Sharpe's Kiss by sharpiefan
Author: sharpiefan
Prompt: Surrender (though it could work for First Times, too!)
Words: 1573
Charcters: Sharpe/Lawford (and Yay! for slash!)
Disclaimer: the Sharpe sandbox belongs to Bernard Cornwell, I just play here sometimes. And put everything away nicely when I'm done.
Title: Sharpe's Kiss
Lawford smoothed salve into Sharpe's abused back, and heard his breath hitch as he tried to bite back a moan. He still couldn't believe the Private had let Hakeswill's taunting get to him, even though the Private wouldn't tell him what the Sergeant had said. When he'd pressed to know exactly what Hakeswill had said, Sharpe had blushed and hidden his face. Whatever it was, Lawford couldn't believe it was that bad. Or maybe it was; maybe it was worse. Lawford knew that soldiers used some extremely coarse language among themselves, though no soldier would dream of letting an officer know exactly how coarse it was. That would explain Sharpe's blushes, of course.
Sharpe hissed as Lawford reached a deeper wound. He tried to twitch away, but Lawford paused and waited till he was still again. “I don't mean to hurt, you, Dick,” he said, finding the name strange in his mouth. “I have to make sure this salve gets rubbed in everywhere, though.”
“I know, Bill, I know. It just... Jesus, but it hurts.”
Lawford dipped his fingers back into the pot, trying to ignore the fact they were red with Sharpe's blood.
Sharpe fidgeted for a moment, as though he could will the pain away. “You know why they use drummers to do it, Bill?” he said, after a moment.
Lawford hadn't thought about it, but he did now. “So it doesn't hurt as much?”
There was a quiet snort at that. “No. It's cause the drummers draw blood first. It's in the wrist, like.” He tried to twist round a little, to see Lawford's face. “Like summat else I could mention,” he said. Lawford was sure there was a glint in the man's eye, and felt himself blushing.
“All done,” he said, maybe a little too soon, but eager to get Sharpe's mind off what he was thinking, and his eyes off Lawford's embarrassment. The Private sighed, and struggled to sit up with as little pain as possible so Lawford could re-bandage him.
Lawford wanted to understand Sharpe, to enter his world, but he was glad that he never had the threat of the lash hanging over his head as Sharpe and his friends did. He was a little ashamed at the knowledge, and he pushed both down, ignoring them as he did his best to meet Sharpe on his level, and establish a friendship.
Though did Sharpe want a friendship, knowing that should they complete their mission successfully, they would return to the Army, and Lawford would revert to being Sharpe's Lieutenant, while Sharpe would go back to being a common soldier? Though there was very little that was 'common' about him. There was a glow to his eyes, and a mischievous look, when Sharpe talked of his friends and the jokes they played on each other, though he could look stormy when pushed too far, or when questioned about something he obviously did not want to talk about. His hands were gentle, almost, when he cleaned his musket. He was certainly skilled with them... Lawford refused to speculate at what else Sharpe's hands were skilled, and tried to think of something else, anything else, before his trousers grew uncomfortably tight and he blushed when Sharpe looked at him.
It was worse, far worse, than being in love with a girl. How could Lawford even consider loving Sharpe - a man, and a private soldier at that? Sharpe would be horrified if he ever found out, and Lawford silently vowed that he would never find out, never.
***
Even after two days, Sharpe couldn't get used to Lawford treating his back for him. Back with the Army, it was something that the surgeon would do. Or, if not the surgeon - and very often it wasn't; they often wouldn't bother with a common soldier after the first day - then one of his mates. In Sharpe's case, he would have asked Tom Garrard if he'd mind.
It wasn't as if Lawford was rough, either. He was gentle, in fact. Probably a lot more gentle than even Tom would be, and he had soft, smooth fingers as well, which Tom certainly didn't. There was just something wrong with Sharpe lying on their shared bunk on his belly, shirt off, while Lawford carefully massaged some sweet-smelling Indian salve into the ruin of his back. No officer should ever have to do something like that. And even though Lawford tried his best to make Sharpe forget he was an officer, Sharpe couldn't forget, couldn't ignore it. Every fibre of his being screamed at him that Lawford was an officer and he should respect him and defer to him.
He couldn't understand why Lawford found it so easy to forget it. He was puzzled by the questions Lawford asked about life in the ranks. He always made sure they were alone before asking, of course, and he never did anything that he thought might make Sharpe more self-conscious than usual. Or he tried; there were some facts of Sharpe's life that took Lawford aback and made them both conscious all over again of the gulf that lay between them, ignore it as they might.
Such as the day they had arrived here and been assigned a bunk. Sharpe had always, since his first day in the Army, shared a bunk with another soldier. There wasn't enough room in any barracks building, and there certainly weren't enough beds, for each soldier to have a bed to himself. Lawford, however, had not only had his own bed, he'd had his own room. And a soldier-servant to look after his things, and wait on him during meals.
Lawford had fought valiantly to conceal the shock he felt, but Sharpe had noticed. From the set of his shoulders to the way he averted his eyes, Sharpe knew there was something wrong, and that night, he'd set out to find out what.
Lying there facing Lawford (as much to protect his back as to be able to talk) he'd waited until Lawford could hold back no longer.
“I'm never going to be able to make this work,” he said in a low voice, the words catching in his throat. “I don't know the first thing about it, and they'll catch me out in something.”
Sharpe smiled into the darkness. “They won't. You're doing really well, honest And if you need to ask me something, just ask. Even if it's summat daft.”
“You won't laugh at me?” Lawford's voice was very small. Poor thing; to be dragged into this.
“I won't. Promise.” He felt for the other's hand under the blanket and squeezed it. “You'll do good. And if you can't do anything, or answer a question, or summat like that, follow my lead. It's why you brung me, ain't it?”
“Yes.” Sharpe was gratified to feel an answering squeeze of his hand.
***
Lawford treasured his memory of that touch and the friendship offered in it. It was getting harder and harder... he willed his mind away from that train of thought... more and more difficult, to share a bed with Sharpe, without letting him know how he was being affected by the other man. It was torture, but it was a sweet torture. And Lawford often thought, during the long nights, of how it would feel to have Sharpe touch him again. Not just a hand on his shoulder, or on his hands, showing him how to do something. But a deeper touch, more meaningful. More... private. He squirmed away from that thought, bringing sleepy protests from the other man about taking all the blankets. How Sharpe would taste, what it would feel like to kiss him. Watching him at mealtimes was getting to be impossible... the way he'd lick sauce from his fingers...
But if he thought Sharpe even suspected the way he thought about him, he'd die of embarrassment.
Sharpe couldn't help but be aware of how Lawford watched him - how Lawford had always watched him. What would he do, he wondered, if he leaned across one night and kissed him? If he did anything else...
It wasn't unknown in the barracks in England for men to have sex with each other. How could it be, illegal or not? If you had a roomful of men, two in a bed, sooner or later you'd have some of them doing things that were most definitely not in the King's Regulations. But did Lawford know that? Sharpe suspected not.
It was probably time he expanded Lawford's education on barrack-room life...
That night, he watched again how Lawford swiftly got out of his tunic, leaving his trousers on, and scrambled under the rough blanket, keeping his back to Sharpe as he discarded his own tunic. He grinned to himself as he sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Bill? You all right, mate?” he said, getting into bed, wary of the pain of his back.
There was a muffled acknowledgement of the question and a nod.
“Well, come here, then,” Sharpe said. Lawford turned his head and saw the grin on Sharpe's face. His eyes widened as Sharpe leaned across the small gap. “Dunno what you're so scared of, you're like a nervous rabbit.”
And then Sharpe kissed him, and it was better than he'd ever dreamed it could be. Heaven and Hell collided, and time stopped dead, and he wished it would never end. Sharpe's kiss...
Prompt: Surrender (though it could work for First Times, too!)
Words: 1573
Charcters: Sharpe/Lawford (and Yay! for slash!)
Disclaimer: the Sharpe sandbox belongs to Bernard Cornwell, I just play here sometimes. And put everything away nicely when I'm done.
Title: Sharpe's Kiss
Lawford smoothed salve into Sharpe's abused back, and heard his breath hitch as he tried to bite back a moan. He still couldn't believe the Private had let Hakeswill's taunting get to him, even though the Private wouldn't tell him what the Sergeant had said. When he'd pressed to know exactly what Hakeswill had said, Sharpe had blushed and hidden his face. Whatever it was, Lawford couldn't believe it was that bad. Or maybe it was; maybe it was worse. Lawford knew that soldiers used some extremely coarse language among themselves, though no soldier would dream of letting an officer know exactly how coarse it was. That would explain Sharpe's blushes, of course.
Sharpe hissed as Lawford reached a deeper wound. He tried to twitch away, but Lawford paused and waited till he was still again. “I don't mean to hurt, you, Dick,” he said, finding the name strange in his mouth. “I have to make sure this salve gets rubbed in everywhere, though.”
“I know, Bill, I know. It just... Jesus, but it hurts.”
Lawford dipped his fingers back into the pot, trying to ignore the fact they were red with Sharpe's blood.
Sharpe fidgeted for a moment, as though he could will the pain away. “You know why they use drummers to do it, Bill?” he said, after a moment.
Lawford hadn't thought about it, but he did now. “So it doesn't hurt as much?”
There was a quiet snort at that. “No. It's cause the drummers draw blood first. It's in the wrist, like.” He tried to twist round a little, to see Lawford's face. “Like summat else I could mention,” he said. Lawford was sure there was a glint in the man's eye, and felt himself blushing.
“All done,” he said, maybe a little too soon, but eager to get Sharpe's mind off what he was thinking, and his eyes off Lawford's embarrassment. The Private sighed, and struggled to sit up with as little pain as possible so Lawford could re-bandage him.
Lawford wanted to understand Sharpe, to enter his world, but he was glad that he never had the threat of the lash hanging over his head as Sharpe and his friends did. He was a little ashamed at the knowledge, and he pushed both down, ignoring them as he did his best to meet Sharpe on his level, and establish a friendship.
Though did Sharpe want a friendship, knowing that should they complete their mission successfully, they would return to the Army, and Lawford would revert to being Sharpe's Lieutenant, while Sharpe would go back to being a common soldier? Though there was very little that was 'common' about him. There was a glow to his eyes, and a mischievous look, when Sharpe talked of his friends and the jokes they played on each other, though he could look stormy when pushed too far, or when questioned about something he obviously did not want to talk about. His hands were gentle, almost, when he cleaned his musket. He was certainly skilled with them... Lawford refused to speculate at what else Sharpe's hands were skilled, and tried to think of something else, anything else, before his trousers grew uncomfortably tight and he blushed when Sharpe looked at him.
It was worse, far worse, than being in love with a girl. How could Lawford even consider loving Sharpe - a man, and a private soldier at that? Sharpe would be horrified if he ever found out, and Lawford silently vowed that he would never find out, never.
***
Even after two days, Sharpe couldn't get used to Lawford treating his back for him. Back with the Army, it was something that the surgeon would do. Or, if not the surgeon - and very often it wasn't; they often wouldn't bother with a common soldier after the first day - then one of his mates. In Sharpe's case, he would have asked Tom Garrard if he'd mind.
It wasn't as if Lawford was rough, either. He was gentle, in fact. Probably a lot more gentle than even Tom would be, and he had soft, smooth fingers as well, which Tom certainly didn't. There was just something wrong with Sharpe lying on their shared bunk on his belly, shirt off, while Lawford carefully massaged some sweet-smelling Indian salve into the ruin of his back. No officer should ever have to do something like that. And even though Lawford tried his best to make Sharpe forget he was an officer, Sharpe couldn't forget, couldn't ignore it. Every fibre of his being screamed at him that Lawford was an officer and he should respect him and defer to him.
He couldn't understand why Lawford found it so easy to forget it. He was puzzled by the questions Lawford asked about life in the ranks. He always made sure they were alone before asking, of course, and he never did anything that he thought might make Sharpe more self-conscious than usual. Or he tried; there were some facts of Sharpe's life that took Lawford aback and made them both conscious all over again of the gulf that lay between them, ignore it as they might.
Such as the day they had arrived here and been assigned a bunk. Sharpe had always, since his first day in the Army, shared a bunk with another soldier. There wasn't enough room in any barracks building, and there certainly weren't enough beds, for each soldier to have a bed to himself. Lawford, however, had not only had his own bed, he'd had his own room. And a soldier-servant to look after his things, and wait on him during meals.
Lawford had fought valiantly to conceal the shock he felt, but Sharpe had noticed. From the set of his shoulders to the way he averted his eyes, Sharpe knew there was something wrong, and that night, he'd set out to find out what.
Lying there facing Lawford (as much to protect his back as to be able to talk) he'd waited until Lawford could hold back no longer.
“I'm never going to be able to make this work,” he said in a low voice, the words catching in his throat. “I don't know the first thing about it, and they'll catch me out in something.”
Sharpe smiled into the darkness. “They won't. You're doing really well, honest And if you need to ask me something, just ask. Even if it's summat daft.”
“You won't laugh at me?” Lawford's voice was very small. Poor thing; to be dragged into this.
“I won't. Promise.” He felt for the other's hand under the blanket and squeezed it. “You'll do good. And if you can't do anything, or answer a question, or summat like that, follow my lead. It's why you brung me, ain't it?”
“Yes.” Sharpe was gratified to feel an answering squeeze of his hand.
***
Lawford treasured his memory of that touch and the friendship offered in it. It was getting harder and harder... he willed his mind away from that train of thought... more and more difficult, to share a bed with Sharpe, without letting him know how he was being affected by the other man. It was torture, but it was a sweet torture. And Lawford often thought, during the long nights, of how it would feel to have Sharpe touch him again. Not just a hand on his shoulder, or on his hands, showing him how to do something. But a deeper touch, more meaningful. More... private. He squirmed away from that thought, bringing sleepy protests from the other man about taking all the blankets. How Sharpe would taste, what it would feel like to kiss him. Watching him at mealtimes was getting to be impossible... the way he'd lick sauce from his fingers...
But if he thought Sharpe even suspected the way he thought about him, he'd die of embarrassment.
Sharpe couldn't help but be aware of how Lawford watched him - how Lawford had always watched him. What would he do, he wondered, if he leaned across one night and kissed him? If he did anything else...
It wasn't unknown in the barracks in England for men to have sex with each other. How could it be, illegal or not? If you had a roomful of men, two in a bed, sooner or later you'd have some of them doing things that were most definitely not in the King's Regulations. But did Lawford know that? Sharpe suspected not.
It was probably time he expanded Lawford's education on barrack-room life...
That night, he watched again how Lawford swiftly got out of his tunic, leaving his trousers on, and scrambled under the rough blanket, keeping his back to Sharpe as he discarded his own tunic. He grinned to himself as he sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Bill? You all right, mate?” he said, getting into bed, wary of the pain of his back.
There was a muffled acknowledgement of the question and a nod.
“Well, come here, then,” Sharpe said. Lawford turned his head and saw the grin on Sharpe's face. His eyes widened as Sharpe leaned across the small gap. “Dunno what you're so scared of, you're like a nervous rabbit.”
And then Sharpe kissed him, and it was better than he'd ever dreamed it could be. Heaven and Hell collided, and time stopped dead, and he wished it would never end. Sharpe's kiss...