Current mood:	weird
Entry tags:	fic - lotr fps, fic - sharpe

Sharpe/LotR snippet, for undonne
This is what came to mind... (Maybe I should've named names? o_O)


"Jesus wept!" Sharpe looked over his shoulder, sounding vaguely annoyed. "Would you get a move on? Before the bloody Frogs come!"

Harper didn't seem too much worried by his officer's annoyance. He went about his business with steady hands, without hurrying. "Not likely, sir," he said. "Trees are thick here, would hear them coming a long way off. Besides," he added, and gently pushed Sharpe's back so to guide Sharpe's chest against the rough bark of the trunk, "my mind's not on the coming of Frogs."

"You're a damn slow bugger," Sharpe grumbled, but let his Sergeant position him against the tree, clutching at it when he felt Harper's big fingers, slicked with musket oil, finally get to the point.

Sharpe had been surprised when, following Harper--who'd followed the strange bird they'd seen flying over their heads that evening--he'd found that he didn't recognize the forest near which Wellington's army had made camp any more. The trees looked much older than he remembered, thick gnarled trunks standing close together. But Harper hadn't looked worried, and there couldn't be French on this side of the river yet.

And they hadn't been alone, away from too sharp eyes, in a long time.

"So I am," Harper genially said, and after a little more fussing--as Sharpe would've put it, if he hadn't been busy panting through his mouth and trying not to cry out--he pushed home.

That felt bloody brilliant; it always did. Sharpe spared a corner of his mind to think that it was a pity they'd lost the bird--Harper was crazy about birds--then every thought of birds, frogs and beasts of any sort was driven out of his mind, because yes, Harper was a slow bugger, but oh, didn't Sharpe like it just like that.

Slow and hard and deep and so. Bloody. Good.

When he came, Sharpe thought for a moment that he'd felt the earth--or the tree in this case--moving. Hell, Harper was that good.

Afterwards, sometimes Harper would say the strangest things. Once he'd said that Sharpe was like a wild horse waiting the right hand to be tamed, and luckily for him Sharpe had been too boneless by then to thump him: that had been one of the first times, before Sharpe learned that Harper had a thing about horses, too. Harper seemed to like all animals, and animals seemed to like him.

It was quite endearing, if Sharpe were the sort of fellow inclined to think about other fellows that way. Which he wasn't. Except maybe when he'd just got well fucked and couldn't be arsed to not be that sort of fellow.

Sharpe was just breathing normally again, and starting to wonder how the hell they would make their way back to the camp, when Harper's bird reappeared, perched on the branch of a nearby tree.

"This way, sir," Harper said, pointing at it, a fond, glowing smile on his face, and Sharpe decided that that was for the bird. Harper knew better than try and smile at him like that, surely.

Anyway, he was feeling too mellow to thump him properly just now.

They followed the bird again, and curiously enough, it seemed to lead them right out of the forest. Sharpe walked close to Harper, occasionally bumping into him, steadying himself with his hands on Harper's wide, strong back. Because it was very dark, and he didn't fancy getting lost.

When they had disappeared from sight, the tree shook down a few leaves from its head. It fastidiously wiped the sticky wet stain from its bark, then settled in to sleep again.

"Burárum," it rumbled. "Istari."

It sounded vaguely annoyed.