Snowfall. Spiralling, delicate crystals which shimmered a haunting, yet entrancing light. The brilliant white sky rolled across New York City like a blanket, contrasting vividly against the darkened streets and silent monoliths of Manhattan. The increasingly dense flurry caught the attention of many of the cities resident's who dared brace the cold on a mid December eve. Children danced in the glow of street lights, looking up into the abyss with excited eyes, while shopkeepers hustled their wares from displays into the warmth. Young couples cooed at the convenient beauty that complimented their romantic evenings, as staunch men and women of business flipped their collars high and tipped their hats low. 

The sight did not bring as much joy or wonderment to all, though. For some, priorities were not to revel in the thickening white sheets or embrace the nostalgic charm of the moment. They were to survive. 

Charlie tucked the open sole of his shoe back underneath his foot, then stood from his bench to secure it. Even after such a brief moment, his presence on the bench was clear against the falling snow. The dark patch he left spoke of warmth and comfort, however Charlie knew this was a lie and dismissed the thoughts of returning to his sleep. 

He was not prepared to submit himself to eternal rest just yet. 

The man walked for some time, a lethargic shuffle, one would witness. From doorway to speakeasy, he was ushered on his way. with every few dozen steps a liquor bottle would reach his lips, offering a misguided illusion of warmth, coursing through his abdomen. He cut an increasingly white figure, pacing through the increasingly white wonderland of New York. As the last few flakes fell, Charlie looked across the radiant scene before him, while fighting a slight wobble in his stance. 

The balance had shifted, now, the white streets cast against a clear black sky. 

Charlie fell.

It was by chance that Roger had even been in New York for the week; business with one of the locals about a car. He trudged through the snow, fighting the biting cold and swearing that he should have never left the Slightly warmer beaches of Los Angeles. Making his way to the cleared sidewalks, he followed the winding path through the city. He'd gotten wind of a warm place to spend his night away from the bore of his lonely hotel room. Speakeasies, the gangster's romance stories filled with enough booze to keep you believing you were warm! Truth was, he didn't care about the girls, it was the liquor that attracted him... Though he never missed a chance to flirt with a good lookin' dame.

"Two more blocks..." he huffed out, his breath almost ice as it slipped between his lips. He could feel the snot trying to freeze on the tip of nose as the wind rushed around him in a frosty frenzy. However, as he drew near, he happened to catch sight of a man lying in the snow just off the path. With his interest, and his brow, perked Roger jogged over to check on him. As he neared he could smell the heavy scent of alcohol radiating from the vicinity. With a slight roll of his eyes he knelt down and shook the guy.

"Heya pal... Wake tha fuck up, ya gonna freeze ta death out'ere."

Nothing...

Roger frowned with a sigh. He could see the man's breath so he was still alive, but staying out here all night he wouldn't be for long. Roger put his fist on the man's chest, knuckles out, and raked it up and down the man's chest quick and rough... With luck, it would rouse the fella.

"Hey! Wake up! Ya gonna fuckin' freeze amico!"

Knowing this move generally wakes someone angrily, Roger prepared himself to jump back the minute the man stirred.

A horse weeze broke from Charlie's lips. They were dry and broken, tinted by a slightly swollen grey hue. His eyes eventually opened and flickered back and forth, his gaze met by the invasive streetlights on a backdrop of the starry night sky. He rose onto his elbows and took a moment to orientate himself, eventually finding focus on the man stood nearby. A short time passed between which Charlie offered only a furled brow.

He is dressed in a dishevelled jacket with deep pockets. It conceals the majority of his person, however there is a partial hint of a tattoo revealed on his right wrist where the sleeve has ridden up. From underneath an old, mismatched bowler hat, it is obvious that the man has long knotted hair. Wild strands of grey within the matted browns hint at his age. There are many days since his last shave, too, and the open collar of his neck is hidden within a bushy black beard. 

A haunting choir of nearby carol singers floats on the air. Charlie remains silent and motionless. 

Roger stepped back as the man propped himself on his elbows, reaching into the long, black trench he wore and pulling out a case of cigarettes along with a Zippo lighter. The coat was pulled snug around him to keep in what little warmth there was, a gray scarf was thrown around his neck, leather gloves kept his finger tips from freezing off, and to top it off was his black fedora with a matching gray sash. He lifted the smokes to his lips pulled one of the cigarettes out, flicking the Zippo and bringing life to the flame, if only for the warmth of the smoke to fill his lungs. As quick as the heat had been, it was now again gone as he flipped the lighter closed, exhaling a plume of smoke skyward as carolers faintly filled the air. Roger remained, staring at the silent, motionless man.

It felt like an eternity passed as they stared at each other, the ash from Roger's cigarette growling longer with each passing moment, before he finally broke the silence.

"Glad ya woke up, bud." He reached up and took the cig from his lips, tipping the ashes from it and littering the fresh, white powder with it's gray, dead flakes. "Don't wanna haf'ta explain why I let ya freeze ta death ta no coppers, ya know?"

He stepped a bit closer to the still silent man, "Cigarette, pal?" He offered the case downward, and offered a hand at the same time to help the older gentleman up.

It took a moment more for Charlie to refocus himself on the offerings, his breath a visible plume of escaping warmth. On closer inspection, it is noticeable that the man was breathing through his mouth. Beneath the sounds of the city could be heard a tormented, rasping struggle as he drew breath. His hand eventually took hold of the one extended before him, and he hauled himself to his feet.

He stood tall, though his attire hung from the gaunt and hungered frame beneath it. The snow was shaken from his collar, which was turned up to shield against the bitter air. His attention turned to the ground where he once lay, soon finding his bottle. His foot nudged it curiously and it rocked in its bed of ice. Empty. Charlie remained expressionless.

He did not take the cigarette and instead plunged his hands into his pockets, which offered a slight respite from the elements. He remained silent and took a moment to tilt his head towards present company.

"No? Okay..." Roger stuffed the case and Zippo back inside his coat pocket and eyed the man curiously. "You gonna be alright pal? I can get ya a cab, or maybe get ya a room somewheres warm?" He shrugged, "Maybe a trip ta tha hospital ta thaw ya out?"

He eyed the empty bottle, and had taken note of the raspy, labored breaths. However, Roger chose not to mention those just yet. He looked up at the man, dwarfed slightly by his height yet bulkier than the starved frame. Joining the man in his infinite wisdom, Roger also stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Name's Roger... Can ya talk?"

He tugged on the cigarette between his lips, the orange glow at the tip burning brightly, and exhaled out of the corner of his mouth. The smoke rose upward before being whisked away with the chilling wind.

With an unbroken gaze, the man shook his head slowly from side to side. As he makes the gesture, you are offered a glimpse at the mans neck and throat, these is a significant disturbance to the skin. There is also indication to further ink details. He returns to a motionless stance, however for a brief moment there is a slight curl to his lips and narrowing of the eyes. A wince, perhaps.

His right hand is removed from the embrace of his pocket and reaches inside his jacket. Once again, you are offered sight of a tattoo to his wrist. A small revolver is revealed. A Smith & Wesson, .38 six shooter. It has seen better days, however appears well kept. There is an inscription to the grip. With his rugged fingers wrapped around the barrel, it is extended towards you.

Before you are able to take hold, it is released. The weapon spirals to the ground and lands heavily in the snow as the man reaches for his gut. Charlie doubles over, gripping at his abdomen as strained, involuntary gasps are made between shallow breaths. He drops to his knees, fighting against the apparent agony.

"Shit!" he exclaimed as the gun was produced, tumbled to the ground, and the man fell to his knees in pain. Roger quickly scooped up the revolver so no one would see it and stuffed it in his pocket. Kneeling beside the man, he tossed an arm over his shoulder and held it with his outside hand, standing.

"Okay bud... Ya might wanna die, but I think ya need ta get ta tha hospital. Maybe they can do somethin' for yas."

He attempted to take a step with the man, though he wasn't sure if he'd actually be able to get him to the doctor by himself. Especially if the old bugger wouldn't lift his feet. With one arm still clutching his gut, and his breaths growing more and more shallow by the moment, Roger stopped...

"C'mon pal, ya not gonna die out'ere... Not like this. Not if I can help it, capisce?"

Another attempt at moving the man to no avail. "Don't make me drag ya ta tha road an' get a cab..." He shot a grin at the man, "Kinna wanna learn about that ink on ya wrist." He chuckled, "An' why ya offered ya gun to a stranger, aside from wantin' me ta put ya outta ya misery."

He took advantage of the support while it was offered, leaning heavy on the man. His cramping abdomen challenged him for a moment more, before finally allowing Charlie to stand upright. He grimaced once more, then looked down at the person who identified himself as Roger. Beneath the wild hair of his beard curled a small smile from one corner of his mouth. A look of appreciation could be interpreted, as Charlie was very much aware of his current appearance and state.

A door clattered to a close nearby and out strode a nondescript pair. A rich aroma followed them, firmly grasping Charlies attention. A bakery, filling stomachs on a cold winters eve with hot sandwiches and pastries. The couple talked quietly as they passed Charlie and Roger, making an effort to toss the remains of their unwanted purchases into a nearby trashcan. It landed atop the shallow stack of debris. Charlie eyed it, his brow raised in a pained and longing manner.

He returned his gaze to Roger, carefully removing the pistol once more. Offering it to him, he rubbed the inscription to clear it of scuffs and smears.

Charlie. Forever grateful. TG

Roger eyed the couple as they wasted their food, then looked to his new found 'friend'. The look on his face was enough to make Roger's heart ache. He could tell the man was hungry. Maybe a good meal would do him well... He pointed to the sandwich, his eyebrow lifted in question. "If ya want, I can get us a couple'a sandwiches, maybe some hot soup if they have it..."

He looked down at the gun and read the engraving...

"Charlie. Forever grateful. T G." He looked back at the man, "Is that your name? Charlie?"

As he talked he began shuffling them toward the bakery. If anything it would be a chance to thaw out away from the winter elements. They made their way down the sidewalk to the bakery door where Roger stopped and knocked on the door, awaiting a reply...

Charlie nodded as the door opened and a bell chimed. An enveloping warmth embraced the pair, accompanied by the scent of fresh baked goods. The interior glowed a vivid orange, silhouetting the baker who stood curious in the doorway.

Soon, they were seated in a window. The snowfall was now a picturesque, postcard worthy scene. The pair ate, Charlie took gradual mouthfuls however was pained by occasional stomach cramps. Despite his wild and unkempt appearance, he took great caution to clear his beard of debris and ate with care. He loosened his collar and tugged at the shirt beneath his jacket, the temperature was comfortable, however it had been a long time since Charlie had not been concerned with maintaining a warm core. 

In sight now is the extent of the ink across his throat and chest. A word, written in an elegant script and generously decorated, though it is still concealed. 

Charlie finished his plate and watched Roger with an appreciative gaze. His mouth curled to a smile and he nodded slightly, suggesting surprise and gratitude at his fortune this eve.

Charlie placed the paper cup which his beverage was delivered in back upon the table. He looked back at the man who had pulled him from the snow and almost certainly from the clutches of death itself. Cautiously wiping the corners of his mouth, he resumed the open mouthed wheezing and stood. He grasped his hat from the bench and rearranged the jacket which hung from his shoulders. He nodded a final time to Roger before stepping out from the booth and standing at his side.

A hand landed on the young man's shoulder and Charlie gestured to him with the other. First, he pointed to his own chest, then made an 'O' shape, then pointed towards Roger. His finger wavered for a moment, he then took his leave. He moved with purpose and agenda, soon exiting the bakery. 

Stepping back out onto the sidewalk once more, he felt the snow crunch under his feet. He looked out into the city for a moment, before striding off down the street.

Roger smiled, hoping that the man would find the wad of cash he'd slipped in the man's coat pocket useful. If anything, another meal or perhaps a roof and bed. He perked a brow at the 'O' symbol, not entirely sure what Charlie meant by it, but he nodded none the less.

"Be careful, an' try ta stay warm, capisce? This storm ain't ova, an' it's only gonna get worse from 'ere," he called after Charlie as the man went to exit. He watched the door close behind the disheveled man and sighed... "Glad I got ta ya, Charl-...OH! SHIT!" He jumped up and quickly approached the register, paying for the meal, and headed for the door.

The cold air smacked him in the face as he stepped out, and he looked both ways for Charlie, and even looked down for the man's footprints, but all sign of him was gone. Roger perked his brow and huffed out a, "Hmm..." His breath was once again visible, and he frowned.

"Shoulda told 'em ta come ta Chicago with me if 'e needed some work... Fuck." He grumbled as he headed off toward the hotel room he'd rented. His night had now been interesting enough and boredom would no longer occupy his mind. Instead, the thoughts of 'What if?' would plague the young mobster in to wondering of Charlie had even really happened or not... Where had the man disappeared to so quickly?

Maybe the two would meet again one day and Roger could offer him some new threads and a new life. One that was obviously more lucrative than his -currently- was. Then another thought crossed Roger's mind... Was what he did any more lucrative than what Charlie did? What if it was all a con in the first place?

Roger shook that notion... The gratefulness, the blue lips and labored breathing, the stench of stale alcohol, coupled with the freezing weather? It all pointed to a legitimate need for help, not simply a con for his money. He turned a corner and continued to his hotel room...