#soultington

[cadmusfly]

custard [shippy soult/wellington snippet, ahistorical napoleonic rpf]

They could not have walked together like this, so surrounded by their respective men that they were. They could barely even have sat down together at the feast they just shared, capped off with a lovely meringue floating on a soup of vanilla custard.

"Crème anglaise for the Englishman," Soult said, and absolutely nothing about his facial expression indicated that it was the joke that it was meant to be.

But his interlocutor chuckled with the strained humour that it deserved. "I felt quite at home eating that!" said Wellesley. "Perhaps when you come to England, after the war, we will serve you some 'French toast', though I believe it is not actually French? It is bread soaked in egg-"

"Pain perdu. Lost bread, using bread unfit for other uses."

"Much like our soldiers! Of course, I am proud of my ragtag bunch, as you surely are of yours."

And at this, Soult actually smiled, though it was small and slight. "Of course," he said. "Hmmph- when I come to England, will it be as prisoner or victor, I wonder?"

Said Wellesley, "You will be treated very well either way."

"And I suppose you would be the one ensuring that?"

Wellesley's smirk was radiant. "As a conqueror, such a thing could only happen in dreams, so you would be crowned with all the gold they say you have. And as a prisoner, you would be mine, of course, and I do treat what I have caught with respect!"

"Not," said Soult, lips curled in a hungry sneer, "if I catch you first."

"And, pray tell, what will you do with your catch, unlikely as that would be?" asked Wellesley. "I confess, I do not think I would like to be displayed in the manner of your paintings, as beautiful as they are."

"I do not know." Soult sighed. "I have thought about it somewhat, ever since I espied you sleeping in that carriage. So slight, so small, so delicate…"

"How insulting!" Wellesley laughed. "I did not have such lurid thoughts about you when I caught sight of you, but perhaps I should have. Then perhaps I could have indulged in fantasies of being ravished by a devilish brute of a Frenchman!"

"Perhaps those fantasies could still come true." Soult's tone was flat and dark, but he did not look away from Wellesley. "Perhaps I am the devilish brute- what is it your men call me? The Duke of Damnation? Perhaps I could show you what hell looks like."

"Ah, Marshal Soult," said Wellesley, "I believe we are doing quite well in guiding each other into the depths of hell already. But perhaps it could be I who shows you a more personal hell tonight..?"

And all Soult said in response to that was a low and sly, "I would like to see you try."

Custard had clearly not been enough to sate their hungers.

A completely fictional and ahistorical attempt at writing a shippy Soult/Wellington snippet from the prompt "custard" given by @phatburd, Wellington being based on vague memories of the movie Waterloo and some of Sharpe

Set in a dream during the Peninsular War. I don't know anything about the Peninsular War. I don't know anything about Wellington. This interaction could not have happened in any way. I just wanted to write Soult/Wellington, and also something obviously shippy because I tend towards subtle and too much banter.