Author's Note: "If you insist on mak[ing] assumptions… assume you will always be wrong." ―Tahereh Mafi, Ignite Me
Disclaimer: If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.
The arrival of Southfork's newest ranchhand was heralded by a bang.
Hank, Southfork's oldest ranchhand, seated at the table in the little kitchenette at the back of bunkhouse #2, jumped slightly in his seat in reaction.
Meanwhile, a low string of curses could be heard emanating from the area just inside the front door, some of the words run-of-the-mill profanities, others not merely unusual, but surprisingly inventive, even lyrical. The quiet stream of invective ended in a second bang as a blue missile, sailing low to the ground, flew past the old rocker that bisected the wide archway between the front room and kitchen and slammed into the wooden chair opposite the old man, knocking the chair over onto to the floor.
"What the—" Hank's own chair hit the counter behind him as he rose and turned to stare towards the door.
A boy stood just inside the closed door, his body still holding the follow-through posture of one releasing an object being thrown. Gray eyes met hazel and, and for a split second, Hank saw in the boy's startled expression the same fear one saw in the eyes of a bucking horse as some heavy-fisted cowhand tried to stick on long enough to teach the animal to mind.
An instant only, then the boy's expression had smoothed over to blandness and he was moving towards the kitchen after his duffel bag as though nothing at all had happened.
"Sorry about that," the boy apologized easily, bending and righting the fallen chair. "It slipped out of my hand." He stood erect to meet the older man's gaze. No fear now in the hazel orbs. "You must be the third man."
"The third man?" Hank growled, in spite of himself.
"Ray said—" Despite his seeming composure, the boy's voice caught for a moment, before he began again, more firmly, "Ray said I'd be bunking with three guys, and we just met Jack and Clarence out front , so—"
"—so I must be the third man." Hank finished for him. "That's right." He leaned across the table to shake hands with the boy. "Call me Hank."
The boy nodded. His fingers around the older man's much larger hand were firm: a good, confident handshake. "I'm Mickey."
"The boss said I was to show you around, but I should really finish reading this vet's report first. Care for some coffee while you wait?"
"I'd love some," the boy admitted.
"Pot's on the stove," the older hand told him, reseating himself. He motioned with his head in the opposite direction. "Mugs're in that cupboard."
The boy served himself silently, then threw his slight body disjointedly into the chair he'd earlier knocked over, as though the legs in his baggy jeans would no longer support him.
Hank lowered his eyes to his clipboard and pretended to read the report. His stubby sausage fingers even moved across the page as though to aid his aged eyes. Through the lashes that swept together at the corner of his eye, he studied the new man.
For man he was (if young), not really a boy at all, just smaller than then general run of the hands at Southfork, who tended to top six feet and run to bulk. Off hand, he couldn't think of a single man on the place who wouldn't be able to pick this young man up and break him in half if so minded. Of course, he was the foreman's cousin…
When he'd called last night, Ray had told him the 'kid' was a raw novice at ranching and to assume he knew nothing. What he had not said was that his cousin would arrive in sneakers and looking like he'd never even heard that such a thing as a ranch existed. His outfit might have done at a service station, perhaps…
The young man waited patiently, sipping his coffee and looking around the little kitchen, gazing out the window thoughtfully, his expression troubled. He sighed, but it was not a sound of impatience. It was reminiscent more of weary defeat, like a man makes when acknowledging after a long denial that he has done something very stupid, which cannot be undone.
Hank kept his eyes on his report, away from the boy's eyes, careful not to challenge him, just as he'd avoid challenging a spooky horse. "I hope you don't offend me asking," he began softly. "But it seems like somethin' ain't settin' quite right with you."
The young man blew out a much heavier breath. "It's nothing," he said.
Hank waited a good half minute before prompting gently. "Don't seem like nothing."
Silence again for many seconds. Hank could hear the kitchen wall clock ticking, suddenly loud in the absence of any other sound.
The young man's voice was so quiet, it was almost like he wasn't even speaking aloud. "Have you ever had one of those days when you imagined you had everything all figured out and knew just what to expect, but then when it came down to it, you discovered that everything you'd thought was completely and totally wrong?"
Hank smiled at the typewritten report, then risked raising his eyes. "Every day," he enunciated succinctly.
The boy looked amused. "Me, too," he agreed. "You done with that?" He nodded towards the old man's coffee cup.
"Yeah," Hank told him, then watched the boy reach across the table for it. "So what are you gonna do?" he asked, as Mickey rose from the table and took the two mugs to the sink.
"What is there to do?" the boy asked, dribbling dish soap into the mugs, wiping and rinsing them quickly, then upending them on the drain board next to the mugs used by Jack and Clarence before they'd left to begin work. "Dump my stuff on an empty bunk and get to work, I guess."
Hank grinned approvingly. "You'll do, Mickey."
"I hope so," the boy sighed.