Hotspur throws an arm around Feuilly's shoulders (because everything's fine! we're friends being jovial!) and steers him into the stable, back into the tack room. There's a narrow cot, a small hotplate and coffee pot, and a little shelf with battered, American dime store paperbacks in amongst walls of saddles, bridles, and the pervasive smell of leather.
There is also a little corner which Hotspur seems to have tidily colonized. He makes a beeline for it: a little pile of linen, a pair of shoes to swap out for riding boots, a hat that Bar gave him presumably in deference to the fashions of his time (or of Shakespeare's time, or whatever uncertain blend of the two his clothes are) but which he has never actually worn. From this assortment, he pulls out a shirt and offers it to Feuilly (it smells just a bit horsey, a bit Hotspury-- he wore it the day before, but he figures the other one he has is worse).
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-07-03 01:44 am (UTC)There is also a little corner which Hotspur seems to have tidily colonized. He makes a beeline for it: a little pile of linen, a pair of shoes to swap out for riding boots, a hat that Bar gave him presumably in deference to the fashions of his time (or of Shakespeare's time, or whatever uncertain blend of the two his clothes are) but which he has never actually worn. From this assortment, he pulls out a shirt and offers it to Feuilly (it smells just a bit horsey, a bit Hotspury-- he wore it the day before, but he figures the other one he has is worse).