Fic: Uniform
Jan. 29th, 2010 12:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Uniform
Author: Alex
Pairing/Character(s): Sharpe. Implied Sharpe/Harper, Sharpe/Lucille
Rating: PG
Word count: ~450
Note: Takes place during the events of Sharpe's Challenge.
Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sharpe_thinking prompt table, prompt #21
*
The aroma of cedar drifted upward as Sharpe knelt and opened the chest. With exquisite care, he removed each item and placed it on the bed. Here was the embroidered counterpane that had taken Lucille three years to complete. She’d finished it in her final illness, but he’d never been able to bring himself to use it after she was gone. Wrapped in a large square of heavy linen, its folds sprinkled with lavender, was a ball gown, pale pink with hundreds of tiny hand-stitched pearls, and a pair of long gloves that he held to his nose, hoping Lucille’s perfume would still permeate the soft kid.
Beneath Lucille’s things was a sheaf of folded letters in Patrick’s sprawling, extravagant, badly spelled hand, tied with a green ribbon. The letters had been infrequent, but Sharpe had treasured each one. God save Ireland. Sharpe smiled.
There was a small wooden box tucked in a corner of the chest. It held a locket on a long cord that he regarded thoughtfully before hanging it around his neck. He removed his sword, still in its scabbard, and placed it atop the counterpane.
Sharpe reached into the very bottom of the chest. His hands closed on a bundle of fabric, and felt a jolt of long-forgotten intimate familiarity. He lifted out his uniform: the jacket faded, tattered, its silver buttons tarnished, the red sash frayed at the ends, and the trousers worn thin, the leather on the inner thighs stiff from years of disuse. Lucille had done her best to clean and mend it, but not even her patience and skill could restore it to its former smartness.
He got to his feet, his knees creaking in protest. He folded the uniform into a canvas sack, and put one of the long gloves between the jacket and trousers. After a moment’s hesitation, he drew one of Patrick’s letters from its packet and tucked that in as well.
Sentimental old bugger. Why don’t you just take a trunk along with you while you’re at it?
The voice in his head was Patrick’s, one of the most sentimental old buggers he’d ever known. “Shut it,” Sharpe murmured. “If you’d watched your own arse, I wouldn’t be chasing after it. I’m too old for all this.”
Oh, talking to yourself now, too. Grand, that’s just grand. And since when have you needed an excuse to do a little soldiering?
Sharpe laughed; he never could beat Pat in an argument. With luck, they'd be bickering again within the month. "Stay alive, you bloody stubborn fool." He buckled on his sword, slung his bag over his shoulder, took one last look at the farmhouse, bidding it and Lucille a silent farewell, and walked out the door.
*
My table is here
Author: Alex
Pairing/Character(s): Sharpe. Implied Sharpe/Harper, Sharpe/Lucille
Rating: PG
Word count: ~450
Note: Takes place during the events of Sharpe's Challenge.
Written for the
sharpe_thinking prompt table, prompt #21*
The aroma of cedar drifted upward as Sharpe knelt and opened the chest. With exquisite care, he removed each item and placed it on the bed. Here was the embroidered counterpane that had taken Lucille three years to complete. She’d finished it in her final illness, but he’d never been able to bring himself to use it after she was gone. Wrapped in a large square of heavy linen, its folds sprinkled with lavender, was a ball gown, pale pink with hundreds of tiny hand-stitched pearls, and a pair of long gloves that he held to his nose, hoping Lucille’s perfume would still permeate the soft kid.
Beneath Lucille’s things was a sheaf of folded letters in Patrick’s sprawling, extravagant, badly spelled hand, tied with a green ribbon. The letters had been infrequent, but Sharpe had treasured each one. God save Ireland. Sharpe smiled.
There was a small wooden box tucked in a corner of the chest. It held a locket on a long cord that he regarded thoughtfully before hanging it around his neck. He removed his sword, still in its scabbard, and placed it atop the counterpane.
Sharpe reached into the very bottom of the chest. His hands closed on a bundle of fabric, and felt a jolt of long-forgotten intimate familiarity. He lifted out his uniform: the jacket faded, tattered, its silver buttons tarnished, the red sash frayed at the ends, and the trousers worn thin, the leather on the inner thighs stiff from years of disuse. Lucille had done her best to clean and mend it, but not even her patience and skill could restore it to its former smartness.
He got to his feet, his knees creaking in protest. He folded the uniform into a canvas sack, and put one of the long gloves between the jacket and trousers. After a moment’s hesitation, he drew one of Patrick’s letters from its packet and tucked that in as well.
Sentimental old bugger. Why don’t you just take a trunk along with you while you’re at it?
The voice in his head was Patrick’s, one of the most sentimental old buggers he’d ever known. “Shut it,” Sharpe murmured. “If you’d watched your own arse, I wouldn’t be chasing after it. I’m too old for all this.”
Oh, talking to yourself now, too. Grand, that’s just grand. And since when have you needed an excuse to do a little soldiering?
Sharpe laughed; he never could beat Pat in an argument. With luck, they'd be bickering again within the month. "Stay alive, you bloody stubborn fool." He buckled on his sword, slung his bag over his shoulder, took one last look at the farmhouse, bidding it and Lucille a silent farewell, and walked out the door.
*
My table is here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2010-01-29 10:47 pm (UTC)Beginnings
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Date: 2010-01-30 03:43 am (UTC)*sniffle*
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Date: 2010-01-30 04:52 am (UTC)ps - I read your cowboy piece like five times. I'm *so* loving it!
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