talentsgirl | Appointment's Post

"Dead certain, Molly." For Sharpe loved his tea. Often, he craved it more than a nip of brandy or rum. No matter the weather.

The Major made a concerted effort to relax. "It's a fine thing, you making it for me."

That almost made her feel bad about her plan to give him green tea.

Almost.

It was healthier, after all.

...she discretely retrieves some Earl Grey and puts it in a third mug. "You may not like it. But what's that saying about trying everything once?"

Since Earl Grey takes longer to seep, she leaves it on the counter and with the mugs in hand towards the kitchen table.

Richard Sharpe will wait for Molly Carpenter to take a seat before even attempting to seat himself. But that seating was fast because god dammit, he wanted to get at that tea. The Major hardly allowed it cool before taking a great big sip and...

"Eh?" His nose wrinkled. He leaned in. Sniffed it. Eyed the clearer, unmuddied colour. "I don't mean to offend, lass. But..."

"It's green tea." She attempted to hold back a laugh at the look on his face. "You don't like it?"

"It's not that I don't like it..."

He didn't like it.

"Or that it's bad..."

It's horrid.

"But it ain't tea, Molly."

"Oh, it's tea. It's practically the original tea." She rose and headed towards the counter, reclaiming the other mug there. "But it does take some getting used to."

"...It tastes like grass. Brewed grass."

His eyes watched her stand. Watched her move. Curious.

"Really?" She smiled, in good humor. "I think grass would be a little more bland. Besides, it's full of antioxidants."

She walked back to the table and set the other mug before him. "You might like this better."

Sharpe gave this mug a sniff and -- oh, you sainted woman. He smiled and showed his trust by drinking deeply right from the get go. And his trust was rewarded with the rich, bitter black tea brew.

The other mug was left. Abandoned. Almost childishly.

"Now that's tea. You can't tell me you prefer that other stuff? With its anti...antiox..."

"Mmm," she cradled her mug with her hands. "It depends on my mood. Tea's pretty good for you, but green tea's better."

She took a sip. "Truthfully, though. I prefer coffee."

"I don't care for the stuff but Dresden says you make it well."

She smiles a little wryly at the implied Harry-compliment... and insult.

"It's useful for all-nighters."

"Aye, but..." he waggled his fingers with a smirk of good humour. "A rifleman cannot risk the jitters that drink'll give'im. Steady hands make steady shots."

"Fair enough," she took a sip of her tea. "Too much caffeine is bad for you anyway."

"And yet you prefer it."

He tapped rough thumbs on the lip of the mug. "Seems you like a great deal of things that aren't so good for you."

Her eyebrows shot up in typical feminine pique. "What makes you say that?"

A huff. Had it been too bold? Now that he had set himself the task of wooing a woman from the future, all his casual ease seemed to drain out of him. The simple flirtation they'd enjoyed before the Shift felt impossible for him to match once again.

"N-nothing, Molly. Only...your coffee a-and what we said before about drinking alone. Were only a joke, like."

"Oh, well." She relaxed, taking another sip of her tea. "I don't really like to drink alone. I'm actually not much of a drinker."

She gave him a small smile. Why was he so nervous? She thought about the flowers... was something more going on here?

...probably. Jeeze, Molly, way to be dense.

Hells bells. Now what should she do? Under average circumstances, it might be nice to go out (would be nice, what is she talking about) with a Boromir-look-alike. But she was practically certain that someone from the Napoleonic Era would have different... expectations and... okay, she wasn't sure this was really what she needed while being locked in a glass jar.

It wasn't what either of them needed while being locked in a glass jar; however, Sharpe wasn't too fussed. A bewitching woman was enough to keep a man sane through battle. Through missions. Through the emptier hours of the day. But when Sharpe's mind drifted to Jane Gibbons -- that golden-haired creature, trapped up in her uncle's estate -- he found himself soured. She was far away. Unreachable, no matter how she cared to answer his suit.

Molly, though. So alive and here and present. And the way she spoke to him.

Sharpe sniffed. Tapped out a soft tattoo on the mug's ceramic.

"I suppose I picked the habit up a bit too young, Miss Molly." The name and its addition is said with gentle affection, now -- instead of stiff courtesy.

It would be a strange thing to any outsider - that the use of proper titles could convey affection. But it was something Molly felt keenly, something she'd already made use of in gentle teasing. "I guess legal drinking age isn't much of a thing where you're from."

Not that, in her miscreant youth, such things had bothered her.

"Mayhaps they make a fuss of it in proper parts of town, lass. But not in the rookeries." He confessed in a light voice. Unsure whether the word would mean anything to her but prepared for the disappointment should she understand. "Least not in mine."

"The drinking age is twenty-one, where I'm from. But I've found there are areas where people don't make a fuss about it either."

Wait, wait, wait.

"Twenty-one..." Sharpe was surprised. Very surprised. "A lad can be recruited and enlist long before that..."

She nodded. "Eighteen, with us. I know, it seems a little crazy."

He tilted his head. Curious, now. "Did you not drink until twenty-one, lass?"

Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd learn her boundaries.

Edited 2012-05-05 09:25 (UTC)

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