![]() ![]() As the weeks wore on, thinking of himself as Sean - being Sean - had gotten easier with both practise and the information he’d gleaned and been given. That wasn't such a bad thing.īack outside, slouched against the tree in his new favourite spot, he had time to reflect. There would be no basketball for a couple of days. The force had dragged and bunched the skin hard, now his left wrist was swollen, bruised and sore once more. ![]() ![]() It was sort-of relevant, if he could transfer the skills to his new life but Sean wasn’t living up to Poppa’s expectations, and it had led to an exasperated, rough grabbing and vigorous removal from the kitchen two days ago when he’d knocked into the big man one too many times. They’d helped each other out, working together seamlessly and often in companionable quiet – their ‘twin time’. Virgil was better at cooking meals, as it was more creative John better at the baking, with its leaning towards chemistry and precise measuring. It was partially successful: John and Virgil had done their best to help Scott out since…over the last eighteen months – because it was eighteen now – and they’d turned out to be reasonably competent with the stove and oven. He was also keen on teaching Sean…or rather, supposedly re-awakening old abilities that he thought his ‘son’ should have tucked deep in his subconscious. It was his own fault, really: Poppa was a good cook – nothing fancy, but filling and tasty – but he was used to having the kitchen to himself. ![]()
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