Inviting Tom to kick the piss out of him after he's spent a day over irons in the forge always seems like a much better idea beforehand than it does afterwards, soaking the ache out of his muscles in slowly cooling water - on the other hand, there are worse ways to end a day than sunk in the end of the long tin bath he keeps out behind the house with halfway decent company in the other end, under the slightly bemused eye of the horse that is not actually his but lives here because he has more land than is available in Bonetown.

(He can't even spell exhibitionist, Bruce, he is just a simple mountain boy.)

“Here a minute,” he says, raising one hand lazily from the side of the tub-- “What's a baseball when it's at home?”