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Arthur lay with Richard in his arms, thinking how very comfortable it was, being with this man. At the end of a long day of meetings, in which he presented his strategies, heard endless arguments, tied down myriad details and encouraged his aides and senior officers to see his point of view and agree with it, it was so good have this wonderful new element in his life to look forward to, and he wanted it never to end.
That was the problem.
“I’ve been thinking,” he started slowly. Richard pulled back slightly and grinned. “Do you ever do anything else, my Lord General?”
So there followed one of those invigorating and delightful interludes in which Arthur took pride and great satisfaction in demonstrating exactly what else he enjoyed doing beside thinking, and who he enjoyed doing it with. When it was over, with much tenderness before and after, he got out of bed and poured them both some wine, handing Sharpe the second glass.
“Drink that, my dear, and listen carefully.”
“Always do.” Sharpe raised his glass and drank.
“I’ve been thinking...” He paused, but this time Richard did not interrupt. “This is difficult for me to say, but... I do not think we can go on like this.”
“Like what?” Richard gestured to his own naked body. “Like this, you mean?”
“No,” Arthur said quietly, “it’s not that side of things that’s the problem.”
Too late he remembered that he had never admitted to Richard just how deeply his feelings were engaged, that there was a “side” of the current situation that was about a lot more than simply enjoying each other’s bodies in bed whenever time and circumstance allowed. He could see that Richard had spotted his mistake.
“So you’re admitting there’s more to it, to us, than sex,” he said, surprisingly calmly. “I wondered how long it would take you.”
“Well, I am... I hope you know that I am... more than fond of you, my dear, more than fond, and I...”
“That’s as far as you’re prepared to go, is it? ‘More than fond’?” Sharpe was smiling gently, still maintaining an appearance of calm, but Arthur knew that look. It meant his mind was racing, considering all options available to him, and would not stop until he had the right answers.
Arthur was flustered, not a feeling he was accustomed to. He’d prepared his arguments carefully for what he had to do today and now Richard was teasing him, diverting him, and he had entirely lost the thread of what he’d planned to say. He stood in silence, trying to assemble it all in his mind again.
Part of it, he thought, was that in almost every day-to-day setting and relationship, he, Lord Wellington, was the man with the power. The man others had to defer to, convince, to keep happy.
He was The General, supreme head of Britain's army in the Peninsula, and his power, although always constrained by the politicians and their hangers-on, was very real.
He ordered battalions to go, and they went. He said to Colonels “capture this castle,” and they did. At his command the men were fed, they were promoted, punished, even executed, and they fought - even this man smiling up at him fought - at his direction.
He knew what men said of him, but the attributes they called his weaknesses were rather, in Arthur’s opinion at least, actually his strengths. His personal powers, as he thought of them.
A lack of facility with small talk meant that meetings were well run, efficient and, most importantly, brief.
A keen memory and an eye for detail ensured that no-one wasted his time making promises they couldn't keep, because Arthur remembered everything that was said and would insist on hearing explanations for every point of difference between the promise and the actuality.
A sharp intelligence meant he perceived the drift of men’s presentations quickly and saw the imperfections, the parts where they had not yet thought things through properly but hoped to conceal that from him. He always insisted that they address those deficiencies immediately, publicly, with the result that it was a mistake few men made twice.
And cold logic together with discomfort in social situations ensured that treating men and battalions and entire Divisions as simply tools to get a job done was easier for him than it might be for others. That did not mean he didn't regret some of the consequences, of course he did. It was his mind that was cold, not his heart. But regret was for afterwards and never got in the way of getting the job done.
But all of that was before he had opened his heart to the man who now lounged on the bed looking up at him, a man who was in many ways as cold and logical as himself. Arthur’s powers - his distance, his logic, his intelligence and cold reasoning - had all been swept away by his feelings for this man. His peace of mind and his confidence were gone, and his conduct of the war was suffering.
He had never felt so powerless in his life.
Well, that wasn't quite true, he had scarcely begun to understand the idea of power until after he'd left Eton, and it had been several years on from that before he had been in a position to feel power and wield it himself. But he'd known no different then, and now he did.
He realised he was cold and Richard patted the bed beside him and said firmly, “Arthur, it’s too cold in here to stand around getting goosepimples on your cock. If you must do the strong silent leader thing, come and do it here where I can hold you and keep you warm.”
This was what Arthur had been trying to avoid, knowing well that feeling safe and warm with Richard was the root of his current troubles, but now he had a longing to feel that warmth one last time before they must part forever. He put his glass down reluctantly and got back into bed.
Richard immediately wrapped himself around him, holding him close and murmuring in his ear, “There, that’s better, isn’t it? Mind, once you’re warm, I still want to hear what you were going to say.”
So after a few minutes Arthur explained the problem, how his love for Richard - “yes,” he said, almost defiantly, “love,” - was preventing him from seeing clearly, and making it impossible to use some of his best light infantry to full effect because he was terrified of Richard getting injured or captured. “I desperately want to protect you,” he said, “and though I know you would never demand it of me, because we are together I want to do it, and if we are together then you do have a right to expect it. And so I have decided that...”
Sharpe sat up in bed, whooshing the covers off as he went. “Stop right there,” he said. “For a man with the clearest military mind in the British army, you’re showing some very muddled thinking, Arthur. Sorry,” he added absently, pulling the covers back up.
“What you need to understand, my Lord, is that, yes, I... am more than fond of you,” he grinned, “and want to be near you whenever possible, but one of the things I love about you is that stone cold soldier’s mind of yours. The way you can look at a situation and keep personal feelings - how many casualties, which battalions, all those very human failings I know you hide so deep beneath being the General - out of the decision making. That’s very powerful and if you’ll accept the praise of a humble Captain...”
Arthur laughed, despite the tension. “As if you were ever humble, my dear.”
Sharpe ignored the interruption. “It’s a very large part of why we’re doing so well, why we all have so much confidence that we will win in the end.”
Arthur acknowledged the praise with a nod. Sharpe may be only a Captain, though unless he meant his beginnings, one of the least humble in the army, but Arthur knew he saw things more clearly than many men far senior to himself.
Sharpe settled himself against the headboard and continued. “Anyway, not only do I not expect you to protect me, I don’t want you to, not if it means I can’t do my job. That’s the thing you’re missing, my Lord. I want to do my job. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been any good at.”
Arthur couldn’t help smiling. “Not quite, my dear,” he said.
Sharpe leaned over to kiss him briefly, but went on, his words tumbling out with a fervour Arthur seldom saw in him, and he realised at last that until now Richard had been “behaving himself,” when they were together, keeping the more forceful side of his personality in the background. Out of respect or fear Arthur did not know, and he cursed himself for not having even noticed.
Sharpe saw the surprise on his face and he laughed. “Don’t tell me you thought you’d got yourself a tame lapdog when you took me into your bed! Come on, love, you’ve got more brains than that. And if you remembered to use them you’d know you have to stop trying to fight the war around keeping me safe. It’s not good for any of us.”
Arthur was beginning to feel uncomfortable lying down while Sharpe was sitting up lecturing him, so he sat up too and elbowed himself a space alongside.
“I do know that. That’s why I have decided we need to stop this.” Like Sharpe earlier, he gestured at his own naked body.
Sharpe ran a finger down his chest. “So we agree on the problem, but it’s not like you, Arthur, to be so completely wrong on the solution.” He sat back and fixed Arthur with a hard stare. “Look, I don’t want to be ‘protected’ and kept in camp all the time, I want to use my skills, just as you need to use yours. My skills are a bit more physical than yours, and like I said, getting all soft-hearted about things isn’t good for you, or me, or the bloody war.” He paused for emphasis. “I don’t want to be kept bloody safe.”
He turned to draw Arthur tightly into his arms and Arthur felt the breath warm on his neck as Sharpe murmured in his ear. “You need to re-grow that rod of iron you used to have for a backbone, my Lord, and start using me properly.” He must have felt Arthur’s tremor of laughter - there was no denying that this man was good for his mood - because he pulled back far enough to see the blush on Arthur’s face. He laughed. “Yes, you already use me very properly indeed in bed, my Lord, I shall be walking funny all day tomorrow, but you know what I mean.”
He grasped Arthur’s hand almost hard enough to hurt, and looked into his face with great intensity. “Use me, my Lord. Use my skills as a soldier. Use the fact that I’m every bit as hard a bastard as you are, and send me off to do your dirty work.” He kissed the hand and placed it against Arthur’s bare chest, where Arthur let it stay for a moment. He fancied he could almost see it vibrating with the beating of his heart. “You know I enjoy it.”
Now it was Arthur’s turn to pull Sharpe close, but he waited while Sharpe arranged an extra blanket to cover their shoulders. It was almost cold enough in the room to justify lighting a fire. Sharpe spoke again. “I need you to understand my point of view, my Lord. I don’t want you to stop loving me, I want you to love me and keep me busy.” He nuzzled into Arthur’s neck again, his words vibrating against Arthur’s skin. “And I want you to be happy in your job while I’m away and here to welcome me when I come back.”
Arthur felt foolish. Long years as The General, bearing sole and total responsibility for almost everyone around him, had led him to ignore or forget the kind of man Richard Sharpe really was and to believe that this decision had been his alone to make. Now he closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the rare sensation of being soothed and looked after.
He thought about being without this man in his life because he’d sent him away for his own peace of mind. He thought about being without this man in his life because he’d sent him on a mission and he’d been killed doing the job he loved and was so good at.
Arthur opened his eyes and stared into the familiar hard, scarred face. It was really very simple.
“I accept your conditions,” he said.
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