Chapter Text
~ 1899 ~
It’s hot and John is bored.
He doesn’t know why he had to come along to this luncheon with Mother and Father, all the way over in England, nonetheless. Just more fancy-looking people with fancy-looking clothes and big words, a world he’s been born into and doesn’t have the capacity to quite understand what that entails yet as a young child. John sits politely on a cushioned bench underneath a large, open window as a warm breeze from outside dances along the white linen curtain flowing to the left of his seat. John’s feet kick and swing mindlessly while his eyes trace the marbled patterns in the polished wooden flooring as he hears the cackling of laughter from the men at the table a room away. The party had finished their meal that John didn’t care for before excusing himself as Father lit cigars with the owner of the house and his business associates. Mother told John not to get into trouble as she went with the other wives for tea on the back porch as servants waited on them hand-and-foot with white towels hanging on their forearms and sharp bow ties adorned around their throats. No other children were here and John was bored . Why did he have to come? His baby brothers were able to stay back at home with their nanny, it wasn’t fair.
John’s attention was pulled at the sound of a distant whinny from outside the window. Turning and sitting up on his knees against the velvet cushion of the bench, John could see a grand stable down the grassy hill from the main house he was in. Glancing around, John chances escape as he steps up onto the window sill and hops outside. He lands on unsteady feet and falls on his butt with an oof. John goes to stand and wipes the brown grass clippings from his backside because Mother would chew his head off if he dirties his Sunday Best. Seeing as he hasn’t been spotted in his ingenious plan, John walks down the cobblestone path as he kicks a loose pebble to keep himself entertained. It’s a sweltering summer day with a bright blue sky above and he wishes he could get back into his patched trousers and linen shirt that he likes to wear when he’s allowed to go play in the creek on their property.
The path wraps around the property’s stable that has a sizable fenced-in corral made of horizontal and vertical wooden beams. He’s never allowed near his family’s horses, Father insists. ’Seven year olds have no business near such beasts,’ were his most recent words. A flash of movement and the stomping of two hoofs all but shakes the ground when a horse thrashes about against its bridle with an adjourning rope wrapped around the hand of a teenage servant, more than likely a stable boy for the property owners. The horse is none too pleased at being at the servant’s mercy, clopping and digging at the ground in anger to the situation at hand. The servant doesn’t seem too phased by the interaction as he lets the horse throw its temper tantrum and get its anxious energy out.
John watches the servant soothe the horse as it sneezes and bucks against the ground in frantic motions, dust plumes kicking up this way and that. A particular lout whinny has John flinching and side-stepping behind one of the vertical posts to further shield his body. Not long after, the labored breaths from the horse’s rib cage slow as the servant soothes and shushes the animal. He rakes his gloved fingertips down the middle of the horse’s face which earns the teen a gentle headbutt to his arm.
“How did you do that?” John finds himself exclaiming as he pops his head back around the fence. The servant jumps slightly, as does the horse, both seemingly unaware of their audience.
“What?” The young servant asks as he glances over his shoulder towards John.
“Got the horsey to calm down,” John responds as he ducts under the horizontal beam of the fence. Taking steps towards the servant, John smacks and wipes his hands together to remove the dust from the fence. Mother would be furious if he showed back up to the main house with even a speck of dust on his body, let alone if she knew John was so far away from the hallway he was last parked in. John stops a few feet behind the servant and places his hands on his hips. He thinks he sees the servant smirk which has John pouting in annoyance. He may be small, but he’s taller than all of his friends back home!
One last pat to the steed’s neck and the servant fully turns and wipes the sweat from his forehead off on his sleeve as he eyes John with assessing, brown eyes.
“Just helped him calm down. We all get scared sometimes,” he explains in a soothing voice that the horse even seems to enjoy with a head bob.
“Och, not me,” John huffs as he crosses his arms. The servant braves another smirk and a tilt of his head in teasing doubt.
“I’ll prove it! Can I pet him?”
The servant’s face drops as he eyes the path that leads back up to the main house. After a moment, he sighs and scratches the horse’s chest.
“Alright. Be slow, though.”
John nods and uncrosses his arms. He takes a step forward and cocks his head straight back to look up at the horse who is curiously looking back down. John is slightly startled at feeling the servant wrap his hand around the back of John’s before calmly directing it to the horse’s shoulder. It’s a bit of a reach and John has to take another couple nervous steps towards the animal. The fur is coarse and warm, and slick with sweat on this blazing day. The horse nuzzles its nose against John’s temple, leaving snot and spit in its wake. John screeches and laughs as he moves to wipe his face clean.
“He likes you,” the servant comments as John smiles back up at the snorting horse, “Guess you aren’t scared of anything after all.”
“Told you!” John responds with a cheeky grin. With a chuckle, the servant ruffles John’s pomade-slick hair. John yells and smacks his hand away as he hurries to fix it. Mother spent too long combing it this morning and he doesn’t want another whooping from Father.
“What’s your name?” John asks the teen as he slides his fingers through his hair.
“John!”
As soon as the servant opens his mouth, the air is pierced by his mother’s voice yelling for him. John’s eyes fly open as he runs back the way he came, ducking under the beam of the fence, and scurrying back up the cobblestone path. Halfway up, John pauses and turns back to look at the stable one last time. He watches the servant lead the horse towards the overhang of the stable’s roof to the cool shade. He catches the servant glance up towards John over his shoulder. With a grin, John shoots his hand up as high as he can and waves down to the servant. The servant waves back before disappearing into the stable.
John forgets about his first interaction with a horse after a few years.
~ 1919 ~
It’s fucking sweltering and John is bored out of his mind.
Idle chatter and laughter fills the train car as lush trees rush by the car’s windows. A plume of cigar smoke wafts from his father’s fingers as the man idly turns the newspaper in his grasp, one leg neatly tucked over the other, perfectly elegant as if his father knows other people are looking, assessing. The ice in their whiskies clinks against the glasses with the dull vibrations of the train below their feet rolling down the track. The air smells of tobacco and expensive perfume and sweat and money. John doesn’t know why he expected America to be any different than Scotland in social standings, but money seems the same everywhere. John finds himself fiddling with the leaves of a spider plant beside his plush bench when his father clears his throat. John looks up as his father neatly folds the paper and sets it down beside his glass on the table between the men. John has never been a fan of spending this much time with the bastard. It’s felt like a lifetime since they boated over from Europe and made their way down the east coast of this foreign country. The land is beautiful, he will admit. Huge trees and new cities and opportunities around each corner, not that John could ever experience such a life. His course is set in taking over his father’s steel business from being the oldest child. It’s easier this way, fitting a mold, all tough decisions made for him already, like his father before him, and his father as well. His blood has always had a knack for business.
“You’ve been quiet, John,” his father finally speaks as he sips his whiskey and glances out the window, Scottish brogue always more enunciated around foreign accents like he’s asking for the attention it brings. John adjusts in his seat and dabs the beads of sweat from his forehead with the linen cloth in his lap.
“I’m fine, sir,” John responds with ease. It’s what he can spit out the easiest after years of repetition and practice. He knows better than to actually share what’s on his mind. He’s learned that their social class tends to not have actual relationships between parents and offspring, their purpose to simply carry on the family legacy. Hell, he barely has a relationship with his two brothers.
“You haven’t asked why you’re here.”
“I assumed if I needed to know, you’d tell me,” John replies. It’s the truth, at least. He doesn’t question his father’s reasoning or decisions, as he also knows better than to do such a thing.
“Smart boy,” his father quips as he finishes his glass before raising a hand to the on-car bartender for another round. John clenches his jaw to keep a smart-ass comment from flying out in front of such an elite audience. Even Americans know who his father is, and there would be hell to pay if he embarrassed his family’s name. He downs his glass as well and grimaces at the taste. Who the hell actually drinks this American bourbon shit? Once the bartender delivers another drink with John declining a refill, his father slips the man a 50 and wipes his own forehead, as well.
“Bleeding Christ, this country is hot,” he sighs before finally locking eyes with his son.
“You’ve got some answering to do, Johnny.”
John’s body goes rigid at the nickname, the name always used in moments of punishment or humiliation. John nervously watches his father while he swallows dryly with the horrid aftertaste of the sweet bourbon coating his mouth mixing with anxious anticipation at whatever conversation is about to occur. There’s a whole damn laundry list of things John knows he could answer for.
“You aren’t coming back home. You’re staying here for a time to get your act together,” his father explains in a rather uninterested manner as he adjusts his tie with a sigh. John’s eyebrows furrow as white-hot anger swirls in his chest.
“Wh-“
“I’m done having you embarrass the family by your little… shenanigans you partake in after hours. You didn’t think the rumors would get back to me ? I bloody run our city, Johnny. I know everything that goes on, behind every locked door, under every blown out candle.” His father leans forward with the man’s forearms resting on his thighs as his dark eyes challenge John.
“I won’t have a poof of a son take over my business. It would ruin my reputation. Is getting your cock wet with women not enough for you? You have to resort to bloody men ? A fucking disgusting disappointment,” his father scoffs angrily as he sips his drink again, "I keep you from having to join the War, and this is how you repay me." John’s knuckles are white as he fists his pants in his lap. He can taste blood where his teeth are cutting into his tongue from keeping himself quiet. Sweat drips down his neck into the collar of his shirt under his suit jacket. There’s no point in trying to deny anything; they both know it would be a lie. His father picks up and relights his forgotten cigar before blowing another tobacco-rich plume towards John’s face.
“On top of that bloody beauty of a fact, I’m tired of you running around and wasting all my money with your troublesome friends. You have no understanding of the value of hard work and money, boy. I’m ending it.”
“So you’re disowning me? That it?” John finally retorts. The look his father gives could melt the very steel his family’s company produces.
“Your mam has convinced me to give you one last chance. So you’re going to figure out what the fuck you need to set straight while you’re here and come back to keep the family business running. I have things to take care of anyways, with the market going down since the war ended, and I’m having to consider lay-offs. It’ll be better not worrying about you for a few months.”
“ Months?!” John snaps. A few curious glances are shot their way as John corrects himself and takes a steadying breath. The train car is getting smaller and more suffocating every minute this conversation continues.
“Want me to make it years ?” His father asks in response as he takes another puff.
“The O’Malleys had a servant get sent off to the war, discharged and bought his way out of their service. Came over here to start over, or something or another. That family was always sweet on their servants, I could never understand it. They did me a favor and wrote to him asking if he could use an extra set of hands, which he agreed to. We are heading to his farm right now.”
“A bloody farm? You expect me to figure out how to be a better businessman and high-standing MacTavish on a fucking farm ?” John snarls.
His father has the audacity to laugh .
“No, I expect this to be as good of a punishment I can give my 27 year old son as any, as well as getting you out of my hair.” His father picks up his newspaper again and opens it, signaling the end of the conversation, if that’s even a fucking word for what just happened.
John’s mind is reeling as he stares out the window, considering everything just said, reality sinking in that he essentially just lost his old life. He can’t just say no, he knows he will be cut from the family and his inheritance. What would he do then? He’s never had a job, he has no skills. All he has is his family’s name and a promised future on quick sand. At that, he stands and goes to sit at the small bar along the middle of the car to get a few precious feet away from his father as well as down a few more glasses of liquor. Might as well while it’s still on his father’s dime, the fucking prick.
~ ~ ~
John adjusts his hat as he leaves the train station without looking back. His father had not left him with so much as a ‘ fuck you ’ when telling him this was his stop. John’s nose twitches in rage as he marches down the sidewalk in some bloody town he’s never heard the name of. It takes him about four blocks to slow his gait as the anger drains out of him alongside his sweat. Sighing, John drops down on a wooden bench underneath a large tree as he places his suitcase by his feet.
“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do now?” John mumbles under his breath as he watches the locals walk back and forth. It’s then when he realizes the eyes curiously watching him from passerby’s. Everyone here seems lower- to middle-class, either in working clothes or cheap suits, people who would potentially faint at seeing how John’s room back at home could equal the size of their shabby homes, no doubt. John scoffs and sits straight, needing to maintain his image. Okay, he can deal with these lowly Americans for a few short months. It’s just like being around his servants. How hard could it possibly be?
Standing and adjusting his tailored suit jacket, John fakes a smile and grabs his suitcase to step off when he takes three blind steps straight towards a pile of horse shit in the road. John freezes in his movements and strains his smile down at the shit pile half-engulfing his buffed shoe. He hears a child giggle along the sidewalk with her mother.
Fucking fantastic .
After finally finding someone with a wagon to help John for free, the cheap bastards , he’s carried out of town, sat on a stack of hay to the property’s owner his father had typed on a slip of paper. Mr. Riley . Everyone seemingly knew the man, but not everyone wanted to spend an hour taking John out to the farm for free. As they ride past the town limits, John notices the welcome sign: Johnson City, Tennessee. Interesting name, he thinks . Sounds as ho-dunk as it looks.
It takes at least an hour and a half through back woods and forest to come across an unbecoming farm house on a hill with its yard fenced in with wooden beams along with about eight acres of some crop along the de-forested land. The wagon-owner halts his horse to a stop as John hops out the back with his suitcase in hand. John tips his hat to the old gent and walks up the dirt path to the farmstead as the wagon heads on back the way they came. The property seems charming, he can admit. A wrap around porch accents the first floor of the house with broad windows on both floors looking out onto the crops ahead. A flower garden with no real order borders the porch in explosions of color and chaos. John’s mother would have a heart attack at such an uncoordinated flower bed. Wind rustles through the green leaves all around the homestead as John thinks to go try the house for his host.
John crosses over the boundary of the property and is about to walk up the three steps of the porch when he spots movement between the rows of crop to the left. The crop is about six feet tall and the man submerged in the greenery barely stands past it. Suitcase in hand, John trots over to the rows and hesitates before them. He would hate for his suit to get snagged or dirtied by the plants.
“Hello!” John calls down the way, “Sir?”
The man about sixty feet down the crop continues on his task like John doesn’t exist. He’s not deaf, is he? With an irritated sigh, John makes his way through the crop until he stops a few feet away from the man. He seems to be pruning dead leaves and underdeveloped produce from the stalks. John can’t get a read on the man’s face currently covered by a black bandana.
“Excuse me, are you Mr. Riley?” John asks.
“Who’s asking?” The man responds in a graveled Brit accent without looking over. Makes sense being an O’Malley servant; well, former , John thinks.
“John MacTavish, you were expecting me,” he responds as he holds his hand out in greeting with his dazzling signature smile. Mr. Riley glances over from under the brim of his black cowboy hat before resuming his chore. John stands there like a buffoon for a few seconds too long before dropping his smile and hand in annoyance. Great bedside manner, this one .
“You’re four days late.”
John blinks a couple times before cocking an eyebrow with a resounding, intelligent, “Huh?”
Mr. Riley sighs as he slips the vegetation clippers he was wielding into his pocket and adjusts his suspenders on his broad shoulders before finally turning towards John. Locking eyes with the frankly brute of a man has John taking a small step back instinctually; the man is large , and John is no small Scot.
“You were due to arrive four days ago. I’m behind schedule because of you.”
“Well, we hit a storm in the Atlantic. What, am I supposed to apologize for something like that?” John asks incredulously. Mr. Riley huffs as he walks past John, shoving shoulders with the man as he heads back to the house. John stands there half-turned in the crop, flabbergasted at what just happened in the interaction, and has to hold in a hysterical laughter from bubbling up at realizing how fucking shitty of a day he’s having. He’s supposed to deal with this sunshine of a man for months ? How badly does he want his father’s inheritance, anyways?
John finally moves to follow the man up the steps onto the porch and through the front door. The porch holds some potted flowers and dark-stained rocking chairs with small side tables John can only assume would be for coffee in the morning. Assuming the sun will rise on the right side of the fields, it would be a nice view first-thing…John scoffs internally. He doesn’t want this place to be charming or nice . This is his temporary prison, he’s not going to enjoy his time here. John removes his hat once he enters the main room of the house and takes in his surroundings. A worn, faded, green couch sits along the right wall with a navy blue chair placed perpendicular to frame a coffee table with a wood stain that matches the rocking chairs outside. The room continues on back to an open kitchen and a dining room table with four chairs, all painted white to match the cabinets. A wood-burning stove is the heart of the kitchen with cabinets and counters framing the hulking piece of cast-iron. A glass vase holds a variety of flowers from the garden sat in the middle of the table. Photos dot the walls here and there of scenes and nature created with all different mediums and paints, including a few actual photographs. Hugging the leftmost wall upon entering the room is a staircase that John assumes leads to a few bedrooms upstairs.
“This is…quaint,” John offers. The look Mr. Riley shoots over his shoulder proves that was not the correct thing to say. What else is John supposed to say? He is used to marble floorings, ivory-cut furniture, velvet plush cushions. Removing his cowboy hat and hanging it on one of the few hooks nailed to the wall, Mr. Riley rakes a dirty hand through blonde hair that has gray peaking out at the temples. John waits for the man to remove the bandana from his face but it never happens.
“Your room is upstairs on the right. Go change in more appropriate clothes,” Mr. Riley orders as he walks back to the kitchen.
“Uh, well, Mr. Riley-“
“Stop fucking calling me that.”
“Bleedin’ Christ, that’s all I was fucking given! I didn’t even fucking know-“ John stops himself and takes a breath. His anger is getting the better of him. He’s better than this, he needs to calm down. He’s a gentleman, after all. John closes his eyes and adjusts his tie before opening them and seeing Mr. Riley slicing bread on one of the counters in the kitchen with wrapped cheese and ham nearby. John’s stomach angrily protests and reminds him that he hasn’t eaten today. He didn’t eat on the train, was too angry to, and hasn’t eaten since he arrived from not having a dime in his pocket, but he will be damned before he asks a man already pissing him off for a favor such as a fucking sandwich; MacTavish's have too much pride for that.
“Mr. Riley, what may I call you instead? Also, I was going to explain that all I have packed are suits,” John explains calmly with the crack of his neck.
Sighing, the man pauses in his meal preparation and turns, leaning his weight on his hand against the counter as he turns to look back at John in annoyance. “Just Simon. No more with the ‘Mr. Riley’ nonsense. This isn’t New York. And what the hell do you mean you only brought suits? Is that what you planned to work in?”
John’s eye twitches as he hangs his hat beside Simon’s on the wall before walking to the table and dropping his suitcase with a thud.
“I didn’t know I was coming to a bloody farm,” he says through clenched teeth. “Didn’t know until about ten minutes before getting off the train.”
Simon’s eyes shoot an unimpressed glare towards John before picking the knife back up and continuing food prep.
“I should have some old clothes that fit you. I’ll dig them out after we eat, then I’ll show you what you’ll be working on here.”
John licks his teeth as he awkwardly hovers in the dining room while the clanking of the knife hitting the cutting board rings out through the silence. Well, I didn’t ask for the sandwich, and it would be rude to decline the offer . John decides to set his suitcase on the ground and take a seat at the table to patiently wait for lunch as Simon plates up their two sandwiches. Opening a cabinet, Simon produces a pitcher and walks out the back door that sits between the kitchen and dining room. In the moment of deafening clarity, everything hits John like a freight train. He’s thousands of kilometers from home, his family has all but temporarily disowned him, he doesn’t have two pennies to rub together, and he’s now living with a crusty stranger on a farm that he’s supposed to help run. His eyes feel hot from tears threatening to spill from frustration at the situation, at the shit show his life has become in the last three hours. Hell, he can’t lie to himself, it’s been a shit show for years.
John drops his head in his hands with his elbows propped up on the table top as his shoulders rise and fall with slow breaths to ground himself. Everything is fine… His head shoots up at the slam of the creaking door and the appearance of Simon with a now-full pitcher of water. His assessing eyes feel like they’re searing through John’s soul as he sits up straight in his chair and clears his throat. Showing mercy, Simon doesn’t speak on the moment and sets the pitcher on the table. Simon brings over the two plates before bringing over two glasses and filling them up with the cool water. John tries not to quirk his mouth down at the unbecoming sandwich before him. Two slices of bread, meat and cheese. If John was at home, he could imagine their chef preparing peppered salmon with a spring salad and afternoon tea. Oh well, calories are calories. John picks the sandwich up and hesitates before taking a bite. A couple chews later and John finds himself going in for another.
“Wow, this is…” John mumbles through a full mouth before swallowing, “…really good.” He looks up and sees Simon already halfway through his meal. Of course, his bandana is still in place. John feels a fleeting moment of guilt that the man feels the need to keep himself covered because of his presence.
“I make my own bread,” Simon mumbles as he halfway lifts the bandana out of the way, not enough to show anything below the bridge of his nose, but enough to be able to fit the last corner of the sandwich into his mouth. Wow, John thinks, I don’t know anything about making bloody bread. Simon stands, gathering his plate and glass, and drops the plate in the large basin sink before turning his back to the table and drinking down the glass before dropping it in the sink, as well.
“I’ll go find you some clothes. Finish up eating.”
At that, Simon heads to the stairs and up to the second floor as John sips his water and finishes his sandwich. The bread is surprisingly sweet and it compliments the saltiness of the pork. John has had less than favorable meat in the past, and this ham tastes like it’s from a pig that was raised well. It’s just a bloody sandwich, he must just be hungry, that’s all. He’s eaten fine dining his entire life all throughout Europe, a fucking sandwich can’t compare to what his palate is used to. Nonetheless, John almost wishes he had a second sandwich to eat when he finishes and deposits his dishes alongside Simon’s before heading upstairs. The landing at the top of the stairs has a small table with drawn photos of a man and a woman. The man is definitely Simon’s father, if John can guess what the farmer’s hidden face could look like, but Simon’s brown eyes would match the woman’s if Simon held any soft facial expression outside of disdain and irritation.
“Back here,” Simon’s voice echoes from the room on the left. Simon appears in the room’s doorway with a cream button-up and brown pants folded with suspenders piled on top.
“Got an extra pair of boots, we should be close enough to the same size. Get changed,” Simon orders as he shoves the pile into John’s arms before closing the door behind him and heading down the stairs. Oh , this man is going to try John’s patience. He turns and goes into the room on the right and gets changed into the looser and frankly comfier clothing for the weather and climate. John walks down the stairs as he pulls on his suspenders over his shoulders with Simon placing his hat back on before glancing up the stairs.
“Hmm. Good enough.”
John can’t hold in his scoff and eye roll as he makes it down the few remaining steps. “Is this how it’s always going to be with you, old man?”
Simon cocks an eyebrow under the brim of his hat as he crosses his arms.
“That wasn’t very proper of you.”
John’s face flushes at realizing what rudeness slipped out. Fucking shit .
“I’m-I apologize, that was incredibly rude, you’re my host, and-“
He’s interrupted by Simon chuckling and opening the front door, “Calm down, just fucking with you. You can drop your high-society mannerisms. Doesn’t fit in here.” John chews the inside of his mouth as he follows Simon outside. Easier said than done . Years of his knuckles getting smacked with a ruler and his arse painted red by his father’s hand has social cues and proper mannerisms engraved in his bones, despite moments where he slips like just a moment ago; he can thank his father’s generational temper for that. John drops into a rocking chair to put on work boots Simon presents him. They have caked clay drying in clumps falling off the soles from not being worn for a time. Simon was right, their feet are about the same size. Good thing, too, blisters would be a hell of a thing to deal with since John can’t just go buy a new pair down the street.
The weather is immensely more pleasant not wearing his three-piece suit on such a scalding day. As Simon walks down the few steps to the grass, the man pops his hat off to rake his hand through his hair before ducking his head slightly and replacing his hat. John purses his lips slightly at the annoyingly charming movement. Simon stops and turns slightly before hooking a thumb towards the green acres before them.
“You know anything about corn?”
“Huh?”
Bloody hell, John is not eloquent today.
“Corn,” Simon says intentionally slowly, just to be a bastard.
“N-no, in case you don’t know, I don’t know how to farm. I probably don’t know how to do anything on your property,” John snaps with the cross of his arms.
“You always this big of a brat, boy?” Simon asks bewildered.
John’s arms drop before closing the few steps’ distance between them and shoving a finger to Simon’s broad chest.
“Don’t. Call me that,” John growls.
“Don’t call me ‘old man’ ,” Simon calmly responds.
John’s lip twitches back to flash his teeth like a pissed off hound before dropping his hand but never dropping his stare.
“Fine.”
They stand like that for a few long moments, eyes locked in tense silence with the distant clucking of chickens and chirping of cicadas filling in like background noise.
“The crop has a few more weeks until it’s ready to harvest, so it just requires some pruning here and there. I’m particular about my produce, I only sell the best.” Simon turns and walks around to the other side of the house, not waiting on John to follow, causing the younger man to have a brisk pace in catching up.
“Chickens get fed and watered every morning, and clean the coop every Sunday. Eggs get collected in the morning and early afternoon.” Simon continues past the large coop and patch of grass the forty or so chickens and rooster pluck away at in search of bugs. The men pass under a few large trees left on the inner property kept for shade until they arrive at a small stable. Snorting and whinnying echo out from the building. Fucking great, John thinks, horses to deal with .
“I have a cow still early on in her pregnancy so we get milk for a while. She gets milked every morning. Careful that she doesn’t nip you, Dotty doesn’t like people much,” Simon shares as they enter the stable with the smell of dry hay and animal dung penetrating the stiff air.
John sighs, annoyed.
“ Great . What about the horses?”
“You don’t touch the horses,” Simon replies flatly as he grabs a pitch fork and stabs into the large pile of hay in the corner of the barn to move it to the cow’s pen. Dotty peeks over the gate at John and he swears she glares at him through her long eyelashes.
“Oh. Good,” John answers, slightly relieved.
“Don’t want you fuckin’ with them,” Simon adds as he moves to give the two horses down the stable’s aisle hay.
“I wouldn’t fucking hurt them, I’m not an animal,” John snaps.
“Don’t touch the horses,” Simon commands with the lace of a threat coloring his words as he puts the pitch fork back.
“Alright, fine, hell,” John huffs in surrender. Not like he wanted to deal with them anyways. He’s never been around them much, always thinking they’re too smart and too large of an animal to be trusted. He thinks he had one experience with petting one, a murky memory of his past, but he can’t be sure. He could have dreamt it up for all he knew.