TAGS: child!William, child!Ronald, child!Grell, Nursery, Mischief Managed, Alternate Universe - Human, Female Grell Sutcliff, Story Time, age4years!children
"Undertaker, Undertaker!" squealed the cacophony of excited voices from behind him, the gleeful sounds synchronizing with the pitter-patter of little feet racing along the beige carpet.
Undertaker whipped around as two children stampeded swiftly toward him. He was immediately knocked in the knees, which were now donned with kids wrapped around his legs. The silver-haired man gazed down at them and saw two pairs of sparkling green eyes: one behind red-rimmed glasses, the other behind bulky, black frames.
"Did ya make 'em?" asked Ron, his bright smile revealing a missing tooth.
"Why yes I did m'boy," replied Undertaker. Although it was a struggle—considering the bodies attached to his legs—he managed to lift his feet and turn around. He took giant steps toward the counter and picked up a small tray, then bent down to offer the treats to the soon-to-be hyperactive children. "Here ya go!"
Ron hopped off his leg and snatched a bone-shaped sugar cookie from the offered plate. "Alrigh'!" he whooped, triumphantly shoving the treat in the air. The blond stuffed the biscuit into his mouth.
"Thank you, Undie," said Grelle, choosing not one, but three of the skeletal-like baking goods. Tucking the cookies into the pocket of her dress, she turned around to head in the direction of the corner containing the toys, but stopped. The redhead looked over her shoulder. "There's a new boy by the way." She faced forward and resumed skipping toward the toys, waving a hand behind her. "Toodles!"
Before he could comment, Undertaker felt a tug on his black shirt. He looked down to see Ronald staring at him. "A new boy?"
"Yeah, he says his name is Will," offered the little boy, his voice muffled by the overwhelming amount of cookies he managed to chew.
Undertaker crouched down, and using the sleeve of his black shirt, began wiping away the abundance of crumbs forming around the blond's mouth. "And where might this Willy be?"
Amongst the jumbled words, Ron pointed at the door. "There he is," he all but growled.
The caretaker looked at the door to find a little boy strolling toward them, whose hair was a dark brown and his serious green eyes framed with sleek, charcoal-gray spectacles. He was wearing a white shirt beneath a black sweater accompanied by slacks, all of which were topped off with an equally dark bow tie.
"Nice to meet ya, Willy!" greeted the man, throwing his arms out in a welcoming gesture. "I'm Undertaker."
"My name is William T. Spears, Mister!" scolded the tiny brunet, his loud voice carrying an air of authority as well as a touch of patronization. He pushed up his glasses and schooled his features. "But you may call me 'William'," he sniffed in a much more calm and aloof manner.
Undertaker blinked. "Well, if you're hungry, chap, there are cookies, milk, and juice over there on the table." He watched as the brunet went over to the table, then pulled out the small wooden chair before elegantly seating himself upon it. William reached for a napkin and draped it across his thighs, then helped himself to a juice box and a cookie; he politely nibbled on the treat, catching any bits that broke off. Undertaker had to hold back a snort when he saw the boy pat the corners of his mouth with the napkin after a sip of orange juice.
Ronald leaned in close before whispering a confession, "I don't like 'im."
"Why?" the man replied in hushed tones.
"'Cos he's mean! He said my hair is messy and tha' I talk funny. Tha' I don'," the little blond paused and took a deep breath before initiating the sophisticated voice of the newly added party, "Speak like a proper gentleman."
Undertaker tilted his head to the side and frowned in veiled agreement. The newcomer did have a point: Ronald's hair truly was a mess at the best of times. He licked the palm of his hand and ran it across the top of the sunny-colored mop in an attempt to flatten the little curl poking from Ron's hair; it sprung back up in rebellion. The man shrugged in defeat. "I don't think Willy—"
"My name is WILLIAM!" the brunet screeched from the table, causing the targets of his chastisement to nearly jump out their skins as they stared with wide, startled eyes. He narrowed his gaze in warning as he took another bite of the bone-shaped cookie. If Undertaker hadn't known any better, he would've sworn that the child truly was silently conveying to them that they were lowly peasants compared to someone of his stature.
Well, that one's going to be a piece of work. He looked at Ron. "Alright, he's a bit stuck up, but I don't think he means you any harm, lad," assured Undertaker, patting him gently on the shoulder.
"But wha' if he tries t' beat me up?"
"We'll just sic Grelle on him," the silver-haired man responded with a shrug. They both looked over at Grelle, who was pulling a doll's arm off. She tossed it to the side, then reached for the finger paint to begin covering the disjointed area with a coppery shade of blood red. Undertaker smiled when Ron slapped a hand over his mouth, unsuccessfully muting the giggles spilling from his lips. "Now how about you go play nice?"
"Aw, alrigh'," sighed Ron, kicking at the carpet.
"Don't be too hard on the boy."
The blond flashed him a wide, evil grin. "I won'," he promised in a conspiratorial whisper. Ron stealthily tiptoed toward William. Undertaker could see little red horns slowly protrude from beneath the untidy pile of sunny-colored locks, its cowlick comically bouncing as the child moved toward his unsuspecting victim.
"ROAR!" boomed Ron, surprising the brunet before he snatched the cookie from the other boy's hand.
Will shot up from his seat, his hands fisting at his sides. "That's not kind, Ronald! Return that to me at once!" he shouted before running after the blond devil.
Shaking his head, Undertaker stood and made his way to the kitchen to prepare for an afternoon snack.
Grelle plopped down on the circular, shag rug; she was quickly joined by the two boys, both of whom were still fuming over their battle to the death over a sugar cookie.
"Undie, can we hear 'The Three Little Piggies'?" she asked.
"Again?" replied the caretaker.
"There's three of us now," the redhead pointed out.
True. "Then of course, m'lady." Retrieving a handheld fan from a cupboard, Undertaker walked toward the little crowd and sat before them. He cleared his throat. "The story begins with three little pigs sent out by their mother…"
On the man went, barely glancing down at the book as he gave the performance of a lifetime. After all, he had read it to Grelle and Ron dozens of times, but he felt it was necessary to go the extra mile with a newcomer aboard. Each character came to life in small, squealing voices that were hardly audible over Undertaker's distinct accent, while the wolf's tone boomed throughout the room, low enough to haunt the dreams of even the bravest men.
"And the wolf said to the piggie in the house made of straw…" Reaching inside the pocket of his long jacket, he pulled out a small battery operated fan, flicking the 'on' switch as his growl rumbled "I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house down!" he roared. Undertaker pointed the handheld fan in Grelle's direction, the rotating blades blowing wind through her hair as the figurative wolf huffed down the straw house. The redhead's laugh chimed like a gleeful bell as she clapped her hands.
"Now me!" demanded Ronald, enthusiastically waving his arms above his head.
Undertaker quickly regaled the tale of the second pig, whose house was made out of sticks. "...and I'll blow your house down!" he hollered a second time. The little fan blew a gust through Ronald's hair, the blond tresses waving in the wind.
"And lastly, the wolf appeared before the piggies where they hid inside the red brick house…" As he repeated the wolf's final warning, he aimed the fan toward William who glared at him with heavy eyelids; his glistening and slick hair remained unaffected by the breeze. Much like the brick house, it stayed in place much to Undertaker's amusement. "The End…" he announced and snapped the book shut to a round of applause.
"Childish story," William muttered beneath his breath. "May I pick a story, Mister Undertaker?"
"Of course, lad," said the man, forcing a smile.
The boy stood and dashed toward the shelf of books, quickly pulling one off the shelf. The small child struggled to carry the massive text, heaving as he dropped it in the caretaker's lap. Undertaker stared at it, his jaw dropping onto the hardcover. A dictionary? Since when have I owned a dictionary? William opened it up and pointed to a random word.
"Can you start there?" asked William.
"Sure," said Undertaker with as much excitement he could muster. He gazed down at the word beneath the clever and proud brunet's finger: 'Antidisestablishmentarianism'. He looked back up at William, whose lips were upturned in the faintest of smiles. The little boy ran back to his spot on the carpet and made himself at home, eagerly waiting to hear the definition.
"Alright, well…" he began, speaking the words as animatedly entertaining as possible.
But in spite of his efforts, the words caused the children to fall asleep, though he suspected Ronald and Grelle nodded off in sheer boredom. William, on the other hand, looked as if he had been read a wonderful bedtime story; curled on his side with a content and innocent smile tucked in his chubby cheeks.
Yawning, Undertaker quietly shut the book and set it aside, stealing a moment to stretch when his eyes caught sight of the wall farthest from him. Not again, he sighed, but after the last incident, he made sure to buy enough cleaner to last until the kids turned eighteen. Standing up, he went over to inspect the damage and as suspected, he found three colorful drawings etched on the white paint. Two abstract pieces he recognized as the work of Ron and Grelle, but the third piece of artwork transcended the usual scribbles he was accustomed to. In near perfection, William captured a replication of the Sistine Chapel ceiling painted by Michelangelo with the use of cheaply made wax crayons. Below it sat a cursive signature that was neat and refined, much like those found on important documents: William T. Spears.
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