Bergamot & Sulphur
Chapter 18: Turmeric & Chicory
Few places remain as unaffected by time as the study of Bobby Singer. The same musty books of lore lay akimbo along the shelves, the same gold and red-patterned wallpaper continues to collect cobwebs in ceiling corners. Time meanders into the room in measurable increments, in the carefully-framed photos collaging across the walls in an ever-expanding collection of family and friends. The ritual erasure of demon traps before Crowley's arrival is never a requirement, the constriction of the conjuration easing as his demonic powers continue to weaken and fade. The gesture is very much appreciated, regardless.
Without permission or apology, Juliet abandons Crowley to wreath around Bobby's legs, wrangling affection and meaty morsels from his fingertips. The old tin kettle on the stove rattles. Earthy, roasted tones of turmeric and chicory root, golden ginger, coconut and black pepper grind into the well-worn grooves of coffee mugs. Bare, rough-hewn blocks of molasses cake compound on a plate. Between mouthfuls, stories and observations are shared, books borrowed and returned, and rough edges are worn down to reveal common ground between a reformed demon and a demon hunter.
In the succession of days after the aborted apocalypse, so many years ago, Singer had summoned the King of the Crossroads to his home. An offer of liquor was made and roundly refused – and then an offer of tea. Why not, Crowley relented. What could a single cup of tea change? A summoning converged into a conversation, a grumble into a recitation of grievances about the complications of kingship. Reserve and contention resolved into amicability and acquiescence, into unexpected comradery. At the end of the afternoon, Crowley agreed to relinquish his claim over Bobby's soul. And to return again, for another round of chess and cup of tea.
There are times when tumblers of whiskey replace the cups of turmeric and chicory. When the words that otherwise require wrenching out are edged into the open. Little boys who would bear the weight of childhood wounds into adulthood. Men who raised sons who were not their own, who lost the women they loved, and nearly lost themselves at the bottom of a bottle. Funny old world, Crowley thinks to himself. The redneck scholar and the former King of Hell, worn through and weary, with their redundant doubts and finely-aged fears that only whiskey can wring out of them. And even then, only with each other.
They wrap commiseration and affection in benign insult. You old bawbag, Crowley chuckles around the rim of his cup. Idjit, Bobby counters, rewarded with the tell-tale thump of tail as well-trained fingers rub just the right spot behind Juliet's ear.
These two men, one aged by life and the other by time, raise their cups to one another, and drink.
Though it's not important for this series, I've been thinking about where this particular divergence from the canon began. I really like the idea that something as simple as being offered a cup of tea rather than a glass of rot gut was enough to begin Crowley on this road to redemption. Not because it was tea, but because it was a small (and thus acceptable, for the still-very-demonic Crowley to accept) kindness. In the canon, Crowley being the subject for the cure was about the opposite of kindness – it was about annihilating a threat and making him suffer. But for a fic series about peaceful moments and commonplace kindnesses, his journey beginning with a cup of tea seemed appropriate.
With regards to Fergus raising a son that wasn't his own, this series takes place in the canon-divergent reality where Rowena was Fergus' wife. Gavin would then be Rowena's son with the Scottish laird, and when she married Fergus some years later, Fergus agreed to raise the boy as his own.
The insult bawbag – used here affectionately – is Scottish slang for the balls/scrotum, and means a stupid or annoying person. It's from a Tumblr post with similar Scottish slang, and I'd like to write Crowley using each and every one of the insults at some point.
