Chapter Text
Jack Walker walked into his shop that morning knowing exactly what to expect.
One did not simply leave a butchery unattended for three days.
Obviously, Jack had no say in the matter. He had been arrested the day after Owen’s murder and held in the cells at Station House Number Four. They had found the real murderer, and Jack had been released without any charges—thanks, in no small part, to Llewellyn Watts.
Unable to stop his face from quirking up into a smile, Jack drew back the curtains to let light into the shop. The pungent smell of rotting meat mixed with damp sawdust only got worse the more he moved around. He propped open a window and got to work.
Even as he bagged hunks of spoiled meat, Jack couldn’t keep himself from whistling a happy little tune.
He had to get a lot done today: cleaning up the waste and salvaging what he could, in terms of bad meat and bad reputations. He had to try to smooth things over with his regular customers—he couldn’t afford to lose more business. He had to refill the ice box and grind the still edible meat before it went off.
Despite all that, Jack couldn’t quite find it in him to feel bad for himself. And it was all thanks to Llewellyn Watts.
Funny, mysterious, gorgeous Llewellyn. With those soft dark curls that Jack so badly wanted to comb through. With those jerky, unpredictable movements—legs crossing, hands twisting around, leaning in closer to Jack and yet not close enough. With those languid, poetic words that Jack kept playing over and over again in his mind.
Jack had never met someone quite like Llewellyn.
Grinning to himself, Jack tied up his bag of spoiled meats and headed out the back. He tossed it in the trash and paused mid-whistle as he noticed the boy watching him.
The kid was sitting on his haunches, trying to surreptitiously drink from the tannery’s water spigot next door. He stayed there, frozen, waiting for Jack’s next move.
Jack had seen the kid before. He was tiny, no more than 11 years old most likely, and he always wore a bulky winter coat that had seen too many winters. Jack sometimes hired the kid to deliver packages. Until last month, when the kid was supposed to deliver a set of roasting ducks to Mrs. Bewdley and nicked them instead. Jack hadn’t seen him since.
The kid was staring at Jack, wide-eyed and mouth half open. He looked very much the part of a rabid street urchin.
Jack could grab the kid and hand him over to a constable. The little thief would probably get sent to one of those industry schools for orphans.
Intentionally trying to appear less intimidating, Jack leaned against the brick wall of his shop. “Is that breakfast?”
The boy turned the water faucet til it squeaked to a stop. His eyes never leaving Jack’s, he slowly wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Would ya prefer if it was a rat?”
Jack smirked. “A rat for breakfast doesn’t sound too bad. With enough butter.”
“You’ve never eaten a rat before.” The kid challenged.
Jack shrugged, “No, but I figure it can’t be much different from squirrel.”
“Yeah? Well I have.” The lad smiled too wide, his voice hitting that annoying tone that was mixed bragging and whining. “I like ‘em raw. Fur and everything. And I eat the tail last.”
The kid mimicked slurping a rat’s tail into his mouth.
Thoroughly disgusted but slightly amused, Jack pretended to ignore the lad’s choice of wild meat. “You know, the tanner doesn’t like your sort. He’s sure to take a switch to you if he catches you drinking from his tap.”
“Why don’t you tell him then?”
Jack raised an eyebrow, “Do you want me to?”
“You were gone a while.” The boy changes the subject quickly, but Jack noticed how he took a couple steps away from the tanner’s back door. And closer to Jack.
“Yeah I was.”
“Folks said you were dead.”
“Not yet.” Jack glanced back towards his shop, and his long list of responsibilities. “I’ve got too much to do to die at the moment.”
In fact, he had a lot better things to do than be friendly with a young criminal-in-training. Jack wasn’t sure why he was acting like such a sap this morning. He wasn’t in the business of saving pitiable street kids.
Maybe it was finding Owen’s dead body, or getting unjustly locked up in jail, or swooning over a certain handsome detective—but Jack felt different today. Like the world was bright with possibility, and life was too short to be careful and detached all the time.
And maybe a couple minutes and a little forgiveness could go a long way to making this poor kid’s day better.
“Say,” Jack smiled sincerely at the lad. “I could use a hand with some deliveries today.”
---
Inspector Brackenreid slammed his phone down with such force that it set all the constables in a 10m radius on edge.
“That’s it! I’ve had enough of this rubbish!”
“Is everything alright sir?” George Crabtree looked up from his work as his boss shrugged into his overcoat.
“Do I look like a rabbit to you, Crabtree?”
“No sir.” Crabtree crinkled his eyebrows in confusion.
“There is surprisingly little resemblance.” Watts chimed in from across the room.
Inspector Brackenreid scowled and stabbed his cane in Watts’ direction. “Six days I’ve gone without any red meat! It’s been nothing but rabbit food every night! Last night, our main course was turnip soup. Turnip!”
“New diet, sir?”
“It’s not a diet Crabtree! It’s a bloody death sentence!” The inspector shouted.
“That seems a bit dramatic.” Watts mumbled with his chin tucked in against his chest.
The inspector scowled in Watts’ direction. “Margaret’s refused to cook anything from the new butcher, says he leaves too much gristle on his steaks. I can’t take anymore of it. I don’t care if the old butcher’s a poof, I need real food!”
Crabtree put it all together. “Ah, you mean that Walker fellow from the case with the philately society!”
Across the room, Watts straightened up in his chair and seemed to go back to reading.
Inspector Brackenreid leaned in closer to Crabtree’s desk and lowered his voice. “Listen, he may be a pansy, but he knows how to handle his meat.”
It took an extraordinary force of will for George Crabtree not to burst out laughing.
---
Llewellyn Watts was doing another pointless loop around Carlton street. He fiddled with a handkerchief in his coat pocket, his eyes darting around anxiously.
A month ago, late one night, his feet had carried him right to Jack Walker. Truth be told, he hadn’t even realized where he was going until he knocked on Jack’s door. It was an irrational and frankly dangerous decision. He was putting everything at risk—his career, his friendships, even his freedom.
Now his traitorous feet were carrying him back to the butcher.
A flurry of nervous energy almost had Llewellyn turning back around. But he realized it wasn’t a nervousness born of fright and dread. It was the same nervousness that electrified all the fibers of his being and set his heart racing when Jack held his hand.
With his feelings caught in his throat and his head spinning, Llewellyn Watts entered the butcher shop.
“We’re closing up.”
Llewellyn scanned the small front room. No sign of Jack.
The small child talking to him was scrubbing at the butchery’s white tile wall. Llewellyn guessed they were some age between six and sixteen, probably a street kid by the wild look in their eyes.
“Ah.” Clearing his throat, Llewellyn danced his fingers over the countertop. “Where might I find Mr. Walker?”
With the tiniest hint of a sneer, the child nodded towards the back of the store. Llewellyn hesitated for a moment, then he squirmed around the counter, almost knocking over a scale with his awkward limbs.
Taking a breath, Llewellyn tried to calm himself. He needed to explain his complicated feelings, and he owed Jack an apology for running out on him without—
“Detective, what can I do for you?”
Llewellyn nearly tripped over himself when Jack spoke. He was standing over a washbasin, drying off his hands with a towel and then draping it over his shoulder. Jack was smiling.
His stomach fluttering with nerves, Llewellyn couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence. “Oh. There you are.”
If it was possible, Jack’s smile grew even brighter. It was like staring into the sun.
“And here you are.”
“Mr. Walker, I… I need to talk to you.”
The butcher rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. His smile faltered for a moment. “Are you here on police business?”
Watts took a small step closer to the man. Jack’s work uniform was powdered with flecks of sawdust. Llewellyn had a strong desire to pick them off one by one, even perhaps the ones in Jack’s chestnut brown hair. But it was entirely possible that Jack didn’t want anything to with him, let alone his greasy fingers in his hair.
“No I’m…” Llewellyn struggled to say the words, making himself so vulnerable to rejection. “…this is a personal visit, Jack.”
The corner of Jack’s fine lips quirked up. He untied his apron and hung it up. Llewellyn couldn’t take his eyes off him. This man who had so thoroughly seen him. This man who might reject him and his meager scraps of feelings.
“So you’re not here to arrest me again?”
Jack was teasing him. Llewellyn’s neck flushed with heat.
“I was wondering if I, if I might be able to make it up to you?” Llewellyn swallowed loudly. “All of it.”
Then Jack reached out to brush his hand, and Llewellyn’s brain conjured images of bringing those strong, callused hands to his lips. He was most definitely blushing now.
“I like the sound of that, Llewellyn.”
---
“Why did you do this for me?”
Mr. Walker glanced up from the invoice he was tallying on the store counter. He was chewing the back of his pencil while he focused.
It was a quiet Tuesday at the butchery. Mr. Walker had loudly suggested that it was a wonderful day to go see the musicians in Allan Gardens, and that he could manage on his own for the afternoon. But that sounded like a trap, and Joseph-Lucien was doing all that he could to stay in Mr. Walker’s good graces.
Pulling the pencil out of his mouth, Mr. Walker grinned at his young helper. “Remind me what I did this time?”
Joseph-Lucien studied the floor. “Why’d you give me this job?”
Mr. Walker hummed aloud and said, “I figured any kid who could wax poetic about eating whole rats would be able to stomach chopping up meat all day.”
Joseph-Lucien rolled his eyes and went back to wrapping blocks of tallow. Even though it wasn’t a real answer, it was a very Jack thing to say, and that made him feel more at ease.
Regardless of the circumstances that got him here, Luc was having a damn good month. This work for the butcher was different than the other odd jobs he had picked up. Mr. Walker expected a lot from him, but he took the time to guide him through it. Even when he ruined it, Luc didn’t get beaten or screamed at. And the pay was twice what he could ever make selling junk or nicking stuff.
Luc had spent his first earnings on a clean pair of slacks and a white chemise, so he could look presentable. Mr. Walker had given him his very own apron, wool vest, and a nœud de papillon. Luc still couldn’t get the knack of tying it, but Mr. Walker didn’t seem to mind doing it for him every morning.
If Luc didn’t know better, he might have believed that the kid in his reflection was a respectable young man, malgré tout.
“We all deserve second chances, I reckon.”
Joseph-Lucien stiffened as he realized Mr. Walker was standing behind him.
“If you fold the paper up this way, then this direction, it’s better. Less leaky.” Mr. Walker demonstrated a little twist in the corner of the butcher paper.
“Yes sir, I’ll fix it.” Joseph-Lucien tried to mimic Mr. Walker’s wrapping technique. “I still don’t know why you hired me, s’not like I have any schooling ou rien.”
“Just because you didn’t have any experience doesn’t mean you don’t have any skill. You pick things up quick and you’re a big help around here. Don’t sell yourself short, little guy.”
Luc kissed his teeth in annoyance at the ribbing about his height.
Mr. Walker patted Luc’s shoulder. “It was well worth the risk of losing another couple of roasting ducks.”
Joseph-Lucien turned around, eyes wide. Merde. He had assumed that the butcher had forgotten about that botched delivery.
Mr. Walker waved off the fearful look. “It’s alright lad. I won’t go out of business because of two stolen ducks.”
“I didn’t steal the ducks.” Joseph-Lucien blurted out. He couldn’t stand the thought of being a liar and a thief in Mr. Walker’s eyes.
Of course, Mr. Walker didn’t believe him. “Luke it’s—”
“No, it’s true, j’te le jure! It wasn’t my fault. I was cutting through an alley on my way to deliver ‘em, and I got crowded by a couple of constables. They took ‘em.”
Mr. Walker frowned. “Why would they do that?”
Luc should probably have shut his big mouth, but his pride wouldn’t allow it. “They said I stole them, so they had the right to confiscate ‘em, supposément. But it was them, the thieves. And they threatened that the next time they caught me stealing, they’d throw me in the cells.”
Mr. Walker rubbed the back of his neck. “You never told me.”
“No one believes kids like me.” Staring down at his too-big shoes, Luc shrugged. “I knew explaining it wouldn’t do me no good. I’m not an idiot. Coppers always pull things like that on street kids, s’nothing I can do about it.”
“Oh, I know!” Mr. Walker seemed to be struck with an idea. He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a scrap of paper. “I have a … detective friend. He’s brilliant and very understanding, if a bit, uh, unconventional.”
Immediately, Joseph-Lucien thought of him—l’homme mince, maladroit et franchement bizarre. The man had shut himself in the back room with Mr. Walker for a suspicious length of time. Joseph-Lucien had imagined it was something shady. Now that he knew the man was a copper, it was confirmed.
Writing as he talked, Mr. Walker said, “This is the detective’s name and station house. It’s the one on Parliament.” The butcher gave the piece of paper to Luc. “If you have any problems in the future, go see him. Tell him Jack sent you.”
Luc pretended to be able to read off the paper and nodded. He fully intended to toss it out later. But he still appreciated that Mr. Walker was trying to help. “Thank you, Mr. Walker.”
Pausing for a moment, Mr. Walker smiled at Luc and ruffled his hair. Joseph-Lucien wasn’t sure what he had done to be treated so kindly. He desperately hoped he could keep doing it, whatever it was.
“I had a very good joke about you devouring two whole ducks. It appears to be the wrong thing to say now.”
“No you have good reason to say it. The feathers are my preferred part. Gives it a crunch.”
“That is terrifying.”