cinaed

pentapus has been asking for drawing prompts by writing a ficlet for her, and I ended up writing a Revolutionary War AU ficlet. And

pentapus drew a lovely picture of Rodney berating John here.

Rodney crouched in the dirt, muttering to himself as the sun beat down on the back of his neck. If this weather kept up, he'd have very little surplus to exchange for imported goods in the capital this year. He could already hear Jeannie's complaints in his ears: "Nothing from France, Rodney? If you would quit experimenting with the crop--"

He didn't bother looking up at the sound of hoof-beats on the road next to his field. It was either Kaleb, coming to tell him something trivial, or someone from town with still-more rumors that the Continentals were preparing for yet another attack. Rodney snorted to himself. Over four hundred Continentals were languishing in prison camps at the moment from their last attempt; he very much doubted they were going to be foolish enough to attack Canada, Upper or Lower, once more.

The hoof-beats slowed and then stopped, and a crisp voice said, "Rodney, have you noticed anything suspicious today? We've reports that there was an escape from the camp today."

Rodney blinked and looked up at that, squinting into the sun. "An escape?" he said, incredulous, and snorted. "And whose fault was that?" Even with the sun in his eyes, he knew Peter was looking exasperated and probably a little defensive.

"I am certain I don't know. Now, have you seen anyone suspicious?"

Rodney shook his head. "You're the first soul I've seen today."

Peter exhaled sharply, a clear sign he was frustrated with this whole mess and just wanted to be back at the garrison, enjoying his morning meal rather than gallivanting through the outskirts of the capital. "Well, let Kaleb know of the escape and keep an eye out for the Continental, would you?"

At Rodney's nod, Peter nudged his mount forward, calling over his shoulder, "Good luck with the summer's crop, Rodney."

"Good luck with capturing the Continental," Rodney said, and couldn't help but mutter, "You'll need it." Even if they had defeated -- and they had, quite soundly -- the Continentals in the capital, Rodney still didn't hold the Regulars and militia in high regard. After all, they still hadn't actually defeated the trouble-makers.

He looked back down at the soil, which was all but dust, and muttered another curse. Who cared about some Continental attempting to escape and get home? Rodney was more concerned with rain, or rather, with the lack thereof.

*

Rodney entered his stables, disgusted with the clear blue sky and the heat that had made him break out into an itchy sweat. They needed rain, not constant sun, and he was not in the mood to listen to Jeannie's scolding.

"At this point, you might not even get to go to the city, Sam," he declared, heading over to his favorite horse's stall.

The draft horse snorted, sidling away from his touch, and he frowned at the gelding's uneasiness. Sam was the steadiest of his horses, not to mention the most inquisitive. In the six years since Kaleb had brought the light chestnut gelding back from the capital and jokingly dubbed it Sam, after the strikingly pretty daughter of the garrison captain Rodney had been pining after, Sam had never shied away from even his raised voice.

"Sam?" he repeated, reaching out a second time, and Sam snorted, shaking his head. "What's the matter?" The sound of a pitchfork clattering on the ground answered him, and he jumped and whirled to face the noise.

The stranger who'd apparently knocked over the pitchfork grimaced for a moment, obviously mentally cursing over his clumsiness. Then he smiled, a half-sheepish, half-apologetic look. The stranger looked very much the worse for the wear; his clothing was worn and frayed, with straw in his mussed hair, and even the smile on his bearded face couldn't hide the gauntness of his features.

Rodney just stared for a moment, heart pounding and fear rooting him to spot, and after a moment the stranger raised an eyebrow and ventured a, "Hello?" in a slow drawl Rodney had never heard before.

At that, Rodney found his voice. "You're that, that Continental," he said, and the stranger's hazel eyes gleamed with what was either amusement or malice, Rodney wasn't certain which. He swallowed hard, forced out, "They're searching everywhere for you, you know. You'll be caught soon enough."

The Continental smiled at that, all teeth. "Wasn't planning on being captured," he said, almost pleasantly. "Was actually planning on taking that horse of yours and heading home."

Rodney snorted. "You're not touching Sam," he snapped, surprised when his voice didn't shake and actually came out defiant. A bit shrill, but defiant. When the Continental just looked amused, Rodney stepped forward. "Kaleb's just at the house. I give a yell and he'll--"

The next few seconds happened in a blur. One moment he was advancing on the man, the next, there was a hand on his shoulder, the brief flash of yet another stranger (this one grinning wolfishly at him), and finally a powerful fist to his jaw.

Opening his eyes, he found himself blinking up at the ceiling of his stables, head pounding and mouth tasting of blood, dirt, and straw.

"There was only supposed to be one soldier," he complained, and then swore as the sound of his own voice made his headache worsen. He was going to have words with Peter. Sitting upright, he looked around, and swore again, in English and French this time, at the sight of Sam's empty stall. Those, those--

Rodney scrambled to his feet, eyes narrowed. Well then. If Peter and the rest of the Regulars couldn't capture two horse-stealing Continentals, Rodney McKay was just going to have to do it himself.