FIC: Waxwork (Sharpe)
Title: Waxwork
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Girdwood, Sharpe, Harper (implied Sharpe/Harper)
Rating: PG
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: If there was anything Girdwood excelled at, it was appearances.
Warnings: Highlight to read: 1 instance of a slur against the Irish.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 January Film Challenge using Sharpe's Regiment as inspiration. Also written for the "Conspiracy" challenge prompt (#11) at sharpe_thinking and for helena_s_renn, as an extremely late Halloween treat I owe her for "knocking" on my virtual!door, er, in 2008. D'oh!
Waxwork
By Galadriel
There. Girdwood curled his fingers, guiding the ends of his pride and joy into its customary curls, luxuriating in the slide of hair and pomade against his skin.
He smiled, and the Colonel in the looking glass smiled back, primped and preened until he was a perfect reflection of a perfectly proper officer. Over his reflection's shoulder, the newest group of recruits marched by the window, marring the mirror image, each step and stamp out of time with the other, expertly inexpert, and utterly green.
All but that Vaughn fellow and his bog-trotter, striding in perfect time, never out of step with each other, as if they'd been born with their boots on, rather than dredged up from the slurry along with the rest of the rabble.
The mirror-Colonel frowned, his moustache drooping. Perhaps it was the cheap homemade wax he'd had to concoct in lieu of proper supplies that spoiled his visage, but much more likely it was the way Vaughn and O'Keefe seemed a little too smart, even for old soldiers.
A little too smart, and a little too close, even when reversed in tin and glass.
His eyes followed their passage off the edge, losing them in frame and wall. The thought niggled at him, the tiniest flickers of doubt drawing lines around his image's eyes, wrinkling his forehead, crinkling the corners of his mouth.
Yet not a moment later he heard the clearing of a throat, and his reflection smiled, smoothing out skin, restoring appearance, for appearances were all when selling Simmerson's soldiers. And in pursuit of that perfection, it was a Lieutenant Colonel's duty to make sure not a hair was out of place.
Not one hair. And if single strands resisted, it would be simple work to snip them clean off.
END
(January 31, 2010)
Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, sharpe_thinking, sharpe_archive, rareslash.
Author: Galadriel (caras_galadhon)
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Girdwood, Sharpe, Harper (implied Sharpe/Harper)
Rating: PG
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: If there was anything Girdwood excelled at, it was appearances.
Warnings: Highlight to read: 1 instance of a slur against the Irish.
Notes: Written for the seans_50 January Film Challenge using Sharpe's Regiment as inspiration. Also written for the "Conspiracy" challenge prompt (#11) at sharpe_thinking and for helena_s_renn, as an extremely late Halloween treat I owe her for "knocking" on my virtual!door, er, in 2008. D'oh!
Waxwork
By Galadriel
There. Girdwood curled his fingers, guiding the ends of his pride and joy into its customary curls, luxuriating in the slide of hair and pomade against his skin.
He smiled, and the Colonel in the looking glass smiled back, primped and preened until he was a perfect reflection of a perfectly proper officer. Over his reflection's shoulder, the newest group of recruits marched by the window, marring the mirror image, each step and stamp out of time with the other, expertly inexpert, and utterly green.
All but that Vaughn fellow and his bog-trotter, striding in perfect time, never out of step with each other, as if they'd been born with their boots on, rather than dredged up from the slurry along with the rest of the rabble.
The mirror-Colonel frowned, his moustache drooping. Perhaps it was the cheap homemade wax he'd had to concoct in lieu of proper supplies that spoiled his visage, but much more likely it was the way Vaughn and O'Keefe seemed a little too smart, even for old soldiers.
A little too smart, and a little too close, even when reversed in tin and glass.
His eyes followed their passage off the edge, losing them in frame and wall. The thought niggled at him, the tiniest flickers of doubt drawing lines around his image's eyes, wrinkling his forehead, crinkling the corners of his mouth.
Yet not a moment later he heard the clearing of a throat, and his reflection smiled, smoothing out skin, restoring appearance, for appearances were all when selling Simmerson's soldiers. And in pursuit of that perfection, it was a Lieutenant Colonel's duty to make sure not a hair was out of place.
Not one hair. And if single strands resisted, it would be simple work to snip them clean off.
END
(January 31, 2010)
Crossposted to seans_50, sons_of_gondor, sharpe_thinking, sharpe_archive, rareslash.