"I'm not soft," Bailey replied curtly. "I can handle it," he scratched at a bundle of scars along his left arm.
“For the last time, Bailey, I’m not accusing you of being weak. It’s okay if you’re hurt.”
He shifted his jaw. "I don't like it," he admitted very quietly.
“And that’s understandable,” her replied, softly.
Jane beamed. "When would be convenient for you?"
"Well, within this week," he chirped back.
Bailey scratched his nose again. He had some faint, sun-inflicted freckles across the bridge of it.
Jane beamed. "When would be convenient for you?"
"Well, within this week," he chirped back.
She nodded. "That sounds fine with me."
"Excellent." James beamed with a keen happiness.
"I'll go check on your clothes," she said.
Skip?)
(Okie. To when?)
Back to André?)
Bailey scratched his nose again. He had some faint, sun-inflicted freckles across the bridge of it.
George bit the inside of his cheek, unsure what to say next.
"Can we get back to the table?" Bailey asked. "I should help you clean."
Back to André?)
(Okie!)
George stood, tugging his sleeves down. "Don't bother, I just want you to relax. I'll do the cleaning."
Back to André?)
(Okie!)
~~~
André walked down the old porch of the weathered mill, making sure each soldier was ready to fire, every gun was sufficiently loaded.
George stood, tugging his sleeves down. "Don't bother, I just want you to relax. I'll do the cleaning."
He leaned back into the chair. "Thank you for lunch," Bailey murmured.
"It was my pleasure," he called over his shoulder, beginning to clear up the table.
Back to André?)
(Okie!)
~~~
André walked down the old porch of the weathered mill, making sure each soldier was ready to fire, every gun was sufficiently loaded.
(Who should I be?)
"It was my pleasure," he called over his shoulder, beginning to clear up the table.
Bailey shut his eyes. The memory of her—his wife, the concept of a son. Would he see them again?—he had seen them once, for a moment while he was hanging, he swears he felt her touch before he fell back to the earth. She wouldn't let him die, apparently, and for why he did not know.
Back to André?)
(Okie!)
~~~
André walked down the old porch of the weathered mill, making sure each soldier was ready to fire, every gun was sufficiently loaded.
(Who should I be?)
Soldiers/ general, if you want
André walked down the old porch of the weathered mill, making sure each soldier was ready to fire, every gun was sufficiently loaded.
(Who should I be?)
Soldiers/ general, if you want
(This is gonna be really bad, so I'm sorry in advance…)
As George cleared up, his mind couldn't help lingering over the subject of the scarred, distraught man behind him. The awful things that this man must have gone through…. they were unfathomable to a simple barkeep like him.
Its cool!)
As George cleared up, his mind couldn't help lingering over the subject of the scarred, distraught man behind him. The awful things that this man must have gone through…. they were unfathomable to a simple barkeep like him.
Bailey opened his eyes. Why did heaven have to work so indirectly?
After he was finished, he returned to the man. "How are you feeling? I can make some tea, if you'd like."
"Sleepy," Bailey replied honestly, and wiped his eyes. "I need a job,"
"I'll get you one. But if you're sleepy, then you should rest," he told the man gently, tugging at his volar.
He kneaded his fingers into his cheek. "Dunno if I can,"
André walked down the old porch of the weathered mill, making sure each soldier was ready to fire, every gun was sufficiently loaded.
Peter stood in line waiting for orders.
"As soon as you see blue," André spoke, "You shoot. Am I clear?–don't believe me, Caleb?" He spat at a man giving a skeptical look. "Say it to General Clinton then,"
Peter smiled subtly. John was back to being himself.