(no subject)
Title: Chevrons
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Tom Oxley belongs to sharpiefan.
Original pen-date: 8 February 2011
Summary: Show the Colours AU; Tom Oxley discovers he is the butt of an unusual joke. At sea, 1809.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme on DreamWidth. Prompt - Oxley/anyone - corporal punishment.
Oxley didn't notice, at first, the difference in his jacket when he slipped it on as he prepared for another watch on duty. His attention was directed more to the single crossbelt from which his drum hung. It always seemed to take some fiddling to adjust it so it rested comfortably across his chest. Having to stand in one spot for hours with the drum hanging off him required as tolerable a fit as possible. Once he was finally satisfied, he grabbed his hat and headed for the ladder. There were low chuckles and stares as he passed, but he paid them no mind. He was thinking only of ways to privately amuse himself for the coming hours.
It was not until he got on deck that a second, more restrained, outbreak of whispering drew his notice. No man on deck could meet his eye when he looked toward them, however. Feeling distinctly confused, Oxley checked himself over. He was completely dressed, so it wasn't that. Shoes, trousers, jacket, hat... jacket. Right arm. There were two strips of white cloth sewn onto his right sleeve. His face lost all colour. Why were there chevrons on his jacket?!
"Andrew. Thomas. Er. Shepherd."
The duty drummer beamed at him, not even bothering to pretend innocence. "Aye, Corp'ral?"
"Why, you - "
"What." An incensed-sounding voice boomed. "In the name of everythin' holy is that on your jacket, Oxley?" Corporal Johnson had spotted them - him - and was coming toward them with a face like thunder.
Oxley gulped and came sharply to attention. He was for it, this time. And he hadn't even done anything! "Sorry, Corporal," he said and wished dearly he might've had time to cuff Shepherd's ear before Johnson had intervened.
"You're gonna be," Johnson snapped. "Must've lost what little sense you got, seems. Below. Now. This'll be for Mister Cartwright to sort - "
A half-strangled gurgle came from Shepherd, who was all but rocking back and forth on his heels. "Beggin' your pardon, Corp'ral, but..."
"Stow it, Shepherd. I'll deal with you later. Below, Oxley. Smartly now." Johnson was visibly seething. With little choice in the matter, Oxley moved quickly toward the ladder. He was going to have a chat with those twins if he got out of this alive. The prospect of being brought before Lieutenant Cartwright for anything bad terrified him, though. He'd promised the officer that he'd keep out of trouble, yet here he was being pulled up for something serious. Something that wasn't his fault in the least.
It was as he was turning to head for the second ladder leading down to the messdecks that he caught sight, briefly, of Corporal Johnson's right sleeve. Instead of the mostly-white chevrons that were normally visible, there was only the outline of where they were supposed to be, a patch of brighter red wool against the rest of the sun-faded sleeve. It was all Oxley could do not to smirk. These were Johnson's chevrons he was wearing. The corporal was going to go spare. But how hadn't he noticed them missing himself? For that matter, what was the punishment for wearing a corporal's stripes without having earned them? Oxley didn't know if he wanted to find out.
"Ah, Corporal Johnson. Private Oxley." And here was Mister Cartwright, looking at them with curious interest. The lieutenant's gaze came to rest on the strips of white on Oxley's sleeve and he knew in that instant he was in trouble. Terrible, strokes-with-the-boy's-cane sort of trouble. Disappointment-from-his-offcer trouble. That was the worst part. Whatever spark of amusement he'd been feeling vanished. This was not going to go well at all.
"Caught this fellow wearin' stripes, sir," Johnson reported flatly. "Bold's you please, up topside. Nothin' to say for it 'cept he's sorry."
"I see." The lieutenant lifted an eyebrow. "Where do you imagine those stripes came from, Corporal?"
"Haven't a clue, sir, but when I find out, some lad ain't gonna be happy."
Oxley kept his gaze fixed on a point over Mister Cartwright's right shoulder and struggled to keep his face blank. His terror was vying with bemusement for control. What would Johnson do when he learned it was his own chevrons now adorning Oxley's jacket?
"You may not have to look very far, Corporal," Mister Cartwright pointed out. "Are you, by chance, aware that you are improperly uniformed yourself?"
The expression on Johnson's face turned from one of great annoyance to outright fury when he looked instinctively at his own uniform. He knew now. He knew and he was clearly beside himself. Such that words failed him utterly. It was all Oxley could do not to let any of his sudden amusement show. Whatever punishment he was awarded for his unwitting role in this escapade, it would be worth it, having seen Corporal Johnson struck absolutely speechless by anything.
"I see," the lieutenant said again. "I daren't ask about the particulars, Oxley. They hardly matter. However, you will remove those stripes from your jacket and sew them back onto Corporal Johnson's, directly. There won't be any more unearned changes in rank in future either, I trust?"
"No, sir," Oxley promised earnestly. Not from him, certainly. Mister Cartwright didn't seem angry either, which could only be good. Sewing. That was it. No caning, no extra duties. Just sewing. He was no great hand with a needle but that was no matter. When Mister Cartwright dismissed them, having instructed Johnson that once the chevrons were securely back in their proper place that would be the end of the matter, Oxley all but ran for the messdeck.
Now that it was over, he almost wished it had lasted longer.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Tom Oxley belongs to sharpiefan.
Original pen-date: 8 February 2011
Summary: Show the Colours AU; Tom Oxley discovers he is the butt of an unusual joke. At sea, 1809.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme on DreamWidth. Prompt - Oxley/anyone - corporal punishment.
Oxley didn't notice, at first, the difference in his jacket when he slipped it on as he prepared for another watch on duty. His attention was directed more to the single crossbelt from which his drum hung. It always seemed to take some fiddling to adjust it so it rested comfortably across his chest. Having to stand in one spot for hours with the drum hanging off him required as tolerable a fit as possible. Once he was finally satisfied, he grabbed his hat and headed for the ladder. There were low chuckles and stares as he passed, but he paid them no mind. He was thinking only of ways to privately amuse himself for the coming hours.
It was not until he got on deck that a second, more restrained, outbreak of whispering drew his notice. No man on deck could meet his eye when he looked toward them, however. Feeling distinctly confused, Oxley checked himself over. He was completely dressed, so it wasn't that. Shoes, trousers, jacket, hat... jacket. Right arm. There were two strips of white cloth sewn onto his right sleeve. His face lost all colour. Why were there chevrons on his jacket?!
"Andrew. Thomas. Er. Shepherd."
The duty drummer beamed at him, not even bothering to pretend innocence. "Aye, Corp'ral?"
"Why, you - "
"What." An incensed-sounding voice boomed. "In the name of everythin' holy is that on your jacket, Oxley?" Corporal Johnson had spotted them - him - and was coming toward them with a face like thunder.
Oxley gulped and came sharply to attention. He was for it, this time. And he hadn't even done anything! "Sorry, Corporal," he said and wished dearly he might've had time to cuff Shepherd's ear before Johnson had intervened.
"You're gonna be," Johnson snapped. "Must've lost what little sense you got, seems. Below. Now. This'll be for Mister Cartwright to sort - "
A half-strangled gurgle came from Shepherd, who was all but rocking back and forth on his heels. "Beggin' your pardon, Corp'ral, but..."
"Stow it, Shepherd. I'll deal with you later. Below, Oxley. Smartly now." Johnson was visibly seething. With little choice in the matter, Oxley moved quickly toward the ladder. He was going to have a chat with those twins if he got out of this alive. The prospect of being brought before Lieutenant Cartwright for anything bad terrified him, though. He'd promised the officer that he'd keep out of trouble, yet here he was being pulled up for something serious. Something that wasn't his fault in the least.
It was as he was turning to head for the second ladder leading down to the messdecks that he caught sight, briefly, of Corporal Johnson's right sleeve. Instead of the mostly-white chevrons that were normally visible, there was only the outline of where they were supposed to be, a patch of brighter red wool against the rest of the sun-faded sleeve. It was all Oxley could do not to smirk. These were Johnson's chevrons he was wearing. The corporal was going to go spare. But how hadn't he noticed them missing himself? For that matter, what was the punishment for wearing a corporal's stripes without having earned them? Oxley didn't know if he wanted to find out.
"Ah, Corporal Johnson. Private Oxley." And here was Mister Cartwright, looking at them with curious interest. The lieutenant's gaze came to rest on the strips of white on Oxley's sleeve and he knew in that instant he was in trouble. Terrible, strokes-with-the-boy's-cane sort of trouble. Disappointment-from-his-offcer trouble. That was the worst part. Whatever spark of amusement he'd been feeling vanished. This was not going to go well at all.
"Caught this fellow wearin' stripes, sir," Johnson reported flatly. "Bold's you please, up topside. Nothin' to say for it 'cept he's sorry."
"I see." The lieutenant lifted an eyebrow. "Where do you imagine those stripes came from, Corporal?"
"Haven't a clue, sir, but when I find out, some lad ain't gonna be happy."
Oxley kept his gaze fixed on a point over Mister Cartwright's right shoulder and struggled to keep his face blank. His terror was vying with bemusement for control. What would Johnson do when he learned it was his own chevrons now adorning Oxley's jacket?
"You may not have to look very far, Corporal," Mister Cartwright pointed out. "Are you, by chance, aware that you are improperly uniformed yourself?"
The expression on Johnson's face turned from one of great annoyance to outright fury when he looked instinctively at his own uniform. He knew now. He knew and he was clearly beside himself. Such that words failed him utterly. It was all Oxley could do not to let any of his sudden amusement show. Whatever punishment he was awarded for his unwitting role in this escapade, it would be worth it, having seen Corporal Johnson struck absolutely speechless by anything.
"I see," the lieutenant said again. "I daren't ask about the particulars, Oxley. They hardly matter. However, you will remove those stripes from your jacket and sew them back onto Corporal Johnson's, directly. There won't be any more unearned changes in rank in future either, I trust?"
"No, sir," Oxley promised earnestly. Not from him, certainly. Mister Cartwright didn't seem angry either, which could only be good. Sewing. That was it. No caning, no extra duties. Just sewing. He was no great hand with a needle but that was no matter. When Mister Cartwright dismissed them, having instructed Johnson that once the chevrons were securely back in their proper place that would be the end of the matter, Oxley all but ran for the messdeck.
Now that it was over, he almost wished it had lasted longer.