggled for a few more moments, but the horse held fast. Then, as if it grew tired of the standard-issue brown leather bag taste, it abruptly let go.
Crowley flew backwards, the force from the tug of war game he’d been playing propelling him and his bag quickly through the air. He stumbled for the umpteenth time, arms windmilling, trying to grasp anything to stop his fall. He expected to hit the ground, but he was instead met with something much, much worse.
The briny water of the Thames soaked him thoroughly with its icy wetness as he plunged into the murky depths. The sunlight blinked out as he tried to find his bearings while simultaneously trying to keep the tainted water out of his eyes, nose, and mouth. When he finally surfaced, he was gasping for breath between his chattering teeth. He could feel his limbs seizing up and numbing from the cold water. He struggled his way to the dock post, clinging to it like a child clings to its mother after he reached it. When he regained some feeling in his body, he hauled himself up with his remaining strength. His body still protested, however, aching in places he didn’t even know existed.
His mailbag was somehow miraculously clutched in his freezing fist, the leather nonexistent under his freezing fingers. He pried them up and opened the flap of the bag, wincing just in case his worst fears were confirmed.
They were. He reached inside and pulled out nothing but paper pulp, some pieces marred with running black stains that used to spell out addresses and names.
He groaned, his mood sinking with finality. “Shit.”
The ceilings of the Postmaster’s office were some of the highest Crowley had ever seen. They towered above him and made him feel small and insignificant. Which, he figured, was probably on purpose.
“Anthony Crowley.” The Postmaster’s voice was cold when she called his name. It matched her icy and severe expression, showcased by her bobbed grey hair.
He stepped forward, shaking. “Y- yes?”
“Not only did you go off from your route, you also destroyed an entire load of letters after chasing them most unceremoniously through the city, as several people”—she glanced over her spectacles down at the report—“and one horse complained.”
Crowley fidgeted in place. Recalling the events of the previous day was… not very fun. After losing the letters, he’d paced the docks, still sopping wet, trying to figure out how to break the news to the Postmaster, before deciding they’d probably figure it out regardless of whether he told them or not. His prediction was confirmed when he’d received a strongly worded letter the next morning, delivered by one of the exclusive postmen of the Postmaster’s office. It contained a summons to the Postmaster’s office on “unspecified terms,” though he knew exactly what it was for.
“Look, like I said before, it was—”
“I am not finished,” she interjected sharply, and he cowered once more. “This behavior is absolutely ATROCIOUS!” She banged the desk with the palm of her hand as she spoke, to emphasize just how bad he had messed up.
“But, Postmaster, ma’am, the wind—”
She frowned. “I will hear nothing of it! Do you not remember the great Postman O’Malley, who braved seven storms and arrived with his letter poised and perfect? Or perhaps Postman Port, who still did his rounds despite the terrible blizzard, the worst the world had seen since the Ice Age? And you’re telling me you can’t handle some wind.”
“There was something off about it!” Crowley insisted. “It just… came out of nowhere.”
“Came out of nowhere,” the Postmaster echoed. She sighed, dropping the report on the table and slumping in her seat. “Oh, Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.”
He stood there, unsure of how to reply. Thankfully, the Postmaster reassumed her straight posture, staring up at him from her desk.
“This”—she gestured vaguely at the report—“is a firing offense, you know.”
Crowley gulped, painfully audible. This was it, he thought. I’m about to lose my job.
“But—”
Crowley perked. There was a but.
“You’ve proven yourself in the past.” The Postmaster reached for another stack of papers. “Top of your class at the Postal Academy. And, before today, no major incidents in your six months of service. You’ve been commended by most, which is why the postal service is reluctant to let you go. We would be losing a great postman.”
Ah. So it was sympathy, and nothing but. He was still being fired. He swallowed, trying to process the news. Being a postman was all he knew. It was all he’d ever wanted to be. Ever since he was a child, gazing wistfully at their fancy hats and blue uniforms with shiny buttons, he’d thought that’s what I want to do. I want to make a difference. And now, his dream was all floating away.
The Postmaster sighed again. “After a discussion and deliberation with some of our other heads here, we’ve decided to let you keep your job.”
Crowley’s head shot up. He audibly gasped, jaw dropping. It was like he’d won the lottery.
Breathless, he started spewing thanks. “You’re— you’re too kind, Postmaster, ma’am. I mean— I greatly appreciate this gesture, honestly, you’ve no idea how much this means to me, truly—”
The Postmaster put up her hand to silence him. “Wait. You haven’t heard the other half.”
Crowley’s excitement was somewhat dampened by this, and he faltered. “The… other half?”
“You won’t be a postman in London anymore,” the Postmaster said.
Crowley sighed. “Oh. If that’s all.” He stared at the Postmaster. “So. Where am I headed? Kent? Surrey? Please tell me it’s not Northumberland. Don’t think I could handle the cold.”
The Postmaster gave a rueful smile. “I think you’re thinking a little too close to home.” She got up and walked over to the postal map, which listed and displayed each post office in the world. Little pins represented each postman, the heads marked with small initials. The Postmaster plucked one from over London, Crowley wincing as her hand moved higher and higher on the map. Finally, she plopped him down, right on an island somewhere around Norway.
“Congratulations, Mr. Crowley,” she said, though she didn’t sound remotely congratulatory. “You are now the official postman of Smeerensburg.”