Challenge
Title: Vigil
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Sharpe/Harper
Rating: PG at worst.
Summary: Set just before "Sharpe's Eagle" with spoilers for the books before that. Sharpe has an annoying tendancy to get hurt.Done for the contralamonte Laundry list challenge in 50 minutes (including some perfunctory re-reading of relevant sections in the book) 1,309 words.
Sergeant Patrick Harper was not a man given to introspection. He was a soldier and a soldier learnt early on that thinking was not the best response in a fight where a split second divided life and death. But right now, there was nothing else he could do but sit on the milking stool Hagman had 'persuaded' a redcoat to lend him and watch his Lieutenant shift uncomfortably on the crude straw bed.
"Jaysus, sir, but you're a daft bastard and no mistake." the big Irishman sips at his hip flask and raises the fevered man so he can force a little of the fiery brandy between the other man's lips. Pale blue eyes flutter as he chokes on the liquid and Sharpe twists his head away. He is shivering and Harper bundles the blanket and greatcoat tighter around him, crooning comfort in his native tongue.
So bloody cold...and bright as summer day. Something not right but his blood feels like ice in his veins except for a red-hot iron pressed into his leg. He thrashes around, desperate to get away. Strong arms holding him secure. A familiar voice. A familiar scent of sweat and black powder mingled with rum.
Harper? Can't see...can't open his eyes.
The big Irishman feels Sharpe slip into sleep again, going boneless in his grasp and he lowers him back to the straw. He's still talking, words rambling to fill the almost silence as Sharpe fights the fever. "The lads are fair petrified for you, sir. 'Twas a bloody good fight, but you should have saved us a few ol' Froggies."
He is afraid, remembering the surprise French attack that still gives him nightmares. They had been escorting Hogan through the fringes of French-controlled territory. "And he was so sure that we'd be fine. That's not a mistake we'll make again, sir. Still, we were lucky you were having your little swim."
He picks up a rag, damping it from the canteen Perkins dropped in earlier. He dabs carefully at the sweaty forehead. He keeps his hand steady as the memories flood back. Sharpe had gone to the river to wash - as all the Riflemen had. He'd stopped to talk with Hogan about something though and the lads had been done before he got away.
So bloody cold. He trembles and feels another cold sensation on his forehead. He can't persuade his limp limbs to move, even his eyes are too heavy to open. So he drifts hovering between oblivion and wakefulness, clinging to the soft deep voice.
He can't hear words, just a murmur of sound. He clings to it like a lifeline as pain surges through him. The voice keeps him safe.
"D'you know that none of those bloody redcoats will believe it, sir? Mind you, if I hadn't seen it for myself, I'd not credit it either." Harper pauses, remembering. The French voltiguers had nearly gotten the jump on them - would have, if they hadn't had to pass the river where Sharpe had been bathing. "I don't think any of us moved so fast in our lives..."
It had been a near thing. The crack of Sharpe's rifle - "Thank God, you never left it behind." - and the angry scream of pain from the officer that Sharpe had shot as he fell. The men had scrambled madly for their rifles, automatically falling into the paired combat even as they raced for the crest of the hill separating them from Sharpe.
Not so cold now and he can put a name to the voice. Harper. Good man. Good soldier. Best Sergeant in the whole damn army. His Sergeant. Something inside relaxes - he can trust Harper. Strains to hear the words now. Harper's choice of story tells a lot about the Sergeant's current mood.
A shiver and - Jesus bloody wept - his leg spasms, sending white-hot pain through him. The pain makes him jerk off the soft surface under him.
"Easy there, sir." Harper wraps his arms around Sharpe, holding him steady as he twitches and groans. The big Irishman winces in sympathy. "There now, take more than a Frenchie to keep you down."
The officer quietens and Harper continues to talk. "I got the bastard for you. Hagman would've had him right off, but for that bloody tree."
There had been an old elderberry tree growing near the bank of the river. The tree had saved Sharpe's life in the few frantic seconds while his men raced to his rescue, the Hussar riding with the voltiguers had been unable to charge at him. It had also obstructed Hagman's view - much to the old poacher's disgust - which had so nearly proven fatal. Harper tightens his grip as he remembers cresting the hill.
"Just in time to see you go charging forward...no shirt, no coat, no boots. You got your feet fierce dirty." The Sergeant had felt a flash of utter terror at the sight of Sharpe, still-smoking rifle in one hand, heavy cavalry sabre in the other. He'd been dripping wet, clad only in his looted overalls and Harper remembers his worry that the barefoot officer would step on a thorn or something.
He can hear the words now, and they begin to make sense. He dimly remembers what Harper's talking about. A quiet river. Washing properly for the first time in months. The French appearing out of nowhere. His shot and shout. The surety that the men would never reach him in time.
The usual chaos of a fight - Harper had saved his shot until he saw Sharpe fall under the Hussar's charge. He looks down at the head resting on his shoulder and shakes his head. "Bastard nearly had you and all. I think we'll have to start keeping a better eye on you, sir. Nearly lost you there."
It had been a very near thing. The nearby redcoats had come to help as Harper stood over the fallen Rifleman, swinging his bayoneted rifle and screaming at the French. The other Riflemen had fought their way to surround their Lieutenant, fighting off the French.
As soon as the main French force started to fall back, Harper had dropped to his knees. The wound was nasty and he'd roared for a coat. The Riflemen had hurried to collect Sharpe's coat but the nearest redcoat pulled off his unbuttoned coat and offered it to the big Sergeant. It was a veteran’s coat - the red dye faded and worn to an almost purple hue. Harper had bundled his officer up in it and carried him easily to the safety of the tents.
The cold's gone now. Gone completely and his leg aches. He's tired now. Harper's voice starts to fade back into a comforting background noise. But he forces himself awake, he can remember the fight. Only vaguely but he remembers it. He doesn't remember how it ended though.
Sharpe raises his head and Harper falls silent. The Lieutenant's brows are creased, his face is stark white under the grime and slick with sweat but his gaze is wearily lucid. His lips move and Harper bends closer hearing the tortured rasp. "T-the ...men...?"
"Ah sure, they're grand so they are." Pat can't stop the wide smile - if Sharpe is asking for his men, he intends to live. And he has a lot of faith in his officer's stubborn nature. "You just put your head down there for a spell and take a nice wee break. You'll be raring to go soon enough."
Leg still hurts. It's just a dull throb now, though. He's marched, climbed and fought with worse. Still, he's so tired now. He can hear Harper's voice vibrating under his ear and the more distant sound of his heart beating away steadily.
He can sleep. Harper is here. Everything will be fine.
Fandom: Sharpe
Pairing: Sharpe/Harper
Rating: PG at worst.
Summary: Set just before "Sharpe's Eagle" with spoilers for the books before that. Sharpe has an annoying tendancy to get hurt.Done for the contralamonte Laundry list challenge in 50 minutes (including some perfunctory re-reading of relevant sections in the book) 1,309 words.
Sergeant Patrick Harper was not a man given to introspection. He was a soldier and a soldier learnt early on that thinking was not the best response in a fight where a split second divided life and death. But right now, there was nothing else he could do but sit on the milking stool Hagman had 'persuaded' a redcoat to lend him and watch his Lieutenant shift uncomfortably on the crude straw bed.
"Jaysus, sir, but you're a daft bastard and no mistake." the big Irishman sips at his hip flask and raises the fevered man so he can force a little of the fiery brandy between the other man's lips. Pale blue eyes flutter as he chokes on the liquid and Sharpe twists his head away. He is shivering and Harper bundles the blanket and greatcoat tighter around him, crooning comfort in his native tongue.
So bloody cold...and bright as summer day. Something not right but his blood feels like ice in his veins except for a red-hot iron pressed into his leg. He thrashes around, desperate to get away. Strong arms holding him secure. A familiar voice. A familiar scent of sweat and black powder mingled with rum.
Harper? Can't see...can't open his eyes.
The big Irishman feels Sharpe slip into sleep again, going boneless in his grasp and he lowers him back to the straw. He's still talking, words rambling to fill the almost silence as Sharpe fights the fever. "The lads are fair petrified for you, sir. 'Twas a bloody good fight, but you should have saved us a few ol' Froggies."
He is afraid, remembering the surprise French attack that still gives him nightmares. They had been escorting Hogan through the fringes of French-controlled territory. "And he was so sure that we'd be fine. That's not a mistake we'll make again, sir. Still, we were lucky you were having your little swim."
He picks up a rag, damping it from the canteen Perkins dropped in earlier. He dabs carefully at the sweaty forehead. He keeps his hand steady as the memories flood back. Sharpe had gone to the river to wash - as all the Riflemen had. He'd stopped to talk with Hogan about something though and the lads had been done before he got away.
So bloody cold. He trembles and feels another cold sensation on his forehead. He can't persuade his limp limbs to move, even his eyes are too heavy to open. So he drifts hovering between oblivion and wakefulness, clinging to the soft deep voice.
He can't hear words, just a murmur of sound. He clings to it like a lifeline as pain surges through him. The voice keeps him safe.
"D'you know that none of those bloody redcoats will believe it, sir? Mind you, if I hadn't seen it for myself, I'd not credit it either." Harper pauses, remembering. The French voltiguers had nearly gotten the jump on them - would have, if they hadn't had to pass the river where Sharpe had been bathing. "I don't think any of us moved so fast in our lives..."
It had been a near thing. The crack of Sharpe's rifle - "Thank God, you never left it behind." - and the angry scream of pain from the officer that Sharpe had shot as he fell. The men had scrambled madly for their rifles, automatically falling into the paired combat even as they raced for the crest of the hill separating them from Sharpe.
Not so cold now and he can put a name to the voice. Harper. Good man. Good soldier. Best Sergeant in the whole damn army. His Sergeant. Something inside relaxes - he can trust Harper. Strains to hear the words now. Harper's choice of story tells a lot about the Sergeant's current mood.
A shiver and - Jesus bloody wept - his leg spasms, sending white-hot pain through him. The pain makes him jerk off the soft surface under him.
"Easy there, sir." Harper wraps his arms around Sharpe, holding him steady as he twitches and groans. The big Irishman winces in sympathy. "There now, take more than a Frenchie to keep you down."
The officer quietens and Harper continues to talk. "I got the bastard for you. Hagman would've had him right off, but for that bloody tree."
There had been an old elderberry tree growing near the bank of the river. The tree had saved Sharpe's life in the few frantic seconds while his men raced to his rescue, the Hussar riding with the voltiguers had been unable to charge at him. It had also obstructed Hagman's view - much to the old poacher's disgust - which had so nearly proven fatal. Harper tightens his grip as he remembers cresting the hill.
"Just in time to see you go charging forward...no shirt, no coat, no boots. You got your feet fierce dirty." The Sergeant had felt a flash of utter terror at the sight of Sharpe, still-smoking rifle in one hand, heavy cavalry sabre in the other. He'd been dripping wet, clad only in his looted overalls and Harper remembers his worry that the barefoot officer would step on a thorn or something.
He can hear the words now, and they begin to make sense. He dimly remembers what Harper's talking about. A quiet river. Washing properly for the first time in months. The French appearing out of nowhere. His shot and shout. The surety that the men would never reach him in time.
The usual chaos of a fight - Harper had saved his shot until he saw Sharpe fall under the Hussar's charge. He looks down at the head resting on his shoulder and shakes his head. "Bastard nearly had you and all. I think we'll have to start keeping a better eye on you, sir. Nearly lost you there."
It had been a very near thing. The nearby redcoats had come to help as Harper stood over the fallen Rifleman, swinging his bayoneted rifle and screaming at the French. The other Riflemen had fought their way to surround their Lieutenant, fighting off the French.
As soon as the main French force started to fall back, Harper had dropped to his knees. The wound was nasty and he'd roared for a coat. The Riflemen had hurried to collect Sharpe's coat but the nearest redcoat pulled off his unbuttoned coat and offered it to the big Sergeant. It was a veteran’s coat - the red dye faded and worn to an almost purple hue. Harper had bundled his officer up in it and carried him easily to the safety of the tents.
The cold's gone now. Gone completely and his leg aches. He's tired now. Harper's voice starts to fade back into a comforting background noise. But he forces himself awake, he can remember the fight. Only vaguely but he remembers it. He doesn't remember how it ended though.
Sharpe raises his head and Harper falls silent. The Lieutenant's brows are creased, his face is stark white under the grime and slick with sweat but his gaze is wearily lucid. His lips move and Harper bends closer hearing the tortured rasp. "T-the ...men...?"
"Ah sure, they're grand so they are." Pat can't stop the wide smile - if Sharpe is asking for his men, he intends to live. And he has a lot of faith in his officer's stubborn nature. "You just put your head down there for a spell and take a nice wee break. You'll be raring to go soon enough."
Leg still hurts. It's just a dull throb now, though. He's marched, climbed and fought with worse. Still, he's so tired now. He can hear Harper's voice vibrating under his ear and the more distant sound of his heart beating away steadily.
He can sleep. Harper is here. Everything will be fine.