SHARPE'S MEAL ⚔ WRITTEN | ACTION

[greenjacketed]

[ after the public relations disaster of his last broadcast, sharpe has since kept his journal under a sort of imprisonment: tied shut with leather straps and stuffed in a cloth sack, that sack being knotted as well. but today he gingerly picks it from its incarceration and flicks through its pages until he settles upon one he likes. and then sharpe picks up his pencil.

he writes three messages. as ever, his handwriting is scrawlish, ill-practised, and riddled with errors. none are filtered, although only the first is intended for community consumption:]

LUCETI -- I need to speak with someone who can cook a des--deecdecent meal. [ ugh this is borderline humiliating someone shoot him and put him out of his misery. ] Frogs need not apply, beecuz I don't want the lot to taste like cheese and garlik.

KATNISS -- I'm coming by before 12. We have our wager to settle.

MISS FAITH LONG -- might a man call on you this afternoon?

-- R. SHARPE

[ OTHERWISE the man can be found staring disconsolately at grocery items. some of these things have never before been seen by eyes such as his. in fact, some of these things look barely edible. sharpe's been in luceti for a year, but he just about never goes to the grocery shop -- not when he has katniss looking after him with her stew. not when he can still shoot his own game. but today brings his boots squarely inside this devil's shop. as he browses, he mutters: ] Bloody hell...

[ LATER, sharpe has taken up a sentry position at the bar in good spirits. he's drinking watered down brandy because he can't afford to get drunk tonight. he's on the lookout for a certain fire-haired giant of a man. ganondorf. for it occurs to sharpe that he doesn't know where he lives, only that he's often seen at the bar. so he waits. ]

Comments

[greenjacketed]

[ he smiles when she uses the pejorative on herself. ]

Would've been more use to them on the field, as they fortunately learned. Eventually. [ he picks at the onions peel, giving it a nosy sniff. but then he tosses it back on the pile and takes the three wide steps necessary in order to pluck up an apple instead. ]

Hated quartermaster work. Counting wagons and signing chits and...it's tantamount to being told you're not trusted leading men, lass. [ ah. finally. back to 'lass' at last. ] Technically, I suppose I were one for about five years.

[fleurdesel]

But only 'technically'.

[Though the details of that qualifier weren't something she intends to ask outright. He's never been quite this easy and open before and she's not about to risk it on an errant question.

Adele lingers by the apples, eyeing the lot critically.]

Entirely sweet or slightly tart?

[There weren't many options available to them by way of apples, but enough to manage that much of a distinction.]

[greenjacketed]

Slightly tart. [ he says with a wrinkle of his nose, as if the opposite suggestion of sweetness left a bad ghost-taste in his mouth.

to chase it away, he takes a big bite of his chosen apple. the crunch is loud. he has to draw the back of his hand across his mouth the catch a rivulet of juice. and -- at length -- he clarifies his clarifier: ] Technically, I got into some mischief on the way through those years. Technically. All under orders, of course.

[ kinda. sorta. ]

[fleurdesel]

Excellent choice.

[The tarter apples tended to be more crisp in Adele's experience and were simpler to work with. She picks a handful of the smaller, sweeter apples before plucking up enough of the tarter variety for a good sized tart.]

So it was sanctioned mischief. I cannot think of a better kind.

[She snorts a laugh and finishes selecting her apples.]

[greenjacketed]

Copenhagen was, at least. [ everything else was only loosely sanctioned by circumstance and wilful ignorance. ] Ever been there?

[fleurdesel]

I cannot say that I have. [She never traveled much, and never to anywhere particularly interesting.]

[greenjacketed]

[ he takes another bite. chews. swallows. ]

It's a fine city. I'd always wanted to go back, one day. [ no reason to, now. ] Copenhagan and Seringapatam both.

[ cities with decent memories and good opportunities. he missed them both more than he ever missed london. ]

[fleurdesel]

Seringapatam?

[It's not a city she can place, and she shoots him a quizzical look while she moves on down to the meager wine isle.]

I'm not familiar with this city.

[greenjacketed]

The capital of Mysore, lass. In India. Seringapatam. [ he says each syllable with considerable enjoyment. ] In the four years before my five as quartermaster, I was a sergeant in the Seringapatam armoury. Attached to man named Stokes. Good man. Liked clocks.

[fleurdesel]

I'm afraid I'm woefully ignorant of the cities of India.

[Pinot Grigio, Chardonnay, Merlot, Rose- ah. Pinot Noir. There's only the one sort and she's surprised that much is available. The lable's handwritten, there's no way of knowing what sort it'll be without opening it and that she'll leave to Sharpe.]

There is something soothing to be found in a well made timepiece.

[greenjacketed]

I see that, now. [ he comments obliquely on the beauty of a time piece.

sharpe shifts his half-eaten apple to his opposite hand just so he can relieve her of the bottle. he wants to get a good and proper look for himself. ]

[fleurdesel]

[Bereft of the usual notes and notations that she would use for reference otherwise Adele hands off the bottle without further comment. Perhaps Sharpe could divine more from the rather plain labeling than she has been able to.]

[greenjacketed]

[ without a care about how it comes across, he balances his unfinished apple on a shelf's edge and eases a pocket-knife out of his jacket. biting down on his tongue as he concentrates, sharpe digs the firmly lodged cork out with the blade. a twist; a stab; a satisfying pop. ]

No harm in trying, eh? [ he wafts the speared cork under his nose -- smelling the wine. he tilts his head back, thinks for a moment, then leans in once more for another sniff. like little dark berries. ]

It'll do. For a French wine.

[fleurdesel]

Richard-

[He's not honestly going to- no. No. He is. And she's torn between saying something and morbid fascination. Were they in his home or even outside the store she might not think anything of it, and even now some small part of her has to appreciate how very pragmatic he is over the whole thing.]

I don't think I have ever seen a man uncork a bottle of wine with a pocket knife before.

[greenjacketed]

I'd have used my own bloody teeth had there been enough poking above the bottle to gain purchase -- [ he says it as honestly as a man could say anything.

then holds the bottle out to her. ] Here. Have a taste, tell us whether it's the sort of thing an Admiral's daughter might care to drink.

[fleurdesel]

Now you're trying to insult me.

[Teasing, slightly mortified, but teasing. Up until the moment he expects her to swig the wine from the bottle proper, the same bottle he'd be serving from with dinner. Her lips press into a thin line and she offers him a look that is simultaneously thoroughly unimpressed and terribly amused.]

This is hardly sanitary.

[And yet she takes the bottle all the same. Hesitates. Mutters, because it's expected of her.] Breaks my heart to do this.

[Takes a quick swig.]

[greenjacketed]

[ major richard sharpe grins. bloody well looks like a new man when he does it, too. ]

But you did it all the same. Didn't even have to get out my sergeant's voice. Jesus wept, lass, but you could've put up a bit of a fight.

[ he retrieves his apple and leans back against the shelf, waiting for her verdict. ]

[fleurdesel]

You're an ass, Richard.

[Entirely offhand as she rolls the flavors around in her head.]

I can't very well trust you to choose a proper wine, can I? Besides. You wish to impress your Admiral's daughter, do you not? As a Frenchwoman I'm obligated to assist in matters of Romance. Why not live up to the stereotype?

[greenjacketed]

I'm a bastard. Not an ass. There's a difference, eh? [ but he finishes off his apple with a lingering smirk and goes on a hunt for a bin. ]

No one's said it was a matter of romance, lass. [ but his good humour persists throughout this denial, so he can't be too touchy about her assumption. ]

[fleurdesel]

Semantics.

[She holds her hand out for the cork, it wasn't cut up beyond use and would save the wine for an hour or two more.]

Of course it's not. You are just having two ladies over that you wish to impress with a properly cooked meal.

[greenjacketed]

One young -- [ he stresses the word ] -- lady whose generosity I'm looking to repay. And another lady who could do with a bit of companionship. That's all it is, Adele.

[ he succeeds in his binning mission and turns back to offer her the cork from his knife-tip. ]

[fleurdesel]

[She tugs the cork free of his knife and braces the bottle against her hip, squeezing and twisting until it's settled back in place as best as she can manage barehanded.]

All the more reason to do this properly, yes?

[greenjacketed]

'Sides, were it only a matter of romance? I wouldn't need your help, Adele. Wouldn't need any help at all.

[ he'd probably need a whole lot of help. and he knows it. but falling for a woman leaves him giddy and in a good mood. it leaves him pleasant enough to be playful with a woman he's often simply wary of. ]

[fleurdesel]

Were it a matter of romance I'd recommend you find a different Frenchwoman.

[She's someone that's fallen in and out of relationships on accident. working at them's never been her strongest suit and she's painfully aware of the fact.]

[greenjacketed]

Eh. [ he tilts his head, eyeing her carefully. ] Can't trust a Frenchwoman when it comes to romance, anyway. Not in my experience.