It had been a week since Katniss had thrust his buttons back into his hands. A week since she'd drawn back into herself in a way Sharpe had never quite known -- for the last time she'd lost someone, regardless of how, had been before he knew her. And for that whole week, he hadn't dared to mend his empty jacket. The silver buttons stood on the stand next to his bed -- some of them regimental, and some of them spares he'd picked up in a small shop in Lisbon.
And in that week, he'd done little but brood all on his own. Wondering if, perhaps, he ought to have spoken up. Perhaps he should have played the villain and split the pair up long before this could have happened. Bugger it, he was not cut out to play the patriarch. He was good for a small scope of things: killing and leading men to the fight and bowling fiendish at cricket. But this strange pseudo-fatherhood? Maybe it wasn't for him. Maybe both the lasses would be better of if he'd left. Maybe Effie, too, now that he thought about their strange meeting in the barracks.
But after a few days of thinking thusly, and when confronted with his dreary self-pity, Sharpe did his best to shake it off. He was not that sort of man, he told himself, and on a balmy Tuesday night he took to the front porch with his jacket and his buttons and a scrap of thread. A thick needle. With these tools, he would build himself back up from the depths of his own criticism. For when a man questioned himself...
"And here's to good health to the 95th Rifles, the first in the field and the last from the fray, when Bonaparte's armies are banished and beaten, they'll talk of the 95th winning the--
oh, shite." His song was interrupted by a string of curses as he pricked his thumb. A dark blossom of blood coloured his skin, and he instinctively sucked on the small wound -- thinking, again, to what had happened with Effie a day earlier. And as he scowled at his bleeding hand, he heard a familiar voice shoot forth from his open journal. Aha. He listened -- stoically -- before deciding it was high time he went inside.
With a groan, he tossed his half-finished jacket over his arm and meandered his way back into the house -- looking for a scrap of rag to clean his cut and wondering whether he might capture a glimpse of Katniss now that she'd come out of hiding.
no subject
And in that week, he'd done little but brood all on his own. Wondering if, perhaps, he ought to have spoken up. Perhaps he should have played the villain and split the pair up long before this could have happened. Bugger it, he was not cut out to play the patriarch. He was good for a small scope of things: killing and leading men to the fight and bowling fiendish at cricket. But this strange pseudo-fatherhood? Maybe it wasn't for him. Maybe both the lasses would be better of if he'd left. Maybe Effie, too, now that he thought about their strange meeting in the barracks.
But after a few days of thinking thusly, and when confronted with his dreary self-pity, Sharpe did his best to shake it off. He was not that sort of man, he told himself, and on a balmy Tuesday night he took to the front porch with his jacket and his buttons and a scrap of thread. A thick needle. With these tools, he would build himself back up from the depths of his own criticism. For when a man questioned himself...
"And here's to good health to the 95th Rifles,
the first in the field and the last from the fray,
when Bonaparte's armies are banished and beaten,
they'll talk of the 95th winning the--
oh, shite." His song was interrupted by a string of curses as he pricked his thumb. A dark blossom of blood coloured his skin, and he instinctively sucked on the small wound -- thinking, again, to what had happened with Effie a day earlier. And as he scowled at his bleeding hand, he heard a familiar voice shoot forth from his open journal. Aha. He listened -- stoically -- before deciding it was high time he went inside.
With a groan, he tossed his half-finished jacket over his arm and meandered his way back into the house -- looking for a scrap of rag to clean his cut and wondering whether he might capture a glimpse of Katniss now that she'd come out of hiding.