By Havisham

Fandom: Sharpe/Starman

PAIRING: Sharpe/Jack Knight

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Found this while looking for the next part of my story. It's a x-over between sharpe and a DC comic called Starman. Why on earth? Because I love Jack, and his best bud is an amoral British immortal named Shade who used to be a very naughty boy indeed, and who apparently has no qualms about popping into Jack's bedroom in the middle of the night, and because when Shade asked Jack if he belived in past lives, Jack said he sometimes dreamt he was a spy in the Napoleonic wars called Rosa. Why Rosa? He didn't know.

So I started was written in and around the UK last year. Maybe one day I'll finish it :)



By Havisham

Shade's Journal

I was bored, I guess. I decided to relieve my boredom, and, I hoped, other yearnings, by a visit to Jack. These visits were becoming more and more frequent, but I dismissed the troublesome thought from my mind as I appeared in the darkest corner of his apartment.

He was not aware of me, lying, trance like, before the soft flickering blue light of his television set, sprawled so endearingly across that ancient and uncomfortable couch he loves so much. His eyes are half lidded, he is close to sleep, but I detect movement, his hand, softly stroking across his groin, Jack barely aware of the movement, lost in his reverie.

I send my shadow seeping across the floor like an oil slick, trickling up the chair, sliding over his skin. Jack's muscles tighten for a moment, then he sighs, relaxing into my black embraces. Watching from my vantage point, I peel away his clothes, carefully now. Jack has already remonstrated me more than once when I have let my passions get the better of me, as his clothes apparently have great emotional, aesthetic and even monetary value. So I undress him with the utmost care. It requires great skill, a skill I delight in refining.

Naked, Jack writhes under black ribbons and coils as I fill him, enfold him, caress and tease him in a thousand places. Jack says it's like being fucked a hundred times over. His head whips back with a cry as his body succumbs to release. Only then, lying sweaty, naked and breathless on his couch, and I reveal myselfto him.

I cradle him softly my arms. His blue eyes open and I must admit, even for this jaded old fool, he takes my breath away. Jack Knight is a handsome man. Not just a pleasing arrangement of flesh and bone, but the warmth of his smile, the mischievous light in his eyes. Jack has heart, and a good heart at that. This is why Jack is a hero and protector. Champion of my beloved Opal, my city, my home.

I slide a languid finger across his smooth abdomen, trailing through his cooling seed. I trace his lips and lean in to kiss him, tasting his seed on his lips. His lips are warm, his tongue soft, his kisses languid. I wonder if I am a cold, dead thing to Jack. His eyes are so alive. He closes them. His tongue darts with mine.

Sometimes I think Jack is curious. Sometimes I think my appeal is that I am another relic of a bygone age to be added to his collection. I confess, I do not understand why he welcomes my touch or my visits. I think it is curiosity. I think we both get something we want.

I mean to leave but Jack's hands are upon me, removing my shirt and tie, and the rest of my clothes soon follow. I had not yet wanted to expose myself to Jack, to be naked before him, in case I repelled him in some fashion. But he is like a blind fish, nuzzling and suckling at my skin, and I find myself falling, drowning, bathed in his light, his life.

I wake as if from a dream in his arms. We are lying, length to length, upon his couch, so casual is our contact.

"Where did you go?" he asks, eyes seeking mine.

"No where," I replied, truthfully.

"You looked like you were dreaming."

"I don't dream," I lied. I said it so forcefully even for a fool would know I was lying, and Jack was no fool. He let it slide by gracefully however.

"What do you dream about?" I asked, trying to turn the tables, feeling too naked and exposed, and uneasy because of it. The last time I let my guard down...

"Last night I dreamt I was a spy," Jack answers, a big little boy's grin spread wide across his face. "A Napoleonic spy. All swash and buckle. All dash and excitement. I was spying for Wellington in Portugal. Or maybe Spain."

"Do tell," I prompted, trying to settle comfortably beside him, being comfortable a near impossibility on that wretched couch.

Methos' Journal

There's only one good thing about riding into Wellington's camp, and that is knowing I should be gone again by the end of the week. These English like to fool themselves that they are educated having read the writings of a few Roman half wits. They should learn Roman discipline instead of Roman poetry. Then they might have a chance of winning their war.

Not that I care.

The only thing that draws me to this stinking, filthy camp is boredom and the hope that it will be relieved by Richard.

But it seems I have been away too long. Perhaps my absence has hurt Richard. Or else he has found someone else in camp.

Whatever the reason, I have been in Wellington's camp two days and I find my protege avoiding me, or at least finding some excuse, of his making or someone else's, to be busy and away from me. I am not about to lower myself and pursue Richard Sharpe.

Damn him! I find this morning Richard and his motley crew have disappeared. Everyone is tight lipped about the apparent vanishing and Lawford is entirely smug. I suspect his hand in this. Wellington wants to see me this evening. More orders, I suppose.

Shade's Journal

Jack relaxed back against the couch, warming to his subject.

"My codename was Rosa. I can't remember why."

I make Jack tell me everything Sharpe did, and I echo his every move. I find myself thinking what a coarse and unrefined fellow this Sharpe was but then I stop thinking and lose myself in Jack, in the freedom. I thrust wildly. I hear him cry out in time. He's not crying out 'Sharpe'. He's crying 'Shade'. He repeats my name over and over as a mantra as I take him hard and it's glorious and I never knew I could feel such raw passion, that I could feel so alive.

Jack collapses under me. I cannot help myself. I need more. I rise him up above me, my shadows racing over his flesh, nipping and scratching. He writhes and the sight of his struggles makes me come again. Oh, God, Jack.

Jack reaches around and presents me with a rubber. I stare aghast at the thing in my hand. I want to feel Jack living and pulsing, surrounding me. When he's not looking, I toss it away. I won't hurt Jack, but I am above such mortal concerns. Jack is braced against the couch, ready, waiting.

I hold him aloft. Like a young god, I worship before him. My shadows move across his body like an ever changing, ever moving oil lamp effect, slick darkness swirls over his skin. He lashes back and forth and spasms, raining his seed down upon me. I touch it, taste it, then lower him gently to the ground, into my arms. I carry him through to his bedroom and lay him upon his bed. I can't resist. I nibble and tease his pliant form, biting and sucking upon his breast. But my young lover groans and tries to twist away. His body wants my touches, but he has grown fretful, like an irritable child. I have pushed Jack past pleasure and into exhaustion. I take pity on poor Jack and roll him over gently and soothe him with long soft strokes. in moments, he is sound asleep. I decide to take my leave, but I make the mistake of glancing back. He is so beautiful, and so vulnerable. I decide to stay and watch over him as he sleeps, and watch him sleep, and I wonder if he is dreaming again of being held in the arms of Richard Sharpe. I feel the tiny prick of jealousy and it surprises me. Could it be I have come to care for this man so very much, to call him friend, to love him? I think I have.