Wounded (Sharpe, PG-13, Sharpe/Harper)
Title: Wounded
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: Sharpe
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Bernard Cornwell, the lucky man, owns Sharpe, not me. I simply take him out for a turn around Spain once in a while and return him, intact and unharmed, to his real master.
Summary: Teresa and Patrick tend to a wounded Richard.
Notes: Book based, although my Richard Sharpe has always been blonde and green-eyed. While this story leads off from Blooded, it functions as a stand-alone, and previous knowledge of Blooded is not needed. Occurs following a non-specific battle after Richard has been promoted to Major, but before the end of Sharpe's Enemy. Written for contrelamontre Senses Challenge #2: Touch. PWPs are not permitted. Time limit: 60 minutes.
"Lust is a mysterious wound in the side of humanity." ~Georges Bernanos, The Diary of a Country Priest.
Wounded
By Galadriel
Husband and wife stumbled into the small boarding house that served as the Officer's housing. Teresa steered her tired charge towards the stairs, half-pushing and half-pulling him up the steps. Once they were on the second floor landing she shouted for the landlady, demanding hot water and clean linen strips. Without waiting to see if the woman had heard her request, Teresa opened the door to Sharpe's room and ushered him in.
She didn't bother to close the door behind them. Privacy was never a concern to Partisans or soldiers; they slept in the open, pissed a stone's throw from their camp. With those bastard French still crawling through Spain, safety overrode luxuries such as privacy and modesty.
Teresa gazed at her husband. Unsurprisingly, he looked ghastly, covered as he was from head to toe in mud, blood and ash. As she watched, Sharpe unbuckled his sword, unslung his rifle and tossed his battered shako onto the bed. The trappings of war fell away, and Richard sagged under a growing tiredness.
At her urging, he peeled off his green jacket. It came away reluctantly, the damp patches below the armholes clinging to the shirt underneath. Wearily, he hooked his thumbs under his suspenders, the cracked leather sliding across his skin as he gripped and tugged at them. He moved to dispose of his shirt, but his fingers fumbled uselessly at the buttons. They were numb, sluggish and drained of heat now that the battle was done. Drained like the rest of his body, the blood in his veins slowing, thickening like ice-encrusted water in winter. He managed to navigate the intricacies of two buttonholes before Teresa stepped in, brushing away his hands, taking over. She coaxed the shirt, stiffened by drying sweat, over his arms. The rough, blood-soaked linen scratched at his skin, pulling away chunks of blood that were congealing on his upper arm. He winced as the beginnings of a scab tore away, stuck fast to the dirty white cloth. Fresh, warm blood began to trickle down his arm.
Teresa inspected the damage. "Sit." She gestured towards the only table and chair in the room, giving him a gentle, encouraging push; her palm was warm against his back, soft as she dragged it away.
As Sharpe slipped into the chair he stumbled, catching his hipbone on the corner of the table. Pain flared to life, hot and insistent before fading quickly into a dull throb. He ignored the throbbing, preferring instead to give in to the overwhelming exhaustion that washed over him. He closed his eyes, letting his head drop backwards until his neck rested against the hard wood of the chair. The chair rails pushed insistently into his back, the grain of the wood pressing against his yielding flesh. One leg of the chair was a hair too short, and as Sharpe settled lower in his seat it wobbled ever so slightly, clicking against the floor, sending vibrations up his spine.
A familiar voice issued from the doorway, the timbre adding to the thrumming sensation already rolling up and down Sharpe's back. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. I brought the maggots, and the lass downstairs sent these things up as well."
Sharpe didn't open his eyes. It was a childish trick, he knew, but he stood fast against the urge; if he couldn't see his Sergeant maybe he wouldn't have to think about the battlefield lust, so easily tipped into something he couldn't--wouldn't name. Nameless, unspoken, it existed only in the harshness of the march, boots thudding through trampled grass, over slippery rock. It existed in the nights without stars, a soldier's hand clapping a brother on his shoulder, fumbling at the entrance to his breeches. There was no tenderness in it, and it did not exist here, in the softness of married life, in the blurring, tumbling warmth that folded itself around him, that made it easy to drop his ever-present guard.
Sharpe felt rather than heard Harper walk towards him, the big man's shoes clumping against the floorboards. There was a small click as he set an object down on the table. Teresa murmured her thanks, and a moment later Sharpe felt something wet press against his shoulder. Heat flowed from the wet cloth into his wound, awakening a series of shooting pains. The cloth rasped against Sharpe's skin, tugging at the gash, opening the cut ever so slightly as she cleaned out dirt, sweat and blood. She picked off bits of muddy grass, the blades slipping greasily across his shoulder. He grimaced as she dug at the injury, pulling sharp shards out of the gash with the aid of her knife, the blade gliding against exposed muscle.
There was a pause. Teresa, finished cleaning his wound, brushed an errant lock of hair out of his eyes. She smoothed her hand over his brow; her fingers were warm, soft skin and calluses sliding and rasping across his forehead in equal measure. The sensation was strange; the fingers were small and slight, their femininity warring against the roughness earned while clutching the reins, thumbing back a rifle lock, gripping a knife. Her hand travelled down his face, lingering at his scar. She pressed her fingers to the toughened ridge of skin before allowing them to travel to his cheek, rubbing at the powder burn, grinding the tiny granules into smaller specks of ash.
Sharpe was seized with the urge to grasp her hand, twine his fingers around her smaller wrist, and trace the patterns of calluses across the palm of her hand. The pads of his fingers itched. He reached out blindly, scrubbing them against the rough grain of the table. Teresa's warmth moved away as she stepped back, and the air that hit his exposed skin was cold; empty.
After some rustling, Harper replaced Teresa at his right arm, his massive bulk pressing gently against the chair, rocking it ever so slightly. He leaned over the Major, his own green jacket brushing across Sharpe's torso. Fingers, thick, long and strong, plucked at Sharpe's left hand. "Sir." The Sergeant pressed something into Sharpe's palm, cupping Richard's fingers with his own, guiding his hand, shaping it to the object. Hot and smooth. A teacup.
"Tea. God dammit, Harps, you brought me bloody tea." He smiled, his lips sliding across his teeth, pulling tight, the dry skin cracking, peeling.
"Aye, sir. The lass said that's the strongest thing they have, so she said. But the lads, well, I'm sure I can shake something loose from the lads, sir."
"Tea is fine, Pat." Sharpe laughed. He brought the cup to his lips, allowing his tongue to trace along the bumps and ridges that decorated the porcelain. He tipped it and the hot liquid slid down his throat, leaves and all. Gently, Harper plucked the now-empty cup from his Major's hands and Sharpe heard another click as the Sergeant placed it on the table.
The bigger man's hands were on him again, straightening his arm, tucking one end of a strip of cloth between Sharpe's side and his armpit. The linen crinkled, folded, threatened to drop. Patrick coaxed it back into place, prodded at the still uncovered wound, his huge, callused fingers entirely too careful, too gentle in their ministrations. Sharpe heard him fumble with a metal tin. There was a moment's silence, and suddenly Sharpe felt something wriggle against his skin. It was not a entirely unpleasant sensation; not, that is, until the maggot found its purchase and latched on to the raw flesh. The wriggling thing was followed by another and another until Harper, satisfied with his labour, bound the cloth firmly around Sharpe's shoulder. He tied the ends, smoothed the linen, and cupped the site of the maggots, making sure they were secure, but unharmed. His hand drifted idly down Sharpe's arm, flattening the hairs that prickled under his touch. Suddenly uncomfortable, Sharpe shifted uneasily in his chair.
"He caught the table with his side when he sat down." Teresa spoke matter-of-factly. Her voice and presence, momentarily forgotten, flowed back into Sharpe's senses.
Harper's hands stilled. "Where?"
More movement, and then a little pressure at his hipbone. "Here."
The warmth of Patrick's hands left Sharpe's shoulder. The pressure on his side lessened briefly, then grew as Teresa took Harper's hands in her own, guiding him to the spot. He flinched; there must be a bruise forming, purpling and distending the surrounding skin. Sharpe felt their fingers entwining, moving across his breeches, fumbling up and over the waist. Thin digits worked their way under the cloth, larger ones brushed across his exposed flesh. He shivered.
A pair of hands moved to the fastenings on his breeches.
Sharpe opened his eyes. He prayed there would be no tenderness.
END
(January 26, 2003)
Author: Galadriel caras_galadhon
Fandom: Sharpe
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Bernard Cornwell, the lucky man, owns Sharpe, not me. I simply take him out for a turn around Spain once in a while and return him, intact and unharmed, to his real master.
Summary: Teresa and Patrick tend to a wounded Richard.
Notes: Book based, although my Richard Sharpe has always been blonde and green-eyed. While this story leads off from Blooded, it functions as a stand-alone, and previous knowledge of Blooded is not needed. Occurs following a non-specific battle after Richard has been promoted to Major, but before the end of Sharpe's Enemy. Written for contrelamontre Senses Challenge #2: Touch. PWPs are not permitted. Time limit: 60 minutes.
"Lust is a mysterious wound in the side of humanity." ~Georges Bernanos, The Diary of a Country Priest.
Wounded
By Galadriel
Husband and wife stumbled into the small boarding house that served as the Officer's housing. Teresa steered her tired charge towards the stairs, half-pushing and half-pulling him up the steps. Once they were on the second floor landing she shouted for the landlady, demanding hot water and clean linen strips. Without waiting to see if the woman had heard her request, Teresa opened the door to Sharpe's room and ushered him in.
She didn't bother to close the door behind them. Privacy was never a concern to Partisans or soldiers; they slept in the open, pissed a stone's throw from their camp. With those bastard French still crawling through Spain, safety overrode luxuries such as privacy and modesty.
Teresa gazed at her husband. Unsurprisingly, he looked ghastly, covered as he was from head to toe in mud, blood and ash. As she watched, Sharpe unbuckled his sword, unslung his rifle and tossed his battered shako onto the bed. The trappings of war fell away, and Richard sagged under a growing tiredness.
At her urging, he peeled off his green jacket. It came away reluctantly, the damp patches below the armholes clinging to the shirt underneath. Wearily, he hooked his thumbs under his suspenders, the cracked leather sliding across his skin as he gripped and tugged at them. He moved to dispose of his shirt, but his fingers fumbled uselessly at the buttons. They were numb, sluggish and drained of heat now that the battle was done. Drained like the rest of his body, the blood in his veins slowing, thickening like ice-encrusted water in winter. He managed to navigate the intricacies of two buttonholes before Teresa stepped in, brushing away his hands, taking over. She coaxed the shirt, stiffened by drying sweat, over his arms. The rough, blood-soaked linen scratched at his skin, pulling away chunks of blood that were congealing on his upper arm. He winced as the beginnings of a scab tore away, stuck fast to the dirty white cloth. Fresh, warm blood began to trickle down his arm.
Teresa inspected the damage. "Sit." She gestured towards the only table and chair in the room, giving him a gentle, encouraging push; her palm was warm against his back, soft as she dragged it away.
As Sharpe slipped into the chair he stumbled, catching his hipbone on the corner of the table. Pain flared to life, hot and insistent before fading quickly into a dull throb. He ignored the throbbing, preferring instead to give in to the overwhelming exhaustion that washed over him. He closed his eyes, letting his head drop backwards until his neck rested against the hard wood of the chair. The chair rails pushed insistently into his back, the grain of the wood pressing against his yielding flesh. One leg of the chair was a hair too short, and as Sharpe settled lower in his seat it wobbled ever so slightly, clicking against the floor, sending vibrations up his spine.
A familiar voice issued from the doorway, the timbre adding to the thrumming sensation already rolling up and down Sharpe's back. "Begging your pardon, ma'am. I brought the maggots, and the lass downstairs sent these things up as well."
Sharpe didn't open his eyes. It was a childish trick, he knew, but he stood fast against the urge; if he couldn't see his Sergeant maybe he wouldn't have to think about the battlefield lust, so easily tipped into something he couldn't--wouldn't name. Nameless, unspoken, it existed only in the harshness of the march, boots thudding through trampled grass, over slippery rock. It existed in the nights without stars, a soldier's hand clapping a brother on his shoulder, fumbling at the entrance to his breeches. There was no tenderness in it, and it did not exist here, in the softness of married life, in the blurring, tumbling warmth that folded itself around him, that made it easy to drop his ever-present guard.
Sharpe felt rather than heard Harper walk towards him, the big man's shoes clumping against the floorboards. There was a small click as he set an object down on the table. Teresa murmured her thanks, and a moment later Sharpe felt something wet press against his shoulder. Heat flowed from the wet cloth into his wound, awakening a series of shooting pains. The cloth rasped against Sharpe's skin, tugging at the gash, opening the cut ever so slightly as she cleaned out dirt, sweat and blood. She picked off bits of muddy grass, the blades slipping greasily across his shoulder. He grimaced as she dug at the injury, pulling sharp shards out of the gash with the aid of her knife, the blade gliding against exposed muscle.
There was a pause. Teresa, finished cleaning his wound, brushed an errant lock of hair out of his eyes. She smoothed her hand over his brow; her fingers were warm, soft skin and calluses sliding and rasping across his forehead in equal measure. The sensation was strange; the fingers were small and slight, their femininity warring against the roughness earned while clutching the reins, thumbing back a rifle lock, gripping a knife. Her hand travelled down his face, lingering at his scar. She pressed her fingers to the toughened ridge of skin before allowing them to travel to his cheek, rubbing at the powder burn, grinding the tiny granules into smaller specks of ash.
Sharpe was seized with the urge to grasp her hand, twine his fingers around her smaller wrist, and trace the patterns of calluses across the palm of her hand. The pads of his fingers itched. He reached out blindly, scrubbing them against the rough grain of the table. Teresa's warmth moved away as she stepped back, and the air that hit his exposed skin was cold; empty.
After some rustling, Harper replaced Teresa at his right arm, his massive bulk pressing gently against the chair, rocking it ever so slightly. He leaned over the Major, his own green jacket brushing across Sharpe's torso. Fingers, thick, long and strong, plucked at Sharpe's left hand. "Sir." The Sergeant pressed something into Sharpe's palm, cupping Richard's fingers with his own, guiding his hand, shaping it to the object. Hot and smooth. A teacup.
"Tea. God dammit, Harps, you brought me bloody tea." He smiled, his lips sliding across his teeth, pulling tight, the dry skin cracking, peeling.
"Aye, sir. The lass said that's the strongest thing they have, so she said. But the lads, well, I'm sure I can shake something loose from the lads, sir."
"Tea is fine, Pat." Sharpe laughed. He brought the cup to his lips, allowing his tongue to trace along the bumps and ridges that decorated the porcelain. He tipped it and the hot liquid slid down his throat, leaves and all. Gently, Harper plucked the now-empty cup from his Major's hands and Sharpe heard another click as the Sergeant placed it on the table.
The bigger man's hands were on him again, straightening his arm, tucking one end of a strip of cloth between Sharpe's side and his armpit. The linen crinkled, folded, threatened to drop. Patrick coaxed it back into place, prodded at the still uncovered wound, his huge, callused fingers entirely too careful, too gentle in their ministrations. Sharpe heard him fumble with a metal tin. There was a moment's silence, and suddenly Sharpe felt something wriggle against his skin. It was not a entirely unpleasant sensation; not, that is, until the maggot found its purchase and latched on to the raw flesh. The wriggling thing was followed by another and another until Harper, satisfied with his labour, bound the cloth firmly around Sharpe's shoulder. He tied the ends, smoothed the linen, and cupped the site of the maggots, making sure they were secure, but unharmed. His hand drifted idly down Sharpe's arm, flattening the hairs that prickled under his touch. Suddenly uncomfortable, Sharpe shifted uneasily in his chair.
"He caught the table with his side when he sat down." Teresa spoke matter-of-factly. Her voice and presence, momentarily forgotten, flowed back into Sharpe's senses.
Harper's hands stilled. "Where?"
More movement, and then a little pressure at his hipbone. "Here."
The warmth of Patrick's hands left Sharpe's shoulder. The pressure on his side lessened briefly, then grew as Teresa took Harper's hands in her own, guiding him to the spot. He flinched; there must be a bruise forming, purpling and distending the surrounding skin. Sharpe felt their fingers entwining, moving across his breeches, fumbling up and over the waist. Thin digits worked their way under the cloth, larger ones brushed across his exposed flesh. He shivered.
A pair of hands moved to the fastenings on his breeches.
Sharpe opened his eyes. He prayed there would be no tenderness.
END
(January 26, 2003)