Title: Hold on
Pairing: Sharpe/Wellington
Rating: PG-13
Warning: romance without much plot.
 

It happens like this. The wood is quiet and wisps of mist curl over the grass.  Richard crouches, cradling his rifle. The rabbit bolts suddenly, his senses more acute than that of a man. Richard fires belatedly, and the horse already scared by  the speeding animal, is now frantic, unused as it is to bullets being fired so close. Richard swears, drops his rifle and runs as fast as he can, because it looks obvious that the rider is going to be unseated any moment now. Later on, Richard supposes he was aware somewhere deep down who the rider was. But at that moment everything is too rushed, too frantic to really think. To stop and notice. That’s how he ends up breathless on the ground with an armful of squirming, outraged General. Only Richard doesn’t care it is the General. What he cares about are the blue eyes glaring like the winter sky, rooting him to the spot, and an inner voice saying: ‘Hold on, hold on, hold on.’ And he does, his mind numb to everything except the colour of the other man’s eyes. 
   Finally the General struggles to get up. ‘Lieutenant Sharpe, I assure you that you can let go of me now.’ And Sharpe does, turning away because he can feel himself blushing. He doesn’t see that the General has turned way too, afraid that his face isn’t as stony as he wants it to be. They rise hastily and go in search of the General’s horse and neither says another word, but neither would have traded that time for anything else.

  The dinner is really quite good, though he prefers simpler, plainer food. Even the conversation is almost stimulating. It’s when the dinner is over that trouble starts. Maria, - he doesn’t even remember her last name, but he is pretty sure she is one of the Dons’ daughters, - smiles at him and talks quietly in slightly accented English. She is really quite beautiful: with soft curves and features. But when she tilts her face in invitation, it’s not her he wants to kiss.
  Next time he sees Sharpe he’s very short with him, and he has to clasp his fingers together really hard, when the rifleman looks down in dismay, looking far more kissable than any Maria ever will.

  He never sees the General in anything except the most proper dress. Once though when the morning is still grey and even the lowliest privates are just waking up he’s walking sleepless through the camp and sees the General outside his tent talking to one of the sentries. He feels the man’s annoyance, he sees his skin flushed from the chill of the morning air. He sees all that, but what he really notices is that the General is wearing neither a jacket nor a waistcoat, and his fine shirt reveals the hollow of his neck. Richard turns away swiftly and walks off before the urge to touch that hollow and the sharp bones that frame it becomes overpowering. He doesn’t notice, doesn’t see, the General look at him, almost searchingly, something very unlike annoyance flashing in his eyes. He is not there to kiss the now downturned corners of the General’s mouth.

 Arthur ruthlessly suppresses his desire not to send Sharpe away on another mission. He is a brilliant General and he succeeds in this endeavour. But he can’t help watching Sharpe leave the camp until his silhouette melts into the horizon. He can’t help tossing and turning in bed worrying; can’t help swearing that he’ll never send Sharpe away again.

  When he reaches the rearguard of the army trying to hide the fear that’s finally creeping along his veins now that the realization of what happened at Casa des Salinas finally hits him, his eyes search the crowd not for his ADCs, who are torn between being annoyed and relieved, but for Sharpe. The man stands slightly apart from his men. There is a tightness about his lips and darkness in his eyes, and if Arthur did not know better, he’d have thought that Sharpe is about to hit him. Of course, Sharpe doesn’t, instead he takes the riflemen to where they are supposed to be, but not before Arthur requests his presence at the tent in the evening. He doesn’t know why he does it, but is sure that he has to.

  They face off across the tent, just a desk acting as a barrier between them. And neither man can say a word, because this is not about the army, the battle, the fighting. This here is about them. But when finally Sharpe takes a step towards him, his face unreadable, Arthur thinks: “That’s what he must look like going into a battle against impossible odds.” So he meets Sharpe halfway and their mouths are mashed against each other, and his fingers dig into Sharpe’s shoulders, and he holds on, holds on, holds on.