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darktrent182TITLE: A Different Sort of White
FANDOM: Blackadder
CHARACTERS: George Colthurst St. Barleigh, Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett
PROMPT: #019. White
WORD COUNT: 496
RATING: G
SUMMARY: George reflects on the color white while recovering in a hospital.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written between classes on some idle Tuesday. Unbeta'd. Also connected to my original entry for "Enemies", Giving Way, which is not included because it was written before the claim request was approved.
***
It took a lot more effort for George to open his eyes than he thought it would.
Not only that, but someone had been rude enough to stuff a sock in his head. His mouth tasted like he'd been drinking that questionable whiskey Baldrick had discovered a few days after they'd first been assigned to the trench, and his head bally well hurt. On top of this, someone had made the sun unbearably bright that it was shining through his eyelids.
It wasn't at all pleasant, and if this kept up, he was going to complain to someone. He wasn't sure quite who at the moment, but he would bally well do it.
When George did open his eyes, he suddenly found himself wondering if he was dead.
Everything was so very white. The kind of bright white that surrender flags were made of that were pressed linen and the sort. Or even the kind of white that happened when you banged your head against something and it made you see stars.
Or even the sort of white shirt the General had been wearing at the regimental ball.
... And where had that come from?
Forgetting himself for a moment, George frowned, trying to figure out just why he had thought of that particular memory out of all the ones to choose from. Out of all the white things he'd seen in his life, why would a white shirt come to mind when he thought he was dead?
He winced, of course. His head still jolly well hurt, and it was still unbearably white, now that he'd managed to pry his eyes open.
George sagged back onto his pillow with a thump and a sigh, and promptly winced again.
It was a white shirt. He'd worn more than enough of them growing up, he was sure. He might even have been wearing one when he and the Trinity Tiddlers had gone down to the Cambridge recruiting office to sign up. It wouldn't've been unusual.
It shouldn't have been that important. Certainly not important enough for him to think of it when he was quite possibly dead.
But when he closed his eyes, he remembered the General's white shirt again. The black bow tie, the gold cross of some award or another, the bright red coat the General had been wearing, even the ghastly amount of medals that had been pinned to the left breast, all in a straight line.
Such vivid colors in his mind's eye, but the dependable white shirt underneath of it all, so much brighter than the dark yellow shirt that Melchett usually wore.
George could hear someone in the room, and part of him should open his eyes -- he still wasn't entirely sure where he was, after all -- but his eyes were being bally well heavy and uncooperative again. He could feel something stiff around his left arm, as well as something around each of his fingers, but that didn't really matter now.
If he closed his eyes, he could see that white shirt again.
FANDOM: Blackadder
CHARACTERS: George Colthurst St. Barleigh, Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett
PROMPT: #019. White
WORD COUNT: 496
RATING: G
SUMMARY: George reflects on the color white while recovering in a hospital.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written between classes on some idle Tuesday. Unbeta'd. Also connected to my original entry for "Enemies", Giving Way, which is not included because it was written before the claim request was approved.
***
It took a lot more effort for George to open his eyes than he thought it would.
Not only that, but someone had been rude enough to stuff a sock in his head. His mouth tasted like he'd been drinking that questionable whiskey Baldrick had discovered a few days after they'd first been assigned to the trench, and his head bally well hurt. On top of this, someone had made the sun unbearably bright that it was shining through his eyelids.
It wasn't at all pleasant, and if this kept up, he was going to complain to someone. He wasn't sure quite who at the moment, but he would bally well do it.
When George did open his eyes, he suddenly found himself wondering if he was dead.
Everything was so very white. The kind of bright white that surrender flags were made of that were pressed linen and the sort. Or even the kind of white that happened when you banged your head against something and it made you see stars.
Or even the sort of white shirt the General had been wearing at the regimental ball.
... And where had that come from?
Forgetting himself for a moment, George frowned, trying to figure out just why he had thought of that particular memory out of all the ones to choose from. Out of all the white things he'd seen in his life, why would a white shirt come to mind when he thought he was dead?
He winced, of course. His head still jolly well hurt, and it was still unbearably white, now that he'd managed to pry his eyes open.
George sagged back onto his pillow with a thump and a sigh, and promptly winced again.
It was a white shirt. He'd worn more than enough of them growing up, he was sure. He might even have been wearing one when he and the Trinity Tiddlers had gone down to the Cambridge recruiting office to sign up. It wouldn't've been unusual.
It shouldn't have been that important. Certainly not important enough for him to think of it when he was quite possibly dead.
But when he closed his eyes, he remembered the General's white shirt again. The black bow tie, the gold cross of some award or another, the bright red coat the General had been wearing, even the ghastly amount of medals that had been pinned to the left breast, all in a straight line.
Such vivid colors in his mind's eye, but the dependable white shirt underneath of it all, so much brighter than the dark yellow shirt that Melchett usually wore.
George could hear someone in the room, and part of him should open his eyes -- he still wasn't entirely sure where he was, after all -- but his eyes were being bally well heavy and uncooperative again. He could feel something stiff around his left arm, as well as something around each of his fingers, but that didn't really matter now.
If he closed his eyes, he could see that white shirt again.
