Yet another posada in Lisbon

"There'll be plenty of time tomorrow. And you'll have got rid of the hangover by then, an' all," Sharpe said, watching him go white. "Don't go doing anything stupid now, will you?"

(OOC: Fair enough. See you tomorrow, maybe?)

Padstowe looked at Sharpe, willing his protesting stomach to be still. Again he tried to smile, but it turned into something more resembling a pained grimace.

"Stupid? Me?"

[OOC: Sure - I don't think I've got anything planned for tomorrow, save maybe some shopping in the afternoon. Pleasant dreams... ]

"Well, something any other officer would do then. Lie still for a bit, nobody's going to die if you don't see Hogan till tomorrow, after all. And I am not clearing up after you if you make yourself sick, moving before you should." Sharpe shook his head, grinning. "And it's your own fault. You shouldn't have had so much to drink."

Had Sharpe been more in his confidence Padstowe might have taken issue with his notion that Hogan could wait, but he held his tongue. Sighing, he slumped back against the wall behind his narrow bed.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," he murmured, rubbing his forehead and picking up the flannel again.

"Don't it always?" Sharpe said. It always did when he set out to get drunk, anyway. For some reason, you always forgot about the hangover while you were getting drunk. Until you woke up with a sore head, a pair of eyes that shut tight every time the sun came out and a mouth like the backside of a dog. And if you'd slept in your clothes, that didn't help either.

Sharpe was tempted for a second to throw the bowl of water at him, but that wasn't a good idea. It'd only make him feel worse, after all.

"You use as much of that water as you want," he said. "There's always more where that came from, after all."

"Good."

Padstowe re-soaked the flannel and then flung the whole thing over his face, moaning and rubbing his eyes through the wet, cold material. Had he been at home he probably would have gone and immersed himself in the horse trough round the back of the stables - but there wasn't such a convenience near here, and he did not wish to have to ask the senhora back just to have her rattle a tin bath up the stairs.

It looked as though he wouldn't have minded if Sharpe had thrown the contents of th e bowl at him. But that would mean another trip downstairs and another four cups of tea before he could get back up here. He looked at the bowl. It did look big enough for Padstowe to dunk his head in, if he really wanted; it must've been the senhora's biggest mixing bowl.

He held it out. "Drown yourself in here, if you want," he said.

Padstowe wiped the flannel down his face, his bloodshot eyes appearing over the top as he saw Sharpe holding out the basin. He cast the flannel aside and took the bowl.

"Thank you."

Then, placing it on his lap, he took a breath and stuck his head inside. It just about fitted. The initial shock sent more shooting pains throught his head, but he closed his eyes, keeping himself there.

Sharpe blinked. "Y'know, when I said drown yourself, I didn't mean for you to take me at my word."

Actually, Padstowe presented an interesting picture, sitting there with his head submerged.

"Just you be careful you don't have that over when you come up for air," Sharpe said, and began looking around for a clean shirt to offer him when he took his head out.

The captain, however, could not hear Sharpe as his ears were currently filled with water and he was concentrating on keeping his head down for as long as possible. Eventually it came to the point when he did need to come up for air, and he straightened up, gasping and dripping, his mousey-brown hair flopped down over his eyes.

Sharpe turned from his search and grinned. "You look like a drowned rat." He gestured at the bowl with a thumb. "Just you be careful you don't have that over; I ain't goin' to find your senhora to tell her you need clean sheets and what-all else." He leaned against the wall. "So where do you keep your clean shirts, then? 'Cause I don't think you want to wear that one for much longer."

"In the portmanteau," Padstowe said, smearing his hair back over his scalp so he could see again. "Should be on top."

He set the bowl aside and pulled his shirt off over his head, using it to take some of the excess water off his face and hair before throwing it aside. He sat gripping the edge of the bed, closing his eyes again and breathing steadily. The dunking had done him some good, and his head now felt slightly clearer.

Sharpe opened the portmanteau and found a shirt, neatly folded, lying on top on everything else. He threw it at Padstowe. "For someone who don't have a servant, you're entirely too neat an' tidy, y'know." At least he looked better after half drowning himself.

"I would have thought not having a servant was a good reason to be neat and tidy," Padstowe groused as he caught the shirt and pulled it on. "That way it's easier to find things in a hurry. There should be some new stockings and a pair of trousers in there as well."

"That's as may be, but it's a deal of effort to get things neat an' tidy," Sharpe said, digging for the requested stockings and trousers. He was not about to admit that he just stuffed everything in his pack higgeldy-piggledy, and pulled everything out when he wanted something. Being commissioned hadn't made any difference to habits learned in the ranks, apart from not having to stand to attention when talking to sergeants, and not having to address Ensigns of half his age as 'sir'.

Padstowe tutted, pulling his stockings off and tossing them after the shirt.

"And I thought officers were supposed to set a good example..."

"When I were in the ranks, given a choice of an officer who looked smart as fivepence or could lead properly in battle wi'out losin' his head, I know which one I'd've chosen," he said, passing stockings and trousers over. "But then, most officers have servants to run round after them and make sure they're fine as fivepence. When you have to do all your own kit, and it takes hours to get it lookin' right, and you know you'll get what-for if it ain't just so, you start to resent it. 'Specially when you know the officers won't get pulled up when their jacket's got fluff on, or their sword-belt ain't perfectly straight."

Padstowe did his best to stifle the grin that was threatening to break. He always loved to get Sharpe worked-up about smart-looking men/officers, and it worked every time.

"Sorry I spoke," he said, taking the clothes, then standing up and stripping off his old trousers before picking up the new ones.

Sharpe huffed as he saw the corner of Padstowe's mouth twitch. "You do it on purpose, don't you. I don't know why I let you get away with it. Yes, I do. Sir."

At least it showed Padstowe was mostly over his hangover, which was probably a good thing.

The captain rolled his eyes.

"Now come on, have I ever pulled rank over you? Have I ever needed to, for a matter of fact?"

He was able to stand up without feeling seasick, so that was a bonus, although he still felt a little foggy. He pulled on his trousers, tucking his shirt down between his legs before doing up the fall and detaching his braces from the old pair.

Well, if Padstowe could get to him over smart-looking officers, Sharpe could get his own back just as easily by calling him 'sir'. It worked every time.

He grinned. "Hey, you started it. And no, but it's fun watching your face."

He looked around for Padstowe's jacket. It was draped over the back of a chair that looked as though it was staying together because falling apart would have been too much effort. His waistcoat and sash were placed neatly over the top. It seemed Cotton was just the neat sort of man Padstowe liked.

(OOC - I has work, so I have to go now. Be back on later, if you'll be around. )

"Touché," Padstowe said, fixing his braces in place. Both as bad as each other, it would seem... "But you'll admit a little organisation doesn't hurt?"

He picked up the new stockings and rolled one up before pulling it on, praying that these weren't the pair with the ladder up the back. He couldn't remember if he'd thrown them out or not.

[OOC: Ok, I'll see you later. Don't work too hard. ;D]

"Well, no, I s'pose it don't. But when you carry everything on your own back, being unorganised don't hurt none, either."

Watching Padstowe change made him realise that the shirt he'd put on that morning wasn't exactly clean, and he sighed. He'd have to do some laundry one of these days, even though he hated it.

Padstowe sighed and staggered over to the chest of drawers, fumbling in the top drawer for a new stock, being as the one he had been wearing seemed to have disappeared for the timebeing and he could not be bothered to go looking for it. He paused as a sudden thought struck him.

"You're not sitting on a letter by any chance, are you?"

"Letter?"

What was the man on about now? Then realisation struck. "Ah. You mean this?" He pulled out the letter Padstowe had passed to him in the Mess the other day. "What with one and another, it had completely slipped my mind."