Strange and silly Sharpe fic!
feroxargentea unintentionally inspired me to write a Sharpe version of The World Turned Upside Down. Part of the way through that, I got to thinking of how people act when they’re delirious with fever, and that is where this ridiculous little fic came from. And yes, about halfway through this, I did remember that scene from Cryptonomicon where Bobby Shaftoe’s in the hospital being interviewed, but there just wasn’t room for a giant lizard in this story :)
BTW: any Sharpe fic I write is based on the books, because I read them all before seeing the TV movies.
The Replacement
Gen. Kinda crack-ish-- the inverse of h/c, if such a thing exists. Approx. 800 words. Unbetaed. Sharpe, Wellington, Major Hogan. One of the duties of an officer is to visit his sick and injured men. Most of the time they appreciate it.
The last bed contained Captain Sharpe- already looking lean and stretched-out at the best of times, and with this fever and whatever it was he had, he looked positively at death’s door. He was awake, though, so Wellington went over to inquire how he did.
“Oh, this is a new one,” said Sharpe, looking interestedly at him. “Not the dancing girls I was hoping for, but at least you’re an improvement on the tigers.”
“Tigers, Sharpe?”
“Yes, sir. You know, those big stripy things that want to eat me,” he said, and then frowned. “Why am I calling you sir? You’re not even real.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not a very good hallucination, are you? You could use a bit of improvement.”
“I assure you, Captain, I am quite real.”
Sharpe snorted. “Of course you’d say that,” he said, and sat up straighter, preparing his lecture. “First of all, you’re wearing the wrong coat. You’re not going to be a General for years yet, not ‘til we get to Spain- and why are you even wearing a coat in this heat? What kind of halfwit wears a winter coat in India in the summer?” He shook his head. “You ought to take some pointers from my mum. Now there’s a good hallucination for you. If she wasn’t dead I’d have been completely convinced.”
Wellington exchanged a look with Major Hogan. Sharpe saw.
“That’s a little better, but you’re still not getting his expression right. I’m glad you’re trying, but-” He broke off, distracted.
Wellington followed his gaze and saw the surgeon hurrying past them towards a wretchedly vomiting soldier.
“Him!” said Sharpe venomously. “He’s absolutely useless! He’s probably diagnosed me with seasickness! He doesn’t even know any Latin! Try not to cut off the wrong leg, you miserable bastard!” he heckled as the surgeon came back in the other direction. Then he remembered about Wellington and fixed a disapproving eye on him. “You don’t know any Latin, either. What use are you, really?”
This was a bit much. “Et haec olim meminisse iuvabit,” said Wellington, unable to help himself.
“That’s Greek, you incorporeal idiot!” roared Sharpe, incensed that a mere figment of his imagination presumed to disagree with him.
Major Hogan looked like he might burst from not laughing.
“You see, that’s how I know you’re not actually Nosey,” he continued. “Besides that he wouldn’t say something monumentally stupid like that-- if I talked to the real one like this, he’d probably shoot me. But you’re not actually here, so you can’t do anything to me.” He folded his arms and regarded Wellington smugly. “You’ve got the wrong look, too. His face is a bit more like this,” and here Sharpe’s face went blank for a moment and then resolved itself into what he clearly imagined Wellington’s habitual expression to be.
The aide was now scarlet with horror, his mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out. Major Hogan had turned away, but his shoulders were shaking.
“There,” said Sharpe, his face returning to normal- or rather, the way it had been previously, because he was not normally so pale and red-eyed. “Now you try,” he said encouragingly.
“You’re delirious, Captain,” said Wellington, finally.
Sharpe sighed. “Of course I am, otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing things. And I’m not a Captain yet,” he said with an air of long-suffering patience. “That’s going to be in Spain, I keep telling you. You’re never going to make a convincing imposter if you don’t even know what year it is.”
“Sir, I think we’d better go.” His aide had regained the power of speech, and was so urgent that he actually made an aborted motion toward Wellington’s sleeve.
“Yes, sir, before he realizes he’s not hallucinating,” whispered Major Hogan, with a grin.
“Hey!” Sharpe called after them. “Tell the next one to be a little more realistic! I’m sick, it’s not fair to make me do all the explaining! And bring some imaginary cake while you’re at it!”
On the way back from the infirmary tent, Wellington paused. His breath hung in a cloud in the cold air. “Tell me, Major- do I really look as though I eat the flesh of small children?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you. I didn’t think so. Though if I did, would you say so?” He blinked. “Good Lord, now I sound like him. Don’t answer that.”
A little further on, with the dry dead grass crunching underfoot, he paused again. “Do you know, Hogan, I’ve never been accused of impersonating myself, much less impersonating myself badly? I find it rankles, rather.”
“Shall I tell him, sir, when he recovers?”
Wellington considered this for a while. “No,” he said finally. “He’s so ill that he might not even remember anyway. And if he does- let him wonder.” He frowned, and repeated under his breath, “‘Incorporeal idiot’, forsooth!”
*
END
Read, leave comments, etc. You know the drill. I didn't get a beta for this since it's so small and silly, so if you have constructive criticism go ahead. I'm aware it's a bit OOC.
There was also a whole monologue about how Bonaparte was trying to kill him, a la Catch-22, but I figured there’s only so long Wellington’s morbid fascination would hold out before he left.
BTW: any Sharpe fic I write is based on the books, because I read them all before seeing the TV movies.
The Replacement
Gen. Kinda crack-ish-- the inverse of h/c, if such a thing exists. Approx. 800 words. Unbetaed. Sharpe, Wellington, Major Hogan. One of the duties of an officer is to visit his sick and injured men. Most of the time they appreciate it.
The last bed contained Captain Sharpe- already looking lean and stretched-out at the best of times, and with this fever and whatever it was he had, he looked positively at death’s door. He was awake, though, so Wellington went over to inquire how he did.
“Oh, this is a new one,” said Sharpe, looking interestedly at him. “Not the dancing girls I was hoping for, but at least you’re an improvement on the tigers.”
“Tigers, Sharpe?”
“Yes, sir. You know, those big stripy things that want to eat me,” he said, and then frowned. “Why am I calling you sir? You’re not even real.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not a very good hallucination, are you? You could use a bit of improvement.”
“I assure you, Captain, I am quite real.”
Sharpe snorted. “Of course you’d say that,” he said, and sat up straighter, preparing his lecture. “First of all, you’re wearing the wrong coat. You’re not going to be a General for years yet, not ‘til we get to Spain- and why are you even wearing a coat in this heat? What kind of halfwit wears a winter coat in India in the summer?” He shook his head. “You ought to take some pointers from my mum. Now there’s a good hallucination for you. If she wasn’t dead I’d have been completely convinced.”
Wellington exchanged a look with Major Hogan. Sharpe saw.
“That’s a little better, but you’re still not getting his expression right. I’m glad you’re trying, but-” He broke off, distracted.
Wellington followed his gaze and saw the surgeon hurrying past them towards a wretchedly vomiting soldier.
“Him!” said Sharpe venomously. “He’s absolutely useless! He’s probably diagnosed me with seasickness! He doesn’t even know any Latin! Try not to cut off the wrong leg, you miserable bastard!” he heckled as the surgeon came back in the other direction. Then he remembered about Wellington and fixed a disapproving eye on him. “You don’t know any Latin, either. What use are you, really?”
This was a bit much. “Et haec olim meminisse iuvabit,” said Wellington, unable to help himself.
“That’s Greek, you incorporeal idiot!” roared Sharpe, incensed that a mere figment of his imagination presumed to disagree with him.
Major Hogan looked like he might burst from not laughing.
“You see, that’s how I know you’re not actually Nosey,” he continued. “Besides that he wouldn’t say something monumentally stupid like that-- if I talked to the real one like this, he’d probably shoot me. But you’re not actually here, so you can’t do anything to me.” He folded his arms and regarded Wellington smugly. “You’ve got the wrong look, too. His face is a bit more like this,” and here Sharpe’s face went blank for a moment and then resolved itself into what he clearly imagined Wellington’s habitual expression to be.
The aide was now scarlet with horror, his mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out. Major Hogan had turned away, but his shoulders were shaking.
“There,” said Sharpe, his face returning to normal- or rather, the way it had been previously, because he was not normally so pale and red-eyed. “Now you try,” he said encouragingly.
“You’re delirious, Captain,” said Wellington, finally.
Sharpe sighed. “Of course I am, otherwise I wouldn’t be seeing things. And I’m not a Captain yet,” he said with an air of long-suffering patience. “That’s going to be in Spain, I keep telling you. You’re never going to make a convincing imposter if you don’t even know what year it is.”
“Sir, I think we’d better go.” His aide had regained the power of speech, and was so urgent that he actually made an aborted motion toward Wellington’s sleeve.
“Yes, sir, before he realizes he’s not hallucinating,” whispered Major Hogan, with a grin.
“Hey!” Sharpe called after them. “Tell the next one to be a little more realistic! I’m sick, it’s not fair to make me do all the explaining! And bring some imaginary cake while you’re at it!”
On the way back from the infirmary tent, Wellington paused. His breath hung in a cloud in the cold air. “Tell me, Major- do I really look as though I eat the flesh of small children?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you. I didn’t think so. Though if I did, would you say so?” He blinked. “Good Lord, now I sound like him. Don’t answer that.”
A little further on, with the dry dead grass crunching underfoot, he paused again. “Do you know, Hogan, I’ve never been accused of impersonating myself, much less impersonating myself badly? I find it rankles, rather.”
“Shall I tell him, sir, when he recovers?”
Wellington considered this for a while. “No,” he said finally. “He’s so ill that he might not even remember anyway. And if he does- let him wonder.” He frowned, and repeated under his breath, “‘Incorporeal idiot’, forsooth!”
*
END
Read, leave comments, etc. You know the drill. I didn't get a beta for this since it's so small and silly, so if you have constructive criticism go ahead. I'm aware it's a bit OOC.
There was also a whole monologue about how Bonaparte was trying to kill him, a la Catch-22, but I figured there’s only so long Wellington’s morbid fascination would hold out before he left.