Trick or treat for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladymarshy
Nov. 20th, 2011 10:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTrick or treat for ladymarshy A Sharper ficlet, ~500 words.
Title: Waiting
Author: Alex
Pairing/Character(s): Sharpe/Harper
Rating: PG
Written as a Halloween treat forladymarshy. Also fulfills the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sharpe_thinking prompt table, prompt #15 [blood]
*
The night had almost drawn in, and Harper had done his best to make impromptu camp, concealing their whereabouts behind a high deadfall of branches. He’d kept himself busy, not once glancing at his captain who sat perched wordlessly on a flat rock, his face white with pain and anxiety. But at last it couldn’t be avoided. He smiled encouragingly at Sharpe. “There we are, sir. Nothing to do now but bed down for the night.”
Sharpe nodded and hoisted himself to his feet, wrapping his greatcoat more firmly around himself. All at once he gasped and swore vilely, and Harper knew the reason: the wound in his side had broken open.
As fast as he could, Harper hastened to Sharpe’s side, grasping his arm. “Now, now, sir. Lie still. Give that scratch a chance to heal. Come on now, you’re white as a sheet.” Gently, he bore Sharpe to the ground, arranged his pack beneath Sharpe’s head, and examined the wound in the fading light, pressing his hand to it to stanch the bleeding. “Lie still, there’s a good lad, and it’ll stop in a wee bit. There we are. I wish I could build a fire, sir, but the Frenchies would be on us before you could say Fionn mac Cumhaill, so they would.”
“Doesn’t bloody matter,” Sharpe growled. “I’ll be dead before dawn anyroad.”
“Now what sort of talk is that? Sure it’s only a flesh wound, nice clean gouge. You’ve had worse hurts, so. You’ll only be dead if you keep moving around, so just lie still, will you, and let me take care of it.” Brave talk, but in truth Harper worried. The wound was anything but clean, and if bloody Simmerson and his troops didn’t run interference within the next two days, Harper would be hauling his captain’s corpse back to camp.
Sharpe smiled, a pallid ghost of his usual grin. Harper saw that he was starting to feel woozy from the pain and blood loss, but he’d never own it. “Pat, you think I don’t know when you’re lying?”
“Hush, you silly bugger. You’ll faint from talking so much.”
“Stop bloody fussing, you’re like a mother hen.” Sharpe closed his eyes, shivering on the cold ground.
Harper covered Sharpe with their blankets and peered down at him, quiet now, though still trembling. Now and then Sharpe moaned quietly, his brow knotting in pain. Careful not to touch the wound, Harper half-lifted him, cradling Sharpe in his arms, humming a sweet air, crooning softly when Sharpe moaned again. It was so quiet, so still, too cold for singing birds or insects. The stars twinkled above, brilliant, but offering only cold fire, nothing to stave off the night’s chill.
After a while, Sharpe slept deeply, his breathing regular, his brow smooth. Harper lowered him, brushed back a bright lock of hair, and gazed at the hard, proud features, now softened by slumber, for long moments. “Someone’s got to look after you,” he whispered, then bent and touched his lips to Sharpe’s. He sighed, his heart aching. “Silly bugger.”
*
My table is here
ladymarshy A Sharper ficlet, ~500 words.Title: Waiting
Author: Alex
Pairing/Character(s): Sharpe/Harper
Rating: PG
Written as a Halloween treat for
ladymarshy. Also fulfills the sharpe_thinking prompt table, prompt #15 [blood]*
The night had almost drawn in, and Harper had done his best to make impromptu camp, concealing their whereabouts behind a high deadfall of branches. He’d kept himself busy, not once glancing at his captain who sat perched wordlessly on a flat rock, his face white with pain and anxiety. But at last it couldn’t be avoided. He smiled encouragingly at Sharpe. “There we are, sir. Nothing to do now but bed down for the night.”
Sharpe nodded and hoisted himself to his feet, wrapping his greatcoat more firmly around himself. All at once he gasped and swore vilely, and Harper knew the reason: the wound in his side had broken open.
As fast as he could, Harper hastened to Sharpe’s side, grasping his arm. “Now, now, sir. Lie still. Give that scratch a chance to heal. Come on now, you’re white as a sheet.” Gently, he bore Sharpe to the ground, arranged his pack beneath Sharpe’s head, and examined the wound in the fading light, pressing his hand to it to stanch the bleeding. “Lie still, there’s a good lad, and it’ll stop in a wee bit. There we are. I wish I could build a fire, sir, but the Frenchies would be on us before you could say Fionn mac Cumhaill, so they would.”
“Doesn’t bloody matter,” Sharpe growled. “I’ll be dead before dawn anyroad.”
“Now what sort of talk is that? Sure it’s only a flesh wound, nice clean gouge. You’ve had worse hurts, so. You’ll only be dead if you keep moving around, so just lie still, will you, and let me take care of it.” Brave talk, but in truth Harper worried. The wound was anything but clean, and if bloody Simmerson and his troops didn’t run interference within the next two days, Harper would be hauling his captain’s corpse back to camp.
Sharpe smiled, a pallid ghost of his usual grin. Harper saw that he was starting to feel woozy from the pain and blood loss, but he’d never own it. “Pat, you think I don’t know when you’re lying?”
“Hush, you silly bugger. You’ll faint from talking so much.”
“Stop bloody fussing, you’re like a mother hen.” Sharpe closed his eyes, shivering on the cold ground.
Harper covered Sharpe with their blankets and peered down at him, quiet now, though still trembling. Now and then Sharpe moaned quietly, his brow knotting in pain. Careful not to touch the wound, Harper half-lifted him, cradling Sharpe in his arms, humming a sweet air, crooning softly when Sharpe moaned again. It was so quiet, so still, too cold for singing birds or insects. The stars twinkled above, brilliant, but offering only cold fire, nothing to stave off the night’s chill.
After a while, Sharpe slept deeply, his breathing regular, his brow smooth. Harper lowered him, brushed back a bright lock of hair, and gazed at the hard, proud features, now softened by slumber, for long moments. “Someone’s got to look after you,” he whispered, then bent and touched his lips to Sharpe’s. He sighed, his heart aching. “Silly bugger.”
*
My table is here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-11-21 06:00 am (UTC)“Lie still, there’s a good lad, and it’ll stop in a wee bit. There we are. I wish I could build a fire, sir, but the Frenchies would be on us before you could say Fionn mac Cumhaill, so they would.” *grins*
After a while, Sharpe slept deeply, his breathing regular, his brow smooth. Harper lowered him, brushed back a bright lock of hair, and gazed at the hard, proud features, now softened by slumber, for long moments. “Someone’s got to look after you,” he whispered, then bent and touched his lips to Sharpe’s. He sighed, his heart aching. “Silly bugger.” That had me almost i tears and I am at work!
What a great ficlet, Alex; I love it.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-21 06:20 am (UTC)