According to his mama, his pa chose his middle name, Goldeagle, as a sign of solidarity, as a way to honor where mama came from and to ensure Aaron wouldn’t ever forget it. Pa thought he was being clever.

Mama humored him.

Aaron, in all his 27-years of life, has never once forgotten his heritage, not even for a minute, all thanks to Harrison Garnet’s bright idea. First came Goldy, then Birdy, then Chickenlegs and Birdbrain and the nicknames haven’t once stopped trickling in. Hardly anyone calls him by his real name anymore and so he tries to avoid the middle one, pretends it’s not there, neglects to even include the initial: what’s the point of writing “Aaron G. Garnet” when “Aaron Garnet” takes up so much less space?

“Aaron, you really should practice,” Doc Valentine says as he looks over Aaron’s sheet of paper. He’d been standing behind his counter, aiding a patient with medicine, and had instructed Aaron to write his name ten times. Aaron wrote “Aaron Garnet” ten times and they look pretty damn good to him, in his humble opinion. “Your middle name is long and has a difficult spelling, it will do you some good to try. Can you spell ‘eagle’ for me?”

Aaron chews at the inside of his cheek. “Aww, c’mon, doc. Do I hafta? I ain’t ever gonna write it down, anyway. Or, lord forbid, tell anyone how t’spell it.”

Valentine raises a single eyebrow.

“...E,” Aaron starts, then stops, and sweats, then continues, “G. I-L-L.” He doesn’t sound nearly as confident as he wishes he does.

“Close.” Valentine’s smile is kind, but that doesn’t stop Aaron’s face from burning. “I did say it was difficult, I’d never expect you to get it on the first try. E-A-G-L-E.”

Aaron drops his forehead onto the table. “Ugh, doc, I hate my middle name.”

“Hm. I suppose birds of a feather do flock together,” Valentine says. While he isn’t laughing, Aaron can hear the humor in his voice, and he grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny.”

Valentine pats him on the shoulder. “Come now, Aaron. I do understand, I am not altogether fond of my own middle name. Now, write your full name ten times more while I heat us both a kettle of water. I bought biscuits from Miss Weaverside and I have been told, at some length, that they go very well with tea.”

The doc knows Aaron far too well, and he sits back up again, though not without more whining. “Fine, I’ll do it. At least you don’t make fun of me. Much.”

“I can hardly call you Chickenlegs, now can I?” Valentine gestures down at his own legs. “That would make me quite the hypocrite.”

That brings a smile to Aaron’s face. “I’d hafta start callin’ you Spiderlegs if you did, doc.”

“Hush, you. I am no schoolteacher, but I’m not afraid to rap you on your knuckles with my cane.”