Sharpe's Comforter by sharpiefan
Author: sharpiefan
Title: Sharpe's Comforter (yes, I know I suck at titles...)
Words: 727
Characters: Sharpe/Lawford (I think I'm getting slashier, too!)
Challenge Prompt: Quotations
Quote: Ours (our army) is composed of the scum of the earth - the mere scum of the earth. (Wellington)
Disclaimer: The Sharpe sandbox belongs to Bernard Cornwell. I only play here occasionally, and I always tidy up afterwards. Promise!
Notes: I had to fiddle with the quote to get it to fit the story as it ended up being written. (Wellington, please forgive me!)
“You’re sulking,” Lawford observed from across the cell. The tiger paced quietly up and down the corridor outside the bars and Sharpe watched it. At least Hakeswill wasn’t awake and muttering, as he had been for the past few nights. Yes, Sharpe was sulking, but was else was he supposed to do? He was in a cell with two officers, neither of whom would speak to him back in the Army, and no way of escaping their attention. McCandless seemed to be overly concerned with Sharpe’s immortal soul, and Lawford wanted what Sharpe could never give him. And to top it all, his back was giving him absolute hell.
There was an awkward pause. Sharpe shifted position, trying to find a way of sitting that was less painful. He was acutely aware of Lawford’s attention.
“Talk to me,” Lawford urged. Sharpe heard the rustling of straw as the officer took a couple of paces towards him
“What am I supposed to say, sir?” he asked shortly, keeping his eyes fixed on the tiger.
Lawford sighed and sat down next to him. “I have no idea what you're supposed to say. Just say something. Please.”
Sharpe barely glanced at him. “Nice weather we're havin', this time o' year, sir,” he said, looking back at the tiger.
Lawford felt the snub acutely, but there was nothing he could pull Sharpe up on. The Private had, after all, obeyed the officer's order. Politely phrased, it might have been, but it was still an order. The distance between them was back, and Lawford had no idea how to remove it again. Hell, he'd tried his best, but he knew that, all the time, Sharpe was aware that he, Lawford, was an officer, and wouldn't put a foot wrong. He'd lowered his guard as much as Lawford had ever seen, but he knew he was not really part of Sharpe's world. It surprised him, that he wanted to be, but he wanted to be friends with this man.
“I'm sorry for earlier,” he said, eventually, looking at the tiger. That got Sharpe's attention.
“What about earlier, sir?” he asked.
Lawford shrugged a little. “I'm no good at lying. I should never have answered Colonel Gudin when he called me Lieutenant. We'd still be free. If I hadn't.”
Sharpe snorted a little. “He'd've caught me out, too, I reckon. If it had been me, I mean.” He fell silent again, watching the big cat as it stalked between the rows of cells. “Dunno why they listened to Hakeswill, though. It must've been him what told them. They'd never have found out otherwise.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. You did pretty good. And he allus causes trouble, when he can. You want to watch him, you know. Take it from me.” And he shifted again; the pain of his back never let up, never let him get comfortable.
There was an evil-sounding chuckle from the cell opposite. “Got my eyes on you, Sharpie. You and Mister Lieutenant Lawford. Privates shouldn't get all uppity with officers, says so in the Scriptures.”
Sharpe picked up a stone and threw it in Hakeswill's direction. It bounced off one of the iron bars, and the tiger turned at the small sound, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. “Damn him to Hell and back,” he said. “Why couldn't he keep his bloody nose out of it?”
Lawford sighed. It was nothing short of torture, to be so close to Sharpe and to be unable to do anything more than talk, or (occasionally) clean his back with a rag torn from the soldier's shirt, dipped into what passed for drinking water. Anything more brought censure down on their heads from his uncle, and jeers from Hakeswill. And he was left with a growing discomfort, and the vague hope that, maybe, they could do more than just talk. After Seringapatam...
There was more rustling from across the way. Lawford glanced at Hakeswill's cell to see the Sergeant standing, holding the bars, a strange look on his face.
“Scum of the earth, that's what you are, Sharpie. Mere scum of the earth. Like the rest of them. Says so in the Scriptures.”
Lawford's hand closed unconsciously over Sharpe's, causing the Private to turn his head and look at him questioningly.
“But what a fine fellow we've made of you,” Lawford said. As always, he was Sharpe's comforter.
Title: Sharpe's Comforter (yes, I know I suck at titles...)
Words: 727
Characters: Sharpe/Lawford (I think I'm getting slashier, too!)
Challenge Prompt: Quotations
Quote: Ours (our army) is composed of the scum of the earth - the mere scum of the earth. (Wellington)
Disclaimer: The Sharpe sandbox belongs to Bernard Cornwell. I only play here occasionally, and I always tidy up afterwards. Promise!
Notes: I had to fiddle with the quote to get it to fit the story as it ended up being written. (Wellington, please forgive me!)
“You’re sulking,” Lawford observed from across the cell. The tiger paced quietly up and down the corridor outside the bars and Sharpe watched it. At least Hakeswill wasn’t awake and muttering, as he had been for the past few nights. Yes, Sharpe was sulking, but was else was he supposed to do? He was in a cell with two officers, neither of whom would speak to him back in the Army, and no way of escaping their attention. McCandless seemed to be overly concerned with Sharpe’s immortal soul, and Lawford wanted what Sharpe could never give him. And to top it all, his back was giving him absolute hell.
There was an awkward pause. Sharpe shifted position, trying to find a way of sitting that was less painful. He was acutely aware of Lawford’s attention.
“Talk to me,” Lawford urged. Sharpe heard the rustling of straw as the officer took a couple of paces towards him
“What am I supposed to say, sir?” he asked shortly, keeping his eyes fixed on the tiger.
Lawford sighed and sat down next to him. “I have no idea what you're supposed to say. Just say something. Please.”
Sharpe barely glanced at him. “Nice weather we're havin', this time o' year, sir,” he said, looking back at the tiger.
Lawford felt the snub acutely, but there was nothing he could pull Sharpe up on. The Private had, after all, obeyed the officer's order. Politely phrased, it might have been, but it was still an order. The distance between them was back, and Lawford had no idea how to remove it again. Hell, he'd tried his best, but he knew that, all the time, Sharpe was aware that he, Lawford, was an officer, and wouldn't put a foot wrong. He'd lowered his guard as much as Lawford had ever seen, but he knew he was not really part of Sharpe's world. It surprised him, that he wanted to be, but he wanted to be friends with this man.
“I'm sorry for earlier,” he said, eventually, looking at the tiger. That got Sharpe's attention.
“What about earlier, sir?” he asked.
Lawford shrugged a little. “I'm no good at lying. I should never have answered Colonel Gudin when he called me Lieutenant. We'd still be free. If I hadn't.”
Sharpe snorted a little. “He'd've caught me out, too, I reckon. If it had been me, I mean.” He fell silent again, watching the big cat as it stalked between the rows of cells. “Dunno why they listened to Hakeswill, though. It must've been him what told them. They'd never have found out otherwise.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. You did pretty good. And he allus causes trouble, when he can. You want to watch him, you know. Take it from me.” And he shifted again; the pain of his back never let up, never let him get comfortable.
There was an evil-sounding chuckle from the cell opposite. “Got my eyes on you, Sharpie. You and Mister Lieutenant Lawford. Privates shouldn't get all uppity with officers, says so in the Scriptures.”
Sharpe picked up a stone and threw it in Hakeswill's direction. It bounced off one of the iron bars, and the tiger turned at the small sound, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. “Damn him to Hell and back,” he said. “Why couldn't he keep his bloody nose out of it?”
Lawford sighed. It was nothing short of torture, to be so close to Sharpe and to be unable to do anything more than talk, or (occasionally) clean his back with a rag torn from the soldier's shirt, dipped into what passed for drinking water. Anything more brought censure down on their heads from his uncle, and jeers from Hakeswill. And he was left with a growing discomfort, and the vague hope that, maybe, they could do more than just talk. After Seringapatam...
There was more rustling from across the way. Lawford glanced at Hakeswill's cell to see the Sergeant standing, holding the bars, a strange look on his face.
“Scum of the earth, that's what you are, Sharpie. Mere scum of the earth. Like the rest of them. Says so in the Scriptures.”
Lawford's hand closed unconsciously over Sharpe's, causing the Private to turn his head and look at him questioningly.
“But what a fine fellow we've made of you,” Lawford said. As always, he was Sharpe's comforter.