100 days of summer
Okay, over shot this by about 1500 words. >_>;; Oh well. I also suspect these characters will be what I use for the rest of the week. ^_^;;
Virgil squirmed restlessly, seated between the two HUGE men on the small buckboard wagon. If it had been up to him, he would have been seated in the back, watching the ground pass swiftly behind the wheels, taking him farther and farther from everything he’d ever known.
It was hard to decide if that were a good thing or a bad thing. Not that it mattered either way. He was eleven. What he wanted didn’t make a damned bit of difference to anyone. Hell, he hadn’t been particularly keen on going with them at the train station. The one looked like he could break Virgil like a twig if Virgil so much as spoke. And the other, well, the other just looked plain mean. Something about his eyes and the way he glared at Virgil every five seconds as if he were some stupid varmint to be drug out and shot.
But what choice had Virgil had? Hammock Creek had been the last stop the train was making and the last place for the Orphanage to attempt to unload their unwanted. They’d have ditched him anyway, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, if Mr. Huge and Mr. Mean hadn’t decided he looked worthy enough to take along. Virgil had a nose for these things. It was always best to know when to abandon all hope of staying and simply resign oneself to moving on. The Dear Reverend had looked as if he were one station away from selling Virgil to the natives just to get rid of him.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Mr. Mean barked out, startling about two more years off of Virgil’s already short life. Bug eyed, he looked up at him, only to realize that Mr. Mean wasn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention.
“Calm down, Jack. It’s not a big deal.” Mr. Huge snapped the reins lightly over the equally huge bay mare that was pulling the buckboard, and Virgil bounced back in the seat a little as the wagon surged forward.
“Not a big deal? Have you heard the rumors about this little heathen? Do you have any idea what we’ve gotten ourselves into?”
“You want to hash this out now? What’s done is done.” Mr. Huge sent Mr. Mean-Jack-a glare that had Virgil shrinking back into his seat, hoping to god that the man didn’t think to look at him, even if he was obviously the topic of conversation. “He’ll be a great help around the farm.”
Great. Just what Virgil wanted to hear. Oh, of course, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Any idiot with half a brain could figure out what orphans were for. This would be Virgil’s third farm in as many years.
“Emmett, for all you know, the little heathen will burn down the house around our ears and laugh as our bodies fry to a crisp.” Jack sent Virgil a sour look, which Virgil felt no qualms in returning.
“The same could have been said about you, once upon a time,” Mr. Huge-Emmett-warned Jack before he turned his attention to Virgil. “And speaking of the little heathen, you got a name, kid?”
Fine time to be asking for it. Hell, Virgil knew they’d both signed papers agreeing to feed and clothe him until such time as they either decided to fully adopt him or return him to the orphanage. His name was on that paper, he was certain. “George Washington,” he told Emmett with the utmost seriousness. Served the bastard right for not paying more attention to what he was doing. Anyway, chances were Virgil would be sleeping in the barn with the pigs with only tatters of cloth to keep him decent. He’d done that for a year when he was eight, and he wasn’t looking forward to repeating the experience. What did his name matter if he was barely good enough to sleep with the livestock?
‘Hey you’ or ‘Boy’ worked just fine.
“Right,” Jack snorted, “You’re named after the first president of the United States. Tell me another tall tale, Heathen.”
“It’s the truth,” Virgil told him primly. “If you don’t believe me, ask the Reverend.” Who was probably running as fast as he could back to New York.
“The Rev won’t be back this way for at least another year, and any letter will take months to reach him.” Emmett rolled his eyes before looking down at Virgil. “How ‘bout you tell us the real truth right now, and we won’t hold this lie against you. Jack and I, we don’t hold much with lying. Makes us down right disagreeable.”
Yes, because they were just friendly and happy people right now. “I’m tellin’ the truth. My name really is George Washington.” In so much as his name was what he wanted it to be, and right now, he wanted to be anyone other than Virgil Henshaw: unwanted, ugly, heathen orphan. “Ask anyone. They’ll tell you that I’ve always been George. It’s a respectable name. And I’m no liar.” He tried to look as sincere and earnest as possible. Of course, they’d already established that there was no one to ask, so Virgil wasn’t sure what the hell their problem was.
“No one in their right mind would believe your name was George Washington,” Jack told him. “Hell, George Washington wouldn’t believe you if you told him your name was George Washington. I bet he’s rollin’ in his grave just at the thought.”
If Virgil wanted to be called George, what was the harm? It was certainly better than giving them his real name and burning them in their sleep. He slumped unhappily in his seat. “Fine. Don’t believe me. I don’t care.” That would have gotten his ears boxed and then some at the last farm he’d been placed with. Best to find out now, before they arrived at their destination, which way the winds of his fortune blew.
Jack and Emmett surprised him, though. They simply exchanged a look over Virgil’s head, and sighed simultaneously, dropping conversation all together.
The house they approached was huge. It had real wood sides and the roof wasn’t earth, which as far as Virgil was concerned was a sight better than most any house he’d ever been in out here on the prairie. Of course, a house that grand, there was no way they were going to let some dirty little heathen like him have a space-however small-inside it. He waited for Jack and Emmett to get off the wagon before scrambling down himself, reaching into the back to grab the burlap sack that held all his worldly possessions.
The barn looked well built, and a sight sturdier than the one he’d slept in last. Hell, it might even keep out the snow, which would surely be a new experience. Feeling a little bit better, Virgil hauled the sack up over his shoulder and followed Emmett, who was leading the mare and wagon towards the barn.
Once inside, it didn’t take a genius to see that the loft would be the best place for him. Making a little nest for himself would come later, though. More out of habit than anything else, he helped Emmett with the harness and grabbed a curry comb to brush down the mare as Emmett tossed some hay in a stall and put some oats in a bucket. Of course, once that was done, it was obvious that the rest of the critters were waiting for their dinner too, and pushing his thoughts aside, Virgil scrambled to help Emmett with that too.
Last thing he wanted was a beating for not working fast enough. The last one he’d gotten at the Goodlands’ place still twinged on occasion, and that had been almost three weeks ago, before the Rev had come to get him and thrown him on the train bound for more Western Places.
“Go wash up, boy. I suspect Jack’s got dinner just about ready, and he gets cranky if he has to wait to eat.” Emmett said, voice low and rumbly as he clapped a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. The action made Virgil start badly, and Emmett almost immediately let go, frown on his face. “Take your time,” Emmett finally told him after what seemed like ages, “mind you get behind your ears, too.”
“Yes, sir.” And with that, Virgil watched as Emmett’s broad back left the sanctuary of the barn and walked towards the house.
Shrugging, Virgil spat in his palms and rubbed them together. Another spit, and he used his palms to scrub the back of his neck. That done, he grabbed his sack and scrambled up the small ladder and surveyed the loft. There wasn’t a great deal of space. In fact, the only place big enough for him required that he sleep curled up tight in a ball. That was fine though. In the winter it would keep him warm. Or warm enough. Digging into his sack he pulled out a threadbare blanket and spread it out over the spot, making sure to bunch the hay under it in one spot to act as a pillow. In the winter, he’d have to crawl under it leaving the hay and the varmints in it to chew on him and poke him, but for the summer, he could lay on top.
Climbing down from his new home, he quickly made his way across the yard and snuck into the house. The inside was even more impressive than the outside. The walls were clean and painted. On one shelf, there was an expensive looking clock and on the opposite wall was a hutch that had expensive looking china in it. There was a sword mounted on a third wall, and a woven rug laid out on boarded floors. Jack and Emmett had to be rich, which begged the question of why they’d bothered with an orphan when they could have easily hired some neighbor kid and left off the hassle of having to feed and clothe Virgil.
“It’s complicated,” Jack was growling, and quietly, Virgil snuck to the edge of the kitchen door, listening. “You were too busy lookin’ at ‘em all to hear the rumors.”
“Since when have you given a cow’s tit about rumors? So what if they were whispering about him? You know how they can be. One seed of truth and they’ll warp it completely out of recognition.”
“Doesn’t speak well for the boy that he’s lying to us about his name, though, does it?” Jack snapped back. “You know it’s rumored that he killed a boy at the last place he stayed?”
Virgil sucked in a sharp breath and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Paul. He’d known that rumors were going to follow him after what happened at the Goodlands, but he’d thought that the Rev had covered up more than he’d obviously been able to.
“If he actually had, they’d have arrested him and hung him, not put him on the train bound for another town,” Emmett pointed out, sounding supremely calm. Just the mention of a hanging had Virgil shaking.
“It’s rumored that he was caught kissing the boy, and that after they were caught he killed the boy,” Jack muttered darkly. “I’m telling you, Emmett, you’ve no idea what you’ve gotten us into.”
“He’s just a boy. Relax. It’ll be fine. I promise. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“No,” Jack sighed heavily, “but you’ve had a couple of real close calls.”
There was the bang of a plate being set down on a table, and cautiously, Virgil pushed the kitchen door open. Taking a peak, he could see Emmett’s hulking form next to Jack. Emmett’s arm was around Jack’s shoulder, and Virgil pushed the door just a little bit farther open only to discover that Jack’s arm was wrapped around Emmett’s waist. Emmett’s head was dipped towards Jack, and it was obvious even to Virgil that what they were doing was no kind of brotherly kiss or manly hug.
This was lips and tongues and it was all Virgil could do to keep his eyes from bugging out at the sight. Quickly and quietly shutting the door, he soundlessly raced back to the door he’d used to come into the house. Nervous energy made him slam it harder than he should of, and he heard Jack’s snarl of, “Don’t break the damn thing off the hinges, you little heathen!”.
“Sorry, sir!” he called back, quickly making his way into the kitchen. Both men were now seated at the table, and he scrambled into a third chair that had a plate set in front of it.
“Did you wash up?” Emmett demanded, looking at him doubtfully.
“I did, sir,” he returned resentfully. He wasn’t completely uncouth.
“How?” Jack looked at him as if he were the slime on the bottom of his boot. Irritated, Virgil made spitting motions and rubbed his palms together. Jack shot Emmett a dark look as he stood up and stalked over to where Virgil was sitting. A rough hand grabbed his arm and hauled him up, marching him out of the kitchen and into a small alcove that had a bowl of water and a towel sitting on a counter. “This,” Jack held up a chunk of yellow, “is soap. You’ll use this instead of spit.” He demonstrated, pulling Virgil’s hands into the water with the soap and roughly rubbing the bar across them to get suds. “Wash your face with it, and then come back to the table.”
With that, Jack turned on his heel, heading back into the kitchen. Virgil could hear the low murmur of words, but he knew that from here he was no where close enough to eavesdrop. Quickly, he ran the soap over his face and splashed water onto it to wash it off.
By the time he’d raced back into the kitchen, he could smell the stew and could see that someone had already heaped a big portion of it onto his plate, a crisp golden biscuit on the side. It looked like heaven. He quickly sat down and dug a hand into it to scoop the food into his mouth.
“Stop!” The bellowed shout brought Virgil to an immediate halt, eyes wary as he looked up at a motley faced Emmett.
“Told you he was a little heathen.”
“You,” Emmett pointed to Jack, “shut up.”
“Okay, but you still owe me a dollar. Told you he wouldn’t have the first clue what silverware was.” Jack laughed. Frowning, Virgil looked down and indeed did see that there was a fork sitting next to his plate.
“Boy, if you’re going to live in this house,” Emmett started, and it was almost on the tip of Virgil’s tongue to tell him that the loft was technically in the barn, not the house, “you will follow a few simple rules. One, you will wash up with soap and water before coming to the table. Two, you will give thanks for the food before tucking into it. And three, you will eat slowly, and calmly and not as if you were some wild animal unused to the strictures of polite society.”
“Yes, sir,” Virgil said softly, trying to discreetly grab his napkin and wipe the evidence of his mistake off of his hands.
Jack and Emmett shared another look, and Virgil suspected that they would be doing that a lot.
Virgil was curled up in a rather uncomfortable ball on top of his threadbare blanket when Jack grabbed him by the waist and hauled him kicking and screaming down the ladder from the loft. “What the hell are you doing in the barn, you perfect little heathen? You know Emmett spent half the day yesterday fixin’ a room for you upstairs. I gave up my library for your room, and I’ll be damned if you’re not going to sleep in that room.”
“Let me go! I swear to god I’ll kick you!”
“Funny.” Jack snorted, not even flinching as Virgil did his best to land hits with his fists. “You swearing to god. When’s the last time you went to church or even had a passing relationship with the man? ‘Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub’? What the hell kind of grace is that?”
“Put me down!” he hollered as Jack walked in through the front door of the house.
“I see you found him,” Emmett was grinning, glasses perched on his nose. “Where was he?”
“Had some spot all done up in the loft,” Jack grumbled. “I was half tempted to leave him there.”
“Well, take him on up to his room,” Emmett laughed.
It wasn’t a grand staircase, and when they got to the landing and Virgil was hoarse from all his yelling, he stopped to take a look as Jack walked into the room. There were shelves and shelves of books. More than Virgil had ever seen in his entire life. There was a small window, too. Not much bigger than the plate he’d eaten dinner off of, but there all the same.
In the center though, was a bed. Virgil stared at it, bug eyed.
“Cows and horses and pigs sleep in the barn,” Jack told him as he dumped Virgil on the bed. “Boys, and people in general, sleep in beds in the house, Heathen.”
“I’m an orphan,” Virgil finally got it together enough to correct him.
“So?” Jack looked mystified.
“So, orphans sleep in the barn. And when there’s no barn, they sleep with the pigs or in the chicken coop with the chickens.”
“Not in this house,” Emmett startled them both. He was leaning against the frame of the doorway, making it look tinier than it should. Jack glanced Emmett’s way, and Virgil took note of the way the lines around Jack’s eyes softened as he smiled at Emmett.
“This is your room. This is where you sleep, and so help me, if I catch you trying to sleep in the barn again, I’ll haul your ass right back up here.” Jack ruffled his hair, ignoring the way that Virgil tried to flinch his way out of the gesture. “Now go to sleep,” he added before bumping Emmett’s arm and nodding his head. Virgil sat in the bed and counted to fifty before he scrambled out and stealthily crept out of his room and down the stairs.
From there, he could follow the low sounds of their voices, and he crept down the hallway to eavesdrop at the same door he’d eavesdropped at earlier.
“I was half tempted to let him sleep in the barn tonight,” Jack sighed, running a hand tiredly over his face.
“Point needed to be made,” Emmett reassured, hands kneading at Jack’s shoulders. “If we let him sleep out there tonight, chances are he’d always have that thought in the back of his mind that that was where we meant him to be.”
“Yeah, but you’re going to have to wash every sheet, blanket and pillow in that room. The kid’s filthy. Spit bath aside, he needs a good dunking and more than a passing acquaintance with soap.”
“I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I figure he’ll spend two days with me, one in the house and one out in the fields and then he’ll spend two days with you.”
“Well, good luck on getting the heathen into soapy water,” Jack laughed as Emmett slumped forward, arms twining around Jack’s neck. “I think I got the better end of the deal getting him out of the barn.”
“Barbarian,” Emmett snorted, obviously amused. “I told you to talk him out of there, not throw him over your shoulder and haul him into the house.”
“Got the job done, didn’t it?” Jack shrugged and then turned, grinning into the kiss Emmett lay on his lips.
Virgil tiptoed back away from the door and quickly-but quietly-made his way back up to the room that Jack had plopped him in. He crawled under the covers and wiggled his toes in the clean sheets. Jack and Emmett had kissed. Twice now, so it was hard to dismiss the first kiss as a fluke.
Virgil wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Especially not after what had happened to Paul. Years of experience had taught him not to get attached, that nothing lasted forever, and that only fools believed in happily ever after. People were not to be trusted, especially those who asked you to. Orphans slept in the barn, didn’t speak until spoken to, and did the work without getting mouthy.
But, well, it didn’t seem so bad here. Maybe.
I think I'll put this up on FP so that I can just upload each day's thingy to there. Now, to go off and finish reading Hero since Mechante was wonderful enough to post a Discussion Post...
Virgil squirmed restlessly, seated between the two HUGE men on the small buckboard wagon. If it had been up to him, he would have been seated in the back, watching the ground pass swiftly behind the wheels, taking him farther and farther from everything he’d ever known.
It was hard to decide if that were a good thing or a bad thing. Not that it mattered either way. He was eleven. What he wanted didn’t make a damned bit of difference to anyone. Hell, he hadn’t been particularly keen on going with them at the train station. The one looked like he could break Virgil like a twig if Virgil so much as spoke. And the other, well, the other just looked plain mean. Something about his eyes and the way he glared at Virgil every five seconds as if he were some stupid varmint to be drug out and shot.
But what choice had Virgil had? Hammock Creek had been the last stop the train was making and the last place for the Orphanage to attempt to unload their unwanted. They’d have ditched him anyway, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, if Mr. Huge and Mr. Mean hadn’t decided he looked worthy enough to take along. Virgil had a nose for these things. It was always best to know when to abandon all hope of staying and simply resign oneself to moving on. The Dear Reverend had looked as if he were one station away from selling Virgil to the natives just to get rid of him.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Mr. Mean barked out, startling about two more years off of Virgil’s already short life. Bug eyed, he looked up at him, only to realize that Mr. Mean wasn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention.
“Calm down, Jack. It’s not a big deal.” Mr. Huge snapped the reins lightly over the equally huge bay mare that was pulling the buckboard, and Virgil bounced back in the seat a little as the wagon surged forward.
“Not a big deal? Have you heard the rumors about this little heathen? Do you have any idea what we’ve gotten ourselves into?”
“You want to hash this out now? What’s done is done.” Mr. Huge sent Mr. Mean-Jack-a glare that had Virgil shrinking back into his seat, hoping to god that the man didn’t think to look at him, even if he was obviously the topic of conversation. “He’ll be a great help around the farm.”
Great. Just what Virgil wanted to hear. Oh, of course, it wasn’t exactly a surprise. Any idiot with half a brain could figure out what orphans were for. This would be Virgil’s third farm in as many years.
“Emmett, for all you know, the little heathen will burn down the house around our ears and laugh as our bodies fry to a crisp.” Jack sent Virgil a sour look, which Virgil felt no qualms in returning.
“The same could have been said about you, once upon a time,” Mr. Huge-Emmett-warned Jack before he turned his attention to Virgil. “And speaking of the little heathen, you got a name, kid?”
Fine time to be asking for it. Hell, Virgil knew they’d both signed papers agreeing to feed and clothe him until such time as they either decided to fully adopt him or return him to the orphanage. His name was on that paper, he was certain. “George Washington,” he told Emmett with the utmost seriousness. Served the bastard right for not paying more attention to what he was doing. Anyway, chances were Virgil would be sleeping in the barn with the pigs with only tatters of cloth to keep him decent. He’d done that for a year when he was eight, and he wasn’t looking forward to repeating the experience. What did his name matter if he was barely good enough to sleep with the livestock?
‘Hey you’ or ‘Boy’ worked just fine.
“Right,” Jack snorted, “You’re named after the first president of the United States. Tell me another tall tale, Heathen.”
“It’s the truth,” Virgil told him primly. “If you don’t believe me, ask the Reverend.” Who was probably running as fast as he could back to New York.
“The Rev won’t be back this way for at least another year, and any letter will take months to reach him.” Emmett rolled his eyes before looking down at Virgil. “How ‘bout you tell us the real truth right now, and we won’t hold this lie against you. Jack and I, we don’t hold much with lying. Makes us down right disagreeable.”
Yes, because they were just friendly and happy people right now. “I’m tellin’ the truth. My name really is George Washington.” In so much as his name was what he wanted it to be, and right now, he wanted to be anyone other than Virgil Henshaw: unwanted, ugly, heathen orphan. “Ask anyone. They’ll tell you that I’ve always been George. It’s a respectable name. And I’m no liar.” He tried to look as sincere and earnest as possible. Of course, they’d already established that there was no one to ask, so Virgil wasn’t sure what the hell their problem was.
“No one in their right mind would believe your name was George Washington,” Jack told him. “Hell, George Washington wouldn’t believe you if you told him your name was George Washington. I bet he’s rollin’ in his grave just at the thought.”
If Virgil wanted to be called George, what was the harm? It was certainly better than giving them his real name and burning them in their sleep. He slumped unhappily in his seat. “Fine. Don’t believe me. I don’t care.” That would have gotten his ears boxed and then some at the last farm he’d been placed with. Best to find out now, before they arrived at their destination, which way the winds of his fortune blew.
Jack and Emmett surprised him, though. They simply exchanged a look over Virgil’s head, and sighed simultaneously, dropping conversation all together.
The house they approached was huge. It had real wood sides and the roof wasn’t earth, which as far as Virgil was concerned was a sight better than most any house he’d ever been in out here on the prairie. Of course, a house that grand, there was no way they were going to let some dirty little heathen like him have a space-however small-inside it. He waited for Jack and Emmett to get off the wagon before scrambling down himself, reaching into the back to grab the burlap sack that held all his worldly possessions.
The barn looked well built, and a sight sturdier than the one he’d slept in last. Hell, it might even keep out the snow, which would surely be a new experience. Feeling a little bit better, Virgil hauled the sack up over his shoulder and followed Emmett, who was leading the mare and wagon towards the barn.
Once inside, it didn’t take a genius to see that the loft would be the best place for him. Making a little nest for himself would come later, though. More out of habit than anything else, he helped Emmett with the harness and grabbed a curry comb to brush down the mare as Emmett tossed some hay in a stall and put some oats in a bucket. Of course, once that was done, it was obvious that the rest of the critters were waiting for their dinner too, and pushing his thoughts aside, Virgil scrambled to help Emmett with that too.
Last thing he wanted was a beating for not working fast enough. The last one he’d gotten at the Goodlands’ place still twinged on occasion, and that had been almost three weeks ago, before the Rev had come to get him and thrown him on the train bound for more Western Places.
“Go wash up, boy. I suspect Jack’s got dinner just about ready, and he gets cranky if he has to wait to eat.” Emmett said, voice low and rumbly as he clapped a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. The action made Virgil start badly, and Emmett almost immediately let go, frown on his face. “Take your time,” Emmett finally told him after what seemed like ages, “mind you get behind your ears, too.”
“Yes, sir.” And with that, Virgil watched as Emmett’s broad back left the sanctuary of the barn and walked towards the house.
Shrugging, Virgil spat in his palms and rubbed them together. Another spit, and he used his palms to scrub the back of his neck. That done, he grabbed his sack and scrambled up the small ladder and surveyed the loft. There wasn’t a great deal of space. In fact, the only place big enough for him required that he sleep curled up tight in a ball. That was fine though. In the winter it would keep him warm. Or warm enough. Digging into his sack he pulled out a threadbare blanket and spread it out over the spot, making sure to bunch the hay under it in one spot to act as a pillow. In the winter, he’d have to crawl under it leaving the hay and the varmints in it to chew on him and poke him, but for the summer, he could lay on top.
Climbing down from his new home, he quickly made his way across the yard and snuck into the house. The inside was even more impressive than the outside. The walls were clean and painted. On one shelf, there was an expensive looking clock and on the opposite wall was a hutch that had expensive looking china in it. There was a sword mounted on a third wall, and a woven rug laid out on boarded floors. Jack and Emmett had to be rich, which begged the question of why they’d bothered with an orphan when they could have easily hired some neighbor kid and left off the hassle of having to feed and clothe Virgil.
“It’s complicated,” Jack was growling, and quietly, Virgil snuck to the edge of the kitchen door, listening. “You were too busy lookin’ at ‘em all to hear the rumors.”
“Since when have you given a cow’s tit about rumors? So what if they were whispering about him? You know how they can be. One seed of truth and they’ll warp it completely out of recognition.”
“Doesn’t speak well for the boy that he’s lying to us about his name, though, does it?” Jack snapped back. “You know it’s rumored that he killed a boy at the last place he stayed?”
Virgil sucked in a sharp breath and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Paul. He’d known that rumors were going to follow him after what happened at the Goodlands, but he’d thought that the Rev had covered up more than he’d obviously been able to.
“If he actually had, they’d have arrested him and hung him, not put him on the train bound for another town,” Emmett pointed out, sounding supremely calm. Just the mention of a hanging had Virgil shaking.
“It’s rumored that he was caught kissing the boy, and that after they were caught he killed the boy,” Jack muttered darkly. “I’m telling you, Emmett, you’ve no idea what you’ve gotten us into.”
“He’s just a boy. Relax. It’ll be fine. I promise. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“No,” Jack sighed heavily, “but you’ve had a couple of real close calls.”
There was the bang of a plate being set down on a table, and cautiously, Virgil pushed the kitchen door open. Taking a peak, he could see Emmett’s hulking form next to Jack. Emmett’s arm was around Jack’s shoulder, and Virgil pushed the door just a little bit farther open only to discover that Jack’s arm was wrapped around Emmett’s waist. Emmett’s head was dipped towards Jack, and it was obvious even to Virgil that what they were doing was no kind of brotherly kiss or manly hug.
This was lips and tongues and it was all Virgil could do to keep his eyes from bugging out at the sight. Quickly and quietly shutting the door, he soundlessly raced back to the door he’d used to come into the house. Nervous energy made him slam it harder than he should of, and he heard Jack’s snarl of, “Don’t break the damn thing off the hinges, you little heathen!”.
“Sorry, sir!” he called back, quickly making his way into the kitchen. Both men were now seated at the table, and he scrambled into a third chair that had a plate set in front of it.
“Did you wash up?” Emmett demanded, looking at him doubtfully.
“I did, sir,” he returned resentfully. He wasn’t completely uncouth.
“How?” Jack looked at him as if he were the slime on the bottom of his boot. Irritated, Virgil made spitting motions and rubbed his palms together. Jack shot Emmett a dark look as he stood up and stalked over to where Virgil was sitting. A rough hand grabbed his arm and hauled him up, marching him out of the kitchen and into a small alcove that had a bowl of water and a towel sitting on a counter. “This,” Jack held up a chunk of yellow, “is soap. You’ll use this instead of spit.” He demonstrated, pulling Virgil’s hands into the water with the soap and roughly rubbing the bar across them to get suds. “Wash your face with it, and then come back to the table.”
With that, Jack turned on his heel, heading back into the kitchen. Virgil could hear the low murmur of words, but he knew that from here he was no where close enough to eavesdrop. Quickly, he ran the soap over his face and splashed water onto it to wash it off.
By the time he’d raced back into the kitchen, he could smell the stew and could see that someone had already heaped a big portion of it onto his plate, a crisp golden biscuit on the side. It looked like heaven. He quickly sat down and dug a hand into it to scoop the food into his mouth.
“Stop!” The bellowed shout brought Virgil to an immediate halt, eyes wary as he looked up at a motley faced Emmett.
“Told you he was a little heathen.”
“You,” Emmett pointed to Jack, “shut up.”
“Okay, but you still owe me a dollar. Told you he wouldn’t have the first clue what silverware was.” Jack laughed. Frowning, Virgil looked down and indeed did see that there was a fork sitting next to his plate.
“Boy, if you’re going to live in this house,” Emmett started, and it was almost on the tip of Virgil’s tongue to tell him that the loft was technically in the barn, not the house, “you will follow a few simple rules. One, you will wash up with soap and water before coming to the table. Two, you will give thanks for the food before tucking into it. And three, you will eat slowly, and calmly and not as if you were some wild animal unused to the strictures of polite society.”
“Yes, sir,” Virgil said softly, trying to discreetly grab his napkin and wipe the evidence of his mistake off of his hands.
Jack and Emmett shared another look, and Virgil suspected that they would be doing that a lot.
Virgil was curled up in a rather uncomfortable ball on top of his threadbare blanket when Jack grabbed him by the waist and hauled him kicking and screaming down the ladder from the loft. “What the hell are you doing in the barn, you perfect little heathen? You know Emmett spent half the day yesterday fixin’ a room for you upstairs. I gave up my library for your room, and I’ll be damned if you’re not going to sleep in that room.”
“Let me go! I swear to god I’ll kick you!”
“Funny.” Jack snorted, not even flinching as Virgil did his best to land hits with his fists. “You swearing to god. When’s the last time you went to church or even had a passing relationship with the man? ‘Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub’? What the hell kind of grace is that?”
“Put me down!” he hollered as Jack walked in through the front door of the house.
“I see you found him,” Emmett was grinning, glasses perched on his nose. “Where was he?”
“Had some spot all done up in the loft,” Jack grumbled. “I was half tempted to leave him there.”
“Well, take him on up to his room,” Emmett laughed.
It wasn’t a grand staircase, and when they got to the landing and Virgil was hoarse from all his yelling, he stopped to take a look as Jack walked into the room. There were shelves and shelves of books. More than Virgil had ever seen in his entire life. There was a small window, too. Not much bigger than the plate he’d eaten dinner off of, but there all the same.
In the center though, was a bed. Virgil stared at it, bug eyed.
“Cows and horses and pigs sleep in the barn,” Jack told him as he dumped Virgil on the bed. “Boys, and people in general, sleep in beds in the house, Heathen.”
“I’m an orphan,” Virgil finally got it together enough to correct him.
“So?” Jack looked mystified.
“So, orphans sleep in the barn. And when there’s no barn, they sleep with the pigs or in the chicken coop with the chickens.”
“Not in this house,” Emmett startled them both. He was leaning against the frame of the doorway, making it look tinier than it should. Jack glanced Emmett’s way, and Virgil took note of the way the lines around Jack’s eyes softened as he smiled at Emmett.
“This is your room. This is where you sleep, and so help me, if I catch you trying to sleep in the barn again, I’ll haul your ass right back up here.” Jack ruffled his hair, ignoring the way that Virgil tried to flinch his way out of the gesture. “Now go to sleep,” he added before bumping Emmett’s arm and nodding his head. Virgil sat in the bed and counted to fifty before he scrambled out and stealthily crept out of his room and down the stairs.
From there, he could follow the low sounds of their voices, and he crept down the hallway to eavesdrop at the same door he’d eavesdropped at earlier.
“I was half tempted to let him sleep in the barn tonight,” Jack sighed, running a hand tiredly over his face.
“Point needed to be made,” Emmett reassured, hands kneading at Jack’s shoulders. “If we let him sleep out there tonight, chances are he’d always have that thought in the back of his mind that that was where we meant him to be.”
“Yeah, but you’re going to have to wash every sheet, blanket and pillow in that room. The kid’s filthy. Spit bath aside, he needs a good dunking and more than a passing acquaintance with soap.”
“I’ll take care of it tomorrow. I figure he’ll spend two days with me, one in the house and one out in the fields and then he’ll spend two days with you.”
“Well, good luck on getting the heathen into soapy water,” Jack laughed as Emmett slumped forward, arms twining around Jack’s neck. “I think I got the better end of the deal getting him out of the barn.”
“Barbarian,” Emmett snorted, obviously amused. “I told you to talk him out of there, not throw him over your shoulder and haul him into the house.”
“Got the job done, didn’t it?” Jack shrugged and then turned, grinning into the kiss Emmett lay on his lips.
Virgil tiptoed back away from the door and quickly-but quietly-made his way back up to the room that Jack had plopped him in. He crawled under the covers and wiggled his toes in the clean sheets. Jack and Emmett had kissed. Twice now, so it was hard to dismiss the first kiss as a fluke.
Virgil wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Especially not after what had happened to Paul. Years of experience had taught him not to get attached, that nothing lasted forever, and that only fools believed in happily ever after. People were not to be trusted, especially those who asked you to. Orphans slept in the barn, didn’t speak until spoken to, and did the work without getting mouthy.
But, well, it didn’t seem so bad here. Maybe.
I think I'll put this up on FP so that I can just upload each day's thingy to there. Now, to go off and finish reading Hero since Mechante was wonderful enough to post a Discussion Post...