At least until today.

Today, as he steps inside the tailor's shop, removing his hat as he inhales leather and wool and linen and tobacco, he fingers his leather purse and feels the coin inside it, coin that, if he is honest, he has pinched and hoarded and saved for this very day.

The tailor looks him over, taking in the worn but well cared-for uniform and makes a soft noise with his tongue, tsking at the age that shows on the fabric. He nods to a room at the back of the shop and Bush follows him, his wooden leg thumping softly on the floor.

The room is quiet, the smells even stronger, as the tailor nods to Bush to remove his jacket. He does, undoing the buttons with scarred and too thick fingers. He lays the jacket carefully across a chair then strips off his waistcoat and shirt as well, making his way back to the center of the room clad only in his trousers.

The tailor hums softly as he circles around Bush, sizing him up cleanly. He runs his hand along Bush's broad shoulders, nodding and talking under his breath before heading to another room off the one where Bush remains.

He observes himself in the mirror, taking stock. His barrel chest is pale compared to his hands and face, burned to a walnut brown from the wind and sun. The color has faded somewhat during hands, calloused and cracked from harsh weather and hard conditions; his arms, muscled and thick; the swath of his queue against his shoulder, the black ribbon wrapped viciously tight around his hair.

The tailor returns with three shirts, measuring Bush with his eyes. There is a gauzy white surrounding the color, age and cataract encroaching on him, but he shakes his head and discards two of the shirts, only bringing one to lay on Bush's shoulders, stretch the fabric against his skin and nod. He steps back and turns the shirt, letting Bush ease his hands into the sleeves, covering him with the soft fabric.

"Yes," is all the tailor says, nodding once again. Bush imitates his nod and stands straighter, as a captain would. "The breeches now."

Bush sighs and moves over to a chair set in the corner of the small room. The tailor stands off to the side, not watching him yet not quite looking away as Bush strips down. He carefully sets his trousers aside and rests his hand on the chair, not looking down at the dark leather that crisscrosses the skin of his thigh.

The tailor comes over with his tape, ticking off measurements on a small piece of paper he pulls from the waistband of his own trousers, licking the dark tip of the pencil before he writes. He moves quickly, getting onto his knees then up again in the half the time it would take Bush to bend now. His tape moves quickly, fingers gentle as they barely brush Bush's inner thighs and ankles, though he feels them like strands of fire on his leg, trailing along the edge of the stump.

"We'll have to measure for the leg."

Bush nods and sits, his fingers feeling, as always, too thick for the work of undoing the buckles that hold the strong leather straps against his skin, the fine pattern etched into his flesh by their tightness. He eases the cup off, resting the heavy wood against the chair beside him.

Bush stares down at the angry red edges of the scar, raw and reddened and jagged. There is nothing in the tailor's eyes as he kneels down and measures again, his fingers no more bold than before, though Bush feels them now, like phantom pains and ghosts he knows far too well. His first days were excruciating, pressure and pain that he could not have guessed at, but which now seem far too commonplace. The tailor makes another sound under his breath and another mark on his paper, turning his head from one side to the other before getting back to his feet.

"Dress again." The tailor moves off into his back room again as Bush attaches the wooden leg again, fitting himself back in the cup and feeling the scarred edges of skin rub at the surface before he laces the leather straps. His trousers are next, the fabric falling down to his feet. He still wears the white shirt, the fabric as soft as air against his skin.

"There is wool." The tailor comes back, two jackets in his hands. "And there is wool." He lays each before Bush, watching carefully as Bush inspects both, his hands sliding over the broadcloth.

"This."

The tailor nods and slides it on Bush then fits it to him, making further notes on his paper. Pins and chalk mark the dark blue like flashes of light on water and then he removes the coat from Bush's shoulders. "Two days. Come back in two days. We'll deal with shoes and everything else then."

Bush nods and scrawls his name across the tailor's slip, leaving payment on the edge of the paper, the coins scattered over the dark mark of his signature as he turns and makes his way across the floor, the wood beneath him echoing with the hard press of its mate as he walks toward the door.