Comfort to the Enemy
Feb. 8th, 2012 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
barefoot_bardTitle: Comfort to the Enemy
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Jenny Ross belongs to sans nom. Jérémie Blanchard is mine.
Summary: Show the Colours AU; A French soldier tries to be kind to some English prisoners. Portugal, 1809.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme. Prompt - Jenny/Blanchard - this is probably a bad idea.
The light-haired Englishwoman was a puzzle. That was beyond doubt. Jérémie found her both frustrating and fascinating, which did not make the job of guarding her very easy. Since that unusual evening shortly after she and many others had been captured, he’d spent a good deal of time trying to make sense of the evening’s events. It had been like a series of whimsies being played out, with no discernible common theme connecting them.
In the days since, he had fortunately been spared the trial of spending too much time shepherding the women along, though the tradeoff was hardly worth it. The captured soldiers were constantly grumbling and making small difficulties where it pleased them. It was little wonder that Jérémie’s comrades bemoaned getting stuck with that duty. He disliked it himself but to complain ceaselessly about it seemed pointless.
His attention was rarely completely on his duty anyway. That strange light-haired woman had settled herself into his thoughts, which he knew was utterly unacceptable. Not that he could help it. It wasn’t often you met someone who could make even the officers throw up their hands and admit defeat.
Jérémie’s turn to guard the women came again, after Charcot begged off the duty. Again. It didn’t take a lot of thought to figure out why, though Jérémie had no interest in needling the idiot about it. Not thinking about that evening’s incident was for the best. Instead, he decided he was happy enough to be on sentry tonight, as people tended not to bother with him then. Usually, anyway.
He looked out over the huddled crowd of women, most of whom were generally keeping close together. Word of what happened a couple of days before would have gotten around to all of them by now. Suspicion of their captors had increased markedly as well. Of course. That couldn’t be helped.
Neither could the scheme he had pieced together over the past days. It was as much for his own good as not, really. If he was to be caught with the items now present in his breadbag, things would become somewhat unpleasant. He glanced toward the nearest sentry, the sleepy-eyed Couture, and judged that the man was hardly likely to pay attention to anything if it didn’t happen directly in front of him.
It was a risk, Jérémie knew, what he was about to do. A bad idea, even. But in his view it had to be done. He slung his musket from his shoulder and after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward. There was an invisible line separating the prisoners from their captors and it seemed to Jérémie that all the prisoners’ eyes were fixed on him the instant it was apparent he had just crossed that boundary.
The gazes that followed him were far from friendly as he picked his way carefully through the untidy maze of skirts, legs, and bodies. Not that he really expected them to be anything less. There had not been much kindness shown on either side in the past days. Fools like Charcot saw to that.
“Miss Ross,” Jérémie greeted, when at last he’d reached the light-haired woman. She sat with a number of other women and for an absurd instant he thought she had been holding court. All were staring at him with varying degrees of wariness on their faces. He was glad suddenly that the day light was fading, though the colour on his own face would still be very obvious.
“What do you want?”
That was a good question but he was not about to let himself dwell on it now. He noted the glances cast at his musket and was glad he had had the foresight to leave it unloaded. Not that this would help him much if the women chose to take advantage of their superiority of numbers. “I brought... something,” he said and realised how pathetic he must sound. “May I?”
He gestured at the ground, for it would be easier for him to conceal what he was doing a little better if he was not standing. Then, aware that he could hardly be seen to accept permission from a prisoner to do anything, he knelt. The women watched him with open suspicion as he opened his breadbag and dug around inside it. If the officers found out about this...
The loaf of bread and half-wheel of cheese were wrapped in an old shirt and Jérémie held the lumpy bundle out. “Take these,” he told the light-haired woman, hoping fervently that she wouldn’t ask too many questions. He’d prefer it if she didn’t ask any, but in his short experience with them, he’d learned that Englishwomen asked questions as a matter of course.
“Why should we?”
He sighed. “It is a gift.”
The one called Ross frowned. “From who?”
“From... it doesn’t matter.” Jérémie considered pressing the bundle into her hands but then settled for putting it down onto the ground. It was up to them if they did anything with it then. Saying what he really wanted to was impossible, for he couldn’t summon the words. That was even assuming he could make sense of his own thoughts - which he’d failed to do for days. He stood up. It was probably better to leave things as they were.
Without a further word, Jérémie made his way back toward his assigned post. His cheeks were completely aflame and he thought it was just as well he hadn’t tried to explain himself. Couture was staring at him but Jérémie ignored him. He hardly needed someone else to tell him what he already knew. This had definitely been a bad idea from the beginning. But, he allowed, it was done and in truth he felt a little glimmer of satisfaction at having been bold enough to make the effort. Some things simply had to be done, after all.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: The character Jenny Ross belongs to sans nom. Jérémie Blanchard is mine.
Summary: Show the Colours AU; A French soldier tries to be kind to some English prisoners. Portugal, 1809.
Author's Note: Written for a Kink meme. Prompt - Jenny/Blanchard - this is probably a bad idea.
The light-haired Englishwoman was a puzzle. That was beyond doubt. Jérémie found her both frustrating and fascinating, which did not make the job of guarding her very easy. Since that unusual evening shortly after she and many others had been captured, he’d spent a good deal of time trying to make sense of the evening’s events. It had been like a series of whimsies being played out, with no discernible common theme connecting them.
In the days since, he had fortunately been spared the trial of spending too much time shepherding the women along, though the tradeoff was hardly worth it. The captured soldiers were constantly grumbling and making small difficulties where it pleased them. It was little wonder that Jérémie’s comrades bemoaned getting stuck with that duty. He disliked it himself but to complain ceaselessly about it seemed pointless.
His attention was rarely completely on his duty anyway. That strange light-haired woman had settled herself into his thoughts, which he knew was utterly unacceptable. Not that he could help it. It wasn’t often you met someone who could make even the officers throw up their hands and admit defeat.
Jérémie’s turn to guard the women came again, after Charcot begged off the duty. Again. It didn’t take a lot of thought to figure out why, though Jérémie had no interest in needling the idiot about it. Not thinking about that evening’s incident was for the best. Instead, he decided he was happy enough to be on sentry tonight, as people tended not to bother with him then. Usually, anyway.
He looked out over the huddled crowd of women, most of whom were generally keeping close together. Word of what happened a couple of days before would have gotten around to all of them by now. Suspicion of their captors had increased markedly as well. Of course. That couldn’t be helped.
Neither could the scheme he had pieced together over the past days. It was as much for his own good as not, really. If he was to be caught with the items now present in his breadbag, things would become somewhat unpleasant. He glanced toward the nearest sentry, the sleepy-eyed Couture, and judged that the man was hardly likely to pay attention to anything if it didn’t happen directly in front of him.
It was a risk, Jérémie knew, what he was about to do. A bad idea, even. But in his view it had to be done. He slung his musket from his shoulder and after a moment’s hesitation, stepped forward. There was an invisible line separating the prisoners from their captors and it seemed to Jérémie that all the prisoners’ eyes were fixed on him the instant it was apparent he had just crossed that boundary.
The gazes that followed him were far from friendly as he picked his way carefully through the untidy maze of skirts, legs, and bodies. Not that he really expected them to be anything less. There had not been much kindness shown on either side in the past days. Fools like Charcot saw to that.
“Miss Ross,” Jérémie greeted, when at last he’d reached the light-haired woman. She sat with a number of other women and for an absurd instant he thought she had been holding court. All were staring at him with varying degrees of wariness on their faces. He was glad suddenly that the day light was fading, though the colour on his own face would still be very obvious.
“What do you want?”
That was a good question but he was not about to let himself dwell on it now. He noted the glances cast at his musket and was glad he had had the foresight to leave it unloaded. Not that this would help him much if the women chose to take advantage of their superiority of numbers. “I brought... something,” he said and realised how pathetic he must sound. “May I?”
He gestured at the ground, for it would be easier for him to conceal what he was doing a little better if he was not standing. Then, aware that he could hardly be seen to accept permission from a prisoner to do anything, he knelt. The women watched him with open suspicion as he opened his breadbag and dug around inside it. If the officers found out about this...
The loaf of bread and half-wheel of cheese were wrapped in an old shirt and Jérémie held the lumpy bundle out. “Take these,” he told the light-haired woman, hoping fervently that she wouldn’t ask too many questions. He’d prefer it if she didn’t ask any, but in his short experience with them, he’d learned that Englishwomen asked questions as a matter of course.
“Why should we?”
He sighed. “It is a gift.”
The one called Ross frowned. “From who?”
“From... it doesn’t matter.” Jérémie considered pressing the bundle into her hands but then settled for putting it down onto the ground. It was up to them if they did anything with it then. Saying what he really wanted to was impossible, for he couldn’t summon the words. That was even assuming he could make sense of his own thoughts - which he’d failed to do for days. He stood up. It was probably better to leave things as they were.
Without a further word, Jérémie made his way back toward his assigned post. His cheeks were completely aflame and he thought it was just as well he hadn’t tried to explain himself. Couture was staring at him but Jérémie ignored him. He hardly needed someone else to tell him what he already knew. This had definitely been a bad idea from the beginning. But, he allowed, it was done and in truth he felt a little glimmer of satisfaction at having been bold enough to make the effort. Some things simply had to be done, after all.