InsaneJournal

The Morning After
Spoiler: No spoilers. Set after Sharpe's Tiger and before Sharpe's Triumph.
Word count: 714
Rating: 15
Pairing/Characters: Sharpe/Wellesley
Notes: For Latin Cat on LJ, who requested snuggling and snarkage. Not the usual pairing to be found in this journal, but who cares!

The first paragraph is from Irregularities by Latin Cat on LJ and it may be found here.

~~~~~

Beside him Sharpe murmured sleepily and Wellesley placed a kiss to the straw-coloured hair which had long ago fallen out of its queue, stroking his hands soothingly down the whip-scarred back and smiling serenely as the younger man unconsciously sought closer contact, wriggling so their sticky, sweat-dampened bodies were pressed tightly together. He may not have danced, but for once – just this once – he felt truly free. The world was mad, Wellesley decided as his eyelids slid shut, sleep finally claiming him; and he was mad with it.

Wellesley had no idea what time it was when he finally woke to find himself with an armful of soldier, pressed closely together in a very narrow bed. Looking down at the dirty-gold head resting on his chest, he decided he didn't care, either. He found himself tracing the scars that covered the younger man's back. Sharpe twitched under his hand and he found himself staring into a pair of sleepy green eyes.

“Tickles,” Sharpe said, blinking.

“Oh?” Wellesley returned, idly tracing one welt down the length of Sharpe's back. The other man shivered a little, and caught his lower lip between his teeth, considering.

“No, it don't, not really. Not much, anyway,” Sharpe said. “Mmmm.” He wriggled again and Wellesley raised an eyebrow.

“Are you purring, Richard?”

Sharpe blinked at him. “I ain't a cat, Arthur,” he said.

Wellesley chuckled at the mental image that produced, of a beaten-up tom cat washing itself, pausing every now and then to look at him with Sharpe's eyes. “That you certainly are not, Richard.”

Sharpe wriggled up the bed until his head was next to Wellesley's on the hard pillow.

“Tempting as it is, I really don't think we should spend the day like this. I have duties to attend to, and I am sure you have to be somewhere as well.”

Sharpe sighed, and ran a pink tongue temptingly over his lower lip. “Yeah, but reveille ain't for ages yet. We got plenty of time.” He looked up at Wellesley coyly from beneath his fringe. Wellesley's breath hitched as he looked at the soldier watching him.

Sharpe needed no further invitation, but slowly leaned in for a kiss, as slowly as he'd done the previous night, although there was nothing hesitant about it now. There was no urgency about it; Sharpe was gentle if thorough and Wellesley felt his head begin to spin as if he'd had too much to drink the previous night. Eventually Sharpe broke the kiss and drew back a little, still watching Wellesley's face.

“What are you thinking about, Richard?” Strange how easy it was to use his Christian name...

A small sigh escaped the other man. “Dunno. Lots of things. Why you want me. How nice you taste. Why it took me so long to do anything...”

Wellesley frowned a little. “Took you so long? What are you talking about?”

Sharpe looked down. “I've wanted... this... with you... since Flanders. Only I knew it was never going to happen, you bein' an officer, an' all.” His Yorkshire accent grew thicker as he felt his way through the tangle of thoughts and memories.

“So why did you not say anything?”

That question earned him a look from green eyes suddenly grown hard. “Me, say somethin' to you? I'd be lucky if I got a flogging. You're an officer, for God's sake. And me... Well, I'm only a common soldier, me.”

Wellesley had grown thoughtful. “That day, when you were flogged,” he said. Sharpe shivered a little and pressed against him a little tighter; it was not a pleasant memory. “I thought you hated me.” Wellesley couldn't suppress a shudder at the memory of the look Sharpe had given him through the pain.

Sharpe snorted quietly. “Didn't hate you. I didn't even know it was you. All I saw was a red blur on a bloody horse. Couldn't see your face. And you had nowt to do wi' it anyroad.”

He dropped his head back to the pillow and began idly tracing circles on Wellesley's chest. “Let's not talk about them memories any more. There's nowt good about them.” He looked up into his colonel's face. “Let's make some good memories instead.”

And Wellesley was more than happy to comply.