FIC: Gutter Rats (Sharpe)
Title: Gutter Rats
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Sharpe, Harper (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I may march over the hills and far away alongside Richard Sharpe, but Bernard Cornwell, the lucky, lucky man, owns the rogue, not me.
Summary: Even gutter rats have standards.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 June Film Challenge using Sharpe's Rifles as inspiration. Many thanks to savageseraph for the fantastic beta help, as always.
Gutter Rats
By Galadriel
Maybe they were chosen, but more like they were the worst of a bad lot: gutter rats too wild to make good soldiers, but with enough cunning to keep them alive well-past their time. Throw in a little skill, a good eye, and Sir Arthur -- that canny bastard -- would see some use in them, would make some use of them, the more dangerous the better. Richard knew this well enough; like knows like, and it was all he could do to daily scrub the stench of Yorkshire's sewers off his skin, still lingering even after so far and so long away. Rats, the lot of them. Rats under the command of a fellow rat dressed up like a lady's lapdog, and not liking it one bit.
Even in the gutter, standards must be upheld. And no rat was ever going to crown himself king, not without a fight.
So it was just dumb luck for the pack of them that that bastard of a Paddy had a kick like a mule, and was as stubborn as a dozen of 'em. As hard as he was solid; Richard's hand still smarted from the pummelling he gave the man, and the one he got. The taste of his own blood too fresh a memory, copper and iron and anger and shame at the back of his tongue.
Shame wasn't something Richard had ever swallowed easily, and he wasn't about to start now.
Maybe the other rats wanted to grab him by his tail, see him forced back onto his knees, back into the muck of rankless, rudderless service, and maybe they aimed to use that bloody Irishman as their weapon. But he was as a blunt club to Richard's keen blade, and bludgeoning only went so far when you were trying to rid yourself of rodents. Maybe Harper was the bigger rat, but Richard's teeth were sharper, his claws longer.
And maybe Harper thought he was doing them all a favour, drawing lines in the dirt and making sure officers stayed officers, and soldiers never broke ranks. They didn't choose him, and that marked him as no red sash or row of silver buttons could. But neither did Richard choose the lot of them, and he wasn't above snapping a few necks if it cleared the gutter of problematic pests.
After all, even in the gutter, standards must be upheld.
END
(June 30, 2009)
Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, look_sharpe, sharpe_archive, rareslash.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Sharpe, Harper (pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Lothlorien and sons_of_gondor.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: I may march over the hills and far away alongside Richard Sharpe, but Bernard Cornwell, the lucky, lucky man, owns the rogue, not me.
Summary: Even gutter rats have standards.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 June Film Challenge using Sharpe's Rifles as inspiration. Many thanks to savageseraph for the fantastic beta help, as always.
Gutter Rats
By Galadriel
Maybe they were chosen, but more like they were the worst of a bad lot: gutter rats too wild to make good soldiers, but with enough cunning to keep them alive well-past their time. Throw in a little skill, a good eye, and Sir Arthur -- that canny bastard -- would see some use in them, would make some use of them, the more dangerous the better. Richard knew this well enough; like knows like, and it was all he could do to daily scrub the stench of Yorkshire's sewers off his skin, still lingering even after so far and so long away. Rats, the lot of them. Rats under the command of a fellow rat dressed up like a lady's lapdog, and not liking it one bit.
Even in the gutter, standards must be upheld. And no rat was ever going to crown himself king, not without a fight.
So it was just dumb luck for the pack of them that that bastard of a Paddy had a kick like a mule, and was as stubborn as a dozen of 'em. As hard as he was solid; Richard's hand still smarted from the pummelling he gave the man, and the one he got. The taste of his own blood too fresh a memory, copper and iron and anger and shame at the back of his tongue.
Shame wasn't something Richard had ever swallowed easily, and he wasn't about to start now.
Maybe the other rats wanted to grab him by his tail, see him forced back onto his knees, back into the muck of rankless, rudderless service, and maybe they aimed to use that bloody Irishman as their weapon. But he was as a blunt club to Richard's keen blade, and bludgeoning only went so far when you were trying to rid yourself of rodents. Maybe Harper was the bigger rat, but Richard's teeth were sharper, his claws longer.
And maybe Harper thought he was doing them all a favour, drawing lines in the dirt and making sure officers stayed officers, and soldiers never broke ranks. They didn't choose him, and that marked him as no red sash or row of silver buttons could. But neither did Richard choose the lot of them, and he wasn't above snapping a few necks if it cleared the gutter of problematic pests.
After all, even in the gutter, standards must be upheld.
END
(June 30, 2009)
Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, look_sharpe, sharpe_archive, rareslash.