Chapter Text
“Oops!” George says as he drops his bowl, spilling stew all down his shirt and pants.
Miss Grimshaw walks past when he does it, stopping to stare down at him. “Oh, George, you silly boy,” she says, eyebrows raised.
“S-Sorry,” he mumbles, ducking his head. Is she mad at him? George never knows what to do when women get angry, tensing up on reflex, expecting Mama to yell and smack him. “I didn’t mean to…”
Taking the half-empty bowl from George’s hands, Miss Grimshaw sighs. And her voice softens as she says, “I’m not angry, I promise. C’mon, go get yourself cleaned up.”
“Huh?”
“I meant, go have a wash.”
George’s head snaps up, his chest tightening. “A wash?”
“Yes, dear,” Miss Grimshaw says, looking at him like George is acting strangely (and to be fair, he kind of is; it’s normal for a boy to whine when told to wash, but to look all worried… yeah, he understands her reaction). “You need to clean yourself up. Have you even had a wash since you got here?”
Swallowing hard, George shakes his head. He has lived with the Van der Linde Gang for just over a month now, and George has done everything in his power to avoid having a wash. It was okay when he lived with Mama, because they had a bathroom in their rather nice house, and George could shut the door and hide under the suds. But he knows how the gang members wash, and the thought of being seen without his clothes on in the woods near camp… it makes him shiver. If anyone sees him naked, they’ll discover George’s secret. And then they’ll be just like Mama and his life will become a living hell all over again.
But he can’t explain his fear of washing without revealing his secret, and George sighs.
“You definitely need a wash then, sweetheart,” Miss Grimshaw says.
“You can come with us,” says Abigail from behind him, and George turns around. Abigail stands there with Jack beside her, carrying a bucket of water with both hands, whilst Jack hugs a bundle of clothes to his chest. “Jack is gonna have a wash, so I’m goin’ that way anyway.”
“Good idea, Miss Roberts,” Miss Grimshaw says, putting her hand on George’s back. She pushes George towards Abigail, smiling. “Go on, George.”
His heart racing, George nods. Walking awkwardly in his dirty clothes, George rushes to his tent, grabbing his clothes, towel, and soap, before meeting back up with Abigail. She smiles, leading George into the woods around camp, setting down the bucket behind a tree.
“I’ll just be over there with Jack, so yell if you need anythin’,” Abigail says.
“Okay. Thank you,” George mumbles, his stomach twisting with nerves.
“See you soon. C’mon, Jack.”
“Aww, I don’t wanna…” Jack moans, but he trails off after his mother.
Now alone, George stares at the bucket of clean water, and reluctantly slips off his jacket. Washing with rags and a bucket is surprisingly difficult, and George struggles, spilling water all over the ground. The water is freezing, too, so unlike the warm baths he got at home, and he shivers.
It takes him ages to wash, pulling on a clean shirt before kicking off his soiled pants. Shivering worse than ever, George washes his legs, and as he struggles to wash his feet without falling over—
“Are you done yet, George?” Jack calls, skipping around the tree in his clean clothes. Of course, Jack has finished; George knew he was too slow!
And with one foot in the bucket, balancing awkwardly on one leg, George yelps in shock and topples over. He topples onto his butt, and he tries desperately to cover himself up, but—
“Are you a girl?” Jack asks as he sees George’s lower body, genuine and innocent, his smile curious but kind.
Horrified, tears spring to George’s eyes, a shaky sob bursting out of him. “No!” he cries, tugging his pants on, sniffling.
“What’s goin’ on over here?” Abigail asks, wandering over, but George runs away, the rough ground scraping his bare feet.
He can’t stop crying, his breaths coming as short, ragged gasps. This can’t be happening.
I need to leave, George thinks. And, racing back into camp, George ignores every concerned stare shot his way, running straight past Papa. I’ve gotta go.
And as George ducks inside his tent, his father stares after him, confused. Micah had been cleaning his guns by the campfire, but when George races back into camp, barefoot and sobbing, Micah holsters his revolver. Didn’t the boy go to have a wash? So why the hell is he crying?
Staring at the tent, Micah knows a better father would go investigate, entering the tent and asking his son what made him cry (and perhaps offering a cuddle, something Micah’s Momma used to do when he was upset). But Micah has no idea what to do—his father never comforted him, so Micah wouldn’t know where to start.
Arthur, however, apparently doesn’t have the same issue. Concern written across his handsome face, Arthur approaches George’s tent and says, “George, what’s wrong?”
“Go away!” George screams, his voice trembling with sobs. “Leave me alone.”
“Okay, I will,” Arthur says, his voice soothing, and he walks away from the tent, respecting the kid’s boundaries.
He briefly makes eye contact with Micah, and Micah knows that Arthur wants him to go and ask after the kid instead. But Micah just looks away, sighing, because he still doesn’t know how to help George. Besides, the boy will probably just tell Micah to fuck off too.
A minute or so later, Abigail rushes into camp, carrying Jack on her hip. “Has anyone seen George?” she calls, worried.
“He’s in his tent,” Arthur says as Micah frowns, deliberating if he should yell at Roberts if she was the one to upset the boy.
Standing up, Micah keeps his mouth shut, but eyes Abigail curiously.
“Did somethin’ happen?” Hosea asks, also having seen the kid hurtle into camp, crying his eyes out.
Abigail glances at George’s tent, and says, “Um, you could say that. I think I better talk to Dutch ‘bout this.”
“About what?” Micah snaps, stalking over. Internally, he seethes, frustrated that she wants to defer to Dutch rather than Micah, the actual fucking father of the boy in question, but he doesn’t say this. He still hasn’t referred to George as ‘his son’ in conversation, and now doesn’t feel like the time to start.
“Look, it’s somethin’ personal, and—”
“George has girl parts!” Jack announces innocently, too young to understand the gravity of his words.
“What?!” Micah splutters.
“Huh?” Arthur says.
“Jack…” Abigail says, hushing her brat, but it’s too late.
After all, thanks to Jack’s lack of volume control, half the goddamn camp heard what he said.
As Abigail rushes off with Jack, Micah frowns, stunned by the brat’s words. Is Micah’s son actually his daughter?
He remembers when he first met George, how the kid wore a dress and was very unhappy about it, getting rid of the dress at the first opportunity. Marie, the poor kid’s evil bitch of a mother, even called Micah’s kid his ‘daughter’, which George took great offense to.
So… is George a girl? Did the kid lie to everyone for whatever reason, hiding their gender from the world? And if so… why?
So incredibly stunned, Micah has no idea how to react. Should he be angry? He doesn’t know.
Shit, this is confusing.
After piling all his belongings onto a blanket and tying the blanket into a bundle, George stumbles out of his tent, fully prepared to run away (to escape, he thinks, scared of the inevitable punishment). Tears still stream down his cheeks, his stomach churning so badly he nearly throws up.
The moment George emerges, Arthur asks, “What’re you doin’, kid?”
Sniffling, George turns his head, not wanting to look at him. He doesn’t want to look at anyone, at the people who must view him differently now. “I’m leaving.”
“Leavin’?” Arthur says.
Snapping out of his confused daze, Micah spins around. His daughter kid looks dreadful, seconds away from a panic attack, and Micah’s chest aches in a way he doesn’t recognize.
“Yeah, I’m going!” George says, his voice hysterical. When Arthur takes a step towards him, George jumps backwards, expecting to be smacked. Sobbing harder, he yells, “You’re gonna be just like Mama! I know you are. This ain’t a phase. I ain’t sick. I ain’t gonna let you h-hit me till I’m normal!”
“George, what’re you talkin’ about?” Hosea asks, but even his kind presence doesn’t calm George down.
“I’m sorry,” George sobs, waiting for the ridicule, the punishment. “I’m going. Just don’t try to make me a girl!”
And as the grownups stare at him, George hurtles out of camp, needing to escape before they hurt him. But he doesn’t get very far from camp before his bare foot catches on an exposed tree root, sending him crashing to the ground. His bundle of clothes cushions his fall, but his ankle twists, pain shooting up his leg. And when George tries to get back up, his ankle screams with agony, his foot giving out under him.
Crying in panic and pain, George crumples on the ground, clutching his sprained ankle and waiting to be caught—and punished even worse for trying to escape.
After watching his child run out of camp, Micah stares into space, horror mixing with his confusion. Hearing George say, “don’t try to make me a girl” and “I ain’t sick,” unsettles him, triggering memories he wants to forget.
“I’ll make you like women.”
“I’ll fix you.”
“People like you are sick.”
Against his will he remembers her looming over him, touching him, taunting him… the memories making his stomach flip with nausea. George’s words sound so much like terrible things Marie said to Micah nine years ago, and his hands begin to tremble.
He doesn’t understand George’s gender, but what the kid said makes Micah wonder if he and his child have something in common. Were both of them hurt by Marie in an attempt to make them normal?
And it’s a stupid idea, but when people begin to follow after George, trying to track down the kid, Micah feels a strong desire to talk to the kid before anyone else. Perhaps because, out of everyone in the gang, Micah might understand exactly what George has been through.
So, folding his arms and raising his voice, Micah says, “All of you, stop! I’ll go.”