A Realist - Chapter 1
Disclaimer - Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji belongs to Yana Toboso.
You don't remember the hours surrounding your disappearance. You can't even remember what you had for breakfast that day. All you remember is pulling yourself up from some damp, dark alleyway to find that it lead to a completely, unfamiliar territory. A thick, grey fog settled overhead, caging you between charming buildings that lined the road. The houses, stuck together tighter than Legos, remind you of European architecture, the kind your friend had sung her praises for as she lectured you about the importance of preserving history.
These looked brighter though, more full of life and colour, no strange mixture of modern interiors and age old exteriors. Only stranger were the people, with dresses that flowed out elegantly at the waist and suits reminiscent of a time long passed. Perhaps you had stumbled upon some sort of event and with so many enthusiastic participants! It only served to make you feel out of place and a little ridiculous.
You lean against the wall of the alleyway, checking your phone to see if there is any service. You cringe at how much alcohol you had to drink to land somewhere so out of the ordinary and take a moment of silence for the money that used to occupy your wallet since how else would you have payed for all that alcohol? You notice the time displayed on your phone is still quite early surprisingly, although you suppose ten o'clock shouldn't actually be considered early. The phone itself is at fifty percent and you thank every God in existence for their mercy.
You dial to call your friend before seeing the area has no bars.
"What?" You say to no one in particular.
"No bars?" You repeat the blasphemous idea.
No bars.
No bars.
In a world where modern technology has gone from luxury item to a daily necessity, you can't even imagine the idea of fully populated areas with no bars.
Preposterous. Unfathomable.
You check the map on your phone because you remember that the GPS will still work regardless of the state of your SIM card.
Your breath hitches because of course it doesn't work.
All you see is a map of the area you last remember being in when you were conscious and it doesn't reflect your surroundings at all. This mix of Gothic and Renaissance certainly does not reflect the nightclub "Rooster and Cat," and you can't help but laugh at the pun, thinking back on it.
Still leaning at entrance, you put your phone away in the pocket of your dress. The slow warmth that climbs up the tips of your fingers reminding you how cold it actually is. Certainly, a lot colder than you remember. You slide your other hand in your pocket, glad for your friend's strange insistence on only buying dresses with pockets the last time you went shopping with her. You hope she is alright, you don't remember exactly how you two were separated.
You resolve to find your way home first, taking a deep breath and patting your hair down so you look at least slightly more presentable after spending the night in an alley. You are surprised to still have your wallet which sits comfortingly in your other pocket, fuller than you expected. So you weren't mugged at least. Or robbed. Perhaps no one thought to check for dress pockets? Or maybe you're just lucky that people don't normally sleep in alleys and therefore wouldn't expect others to do the same.
Regardless, you hold your chin up and walk up to the first woman you see (after eyeing three men and deciding another woman may be more responsive to your plight).
"Sorry, um, excuse me?" You ask, after a bit of awkward staring. You hope she hears you because god damn would it be awkward if you had to ask a second time.
"Yes?" She stops, turns to look at you, eyes widening in surprise, confusion, then disgust.
What?
You reel back slightly. Her sudden hostility is making the air hard to breathe. You glance to the side and then back at her quickly. Maybe you just imagined the look. Maybe you're so nervous that your anxiety rapid-fired, festered in your chest and made you see things.
It didn't.
Albeit not with the same ferocity as before, you can still see the remnants of her expression in the way her eyes are slightly narrowed and her lips press into a thin line.
"Well?" She snaps impatiently but in a way that is calm and icy. You almost wish you had approached one of the men instead.
"Can you tell me where we are?" You ask softly, hoping to not antagonise the woman any further. Her silent fury at being stopped by you is starting to gnaw at you, you think panicking.
She seems to get some sort of sick satisfaction at watching you squirm, your timid gaze darting back and forth from her own.
"Are you so soft in the head that you do not even know where you have arrived?"
You want to know what this woman's problem is. You refrain from asking, instead serving her some cold indifference in return for the attitude.
"Uh yeah, sure. Whatever floats your boat lady."
"You are in Piccadilly. Educate yourself before you stain the city with your presence."
"Piccadilly? Isn't that in London?" You ask the already retreating figure who immediately turns around and hisses quietly.
"Are you being serious or were you simply born daft? Of course it's in London."
"Okay, okay! Thanks?" You say, slowly backing away, "I think."
You think, because if her I'm-better-than-you attitude has told you anything, it's that she wasn't lying. Which just isn't possible. Not because it would have been impossible for you to cross the border of where you were before, but because it would have been impossible for you to cross an entire ocean. And not remember.
You would have laughed if you had just crossed the border. You would have been able to walk right back in. Maybe. But an ocean's worth of border might just be pushing it.
Not only that but you're in London? How are you in London? Where is your passport? All you have is your wallet and after walking to the side to quickly get out of anyone else's way, you check the contents. Everything is still there, the exact same amount of money you remember being in there yesterday, your ID cards, license, everything else.
What could have happened? Why do you only remember being with your friends. How are you supposed to get out of the country?!
Maybe you should find the embassy. They'll help you with this right? Or maybe you should find a hospital first? The only time you've ever remembered so many hours of your life going missing is when you got blackout drunk which is not exactly a good sign.
You pull your long, dry hair into a bun, marveling at the colours before you do so. The lady didn't get a good look at the ombre of blue and purple since you had pulled your hair back before, but best to not risk anymore judgemental stares that could threaten your anxiety. You can still see the dark, neon blue but hopefully one colour will warrant less stares than many colours. Your obnoxiously bright hair is still dyed and you allow yourself a small smile, even in this absurdity there is something reassuring and familiar when you look at your hair. And your nails. Your nails are still painted and covered in glitter. You feel silly finding comfort in your appearance. It is something normal and regular to you, grounding you when you feel the panic edging closer from the corner of your mind.
You decide to continue asking around, if they know where the embassy of your country is, if there might be an event going on because everyone's wearing such beautiful clothes, if they know where you can find a hotel or something because these shoes were not made for walking and despite just wearing flats and not heels, your feet are starting to hurt.
The first question earns you a strange response. "Embassy of where?" They'd ask, "embassy of what?" You don't know whether to clock it up to people just being ignorant but after three or so similar responses you begin to have doubts. You feel nervous asking about the other country you are from and after another two responses that end with the same confusion you give up. Instead, you're thankful that there isn't a repeat of the blatant hostility the first woman showed you. It still happens, but when it does it's less pronounced so you feel a little more inclined to be civil.
The second question, regarding nearby events, makes people laugh. Or as close as they can get to contorting their stuck up faces into a smile. That's when you realize that Londoners hold themselves a little differently than your average person. At least, the rich looking ones do. Everyone wears beautiful clothing. For the women, layers upon layers of intricate, patterned fabric and frills and corsets. You wonder where they even bought their clothes from, planning to search once you've gotten out of what you figure is a residential area. But only to look. You've become a little bit more stingy with your money since you don't know if you'll be able to get any more. And the men. Well. They certainly look dashing with their suits and vests and fancy little chain clocks. You forgot what they were called.
And strangely enough you still can't bring yourself to believe these people when they I answer with a solid, "No." How can you when the only mode of transport you've seen so far is a carriage! A straight up, out of Cinderella, horse-drawn carriage? You haven't seen any cars. Or roads. It's all cobblestone and tile, not a black, tarmac path in sight. You feel unnerved.
At least everyone else has been nice enough to be polite. They sometimes stare at what you're wearing, probably because it looks so out of character here, but not long enough to be rude. They also speak strangely, all posh and no nonsense. You only banter with one or two people and even then it's the sort of subtle humor you'd expect to go over your head if you weren't paying attention.
Someone asks you about your accent, thinking it's American. You shake your head, transatlantic, you say, unsure if that's what the international accent is called. You guess you do lean little more towards American but in a line up of them, you'd definitely be sticking out like a sore thumb. It's like comparing turquoise to blue and green. It always looks like the other colour no matter which you see it next to.
The man your currently talking to seems nice enough, all blonde and pretty, a little unusual to see someone so pale since you're so used to varying shades of brown and yellow. You think he enjoys your company, even giving you a cute nickname, which you would find slightly demeaning if he wasn't so charming. Dear little canary. You laugh politely, asking him to call you by your name, Anya, which, if you're being honest with yourself, was probably his goal to begin with.
"What a beautiful name for such a lovely lady such as yourself," He says with a smile that reaches his eyes.
He's laying it on a little thick but you can't seem to put him down with how genuine he's being.
With a smile of your own, since you're glad he's not a little crazy like a few of the other people here have been, you reply, "Thank you, and you are?"
His eyes widen slightly, as if not expecting you to have asked. Is it so surprising to want to know the name of the stranger that has been chatting you up? Before your confusion can turn to worry, his eyes gain a mischievous glint to them. He pushes his golden locks out of his face with a slender, white gloved, hand and chuckles.
"Apologies my lady, it's a little refreshing to meet someone who doesn't know me yet. You may address me as Crowley."
You feel your heart skip a beat at the "my lady"-he's really taking this role-playing far, isn't he?
"Well, alright then Cro-" You stop yourself, instead deciding to play along with a curtsey, "Mister Crowley."
This seems to make him happy, if not a little amused and he laughs as he responds with a bow of his own. Watching him bow causes you to notice the shadows at his feet. They're a lot longer than they were before you started your little quest. it's getting late and you should probably find a place to stay even if you may or may not be here illegally. You ask him about hotels, hoping they'll accept dedit, which makes him pause in thought. He looks like he's deep in thought, brows furrowed and hmming and haaing.
"Ah!"
You're reluctant to say you jumped at the sound. His eyes are positively sparkling with a new idea, drawing you in a little closer so you take note of the slight purple tint his eyes have. Contacts? Before you can continue your intense observation of his face, he speaks up again.
"Since you're clearly not from here," You frown, is that so important? "Would you like to stay at my townhouse as my guest? A lady should not be walking around London alone after all."
If he knows you're not from here, why isn't he questioning your lack of suitcase? Also, why is he inviting you to his house?! That's not normal is it? You don't remember British people being so trusting. Or anyone being so trusting in modern times. You hope he locks his door at night at the very least, for his own safety. He's caught on to your wariness (for good reason!) and is quick to redirect suspicion.
"I have but the purest intentions, I assure you my dear. I'm holding a small gathering in a few days and figured, what better way to welcome you than a party?" Crowley is more and more excited as he goes on, looking like a puppy wanting to be pet.
"I...I couldn't possibly impose," You say shyly, keeping up the old timey language. You can't squat at some random dude's house!
"Nonsense!" He replies immediately, taking your hands in his, "I shall only be in London for a few days before we move on to the main household. Besides," He continues, waving one of his hands, "I doubt you could find a hotel this late into the day."
He's very...pushy, you conclude. Perhaps you can go to his home and use a phone to call your friends, surely he'll have a landline of some kind, even if this place is absent of phone signals.
"I...umm...oh, alright. I guess you've won me over Mister Crowley. But only for one night. My uhm, luggage was lost on the way here so I'm afraid I'll have to buy new clothes first." You doubt you'll be able to make it out of here in one day so maybe planning ahead is a good first step.
"Hmm, yes...I believe the fashions of London would suit you much better than what you currently have, no offense my dear canary."
He wants you to cosplay with him? Well he's offering you a place to stay, the least you could do is abide by this district's strange rules. Piccadilly district. Hmm.
Crowley straightens up, eagerly tugging you along to hail one of the cabs-uh carriages. You sit across from each other and you tug your dress down, feeling a little self conscious. He notices this and decides to comment and you can already feel the embarrassment coming on.
"You know, your legs are surprisingly bare for someone from one of the colonies, sorry, former colony."
Why does he have to comment on you shaving. Aren't guys usually glad you shave? You happen to like your legs bare thank you very-
"I have to admit it's little unorthodox to see women in such short skirts,"
Ah. That's what he meant. Though you disagree, this is fairly long. It goes past your knees after all.
"Is that what the fashions there are like now? I haven't visited America in quite some time, what with the tensions after the war."
Kudos to him for staying so in character that even his small talk is reminiscent of the time. But you really have no clue what he's talking about. Also you're not American.
"I'm not from America though."
"Yes, you did say transatlantic. Are you from the Caribbean Islands?"
"Um. No, I'm actually mixed."
"Oh! My apologies, you speak as if you are a noble!"
"I guess I'd be considered pretty well off where I'm from," You reply, going back to slightly more modern language.
"How is…? Are you a merchant's daughter?" He asks, confusion evident in his voice.
Merchant? Like a business owner?
"Haha, again no. My mother is a doctor," It's kind of an asian stereotype, but you can't really help what she is, "I'm half German and Thai. I mean um, the Kingdom of Siam? "
That was Thailand's other name right? In the past? You wonder if you're getting too into the whole thing.
"That far? What is the little canary doing so far away from home? And all alone?"
Shit. You hadn't really thought this far. You'd never be caught dead alone on an ordinary day. This was decidedly not that kind of day. You wonder where your friends are, and if they're safe. Or maybe looking for you? He seems to sense that he's brought down your mood, and quickly but obviously changes the subject.
"Ah! Can you speak the languages?"
"Actually yes! Pretty lucky right? German also kicked me in the a-uh...butt. With...how hard it was."
You always did feel awkward being the first one to swear.
He nods but you get the feeling he's just doing it to indulge you.
Of course you can speak three languages fluently honey. Of course you can.
It feels a little condescending. Why wouldn't you be able to, if your parents had taught them to you, which they did, isn't that a perfectly reasonable assumption?
"I myself can speak…"
And he continues like that for the rest of the ride. Talking about himself and how he hosts the most wonderful parties and how you're so unbelievably lucky that you encountered him during the social season. He knows quite a lot about fashion, he tells you, and you'd be hard pressed not to believe him from the stylish cut of his white suit, if it wasn't so outdated. Kind of reminds you of Hamilton.
He announces the arrival of the carriage, gleefully hopping out and holding a hand out for you to take. Before he guides you to the storefront he's already dropping coins into the hand of the driver, (Rider? Wouldn't the both of you be the riders?) as if he picked the money from thin air and you find yourself staring at his hand, wondering where he could have been hiding that much change.
He laughs at your curious look, pulling you along until you hear ring of a bell as the both of you step inside the shop. The sight of the interior causes your breath to hitch and you find yourself dragging your nails on your scalp in a bad habit. Even the shop is a little old looking. It's well lit, the display at the front pulling in sunlight through the windows, making dust visible as it dances above the mannequins. The deep interior has been lit by very yellow light bulbs that look as if they've only been recently installed but that can't be true.
They look so…
Well, as your white friends would say, basic. And old.
Fabrics are mounted on the walls on either side of you, with much more cloth folded neatly behind a counter at the end of the shop. Under the fabrics are rows upon rows of dresses and suits, organised by style and colour. The counter at the end is made of some sort of dark wood that has a mild red tint to it. In fact most of the shop is made of this wood, giving the store a simple, uniform look and making the colours of the fabric pop. The fashions mostly consist of rich, dark colours and white.
Normally this would excite you. You can become curious about almost anything but instead it seems to feed into some sort of fear, forcing you to control your breathing.
Crowley clears his throat and only as the woman behind the counter flinches in surprise do you realize the mousy lady was even there. She was so quiet that her movement caught you off guard. The man, whose arm has managed to snake around your own, lets out a huff of amusement at you as the lady fiddles with a notebook she had been writing in.
"Right um, so sorry to keep you waiti- My lord!" She suddenly exclaims, now even more apologetic looking. "Oh milord you've returned! With a-" She looks at you and her eyes widen in surprise, "Ah-A beautiful lady! What can I do for you today, Sir?"
Why did she look so shocked? Was it that strange for Crowley to be seen with a woman? Why are people always reacting to her? Since she's woken up has anyone been just, indifferent?
Crowley's eyes narrow at the woman's almost slip, pulling you closer to him. He maintains his smile as he speaks but it's more than a little frightening and the woman seems to think so too with the way her back straightens. "We are in need of a few casual outfits, along with a formal dress, a few nightgowns and," He pauses to eye me with a teasing grin, "Undergarments."
Your cheeks flush at the implication. You mean, it's true, that you'll need them, but it's not the kind of thing you want to admitting to someone you've just met, even if he is housing you.
"Of course! Right away milord!" The woman, who you still haven't caught the name of scrambles to get in front of the counter, tape measures flowing past her as she makes her to stand in front of you. Then starts aggressively taking your measurements. You go still, in awe and maybe fear of her enthusiasm as Crowley laughs at your predicament. It all goes by fairly quickly, with the woman recording her measurements down in her notebook in record time.
Crowley has wandered off to look at fabrics, speaking up when he realizes the both of you are done.
"I once saw the most adorable canary adorned in the shades of sunset," He twists around with a thoughtful expression, a hand on his cheek, "But your skin tone is quite warm so perhaps a deep red would be more suitable. Canaries come in those colours too you know?"
At this point you're not sure if he's still talking about the bird or not.
He discusses the colours of your new wardrobe the lady, whose name you've learned is Marie Ann, and you let him because you don't really mind, insists that the formal dress be a deep red- no, this red not that red- and asked that as much as possible be delivered to his townhouse before nightfall.
Seeing as the interaction is coming to an end, you reach for your wallet to pay, when you realize that the both of them have stopped talking to watch you. Their gazes make you freeze up.
"Is-Is there something on my face?"
"Are you going to pay?" The lady, whose name you've learned is Marie Ann, says her tone sounding disbelieving.
"I-yes? I mean, it's my wardrobe right? Why wouldn't I pay for it?" You ask, confused. Did she think you were going to just take the clothes and leave?
Crowley has started laughing. Not in a condescending manner but more of a surprised guffaw. It's like hearing bells jingle.
"You are much too amusing! Please, don't trouble yourself my dear canary. As my guest I will gladly provide-" He's wiping tears from his eyes.
This is too much.
"But I have-"
"Nonsense!" He interrupts, finally having collected himself, "Besides, you no doubt have foreign currency yes? Please allow me."
Reluctantly you let him but instead of paying Marie Ann, he just informs her to put it on his tab and strides off, your arm in tow. What a strange man. What a strange situation. To be honest, you'd rather not have been caught up in this mess at all, but you're glad that if anything had to happen, it's been a lot more pleasant than what could have happened.
But maybe you shouldn't try to jinx yourself so early on.
Author's note:
Hellooo people of fanfiction! I'm TealCamellia! I've recently become really motivated to write an oc-insert fic. I've been writing for a really long time but this is the first time that I'm posting something (that I'm also dedicated to actually finishing). I've been scouring for all it's insert stories and was thinking that Kuro could use a few more realisitc interpretations of girl falls into another trope. Well, as realistic as you can make magic I guess. Equivalent exchange, people!
Anyway, I decided to go with a second person perspective but might edit the fic later on depending on where the story goes. There was a surprising amount of research that went into writing about this time period and I'm trying to make sure that there's nothing too strange that will take away from reading this fic. Remember though, this isn't our 1880s, this is Kuroshitsuji's 1880s. So coloured hair and piercings seem to be pretty normal, unless you're a commoner lol.
Having said that, please review and criticise! I'm aiming to improve, so even if it's a spelling mistake, I'd like to know!