Chapter Text
In all fairness, Hermann didn’t mean to eat the chicken. He just saw them during his nocturnal walk, and a deep craving shook him. Before he knew it he had hopped the rabbit-proof fence and sunk his teeth into the nearest silkie. Instant regret overtook him, and now he was standing in the middle of a chicken coop, the other birds going mad with fright, holding something which had been animate only moments previous.
“Oh bugger,” he said, as a light in the farmer’s house turned on. He could have been gone in an instant, leaving only a trail of blood and the dead chicken, but it was a very pretty creature and it seemed an ignominious end for something which had clearly been raised with such care.
So an apology then? An impromptu burial? An anonymous note nailed to a door later entitled This Is Just To Say? Ridiculous. Better to leave and make the farmer wonder how a fox got to be so wily.
“Hey! Stop right there!” someone yelled, and Hermann realized he’d prevaricated for too long.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, and blinked at a light shone in his face. He wondered how much of a mess he was, chicken blood and feathers on his chin and the broken chicken in his hands.
“Aw, what the fuck,” the farmer groaned. “What the fuck is this?”
“I have a condition,” Hermann explained blandly. “And I’m afraid I killed your chicken in a moment of weakness. Is there a way I can make it up to you?”
“What kind of condition is that?” the farmer asked, lowering his flashlight. “And what the fuck man! Get out of my chicken pen!”
“You just told me to stop right here.”
“Yeah, well now you can get the fuck out. You’ve frightened them.”
Hermann hopped the fence again, aware how dreamlike it would seem to the farmer.
“What should I do with the chicken?”
A long pause and then the farmer sighed.
“You better come inside. I need to figure out what to do with you.”
As it was a proper invitation, Hermann could avoid the full body shudder which would usually accompany trespassing. In the light, he could see the farmer was dark-haired, bespectacled, and deeply freckled from the sun. Colourful tattoos started at his wrists and presumably continued, though they were hidden by a worn green flannel. He put away his flashlight and a shotgun and pointed to the sink.
“Put her there,” he said with a sigh. “Washroom’s down the hall, first door to the right. You’re covered in it, man.”
“Thank you,” Hermann said sheepishly. There was nothing else to say.
He came out of the washroom, scrubbed clean and most of the chicken blood out from under his nails. The farmer had taken the time to make tea, and had set out two cups. Hermann wasn’t sure how he warranted this level of hospitality, but sat down gratefully.
“You hungry?” the farmer asked.
Starving.
“No.”
“You remember your name? My name’s Newt.”
“Hermann.”
“That’s a start,” Newt said with a cautious smile. “My property has a lot of acreage. How’d you wander so far in?”
“I’m not crazy,” Hermann said as he suddenly realized the probing tone Newt was taking. Newt held up his hands in a surrendering position.
“I don’t think you meant to do what you did,” he said. “And I don’t like that word either. What I think happened is maybe you were dissociating? Or maybe you’ve got poor impulse control and you have a thought and then you act on it right away, which like, me too. I just want to make sure you didn’t bump your head or something. You didn’t, eh? That you can remember?”
“I didn’t bump my head,” Hermann smiled in spite of himself. Humans could rationalize any behaviour, as it turned out, but this one was particularly kind and level-headed about his diagnosis. “I told you, I have a condition.”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” Newt said. “It’s your business. Now, my business is chickens, partially, so I gotta ask, are you going to do that every time you see one?”
Hermann shook his head.
“I am sorry. And terribly embarrassed, for what it’s worth.”
“So usually, folks who help me for the season get a chicken by the end of it,” Newt said, drumming his fingers. “You could help.”
“I see,” Hermann said. “What does help entail?”
“Do you know anything about farming?”
Hermann snorted, and Newt looked offended for the first time this strange evening.
“You’re the one wandering about my fields in the middle of the night. I thought I could at least take you for an enthusiast.”
“I am a wanderer,” Hermann said, for that was the closest to the truth. “So I haven’t had the opportunity to farm, no.”
“You got the opportunity now,” Newt said. “If you want to stop wandering long enough to make this right.”
“Why don’t you call the police instead of pressing me into indentured servitude?”
“Because I don’t like cops, man,” Newt said, and his eyes shifted down for a split second before he brightened. “And anyway, this is better. Tit for tit.”
Hermann mouthed the last bit, brow furrowed, while he thought. He had asked Newt how he could make this right. Though the idea of menial labour was laughable at best and insulting at worst, it had been quite a lonely while since he’d had a place to call home, and the farm was… homey.
“I have a skin disease,” he finally said. “Direct sunlight is very painful.”
If Newt thought that was odd, he didn’t show it.
“There’s lots to do before the sun rises. I’m a bit of a night owl myself.”
“I left a cane in your chicken pen,” Hermann continued. Newt nodded.
“I’ll get it. You got more clothes than what you came in? Pyjamas? I’ll turn down a bed for you.”
“I can arrange my own accommodations.”
“No way, Hermano,” Newt laughed, and Hermann bristled at the nickname. “The hours are weird here, and if you go away, how do I know you won’t welch on our deal?”
“I don’t welch.”
“And I don’t need to be standing around at four in the morning wondering where you are, if you have car trouble or if you died or something. In any case, you’re staying here tonight. It’s three in the morning and there’re coyotes and maniacs out there.”
If only he knew, Hermann thought, and licked his fangs absentmindedly while Newt stomped around upstairs to make up the guest room. If only he knew he’s invited one in.