FIC: The First Ominous Rumblings [Blackadder Goes Forth]
Title: The First Ominous Rumblings
Fandom: Blackadder
Characters: George Colthurst St. Barleigh, Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett, Edmund Blackadder
Prompt: #069. Thunder
Word Count: 1,533
Rating: PG
Summary: After George exposes the whole charade to Melchett, he didn't expect to be summoned to the general's office.
Author's Notes: Unbeta'd. One of the Important Angsty scenes. Hopefully, the prompt fits, as this used to be the one for Strangers.
***
When the phone rang, George looked up from polishing his cricket bat as Captain Blackadder answered.
"The Savoy Grill," Blackadder said in a very bored tone. "Ah, Darling." He frowned, and then shot a suspicious, curious look at George. "Yes, he's here. What'd he do this time?" The frown deepened, giving the Cap the look of a very constipated walrus.
George could feel his stomach do a slight tuck and roll, even if he wasn't sure why. It rather felt like that time when he was eight and he knew the sled was about to overturn on the snowy hill moments before it did.
"All right. I'll tell him," Blackadder grunted. Hanging up the phone, he raised a thick, black eyebrow at George. "All right, peabrain, what did you do this time?"
George blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, you," Blackadder sneered. "I'd usually be referring to Baldrick, but that would be a compliment in his case. What did you do?"
"I haven't done anything, sir," George answered, mystified. "Honestly."
Blackadder looked at him, as if he could really see inside George -- George rather wondered if he could, actually, the Cap could be quite astute sometimes -- and grunted again. "Melchett wants to see you, on the double."
Now he knew why his stomach had done that. It was rather a relief, because George had been starting to wonder if it had been something he ate. That coffee that Baldrick had given him had looked rather dodgy, now that he thought about it. "All right."
"That's it?" Blackadder scowled. "'All right'?"
George blinked again. "All right, sir?"
Apparently unsatisfied with the answer, Blackadder airily dismissed him with one hand. "All right, go on then. And try to be back before midnight."
George stood and saluted him quickly before setting his cricket bat down and heading out of the bunk into the cool night air.
***
It didn't take any longer than usual for George to get to HQ, though he rather imagined he was walking slower than usual. From the look on Melchett's face when the wig had come off, George still wasn't sure what was going on, but he'd been more than a little relieved to get back to his trench with nothing more said on the matter. He saluted Captain Darling appropriately when he entered. "General Melchett wanted to see me, sir?"
Darling nodded curtly, the tic in his eye no more twitchy than usual. "Go right in." He motioned to the door leading to Melchett's office.
George saluted him again. "Yes, sir."
It was probably his military training that led him into General Melchett's office without pause, and he couldn't say that he was surprised to find Melchett himself sitting behind a desk, looking over what looked like a rummy amount of very important papers, and looking like he hadn't been to sleep for a week.
Somewhat at a loss, George closed the door and stood in front of Melchett's desk, habitually saluting. "You sent for me, sir?"
Melchett looked up, and George found himself rather thinking that the general looked more haunted than tired. "George."
When Melchett didn't elaborate, George cleared his throat nervously. "Ah, lovely evening we're having, sir..."
Melchett nodded, still looking at him, not smiling or looking particularly like he was feeling anything at all.
George blinked, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "...Sir?"
Melchett stared at him for a moment longer, but just as George was about to blurt out an apology, the general turned back to his paperwork. "Do you know a Lieutenant Heinrich Neumann?"
If there was a question George had been expecting, that hadn't been it. "I believe so, sir, yes."
Melchett made a notation on a complicated-looking form, and George rather felt like he was back in grade school again, taking an exam that he didn't know the answers to, and hadn't bally well studied for.
"He defected to our side last night."
George blinked, the statement taking a moment or two to sink in. "He did? Why, wrap me in cheese and bake me for twenty minutes! He had mentioned something about that, now that I think about it."
Melchett nodded. "I see."
There was a pregnant pause as Melchett made another notation, and George cleared his throat. "Sir? Begging your pardon, but--"
"You are to be awarded the Victoria Cross for valor."
George blinked. He rather seemed to be doing a lot of it during this conversation. "Beg pardon?"
Melchett didn't look up from his paperwork. "Neumann explained the whole plan last night. He wanted to defect, and because he had valuable information to give to the British about the German's long-range plans, you and he cooked up false information for him to pass on to his superiors while you were pretending to be a spy for the Germans. For your noble efforts, you are to be commended for your valor and given the Victoria Cross."
George knew he was a thicky, but even he could tell Melchett wasn't happy. "Sir?"
Melchett finally looked up, eyes hard. "During your very dangerous operation, you were given a debilitating wound, tragically sending you back home to Blighty to recover throughout the rest of the war."
George's eyes widened. "Wait."
Melchett's hand, which had been reaching for one of the desk drawers, stopped in mid-motion. He then looked furious at himself for it. George didn't speak, momentarily stunned that Melchett hadn't fondly ignored him.
"Well?" Melchett snapped impatiently. "Out with it."
George mentally shook himself. "Sir, I joined to fight for King and country! Don't send me home. Please."
Melchett's jaw set as George watched, and then the older man gusted a sigh. "You can't very well stay here. At least not under my command."
"What?" George blurted out. "Why not?"
Melchett looked ready to answer him, but then he closed his mouth and gave George a hard look. "It would be impossible."
"But, sir--"
"In case you haven't yet realized, Lieutenant," Melchett snarled, forcing George back a step through sheer will alone, "we don't need word of your shenanigans getting back home to Blighty. I told you before, you've not only put your family's good name in serious jeopardy, but mine as well." He turned back to his paperwork, scribbling quickly on another important-looking piece of paper.
George nodded awkwardly. "I know, sir."
"As you should," Melchett sneered, glaring at George for a moment before turning back to the paper. "Now, the ceremony is going to be tomorrow evening. A small luncheon, that sort of thing--"
"I don't want it," George murmured, sounding as though he'd bally well lost the war already.
Hard brown eyes looked up at him. "What."
George looked up, reluctant to face the hard stare, but knowing that he should at least try to face him. "With all due respect, sir..." He took a breath, which did little to help fortify him. "I don't want the medal."
Melchett's jaw set, and George found himself wanting to trace that jaw, touch the soft hair just behind Melchett's ear... He shook himself, hard.
Melchett stared at him for a long, torturous moment before deflating like a bally olive balloon. "What do you want," he asked dully.
George frowned. "Want?"
"For your silence," Melchett growled, and not in a pleasant tone, either.
"I..." George's voice trailed off, and he could see Melchett staring at him, eyes dark and flashing. And despite this, he knew exactly what he wanted to say, for once. "I don't want anything."
Melchett stared at him further, as if he could see inside of George and be able to tell if he was lying. "Nothing at all," he said skeptically.
That's not what I meant! popped into his head immediately.
When Melchett's eyes narrowed at him, he suddenly realized he'd said something. "As I suspected. Out with it, then."
He was rather stuck for it now, wasn't he? What could he say to the man who'd thrown him out, shouted all those horrible things after him when George finally retreated with his tail between his legs?
Yet, somehow, his mouth started speaking without giving his brain a heads-up.
"What I want, you can't give me."
Melchett stared at him some more, this time a sort of calculating look that made George feel like he was being measured against something, though what that was, he had no earthly idea.
At something of a loss the more the silence continued, George snapped his feet together and saluted smartly. If nothing else, being able to salute well always saw him through. "Permission to return to the barracks, sir?"
There was more silence, and just as George was about to throw himself on the carpet and grovel for forgiveness, Melchett nodded curtly. "Permission granted." He turned back to his paperwork, airily shooing George out of his office. "Dismissed."
George nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Heading out and closing the door behind him, George gusted a sigh, his gut untwisting slowly.
Perhaps it wasn't as horrible as it could've been -- at least this time, he didn't have a typewriter bunged at him -- but George had a feeling he'd just heard the thunder before the storm.
END
Fandom: Blackadder
Characters: George Colthurst St. Barleigh, Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett, Edmund Blackadder
Prompt: #069. Thunder
Word Count: 1,533
Rating: PG
Summary: After George exposes the whole charade to Melchett, he didn't expect to be summoned to the general's office.
Author's Notes: Unbeta'd. One of the Important Angsty scenes. Hopefully, the prompt fits, as this used to be the one for Strangers.
***
When the phone rang, George looked up from polishing his cricket bat as Captain Blackadder answered.
"The Savoy Grill," Blackadder said in a very bored tone. "Ah, Darling." He frowned, and then shot a suspicious, curious look at George. "Yes, he's here. What'd he do this time?" The frown deepened, giving the Cap the look of a very constipated walrus.
George could feel his stomach do a slight tuck and roll, even if he wasn't sure why. It rather felt like that time when he was eight and he knew the sled was about to overturn on the snowy hill moments before it did.
"All right. I'll tell him," Blackadder grunted. Hanging up the phone, he raised a thick, black eyebrow at George. "All right, peabrain, what did you do this time?"
George blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, you," Blackadder sneered. "I'd usually be referring to Baldrick, but that would be a compliment in his case. What did you do?"
"I haven't done anything, sir," George answered, mystified. "Honestly."
Blackadder looked at him, as if he could really see inside George -- George rather wondered if he could, actually, the Cap could be quite astute sometimes -- and grunted again. "Melchett wants to see you, on the double."
Now he knew why his stomach had done that. It was rather a relief, because George had been starting to wonder if it had been something he ate. That coffee that Baldrick had given him had looked rather dodgy, now that he thought about it. "All right."
"That's it?" Blackadder scowled. "'All right'?"
George blinked again. "All right, sir?"
Apparently unsatisfied with the answer, Blackadder airily dismissed him with one hand. "All right, go on then. And try to be back before midnight."
George stood and saluted him quickly before setting his cricket bat down and heading out of the bunk into the cool night air.
***
It didn't take any longer than usual for George to get to HQ, though he rather imagined he was walking slower than usual. From the look on Melchett's face when the wig had come off, George still wasn't sure what was going on, but he'd been more than a little relieved to get back to his trench with nothing more said on the matter. He saluted Captain Darling appropriately when he entered. "General Melchett wanted to see me, sir?"
Darling nodded curtly, the tic in his eye no more twitchy than usual. "Go right in." He motioned to the door leading to Melchett's office.
George saluted him again. "Yes, sir."
It was probably his military training that led him into General Melchett's office without pause, and he couldn't say that he was surprised to find Melchett himself sitting behind a desk, looking over what looked like a rummy amount of very important papers, and looking like he hadn't been to sleep for a week.
Somewhat at a loss, George closed the door and stood in front of Melchett's desk, habitually saluting. "You sent for me, sir?"
Melchett looked up, and George found himself rather thinking that the general looked more haunted than tired. "George."
When Melchett didn't elaborate, George cleared his throat nervously. "Ah, lovely evening we're having, sir..."
Melchett nodded, still looking at him, not smiling or looking particularly like he was feeling anything at all.
George blinked, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "...Sir?"
Melchett stared at him for a moment longer, but just as George was about to blurt out an apology, the general turned back to his paperwork. "Do you know a Lieutenant Heinrich Neumann?"
If there was a question George had been expecting, that hadn't been it. "I believe so, sir, yes."
Melchett made a notation on a complicated-looking form, and George rather felt like he was back in grade school again, taking an exam that he didn't know the answers to, and hadn't bally well studied for.
"He defected to our side last night."
George blinked, the statement taking a moment or two to sink in. "He did? Why, wrap me in cheese and bake me for twenty minutes! He had mentioned something about that, now that I think about it."
Melchett nodded. "I see."
There was a pregnant pause as Melchett made another notation, and George cleared his throat. "Sir? Begging your pardon, but--"
"You are to be awarded the Victoria Cross for valor."
George blinked. He rather seemed to be doing a lot of it during this conversation. "Beg pardon?"
Melchett didn't look up from his paperwork. "Neumann explained the whole plan last night. He wanted to defect, and because he had valuable information to give to the British about the German's long-range plans, you and he cooked up false information for him to pass on to his superiors while you were pretending to be a spy for the Germans. For your noble efforts, you are to be commended for your valor and given the Victoria Cross."
George knew he was a thicky, but even he could tell Melchett wasn't happy. "Sir?"
Melchett finally looked up, eyes hard. "During your very dangerous operation, you were given a debilitating wound, tragically sending you back home to Blighty to recover throughout the rest of the war."
George's eyes widened. "Wait."
Melchett's hand, which had been reaching for one of the desk drawers, stopped in mid-motion. He then looked furious at himself for it. George didn't speak, momentarily stunned that Melchett hadn't fondly ignored him.
"Well?" Melchett snapped impatiently. "Out with it."
George mentally shook himself. "Sir, I joined to fight for King and country! Don't send me home. Please."
Melchett's jaw set as George watched, and then the older man gusted a sigh. "You can't very well stay here. At least not under my command."
"What?" George blurted out. "Why not?"
Melchett looked ready to answer him, but then he closed his mouth and gave George a hard look. "It would be impossible."
"But, sir--"
"In case you haven't yet realized, Lieutenant," Melchett snarled, forcing George back a step through sheer will alone, "we don't need word of your shenanigans getting back home to Blighty. I told you before, you've not only put your family's good name in serious jeopardy, but mine as well." He turned back to his paperwork, scribbling quickly on another important-looking piece of paper.
George nodded awkwardly. "I know, sir."
"As you should," Melchett sneered, glaring at George for a moment before turning back to the paper. "Now, the ceremony is going to be tomorrow evening. A small luncheon, that sort of thing--"
"I don't want it," George murmured, sounding as though he'd bally well lost the war already.
Hard brown eyes looked up at him. "What."
George looked up, reluctant to face the hard stare, but knowing that he should at least try to face him. "With all due respect, sir..." He took a breath, which did little to help fortify him. "I don't want the medal."
Melchett's jaw set, and George found himself wanting to trace that jaw, touch the soft hair just behind Melchett's ear... He shook himself, hard.
Melchett stared at him for a long, torturous moment before deflating like a bally olive balloon. "What do you want," he asked dully.
George frowned. "Want?"
"For your silence," Melchett growled, and not in a pleasant tone, either.
"I..." George's voice trailed off, and he could see Melchett staring at him, eyes dark and flashing. And despite this, he knew exactly what he wanted to say, for once. "I don't want anything."
Melchett stared at him further, as if he could see inside of George and be able to tell if he was lying. "Nothing at all," he said skeptically.
That's not what I meant! popped into his head immediately.
When Melchett's eyes narrowed at him, he suddenly realized he'd said something. "As I suspected. Out with it, then."
He was rather stuck for it now, wasn't he? What could he say to the man who'd thrown him out, shouted all those horrible things after him when George finally retreated with his tail between his legs?
Yet, somehow, his mouth started speaking without giving his brain a heads-up.
"What I want, you can't give me."
Melchett stared at him some more, this time a sort of calculating look that made George feel like he was being measured against something, though what that was, he had no earthly idea.
At something of a loss the more the silence continued, George snapped his feet together and saluted smartly. If nothing else, being able to salute well always saw him through. "Permission to return to the barracks, sir?"
There was more silence, and just as George was about to throw himself on the carpet and grovel for forgiveness, Melchett nodded curtly. "Permission granted." He turned back to his paperwork, airily shooing George out of his office. "Dismissed."
George nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Heading out and closing the door behind him, George gusted a sigh, his gut untwisting slowly.
Perhaps it wasn't as horrible as it could've been -- at least this time, he didn't have a typewriter bunged at him -- but George had a feeling he'd just heard the thunder before the storm.
END