a/n hey, this is another oneshot that I did for the new Slash Pile anth (like Sympathy for the Devil). I'll put a link to the anth in my profile, you guys should check it out!
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One
Sheridan hears the dragging feet, the pathetic bleats for mercy.
Two
They must be at the foot of the stairs leading up to Sheridan's tower study. He stands up, clears his throat. He straightens his suit. Runs a hand over his slicked hair.
Three
The door bursts open. Two soldiers stumble in, bent as they pull a collapsed, sobbing man with them. He's shouting, "Please! I was there—I swear I was there! Right on the front lines!" His eyes are wild, he claws at the soldiers' coats in desperate motions. When his gaze happens to land on Sheridan, he freezes. Sheridan can see the cogs turn behind his wet, brown eyes. "Patrick..."
Sheridan smiles. "Walter."
"Patrick, I—" Walter Turney begins, reaching out as if to touch Sheridan. He retracts his hand, wipes at the snot under his nose. "I was there..."
Exhaling, lip curling, Sheridan folds his hands behind his back. "Walter, whether you were there or not, is neither here nor there." He pauses, and quirks an eyebrow. "But we both know that you were not."
Walter makes a wheezy, defeated sound. Sheridan smiles to himself at this, and then eyes the soldiers with a stony expression, nodding at the door. They quickly drop their hold on Walter, backing away without a word; they know better than to get on Sheridan's bad side. Door shutting behind them, Sheridan sighs. "Honestly...you should have just left the country."
He can see Walter trying to make sense of the situation, the blurred searching in those brown eyes. Finally, Walter reaches out again. "You're safe..." he mumbles, "Bless the Lord."
Sheridan snorts at this, leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms as he observes Walter. "Did you think that I was dead?" He tilts his head, his smile becoming more edged. "Or did you not think of me at all?"
"I wondered." Walter breathes, inching forward on his knees, his eyes wide. "I did, Patrick, I feared for you."
"You feared for me?" Sheridan echoes, amused. He sniffs, and then nods around the room. "As you can see, there was no need."
Walter's muddled gaze shifts to the walls, to Sheridan's large oak desk, the space and luxuriousness of the room. "Ah," Walter says, licking his lips, "Yes, I can see. You have been blessed...your valour—" he stops, choking on his words, and looks down at the ground. "I see now, you are a titan for the New Order."
Considering this, Sheridan sighs, as if bored. He stares at his palm for a moment, and then his hand drops to his side. "The New Order," he says, "I grow tired of discussing it."
Sheridan steps forward, taking note of the way Walter flinches. It grates, and to show that it grates, Sheridan takes a firm grasp of Walter's chin, tilting his tear-soaked face up. Their eyes meet; there is a brief moment of nostalgia for Sheridan, but then his smile turns disdainful. "I'm afraid my fervor died quite awhile ago. New Order or not, I have other things on my mind."
He drags Walter's face a little bit closer, "For instance—where you, my dearest friend, have been all this time."
Walter's hands clasp Sheridan's wrist. "Please, Patrick..."
"If I recall," Sheridan continues meanly, "there was a bright, young man who would annoy me
on the regular, talked of the future. He would poke at me, interrupt my fun at the tavern so that he could shove all the latest pamphlets in my face."
