Chapter Text
Phil hated London. He had never been before, so one might call him judgmental but he just hated it. He knew some people from back north who had come from London, and they told horror stories. Dirty streets overcrowded with even more dirty people trying desperately to make a living. And the pompous upper class, stepping over them as though they were nothing more than rats.
And as though that wasn’t bad enough London also happened to be the place where Phil was 99% sure is father had run off too. Granted that probably wasn’t the city’s fault but Phil supposed he could be a bit petty.
So why then was Phil, who hated it with such a passion, moving to London? Well unfortunately for him, London was just bigger. It had more opportunities. And considering that his dreams of owning a flower shop were going nowhere back home, he needed some opportunities. His mother’s health was failing and since his brother was already married and settled down, Phil was the one who had to go out and get money for treatment.
He had come to the city with just enough to buy himself a small shop. And he had been confident he could get on his feet fast enough to start earning more fairly quickly. But no matter where he looked he was turned away.
After a week of this Phil had spent enough of his money on food and temporary shelter that there was hardly a point in searching anymore. At some point he made friends with a young flower lady. She offered to sell him a peony, and he offered her a meal. And so they got to talking. By the end of the night the woman –Dorothy, he learned- had talked him into selling flowers on the street.
It got odd looks sometimes, being the only boy amongst the women selling flowers. But at some point he either stopped noticing or stopped caring. It was taxing, and hardly rewarding work. Relying on the meager sympathy of those wealthier and more fortunate than him, only to send what little he did earn back to his mother.
He asked Dorothy once, late one night when they were huddled together by a small fire, why he hadn’t been able to get a shop, back when he had the money.
"I’s yah accent. Dem uperclass folk don’ like folks who don’ speak deir language. I’s why no one wants ta buy flowrs from us. Dey fink we’re dumb animals.”
So by two months into his stay in London, Phil had developed a healthy distaste for the upper class. Coincidently, it was around that same time when Phil’s life changed completely.
It was a chilly afternoon. The seasons were changing and it was to be Phil’s first winter on the streets of London. Sales weren’t going so well that day, and he had nothing to show for his hours of work. People bustled past; even those who might normally take pity were blown along by the cold.
It was dusk by the time Phil all but gave up for the day. He huddled down by the fire alongside a couple of his mates, keeping his flower basket close at hand in case he spotted a particularly friendly face.
“Wat I wouldn’ give fer a nice warm fireplace,” lamented Phil, pulling his meager jacket around his shoulders.
“Oh stop whinin’. You gots a fireplace right ‘ere,” scolded one of the others, a gruff man with a scraggly beard and striking grey eyes.
“Nah I mean like, an actual fireplace. Like in a co’age er a house. An’ a sof bed wif warm blankets an food on the table,” Phil smiled at the thought.
“An maybe a flower shop. A proper one tah call me own. Wouldn’ it be lovely?” The grey-eyed man just grunted at Phil, seeming to decide it wasn’t worth the trouble arguing with him.
“Ey, lookit dat!” The man sitting next to Phil drew their attention to a small crowd that had gathered, chattering and yelling excitedly.
“Ya dink i’s dat linguist bloke again?” The grey-eyed man asked. The others muttered amongst themselves, seemingly excited by this prospect.
“What linguist?” Phil asked, having never heard of someone of that nature in this part of town.
“’E’s a scholar. E’ll come down ‘ere sometimes. Not tah buy flowers mind you but he do pay us,” Dorothy explained, “He jus sits by sometimes, takin’ down notes in his li’l journal. Says he likes listenin’ to us talk, cause i’s diffrent. I don’ really get it but ‘e’s nice enough. Gives us more den our daily wages jus for an hour o’ chattin’.”
Phil found that a bit hard to believe, seeing how stiff and uncaring the rich men he’d met behaved so far.
The crowd cleared a little, making a path for whomever they were chattering at. A young man walked out of the group, laughing and talking to whoever happened to catch his attention.
“I’d have to guess the south of Scotland. Lets see, perhaps Plockton? You’re very good at masking your accent though my dear. I might not have guessed were it not for the way you extend your “ee”s.
The crowd was migrating closer now, following the tall man, asking him to guess their nationalities.
“Really I must be going, I have important business to be tending to, if you would excuse me” The man was walking backwards, trying to placate the crowd. As he scrambled to get away, the linguist tripped, nearly falling over. He managed to save himself. Phil’s flower basket was not so lucky.
“Ya clumsy oaf!” Phil shouted kneeling on the ground to try to salvage his violets, “Ya’ve cos me a days worf o’ earnings.”
Quite frankly Phil was expecting to be kicked at that point. Calling someone an oaf was hardly good customer service.
“Oh damn, I’m so sorry. I can barely stay on my feet walking forwards. I should have known better than to walk backwards,” Now that was something Phil was not expecting. “Here, are your flowers salvageable?” The man knelt down next to Phil, helping him collect the scattered violets.
“Um, tey might be. Some o’ ‘em a leas but fer t’ mos part I don’ fink so” Phil stumbled over his answer, still not getting why the curly man was being nice to him.
The man froze, staring at him for a moment with a look that Phil couldn’t quite comprehend. “Yes. Yes I’m sorry. I’ll pay for them.”
“All o em?” Phil swore his voice rose three octaves in his excitement. An entire basketful of violets might very well buy him a few hearty meals.
“Yes, that was the plan,” curly man replied, a laughing tone in his voice, “about how much would that be? Fifty pounds?
Phil was beginning to think that perhaps this stranger was trying to give him a heart attack. Fifty pounds? That was-
“That’s simply unreasonable Mr. Howell.” And all of a sudden Phil became acutely aware of the crowd that had gathered around the two of them. As did Mr. Howell, if his sudden straightened posture was anything to go by.
“Well I suppose you’re right Mr. Howard,” The man who had spoken-Mr. Howard apparently- smiled at Howell’s reply. Phil deflated, feeling as though the other shoe had dropped.
“Why, not only have I knocked over this poor man’s basket, but I’ve also interrupted what I can only assume was a delightful afternoon. Therefor I do agree that I was being a bit cheap. Perhaps sixty is more reasonable?” Mr. Howard stammered in protest but Howell cut him off “And in fact, as it would seem that we are all continuing to invade upon Mr…” Howell glanced down at Phil, who was sitting next to his overturned basket in shock. He startled at Howell’s inquisitive glance, was he supposed to give his name?
“Uh, Phil.” No wait that was his first name. Howell smiled, turning back to Mr. Howard before Phil could fix his mistake.
“Yes of course. We’re invading Mr. Phil’s night and I fear that if we continue, each of us will be morally obligated to pay him for his troubles.” Within moments, the crowd had dispersed. Howell turned back to Phil, winking down at him. Phil felt the blood rush to his face, which only seemed to make the man smile wider.
“I do sincerely apologize Mr. Philip. I did mean it when I said I would pay you,” Mr. Howell stuck out his hand and Phil shook it as well as he could from down on the ground. Howell stared at him in confusion before letting out a bark of laughter. Phil stared in confusion as the man tried to stifle his giggles. “I mean, I was trying to help you up but that works too I suppose.”
Phil swore if he got any redder he might explode. He heard some chuckles from behind him, where his friends were watching with what he assumed was amused confusion. Pull yourself together Philip, what is wrong with you right now?
“Um, is t’offer still open or are ya jus goinna to leave me on t’ floor?” Phil tried for humor. He was good at humor. Maybe.
Luckily, Mr. Howell seemed at least somewhat endeared by Phil’s attempt at conversation. “I suppose I can find a shred of kindness left in my cold dead heart for you Mr. Phil.” A shred? From what Phil could tell so far, Mr. Howell’s allegedly cold dead heart wasn’t lacking for kindness.
“Ya do realize tat Phil is my firs name righ?” Phil said, taking Howell’s once again outstretched hand. It was surprisingly warm, contrasting Phil’s own chilly hands. He had half a mind to continue holding it but he thought that might be strange to hold the hand of a man he had just met.
“Shh. I’m trying to be fun and quirky,” Phil found himself grinning at this ridiculous man in front of him.
“Well I tink that we know each ova well enough a tis point ya can jus call me Phil.”
“Well in that case you can call me Dan. Or Daniel. Or Danny. No actually not that last one, I hate that. You know what Dan is fine forget I said anything after that.” Apparently whatever calm confident thing Dan had going on while talking to the crowd had gone away. Phil wasn’t complaining.
“Alrigh ten Dan, I’m sure ya chilly. ’m sorry for keepin ya away from wherever you was headed.” As much as Phil was enjoying himself he couldn’t imagine that Dan would rather be spending his night here than at home. He probably had a family waiting up for him. Maybe a wife, Phil didn’t know.
“Oh nonsense Phil, I assure you I’m quite enjoying our chat. Though I have to ask, your accent, it’s northern correct?” Phil tensed, mainly out of habit. People bringing up his accent historically didn’t end well.
“Yeh tat’s right. Why?” Phil didn’t mean to sound defensive, and Dan was clearly taken aback by his change in tone. He was about to apologize when Dan rushed to continue.
“I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect. See I’m a linguist, so I’m always interested in the way people talk. And I’ve never really gotten the chance to speak to anyone from up north so I was a little excited.” Dan scratched the back of his head sheepishly, a blush rising in his cheeks, which Phil shouldn’t find as endearing as he did. “Anyhow. What brings a northern man such as yourself down to London? Surely not the people.” Phil relaxed at the joke, finding it perhaps too easy to talk to someone he met about ten minutes ago.
“I see,” Dan seemed deep in thought after having heard of Phil’s situation. By now they were sitting by the slowly dying trash fire, the others having left to find places to sleep the night. Phil shifted uncomfortably, not sure how to reply.
“I’m sorry you’ve had such rubbish luck with people. Although I do still plan to give you those sixty pounds. Perhaps you could find a shop?” Dan suggested, almost half-heartedly, like he had another idea he wasn’t sharing. Phil shook his head.
“T money don’t matter, i’s tat people can’ bloody understan me when I talk t ‘em.”
Dan nodded. “Yes I can see that being an issue.” Phil sighed, feeling suddenly very tired. As fun as it was talking to Dan, thinking about how hopeless his life was at the moment tended to tire him out. Plus it was almost midnight.
“You know…” Dan seemed tentative, almost nervous. Phil tried to give him an encouraging look. “I am a language teacher. I could teach you how to talk like a damn prince if I wanted to. You could live in my house. I have a guest room. And I could study your northern dialect while I teach you. For a decent price of course.”
Dan was talking a mile a minute now, clearly excited by this prospect now that he got going. Phil was more skeptical though.
“Um, in case ya fergot I’ve no money t’ spare. I c’n barely afford t’ postage it’ll take t’ send tis money back t’ me mum, much less lessons frm one o’t mos renowned linguis’s in England.” Phil was sad to decline. He and Dan got on well. But he simply couldn’t afford it. But Dan shook his head and plowed on.
“No I think you’re misunderstanding Philip. For one, I’m not the one of the most renowned linguists in England. I’m one of the most renowned linguists in the world. Secondly, I don’t expect you to pay me. I’m the one who would be paying you.”
Phil couldn’t breath for a moment. Was this man, this smart rich man, really offering to pay Phil to teach him how to talk? What on earth was Dan going to get out of this deal? As though reading his mind, Dan smiled. “As I mentioned before, I’ve never had the pleasure of studying the northern dialect nearly as much as I would have liked. If anything this would benefit me more than it would benefit you.”
Phil was very skeptical of this fact, but he chose not to argue. It was a tempting offer. Very tempting. But was Phil really going to go and live with some strange man he had known for less than half a day?
“I know this may not be an easy decision. I don’t want to pressure you into something you don’t want to do, especially not on such short notice.” Dan stood up, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a wallet. “I’ll tell you what. Here’s my card. It has my address on it. If you do want to take me up on my offer then my door is always open. But if not, then there’s absolutely no pressure, you can just come visit for dinner sometime.”
Dan handed Phil a small white business card, along with three twenty-pound notes. Phil almost protested, not wanting Dan to leave so abruptly. But he stopped himself. It was late, and Dan really must be expected home. For all Phil knew he had children to tuck into bed.
“I’ll tink abou’t,” Phil said, stuffing the money and card into his pocket. “Tank you Dan. Fer…” Phil gestured vaguely, failing to articulate his thoughts properly. Dan smiled, popping his collar up against the night chill.
“It was my pleasure really. I’ll see you around Mr. Phil.” And with that, Dan went on his way, leaving Phil with a near dead fire and a lot to think about.