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Sharpe ficlet!
Title: Green-Eyed Captain
Fandom: Sharpe (tv series)
Pairing: Richard Sharpe/Patrick Harper
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, only this fic. No infringement intended.
The guts of the battle was not far off from where Harper went to his knees in the chewed up, loamy dirt by Sharpe’s side. Reaching out, Harper grabbed a fistful of tattered green jacket and hauled Sharpe up and off the limp body of the Frenchman. There was a moment of resistance, and Harper realized it was Sharpe clinging stubbornly to his sword that was lodged halfway to its hilt in the Frenchman’s side. The sword refused to slide free and in his stupor Sharpe refused to release it.
“There, there, now,” Harper said as he worked at Sharpe’s white knuckled grip, keeping one eye on the boiling knot of fighting in the distance, and the other on Sharpe. His Captain was a wild one when cornered, and Pat knew better than to underestimate a man that was off his head. “It’s just ‘ole, Patrick, now, come on, let’er go.”
Sharpe groaned and folded in on himself, grip loosening enough that Pat could pry the long, slender fingers away from the grooved grip of the sword. “Aye, that’s my boy. Now let’s have a look.” Pat stuck a hand under each of Sharpe’s armpits and heaved, cursing when Sharpe came alive, kicking and twisting like a rabbit in a snare. Harper staggered but held firm, dragging Sharpe aside, straightening out his long body.
“Sir, it’s Harper,” he said, trying to soothe the mad flailing. Pain burst through his shin where Sharpe’s boot landed a vicious kick. “Damn you!” Harper cursed and reaching out clasped Sharpe hard around the back of his neck, giving him a firm hard shake that snapped Sharpe’s head back a bit.
“Now listen, wildcat. Settle!” he snapped, voice curt and gruff and private as his fingers tangled in the sweat slick hair at Sharpe’s nape and tugged. “Settle for me, my boy.”
Dazed green eyes stared up. “Pat?”
Harper stilled, breath gusting out as the ache in his chest eased, just a little.
““Easy now, sir. Nothin’ to be worrying about, you’ve just taken a bit of a knock on the head. Just settle for a moment,” and he brushed his thumb over Sharpe’s bottom lip that was split and bleeding.
A sudden intake of breath and Sharpe blinked, eyes seeming to clear a bit.
“Harper.”
Pat nodded, crooked smile sitting on his lips. “Aye. Now let’s get you out of this bloody ditch before we’re both trampled to death.” Half a mile away the shifting battle line was swinging back their way, screaming horses, screaming men, rifle smoke shot through with fire and the sliver flash of heavy cavalry swords in the hot sun.
“Right,” Sharpe said and clambered to his feet, as unsteady as a long-limbed colt just born. “Me sword, Pat,” Sharpe said, looking around searchingly, dragging the worn sleeve of his grimy green jacket over his sweat-stung eyes.
Smiling wider now, Pat bent, took hold of the sword and freed it from dead flesh with a sharp twist of his wrist and a hard pull on the grip. Sharpe stepped close as Pat handed it over, their fingers tangling briefly as the transfer was made. For an instant the bloodied blade hung between them, and Sharpe, his face tilted down, looked up at Pat through blond hair turned dark with sweat. “Thanks, Pat.”
Harper held the green gaze, “Aye, sir. No worries.” He watched as Sharpe turned, gathered his rifle from the trodden ground and clambered up the slope back toward the battle, sword in hand. Slinging his own rifle over his shoulder Pat followed in Sharpe’s wake, cursing the madness of his life, green-eyed Captains and their bloodied blades.
Fandom: Sharpe (tv series)
Pairing: Richard Sharpe/Patrick Harper
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, only this fic. No infringement intended.
The guts of the battle was not far off from where Harper went to his knees in the chewed up, loamy dirt by Sharpe’s side. Reaching out, Harper grabbed a fistful of tattered green jacket and hauled Sharpe up and off the limp body of the Frenchman. There was a moment of resistance, and Harper realized it was Sharpe clinging stubbornly to his sword that was lodged halfway to its hilt in the Frenchman’s side. The sword refused to slide free and in his stupor Sharpe refused to release it.
“There, there, now,” Harper said as he worked at Sharpe’s white knuckled grip, keeping one eye on the boiling knot of fighting in the distance, and the other on Sharpe. His Captain was a wild one when cornered, and Pat knew better than to underestimate a man that was off his head. “It’s just ‘ole, Patrick, now, come on, let’er go.”
Sharpe groaned and folded in on himself, grip loosening enough that Pat could pry the long, slender fingers away from the grooved grip of the sword. “Aye, that’s my boy. Now let’s have a look.” Pat stuck a hand under each of Sharpe’s armpits and heaved, cursing when Sharpe came alive, kicking and twisting like a rabbit in a snare. Harper staggered but held firm, dragging Sharpe aside, straightening out his long body.
“Sir, it’s Harper,” he said, trying to soothe the mad flailing. Pain burst through his shin where Sharpe’s boot landed a vicious kick. “Damn you!” Harper cursed and reaching out clasped Sharpe hard around the back of his neck, giving him a firm hard shake that snapped Sharpe’s head back a bit.
“Now listen, wildcat. Settle!” he snapped, voice curt and gruff and private as his fingers tangled in the sweat slick hair at Sharpe’s nape and tugged. “Settle for me, my boy.”
Dazed green eyes stared up. “Pat?”
Harper stilled, breath gusting out as the ache in his chest eased, just a little.
““Easy now, sir. Nothin’ to be worrying about, you’ve just taken a bit of a knock on the head. Just settle for a moment,” and he brushed his thumb over Sharpe’s bottom lip that was split and bleeding.
A sudden intake of breath and Sharpe blinked, eyes seeming to clear a bit.
“Harper.”
Pat nodded, crooked smile sitting on his lips. “Aye. Now let’s get you out of this bloody ditch before we’re both trampled to death.” Half a mile away the shifting battle line was swinging back their way, screaming horses, screaming men, rifle smoke shot through with fire and the sliver flash of heavy cavalry swords in the hot sun.
“Right,” Sharpe said and clambered to his feet, as unsteady as a long-limbed colt just born. “Me sword, Pat,” Sharpe said, looking around searchingly, dragging the worn sleeve of his grimy green jacket over his sweat-stung eyes.
Smiling wider now, Pat bent, took hold of the sword and freed it from dead flesh with a sharp twist of his wrist and a hard pull on the grip. Sharpe stepped close as Pat handed it over, their fingers tangling briefly as the transfer was made. For an instant the bloodied blade hung between them, and Sharpe, his face tilted down, looked up at Pat through blond hair turned dark with sweat. “Thanks, Pat.”
Harper held the green gaze, “Aye, sir. No worries.” He watched as Sharpe turned, gathered his rifle from the trodden ground and clambered up the slope back toward the battle, sword in hand. Slinging his own rifle over his shoulder Pat followed in Sharpe’s wake, cursing the madness of his life, green-eyed Captains and their bloodied blades.