Happy Holidays, Musegaarid!
Title: The Retirement of Former Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell
Gift For: musegaarid
From: A Secret!
Characters: Shadwell, Madame Tracy, Aziraphale, Newt
Rating: G
Summary: Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, retired, isn't quite as retired as he appears.
Notes: I had no idea writing gen in this fandom would be so much fun! I hope you enjoy your gift, musegaarid!
'Twas the week before Christmas, and Lower Tadfield was covered in a foot of snow. The roads were perfectly clear, of course, but on Christmas Eve, flakes would begin falling from the sky, and by Christmas morning, it would be perfectly impossible to do anything but stay inside with one's family or play about in one's front yard. Only on Boxing Day would things clear up a bit.
Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, retired, knew this quite well because he had witnessed it for two previous years, and he saw nothing that would persuade him to the contrary this year.
Shangri-La, as it had turned out, was a cottage in Lower Tadfield not too far from Adam Young's house. Shadwell had cleared out of London three-and-a-half years ago with one Marjorie Potts, formerly Madame Tracy. On this December morning and the two years prior, she was Mrs. Tracy Shadwell to anyone who asked, mostly because she identified so strongly with the name that she hadn't been able to give it up entirely. The Shadwell part was accurate, but only because Shadwell himself had insisted. Just because she made him feel...well, nice was probably the only way to put it, didn't mean he would give up his strong moral bearing.
Shadwell was eying the world from their bedroom window when Madame Tracy called from the ground floor.
“Breakfast, Mister S!”
“Aye,” Shadwell muttered. “Devil woman.”
But he turned and headed down the stairs, much like he did every morning. And just like every morning, he sat in the place that Madame Tracy had set for him, complete with china plates and cups, and unfolded the news paper.
“Good morning, love,” Madame Tracy said brightly from her side of the table. She lifted the kettle sitting between them and poured tea into his cup. “Did you sleep well?”
Shadwell grunted without looking up from the paper.
“Glad to hear it,” she said, giggling at the end of the sentence. “Anything interesting in the news, then?”
If there was, he hadn't seen it yet. But his answer was always the same when she asked the question: another grunt of similar tone and pitch as his sleep answer.
Madame Tracy was never offended by such grunts; she knew just as well as he did that his word usage increased as the day wore on. She simply smiled over her plate of eggs and bacon and began to eat, pausing between bites to chatter about the goings-on in the village. If there was nothing in the newspaper worth paying attention to, he would give her most of his attentions, although he hoped that she didn't suspect just how much he did listen.
On a day like this one, however, he zeroed in on an article and started shoveling down his food. She spoke regardless, but he was usually away from the table and out the door in fifteen minutes. Today was no different.
~
Madame Tracy didn't believe that Shangri-La was a smoking-friendly environment, so Shadwell and his cigarettes usually spent their second part of the morning out of the cottage. There was an old shed in the back that used to be used for garden implements and such, but today, it held the rubbish that didn't belong in the house and the smell of tobacco.
It was also, coincidentally, a good place to hang articles on the wall.
Shadwell was technically retired from the Witchfinders Army and had been since before he'd left London. Averting the end of the world and settling down with a woman had felt like a satisfactory end to things, at least at the time. But when he'd moved to Lower Tadfield, he had found himself checking the local newspaper every day for the odd and unusual articles that he had spent his days searching for before retirement. He'd simply found it a hard habit to break.
Today, as he was trudging across the snowy yard in the frozen footprints that had been made in the days before, he found himself wondering if there was another reason that he'd kept looking. Like, now that he had a better idea of what was out there (he still didn't grasp it all, but not for lack of trying), it was impossible to ever settle down and quit the business entirely. Like there was something inside of him that needed to keep looking.
He shook his head when he reached the door of the shed. “Ye old fool.”
The cigarette in his fingers was already lit by the time he closed the door. He didn't want to linger outside longer than he had to; the shed wasn't heated, and he certainly wasn't as young as he used to be. But he always managed to smoke two cigarettes before he retreated to the warmth inside or to the pub down the lane, if only because he always looked over the articles on the wall.
Keeping the stick dangling from his lips, Shadwell took the newspaper out from under his arm and flipped to the page in question. He perused the article as he reached for the scissors, which were kept in a slot in the wall, then began to cut.
Road Rage Incident Sparks Debate, the headline read.
~
Aziraphale cleared his throat, smoothed down his trenchcoat, then rang the bell.
The door to Jasmine Cottage opened about fifteen seconds later, and Newton Pulsifer stood in the frame. “Oh, hello,” he said. “It's been a while, hasn't it?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “How have you been keeping?”
“Well enough. Would you like to come in?”
Aziraphale nodded, and Newt stood aside far enough for him to enter. As he did, he called back to Anathema.
“He's trying to buy your bloody book again!”
~
Placing the article in the shed with the rest of them hadn't eased Shadwell's nerves quite enough. Reminding himself that he was retired wasn't enough either, possibly because the voice in his head sounded more like Madame Tracy's than his own. That coupled with the urge to go and spend some more time with his wife meant that he was more unsettled than ever, so he decided to walk to the pub. A pint sounded very good at this point.
Of course, Lower Tadfield wasn't the largest spot on the map, so it was only some ten minutes later that he was passing by the front of Jasmine Cottage. He stopped walking, giving the place a good once-over like he always did, and considered whether or not he should check to see if Newt was in. Shadwell had never felt quite right about leaving former Witchfinder Private Pulsifer with the young lady in residence, especially as that had left the Witchfinder Army in a peculiar state of flux. As a result, he had visited once or twice, but always stopped when he passed to make sure that the roof hadn't blown off or some such nonsense.
But this time, the front door opened as he stopped, and Aziraphale stepped out.
“Southern pansy!” Shadwell yelled. It was simply old habit; he hadn't laid eyes or ears on Aziraphale since the near ending of existence, but it did make him feel better.
Aziraphale paused, and Shadwell saw Newt peeking over his shoulder.
“Er, hello,” Aziraphale said. “How are the witch hunts progressing?”
“I dunna see what business that is of yers,” Shadwell said.
Newt stepped forward. “Why don't you show him the articles?”
“Articles?” Aziraphale asked.
Shadwell glared. He knew that Newt and Anathema had visited Shangri-La during their stay in Lower Tadfield, but Shadwell himself had always been out at the time, usually on purpose. But while he hadn't known that they'd seen the shed - although he should have, considering how much his wife loved to talk -- he was quietly pleased.
~
Madame Tracy had been equally pleased to see Aziraphale again. She'd settled him and Newt in two of her puffiest armchairs and darted for the kitchen while Shadwell went back to the shed and pulled all of the clippings off the wall. It was cozy enough back there for one man, but it never would have held two men and an angel.
He spread them out on the end table between the two armchairs, and he watched as Aziraphale thumbed through all three years of the articles, from Rise in Shop Robberies to Prime Minister Condemns Gang Activity. It wasn't as big a stack as Shadwell had collected in his prime, but then, he only worked through one paper, and he only spent a half-hour each morning doing it. He was retired, after all.
When he was finished, Aziraphale looked Shadwell in the eye. “You do this every morning, then?”
Shadwell nodded.
“Would you...that is, would you mind terribly if I stopped by and looked these over every now and again?”
“Why, how often would that be?” Madame Tracy asked.
“Every couple of weeks or so, I would imagine.”
Madame Tracy clasped her hands together. “That would be lovely! But...of course, it's up to Mister S.”
Shadwell gave a short nod. “Aye, ye might as well.”
Newt gave a small smile, and Shadwell gathered up the clippings as Madame Tracy asked if anyone wanted biscuits.
Outside, it was beginning to snow again, ever so slightly.
~end~
Happy Holidays, musegaarid, from your Secret Writer!
Gift For: musegaarid
From: A Secret!
Characters: Shadwell, Madame Tracy, Aziraphale, Newt
Rating: G
Summary: Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, retired, isn't quite as retired as he appears.
Notes: I had no idea writing gen in this fandom would be so much fun! I hope you enjoy your gift, musegaarid!
'Twas the week before Christmas, and Lower Tadfield was covered in a foot of snow. The roads were perfectly clear, of course, but on Christmas Eve, flakes would begin falling from the sky, and by Christmas morning, it would be perfectly impossible to do anything but stay inside with one's family or play about in one's front yard. Only on Boxing Day would things clear up a bit.
Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, retired, knew this quite well because he had witnessed it for two previous years, and he saw nothing that would persuade him to the contrary this year.
Shangri-La, as it had turned out, was a cottage in Lower Tadfield not too far from Adam Young's house. Shadwell had cleared out of London three-and-a-half years ago with one Marjorie Potts, formerly Madame Tracy. On this December morning and the two years prior, she was Mrs. Tracy Shadwell to anyone who asked, mostly because she identified so strongly with the name that she hadn't been able to give it up entirely. The Shadwell part was accurate, but only because Shadwell himself had insisted. Just because she made him feel...well, nice was probably the only way to put it, didn't mean he would give up his strong moral bearing.
Shadwell was eying the world from their bedroom window when Madame Tracy called from the ground floor.
“Breakfast, Mister S!”
“Aye,” Shadwell muttered. “Devil woman.”
But he turned and headed down the stairs, much like he did every morning. And just like every morning, he sat in the place that Madame Tracy had set for him, complete with china plates and cups, and unfolded the news paper.
“Good morning, love,” Madame Tracy said brightly from her side of the table. She lifted the kettle sitting between them and poured tea into his cup. “Did you sleep well?”
Shadwell grunted without looking up from the paper.
“Glad to hear it,” she said, giggling at the end of the sentence. “Anything interesting in the news, then?”
If there was, he hadn't seen it yet. But his answer was always the same when she asked the question: another grunt of similar tone and pitch as his sleep answer.
Madame Tracy was never offended by such grunts; she knew just as well as he did that his word usage increased as the day wore on. She simply smiled over her plate of eggs and bacon and began to eat, pausing between bites to chatter about the goings-on in the village. If there was nothing in the newspaper worth paying attention to, he would give her most of his attentions, although he hoped that she didn't suspect just how much he did listen.
On a day like this one, however, he zeroed in on an article and started shoveling down his food. She spoke regardless, but he was usually away from the table and out the door in fifteen minutes. Today was no different.
~
Madame Tracy didn't believe that Shangri-La was a smoking-friendly environment, so Shadwell and his cigarettes usually spent their second part of the morning out of the cottage. There was an old shed in the back that used to be used for garden implements and such, but today, it held the rubbish that didn't belong in the house and the smell of tobacco.
It was also, coincidentally, a good place to hang articles on the wall.
Shadwell was technically retired from the Witchfinders Army and had been since before he'd left London. Averting the end of the world and settling down with a woman had felt like a satisfactory end to things, at least at the time. But when he'd moved to Lower Tadfield, he had found himself checking the local newspaper every day for the odd and unusual articles that he had spent his days searching for before retirement. He'd simply found it a hard habit to break.
Today, as he was trudging across the snowy yard in the frozen footprints that had been made in the days before, he found himself wondering if there was another reason that he'd kept looking. Like, now that he had a better idea of what was out there (he still didn't grasp it all, but not for lack of trying), it was impossible to ever settle down and quit the business entirely. Like there was something inside of him that needed to keep looking.
He shook his head when he reached the door of the shed. “Ye old fool.”
The cigarette in his fingers was already lit by the time he closed the door. He didn't want to linger outside longer than he had to; the shed wasn't heated, and he certainly wasn't as young as he used to be. But he always managed to smoke two cigarettes before he retreated to the warmth inside or to the pub down the lane, if only because he always looked over the articles on the wall.
Keeping the stick dangling from his lips, Shadwell took the newspaper out from under his arm and flipped to the page in question. He perused the article as he reached for the scissors, which were kept in a slot in the wall, then began to cut.
Road Rage Incident Sparks Debate, the headline read.
~
Aziraphale cleared his throat, smoothed down his trenchcoat, then rang the bell.
The door to Jasmine Cottage opened about fifteen seconds later, and Newton Pulsifer stood in the frame. “Oh, hello,” he said. “It's been a while, hasn't it?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “How have you been keeping?”
“Well enough. Would you like to come in?”
Aziraphale nodded, and Newt stood aside far enough for him to enter. As he did, he called back to Anathema.
“He's trying to buy your bloody book again!”
~
Placing the article in the shed with the rest of them hadn't eased Shadwell's nerves quite enough. Reminding himself that he was retired wasn't enough either, possibly because the voice in his head sounded more like Madame Tracy's than his own. That coupled with the urge to go and spend some more time with his wife meant that he was more unsettled than ever, so he decided to walk to the pub. A pint sounded very good at this point.
Of course, Lower Tadfield wasn't the largest spot on the map, so it was only some ten minutes later that he was passing by the front of Jasmine Cottage. He stopped walking, giving the place a good once-over like he always did, and considered whether or not he should check to see if Newt was in. Shadwell had never felt quite right about leaving former Witchfinder Private Pulsifer with the young lady in residence, especially as that had left the Witchfinder Army in a peculiar state of flux. As a result, he had visited once or twice, but always stopped when he passed to make sure that the roof hadn't blown off or some such nonsense.
But this time, the front door opened as he stopped, and Aziraphale stepped out.
“Southern pansy!” Shadwell yelled. It was simply old habit; he hadn't laid eyes or ears on Aziraphale since the near ending of existence, but it did make him feel better.
Aziraphale paused, and Shadwell saw Newt peeking over his shoulder.
“Er, hello,” Aziraphale said. “How are the witch hunts progressing?”
“I dunna see what business that is of yers,” Shadwell said.
Newt stepped forward. “Why don't you show him the articles?”
“Articles?” Aziraphale asked.
Shadwell glared. He knew that Newt and Anathema had visited Shangri-La during their stay in Lower Tadfield, but Shadwell himself had always been out at the time, usually on purpose. But while he hadn't known that they'd seen the shed - although he should have, considering how much his wife loved to talk -- he was quietly pleased.
~
Madame Tracy had been equally pleased to see Aziraphale again. She'd settled him and Newt in two of her puffiest armchairs and darted for the kitchen while Shadwell went back to the shed and pulled all of the clippings off the wall. It was cozy enough back there for one man, but it never would have held two men and an angel.
He spread them out on the end table between the two armchairs, and he watched as Aziraphale thumbed through all three years of the articles, from Rise in Shop Robberies to Prime Minister Condemns Gang Activity. It wasn't as big a stack as Shadwell had collected in his prime, but then, he only worked through one paper, and he only spent a half-hour each morning doing it. He was retired, after all.
When he was finished, Aziraphale looked Shadwell in the eye. “You do this every morning, then?”
Shadwell nodded.
“Would you...that is, would you mind terribly if I stopped by and looked these over every now and again?”
“Why, how often would that be?” Madame Tracy asked.
“Every couple of weeks or so, I would imagine.”
Madame Tracy clasped her hands together. “That would be lovely! But...of course, it's up to Mister S.”
Shadwell gave a short nod. “Aye, ye might as well.”
Newt gave a small smile, and Shadwell gathered up the clippings as Madame Tracy asked if anyone wanted biscuits.
Outside, it was beginning to snow again, ever so slightly.
~end~
Happy Holidays, musegaarid, from your Secret Writer!