Re: The Priest's Hole: Jules & Ford
Jules laughed. The peel of church bells in his throat, and his adam's apple had been shaved years on, and the sound was light and without any of the scratch and bark of man. Boy, perhaps, but the choral kind, voices high and praising something unseen. Jules liked that, the mysteries, and he was Catholic as a result. The stained glass, the robes, the confessional clothed in red and with cutouts that let light and incense seep in. These things made him happy, and there was happiness in that laughter as the boy toppled back, bottle of green and a wave of glass and fingers in his direction.
"Alright. We'll stay here if you wish it, dearheart."
And so he sat, back into a crouch, and then upon his haunches on the floor of a pub that reminded him of history and childhood. "This isn't England. It's Wales," he said, taking the glass between fingers of impossible pallor and length, bones made for piano keys and other things most secular.
He uncapped the bottle, and he took a long swig. Lips rounded around the cap and a wince at the end, burn against his throat and a cough as he handed the bottle out again.
"I grew up in another here. Well, partly. You're not from here." It wasn't that the boy didn't look Welsh; Jules didn't either. He had the pallor of his da's people, their pointed features and hair nearly white. But the boy looked modern, and the boy looked American. Hewn in the way of Loren and men Jules associated with West. Shoulders wide and more to him than was immediately apparent. Stocky, where Jules was long legs that he folded as he leaned against musty old wood.