what happens when I'm bored at work
Remember that little brain fart of an idea I had in October about William's house of orphans? Yeah, um, I kind of ran with it. THIS IS NOT EVEN REMOTELY HISTORICALLY ACCURATE AT ALL. Right now I'm writing the part where Siska's coming back to Beckett Manor as a boy for the very first time - there's this whole thing where he's Greta's ward and he really wants to actually be a girl, but he's fourteen now and he can't really get away with it anymore - and he's worried how his very best friend Butcher is going to react!! HERE, HAVE SOME CHEEKY JON WALKER, SIR WILLIAM'S WARD:
William is not entirely certain how this happened, how he became a veritable magnet for downtrodden orphans, but he’s going to blame Jon. Jon, who currently looks like a common street rat, dirt streaking his rosy cheeks and just south of his pert smile, perfectly serviceable breeches just that morning now torn beyond repair. Victoria isn’t going to like this one little bit.
“Care to explain yourself, Jonathan?” William asks, arching an eyebrow.
Jon just grins wider.
Honestly, William’s been saddled with the cheekiest ward. He doesn’t think he was this much trouble when he was fourteen.
“This reminds me exactly of you,” Gabriel says, slouching negligently against the hearth mantel, curve of his mouth much too amused for William’s comfort. William’s trying to be firm here, to lay some ground rules, so as young Mr. Walker can’t, er. Walk all over him. It’s bad enough Jon’s talked him into having the laconic, kitten-eyed Ross and his fierce little protector hanging about, snagging his best guest rooms, pestering Cook for warm tarts and hot cocoa.
“Stuff it, Gabe,” William says, cutting him a small frown before turning once again to Jon and the little bit of a thing clutching the back of Jon’s once snowy-white shirt. “Jon.”
Jon’s smile falters the slightest measure at William’s tone, and William watches as the little bit of a thing’s eyes widen, suddenly fearful, and William isn’t an ogre. William’s entirely too soft for his own good, apparently.
“You,” William says, and Jon’s mouth downturns even further, like William doesn’t have a good ten years on him, and his voice is practically a reprimand when he says, “Brendon.”
Jon is a whelp and the bane of William’s existence. He’s lucky William’s so fond of him.
William pinches the bridge of his nose and ignores Gabriel’s snickering. “Just. Clean him up, would you,” he says, because he won’t stand for grubby little paw prints all over the manor.
William is not entirely certain how this happened, how he became a veritable magnet for downtrodden orphans, but he’s going to blame Jon. Jon, who currently looks like a common street rat, dirt streaking his rosy cheeks and just south of his pert smile, perfectly serviceable breeches just that morning now torn beyond repair. Victoria isn’t going to like this one little bit.
“Care to explain yourself, Jonathan?” William asks, arching an eyebrow.
Jon just grins wider.
Honestly, William’s been saddled with the cheekiest ward. He doesn’t think he was this much trouble when he was fourteen.
“This reminds me exactly of you,” Gabriel says, slouching negligently against the hearth mantel, curve of his mouth much too amused for William’s comfort. William’s trying to be firm here, to lay some ground rules, so as young Mr. Walker can’t, er. Walk all over him. It’s bad enough Jon’s talked him into having the laconic, kitten-eyed Ross and his fierce little protector hanging about, snagging his best guest rooms, pestering Cook for warm tarts and hot cocoa.
“Stuff it, Gabe,” William says, cutting him a small frown before turning once again to Jon and the little bit of a thing clutching the back of Jon’s once snowy-white shirt. “Jon.”
Jon’s smile falters the slightest measure at William’s tone, and William watches as the little bit of a thing’s eyes widen, suddenly fearful, and William isn’t an ogre. William’s entirely too soft for his own good, apparently.
“You,” William says, and Jon’s mouth downturns even further, like William doesn’t have a good ten years on him, and his voice is practically a reprimand when he says, “Brendon.”
Jon is a whelp and the bane of William’s existence. He’s lucky William’s so fond of him.
William pinches the bridge of his nose and ignores Gabriel’s snickering. “Just. Clean him up, would you,” he says, because he won’t stand for grubby little paw prints all over the manor.