(no subject)

[and_far_away]

Sharpe and Wells emerge from the back door and head for the closest the bar has to a football pitch.

Sharpe's grinning, looking forward to the game.

Comments

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

As is Wells. Once the sun goes down he'll be out of here like a shot, but for now-

"Got some stakes to mark the goals at either end," he says, "or those orange things over there if you'd rather." The 'orange things' are plastic cones, the sort the Bar gave him when he asked for something to work on dribbling drills with. Either way, it's the work of a moment to set up the goals and return to the center line, tossing the ball from hand to hand.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Sharpe eyes the cones oddly, having no idea what they are.

"Don't mind either way."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Stakes it is, then, and when the light gets too dim to really see them properly, he'll know it's time to give up

"Right," he says some time later, and sets the ball down on the grass.

And smiles.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Sharpe smiles too.

"Who gets to kick off?"

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

For answer, Wells digs in his pocket and pulls out a coin.

"Flip you for it."

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

"You're on. Heads."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

The coin is an Irish 20p coin from 1998, one of those things that finds its way into your change when the cashier isn't looking and that stays in your pocket because it's not worth getting rid of. It spirals upward, flashing yellow in the slanting light before Wells smacks it out of the air and onto his forearm. When he lifts his hand the horse side is up.

"Heads it is," he says, and backs up a step.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Sharpe grins and takes a run-up at the ball, kicking it goalwards.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Aaah, let him. Awe and hero-worship are nothing when football is at stake.

Wells is off after the ball like a stone from a child's catapult.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Sharpe straightens up, laughing, and races after him.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

He catches up with the ball and puts a foot in front of it, then starts off dribbling towards the other end of the field. He's nowhere near kicking range of that goal and he knows it. Best to keep the ball guarded for at least a little bit, with an opponent like that around.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Sharpe marks him closely, looking for an opening.

It's been a while since he's had time to play, and he's enjoying this.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

He's good, yeah, but the ground is muddy yet and he's a mite rusty himself. Tends to signal his changes of direction in advance, so probably one of those would be the easiest spot to get the ball away from him. Even if he is on the quick side.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Sharpe spots one of them easily enough, slipping in and stealing the ball.

He starts dribbling it back towards his goal.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

"Bastard," Wells grumbles, but he's still grinning. He just needs to come around and get into the man's way some.

Might not spot an opening straight off, but he's the sort to create his own openings if he can manage it.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

And really, in games like this, that's half the fun. Not like either of them's going to complain too much about minor fouls.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Nah, not hardly. Although Wells isn't going to get too much in there, on account of this being Sharpe.

All right, so some of the hero worship got onto the field. It's going to take something a lot closer to the goal to get him to really get nasty. In the meantime he's just going to flick out a foot and see if he can't hook that ball away.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Close, but no cookie. Sharpe spots the move at the last minute and nudges the ball out of reach, shooting him a grin.

"Better luck next time."

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Wells just laughs and backs off a pace or two. Easier this way to get a good idea of what's going on- and to block the goal if it comes down to that.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

He keeps track of where Wells is, not needing to look at the ball to keep it under control.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Wells, for his part, mostly has his eyes on the ball. The remaining part of his attention is on the other man's legs. Looking up would put him in a position vulnerable to a feint, he's quite sure.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Sharpe laughs, for no particular reason, weaving down the pitch with the ball.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Wells is about resigned to goal defence at this point, but if Sharpe comes within range... well, you can't blame a man for lunging madly if something like that comes to his door.

'Course, that's an if. Wells is gonna keep himself squarely between Sharpe and his pair of stakes, dammit.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Mad lunges are acceptable. Sharpe's perfectly used to being tackled into the mud by a man eight inches taller than him.

"Come and get the ball, Sergeant", he calls out.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

He could get it in a heartbeat, if he really tried. He's done a hundred yards in ten seconds several times, now. But that, he thinks, would be unsporting. He's not up against someone with his rather bizarre resources.

So when he does bolt after the ball, it's at a perfectly normal pace- one a little faster than a man his age and size might normally be expected to manage, but a reasonable one nonetheless. It's the hooking strike with one foot that shoots out at snakelike speed.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

It takes Sharpe by surprise, even knowing what Wells is, and he loses the ball to him.

"Good play", is the sole comment before he's pacing him again, trying to get it back.

[milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com]

Wells flashes a grin and starts back up the field. He's more careful now. Last time taught him well.

[and-far-away.livejournal.com]

Sharpe grins back and follows him.