[drabbles/meme] Temeraire x Redwall x CLS, and Granby wearing a dress
So I was looking over softlyforgotten 's awesome reaction post over Victory of Eagles, which quoted this rather lovely line from the book:
"It sounds like folly, I know," Laurence said, "but if I may be pardoned for forming an opinion on the grounds of one meeting, I would say that Bonaparte is unreasonably fond of seduction, to the point that he likes to believe he has a chance of persuasion where rationally there is none. He will never miss a chance for a grand gesture, if he thinks he might coax Granby into service."
Which lead novembersmith to comment:
And because my brain is cracky, it immediately threw up the image of Napoleon somehow coercing Granby into a French maid outfit, and naturally that's what he's wearing when Laurence and Tharkay go to rescue him.
Which lead me to write:
I took liberty of some of the lines in VoE. Forgive me?
The moment the maid was walking even with him, Laurence seized one of the sheets from her pile and snapped it open over the entire company. A confused babbly of shouting arose at once: they all four rushed the swathed men, toppling the standing men over. The door to the room opened and another man looked out: Tharkay shot him, and kicked the door wide. Laurence immediately went inside, almost assuming that, aside from the guard Tharkay had shot, the room had been empty.
“Christ,” came a muttered curse from the corner. Laurence turned, and found Granby struggling in vain to rid himself of a lacy dress; the cut and design were decidedly French. A fleeting image of Napoleon came into Laurence’s mind, and he could have admitted, reluctantly, that he should not have been very much surprised-if only it had not been Granby wearing the frilly maid outfit, specifically.
“Not… a… word,” Granby grounded out, shooting dark glares at both Laurence and Tharkay, though it would not have mattered; Laurence was all too distracted by the way Granby was desperately trying to wrestle out of the dress, face flushed and damp, shoulders bare, and a good deal of exposed stocking-covered leg. The skirts shifted, and there was a flash of garters stretched tight down Granby’s thigh. Laurence glanced away, feeling uncomfortably hot.
“Compliments to Bonaparte for having good taste,” Tharkay quipped lightly from behind, though he had not taken his eyes off Granby since he came into the room, and his pistol was held slack in his hand, “In fashion, and in prisoners.” And Laurence did not need to turn around to see the small quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, Hell. I give up,” Granby said, prying off his corset to reveal an embroidered chemise with scarlet ribbons, and was currently too frustrated to even reply back. He looked up, snapping with unusual, quiet vehemence, “And if you two are quite through staring like a pair of half-wits, I should very much like a pistol, thank you.” But instead of a pistol, Laurence quickly walked over, stripping off his coat and placing it over Granby’s shoulders.
He did not think it was possible for Granby’s cheeks to turn any darker, but by now they were nearly the same color as the crimson lacings of his dress. “It’s cold out,” Laurence explained, somewhat lamely, and accidentally held out his arm out of habit for Granby to take.
“I cannot believe this,” Granby muttered darkly, brushing past Laurence and Tharkay. He swiftly knelt down to retrieve a pistol from the body of a dead man, whom Laurence belatedly realized as Woolvey. “My clothes are on the table-“
“There is no time,” Tharkay interrupted, a little too quickly. He fired a shot at an approaching French officer, and firmly steered a protesting Granby into the bedroom across with Laurence following behind them.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you,” Granby was saying under his breath, chanting it like a mantra. He shook off Tharkay’s hand, stumbled over his skirts, and ran to the open window, shouting, “Iskierka!”
Laurence shut the bedroom door and barricaded it with a wardrobe overturned. Iskierka was already clawing at the window. “Granby, Granby! Are you hurt?” she cried, peering anxiously at him.
“I am fine,” Granby said, shortly, hitching up his skirts to climb aboard; Laurence and Tharkay turned quickly to observe, and provide assistance.
Misinterpreting his curt tone, Iskierka lowered her head, fractionally, “I am sorry, Granby. Please, forgive me. Oh, but what have they done to you? Are you sure you are not hurt?”
Granby paused, the red in his cheeks receding, “Only my dignity. It is nothing, dear. Nothing that I can’t regain, in any case.”
Iskierka seemed visibly relieved, if not much more indignant on Granby’s behalf. “If I ever see Napoleon again, I will tear him apart,” she vowed.
Granby soothingly patted her neck as Laurence and Tharkay settled across her shoulders. With a great leap, they were aloft and swiftly leaving London behind.
“Anyway,” Iskierka continued, craning her neck to cast a critical eye over Granby, “He should not have given you those ugly dresses. After we have won this war, I will buy you much prettier corsets and skirts fit for a queen, and not some silly French maid.”
And she did not hear Granby groan, gripping Laurence’s coat tightly over his hunched shoulders and hiding his mortified expression within the overturned lapels, while Laurence and Tharkay exchanged pleased looks behind him.
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I AM NOT SORRY AT ALL.
Also, novembersmith requested on a meme for me to write a TEMERAIRE x REDWALL crossover. And, after rushing over to wikipedia, I wrote this utterly SRS otter!Laurence, squirrel!Granby, vole!Tharkay, baby snake!Temeraire drabble. SHAME? WHAT SHAME? (I FEEL LIKE I CAN WRITE ANY CROSSOVER NOW.)
Laurence awoke sharply to the faint rings of steel, echoing from the wisps of a hazy dream. He shook his head to clear it, and grimly looked around, feeling unaccountably uneasy. The campsite appeared peaceful; Granby was out of sight, no doubt keeping watch in the trees, and Tharkay was crouched by the fire, stirring a small pot where the smell of cooked berries and honeyed oats wafted lightly in the air. Laurence sat up, whiskers twitching, and rubbed a paw over his tired eyes. Temeraire was still asleep, tailed curled over his stomach. Had it been any other snake, he supposed that he would have bolted up straight away, but Temeraire was still an infant, and Laurence had not yet regretted saving the snake egg from washing away in the river.
“I must admit, Skipper, it is the strangest sight I have ever laid eyes on,” Tharkay commented, wryly.
Laurence did not answer right away, finding the vole a rather odd creature to begin with. “How long until we reach the Abbey?” he asked instead, turning carefully to check if his sword was still sheathed and wrapped tightly in cloth.
“No more than a day, if we make good time,” Tharkay replied, getting up and handing Laurence a bowl of the porridge. He glanced at Temeraire warily, black-tufted ears flicking in silent distaste, “I must really insist that you do not bring Temeraire to Redwall. He will… upset the residents.”
Laurence frowned, knowing this to be true, but he could neither leave Temeraire on his own, nor trust the little snake in the care of any other woodland creatures. “Redwall has been known to kindly welcome all kinds of guests, and provide shelter.”
At this, Tharkay smiled, cool and mocking, but he only repeated, “Yes, we will arrive in no more than a day.”
Before Laurence could make a retort, a squirrel came rushing down from a great oak tree, so fast that only a dark blur of brown was visible.
“Vermin, trying to sneak up from the north,” Granby panted, his bushy tail bristling. A few arrows were missing from his quiver, and his bow was strung taut in his paw. “Hurry, they are coming.”
Tharkay was already busy putting out the fire, and Laurence saw the flash of silver knives as Tharkay pocketed them within his sleeves. Temeraire was roused, the snake giving a tiny hiss in complaint. Laurence allowed him to coil around his chest and neck, suppressing the natural urge to panic. An arrow landed near the ground, not inches from his tail. Belatedly realizing that it was not one of Granby’s, Laurence stepped back, cursing himself for losing his javelin in the flood.
“How many?” he snapped at Granby.
“Six,” Granby said, picking up the arrow that had almost pinned Laurence’s tail, and rapidly fired it back with a grin, “Maybe only five now. Surely, we can take that many, Skipper.”
Laurence grabbed the wrapped sword, tearing off the cloth. He glanced at Tharkay and Granby, but both were focused on the approaching enemy. Pulling the blade from the sheath, Laurence found himself holding his breath, almost entranced by the way the blade and hilt glittered in the weak, morning light; the Sword of Martin.
“Hold fast, Temeraire,” he murmured, and felt Temeraire tighten around his neck, a reassuring noose.
“Ah, so you’re the missing Champion of Redwall,” Tharkay said, indifferent, but his ears had perked up in surprise, while Granby turned quickly around, gaping slightly, “I stand corrected, Skipper. You are the strangest sight I have ever laid eyes on.”
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And another fic-ish meme involving ten words, and ten different fic genres. Robin/Ishiah and Chenery/Little.