Fic: And Spite Of This Cold Time
Jan. 1st, 2009 05:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wildestrangerAnd Yuletide writers are revealed! I can therefore reveal to you all that I wrote the one with everybody drinking lots of alcohol and with references to 17th century poetry. I am very subtle like that.
Title: And Spite Of This Cold Time
Fandom: Temeraire
Pairing: Gen, or Laurence/Tharkay/Granby pre-slash, depending on how perverted you like to be. Needless to say, I like to be dreadfully perverted.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2500
Disclaimer: Naomi Novik owns these characters, I am merely playing with them.
Spoilers: Takes place during The Victory of Eagles.
Thou best of men and friends! we will create
A genuine summer in each other's breast;
And spite of this cold time and frozen fate,
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.
Richard Lovelace, 'The Grasshopper'
This tavern is much like all the others in London; a few dripping candles that barely lighten the room, wooden tables soaked with ale and gin, and chairs made for sturdy men and hard heads. It isn't the Wing and the Claw, though, where the aviators tend to gather and where Tharkay has found himself dragged to a few times. He suspects that this place has been chosen because of the unlikelihood of encountering anyone from the Corps, and therefore, of being noticed. Tharkay looks blankly at the men who had started to rise and smile as he entered, then looks away. No need to disabuse Captain Granby of the notion that he is unfamiliar with London.
Captain Granby has not noticed. He jerks a little when Tharkay pulls back a chair at his table, and his gaze is blurred as he looks up. Could be alcohol, but the pint before him has barely been touched. There are purple shadows under his eyes, and his neck cloth has not been washed or changed in days. Worry, then, and lack of sleep. Not for the first time, Tharkay is glad that his skin is not so eager to display signs of discomfort.
"Captain."
Granby blinks, then jerks back a little, only now realising that his guest has arrived. His chair stutters against the floor as he pushes back, begins to rise, then notices that Tharkay is already sitting down. Tharkay does not smile, merely nods.
"I...thank you for coming."
Tharkay nods, again, a slightly more theatrical inclination of his head this time. Granby seems lost as to what to do next (Even more lost than usual these days, Tharkay thinks, and ignores the sliver of dread that threatens to tighten his shoulders. He will know soon enough.) and so Tharkay turns away, calls for a drink with a look and a universal hand gesture. He waits for the drink with his head bowed, elbows resting on the table. Granby stares at his hands.
Finally, a tankard full of frothy ale is placed in front of him. Tharkay pretends not to notice Granby's eyes on him as he takes the first sip, and licks away the foam on his lips.
"I didn't know whether you drank."
"I do many things."
Granby's laughter is sudden and half-choked, but Tharkay smiles back.
"Indeed. This is why..."
The hint of a grin that had started to form disappears. Tharkay glances down and leans back on his chair, waits.
"I take it you have heard about Laurence? What he did."
Tharkay stills, then nods. "Yes."
"He came back to England, afterwards."
There is no wonder in Granby's voice when he says this, only weariness. Then again, Laurence has a known tendency to do things contrary to both reason and custom. Tharkay has not yet figured out whether this is because he is unaware of the world around him, or merely determined on his own course. It is doubtful Laurence himself knows.
"I see."
"Yes. Exactly." Granby gives a bitter smile at that, a wealth of frustration evoked by the slight twist of his lips. Tharkay can imagine the arguments that would have followed, the necessity of defending Laurence on behalf of the whole of the Aerial Corps, the views of the Naval Lords and how they would have been phrased when presented to Admiral Roland.
"And Temeraire?"
"Banished to the breeding grounds."
Tharkay raises an eyebrow.
"He stays there?"
"He is being told that his good behaviour is the price of Laurence's life. For now he believes it."
The bleakness in Granby's voice threatens to choke him for a moment, but as Tharkay watches he regains his composure, and his hands are steady when he lifts the glass to his mouth. His throat moves with painful haste as he swallows, and Tharkay looks away.
"I see. And what, can I ask...forgive me, Captain, but I don't expect that you invited me here just to keep me informed. Grateful as I am to have been informed."
Granby pauses at that, and gives him a sharp look. Tharkay does not move or look away, betrays no signs of regret at the emphasis in his words. Finally, Granby nods.
"Yes, you're right. We have...Admiral Roland presents her compliments, and requests your assistance in a small matter which requires your particular skills."
Making no comment at the no doubt unintended innuendo of Granby's words , Tharkay folds his hands in his lap and looks attentive. There will be time enough later to discover whether these words were Admiral Roland's, and whether she had any ulterior designs.
"The Lords cannot be seen to offer any kind of reprieve for Laurence, especially considering how badly we are being beaten by the French. But, considering how badly we are being beaten by the French, we need Temeraire. Therefore, we need Laurence."
"You want me to help him escape?"
Granby shakes his head.
"There's no need for that, and I doubt he'd go with it in any case. No, I can give you an official letter from Admiral Roland, instructing you to attend to Captain Laurence in his quarters, relieve him of his guard and accompany him to the Corps. We have been granted permission to make use of his skills, on a temporary basis, but it is imperative that no Naval or Aerial officer is seen to release him."
"And whatever commission I might have, I could never be mistaken for an officer."
There is no hint of apology in the look Granby gives him.
"You would know that better than I. We could give you a uniform, but would that change things? Would you wear it if we did?"
Tharkay inclines his head.
"Perhaps not."
A little grumble escapes from Granby's mouth. "You know that I don't..."
"I know."
They stare at the table, both silent for a moment. This is a conversation Tharkay would prefer not to have. Finally, he raises his eyes to Granby's collar. His chin is unshaven, and his lips are bitten red. Tharkay takes another sip of his drink, places the tankard on the table with a decisive clank
"Can I see the letter?"
: :
London under Napoleon's rule is not much changed, Tharkay has found. The price of ale having risen is the most obvious sign, and the one thing punters are complaining about most. Tharkay nods with commiseration at the landlord, adds a dissatisfied grunt when paying for the drinks, and then carries them to the corner-table where Laurence is hiding. They should be left unmolested for now.
The first pint goes to discussing the information they have gathered. The second one accompanies the formulation of their plans for locating, then rescuing Granby. The third one is consumed in mostly silence, in contemplation of the likelihood of success.
Laurence had been a naval officer, Tharkay knows, but the last few years as an aviator have evidently affected his tolerance for drink. His cheeks are flushed, even in the slim light of their one candle, and there is more than concern heating his eyes. Tharkay considers whether bringing out his water-skin would draw undue attention, and whether Laurence would accept it.
Then again, they still have a few hours before it will be safe to go.
"Why did you come?"
Laurence's voice is clear, if subdued, and his eyes are sharp. Tharkay does not answer immediately, but lets the silence drag as he takes a sip of his ale. It would not do to let Laurence think it was an easy or thoughtless decision. Even if it had been.
"Captain Granby is a good man. He would not forgive me if I allowed you to walk to your death through stubbornness or foolish bravery. And I am fairly certain Temeraire would eat me."
Laurence's brow furrows even as he smiles.
"I did not realise you were so close to Granby."
There are many things he could say to that. We are not, for one. Or Temeraire has decreed us both to be part of your crew, and who am I to argue with a Celestial? Or even, we share a concern for a certain foolish captain. All of which would be potentially troublesome in their own ways. This is not a good time for creating further trouble.
Yet, the remark has potential. Tharkay waits, allows the silence gain significance. At last, he smiles, a slight hint of teeth visible.
"Would it bother you if we were?"
As soon as the words are out, he remembers how bad an idea this is. But with Laurence, the urge is always there, to prod a little further and to see what would happen. A man so concerned with propriety is a tempting target, especially since Laurence, after his years with Temeraire, can easily be drawn to follow reason and sense rather than habit.
Laurence's gaze is thoughtful. Tharkay stares calmly back, does not blink or reach for his glass. There are many ways Laurence could take the question, many things he could say in response. Most of them can be managed.
"Why would that bother me?"
Tharkay lowers his eyes, aware as he is that this is displaying a sign of weakness. He brings the glass to his mouth and wets his lips, but does not answer. He doesn't have an answer.
Laurence's fingers move closer on the table, away from his glass and towards Tharkay's. Tharkay feels his breathing cease for a moment.
"I hope you do not expect me to be troubled by your race. I would hope that our pact had put such things behind us."
His voice isn't hurt, exactly, but there is a subtle tone of disappointment in it. Tharkay gives him a direct look (Laurence appreciates directness, he reminds himself, views it as honesty) and inclines his head, as if acknowledging a point.
"I know that you are a gentleman."
"And I know how much you value those who consider themselves English gentlemen."
Laurence's eyes are gleaming and Tharkay is reminded of old soldiers flying into battle for the first time in years. Perhaps Laurence would view this as a battle. The thought is strangely thrilling, and Tharkay leans back, takes another sip of his drink. The glass is almost empty, and there is a mild blur at the back of his head. This, he decides, is not what should have happened. Another reason to guard himself more carefully around Laurence.
"Captain Laurence. I trust that you are a man of honour."
Laurence smirks. For a second Tharkay is surprised (surprised, he notes even as he recognises the feeling, at his age and by such a man) to see the glint of mischief on that usually inflexible face, but the moment is quickly dissolved as Laurence speaks.
"I'm glad to hear this, but that does not answer my question. Why would I be bothered by an intimacy between yourself and Captain Granby?"
Tharkay stills. Some things are more dangerous than a perceived familiarity between a British officer and an Oriental. Especially for him, and his circumstances and his past. The couriers between Peking and London may not fly as frequently now as they used to but they still fly, and his name is still known. For someone connected with Laurence to be a cause for scandal would be a remarkably stupid idea.
Tharkay clears his throat and makes sure to keep his voice low and even.
"That is not the word I would use. Nor would Captain Granby, I expect. It is not a word I would recommend using regarding anyone whose career one values."
A curious intensity settles on Laurence's face, but it softens into a more formal blankness as the silence continues. Now Laurence clears his throat, looks down.
"Forgive me, it is not my...I have asked you to trust my honour, but there are matters which are and should be private between gentlemen. I should not have inquired, I apologise."
Tharkay's face and voice are equally blank.
"There is nothing to be inquired about. Pray do not concern yourself."
Laurence looks up at that.
"If you say so, then of course I shall believe you."
Tharkay waits a moment, then nods, and pretends to ignore the significance of the phrasing.
: :
The first night of a journey usually calls for solitude. Tharkay likes to find a nook that is out of the way, if not quiet, before the enforced companionship of travelling by sea has become constant and unavoidable. However, the Allegiance does not encourage wanderings on the deck and on this occasion, there are other matters to be considered. Tharkay has two bottles of wine and three glasses; these, at least, will ensure his welcome.
He is about to step out of his cabin when a knock is rapped against his door. Tharkay places the glasses carefully on his bed, hides the wine bottles behind his bag, and opens the door.
Captain Granby is still wan and wearing his fatigue on his shoulders, but there is a hint of future cheer in his smile. Captain Laurence, by turn, looks unaccountably contented, considering his position, temper, and earlier mood. Tharkay is half-tempted to enquire how much rum has already been consumed, but the bottle hanging loosely from Laurence's fingers is full.
"If it is not too presumptuous to impose, we had hoped that your quarters would be the most comfortable and thus best suited for passing the evening?"
Tharkay inclines his head and smiles, then opens the door wider and moves back in invitation. The two men enter, skilfully moving around the small cabin without bumping into each other or the furniture. Laurence picks up the glasses with a delighted "Ah!" while Granby hones in on the wine with his usual unerring sense. A few moments later, a bottle is opened.
"I see you have anticipated our plans."
Tharkay shrugs and leans back against the door. His voice is fainter than he would like.
"Was I expected, then?"
A glass appears before him, full of heady-smelling wine, Laurence's fingers steady as they hold the drink for him. Tharkay takes the glass and does not worry about accidental touches. He notes the warm curve of Laurence's mouth.
"Of course."
Granby has recorked the bottle and placed it carefully between his legs, sitting back on the bed. Laurence joins him at the other end and they both look expectantly at Tharkay.
Tharkay raises his glass and coughs to clear his throat. "To Australia!"
"To Australia."
"To Australia."
He drinks deep, not wanting to loose the moment of preoccupation which the wine offers. After a while, though, it becomes difficult to ignore the two men on his bed.
Of course, it is Granby who speaks, his enjoyment in his irreverence evident in his voice.
"Won't you sit down? There is space for three here, I think."
Tharkay looks at them, his friends who have made space for him between them, and sits down. Taking another sip of his drink, he leans back and welcomes the warmth supporting him from both sides.
Title: And Spite Of This Cold Time
Fandom: Temeraire
Pairing: Gen, or Laurence/Tharkay/Granby pre-slash, depending on how perverted you like to be. Needless to say, I like to be dreadfully perverted.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2500
Disclaimer: Naomi Novik owns these characters, I am merely playing with them.
Spoilers: Takes place during The Victory of Eagles.
Thou best of men and friends! we will create
A genuine summer in each other's breast;
And spite of this cold time and frozen fate,
Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.
Richard Lovelace, 'The Grasshopper'
This tavern is much like all the others in London; a few dripping candles that barely lighten the room, wooden tables soaked with ale and gin, and chairs made for sturdy men and hard heads. It isn't the Wing and the Claw, though, where the aviators tend to gather and where Tharkay has found himself dragged to a few times. He suspects that this place has been chosen because of the unlikelihood of encountering anyone from the Corps, and therefore, of being noticed. Tharkay looks blankly at the men who had started to rise and smile as he entered, then looks away. No need to disabuse Captain Granby of the notion that he is unfamiliar with London.
Captain Granby has not noticed. He jerks a little when Tharkay pulls back a chair at his table, and his gaze is blurred as he looks up. Could be alcohol, but the pint before him has barely been touched. There are purple shadows under his eyes, and his neck cloth has not been washed or changed in days. Worry, then, and lack of sleep. Not for the first time, Tharkay is glad that his skin is not so eager to display signs of discomfort.
"Captain."
Granby blinks, then jerks back a little, only now realising that his guest has arrived. His chair stutters against the floor as he pushes back, begins to rise, then notices that Tharkay is already sitting down. Tharkay does not smile, merely nods.
"I...thank you for coming."
Tharkay nods, again, a slightly more theatrical inclination of his head this time. Granby seems lost as to what to do next (Even more lost than usual these days, Tharkay thinks, and ignores the sliver of dread that threatens to tighten his shoulders. He will know soon enough.) and so Tharkay turns away, calls for a drink with a look and a universal hand gesture. He waits for the drink with his head bowed, elbows resting on the table. Granby stares at his hands.
Finally, a tankard full of frothy ale is placed in front of him. Tharkay pretends not to notice Granby's eyes on him as he takes the first sip, and licks away the foam on his lips.
"I didn't know whether you drank."
"I do many things."
Granby's laughter is sudden and half-choked, but Tharkay smiles back.
"Indeed. This is why..."
The hint of a grin that had started to form disappears. Tharkay glances down and leans back on his chair, waits.
"I take it you have heard about Laurence? What he did."
Tharkay stills, then nods. "Yes."
"He came back to England, afterwards."
There is no wonder in Granby's voice when he says this, only weariness. Then again, Laurence has a known tendency to do things contrary to both reason and custom. Tharkay has not yet figured out whether this is because he is unaware of the world around him, or merely determined on his own course. It is doubtful Laurence himself knows.
"I see."
"Yes. Exactly." Granby gives a bitter smile at that, a wealth of frustration evoked by the slight twist of his lips. Tharkay can imagine the arguments that would have followed, the necessity of defending Laurence on behalf of the whole of the Aerial Corps, the views of the Naval Lords and how they would have been phrased when presented to Admiral Roland.
"And Temeraire?"
"Banished to the breeding grounds."
Tharkay raises an eyebrow.
"He stays there?"
"He is being told that his good behaviour is the price of Laurence's life. For now he believes it."
The bleakness in Granby's voice threatens to choke him for a moment, but as Tharkay watches he regains his composure, and his hands are steady when he lifts the glass to his mouth. His throat moves with painful haste as he swallows, and Tharkay looks away.
"I see. And what, can I ask...forgive me, Captain, but I don't expect that you invited me here just to keep me informed. Grateful as I am to have been informed."
Granby pauses at that, and gives him a sharp look. Tharkay does not move or look away, betrays no signs of regret at the emphasis in his words. Finally, Granby nods.
"Yes, you're right. We have...Admiral Roland presents her compliments, and requests your assistance in a small matter which requires your particular skills."
Making no comment at the no doubt unintended innuendo of Granby's words , Tharkay folds his hands in his lap and looks attentive. There will be time enough later to discover whether these words were Admiral Roland's, and whether she had any ulterior designs.
"The Lords cannot be seen to offer any kind of reprieve for Laurence, especially considering how badly we are being beaten by the French. But, considering how badly we are being beaten by the French, we need Temeraire. Therefore, we need Laurence."
"You want me to help him escape?"
Granby shakes his head.
"There's no need for that, and I doubt he'd go with it in any case. No, I can give you an official letter from Admiral Roland, instructing you to attend to Captain Laurence in his quarters, relieve him of his guard and accompany him to the Corps. We have been granted permission to make use of his skills, on a temporary basis, but it is imperative that no Naval or Aerial officer is seen to release him."
"And whatever commission I might have, I could never be mistaken for an officer."
There is no hint of apology in the look Granby gives him.
"You would know that better than I. We could give you a uniform, but would that change things? Would you wear it if we did?"
Tharkay inclines his head.
"Perhaps not."
A little grumble escapes from Granby's mouth. "You know that I don't..."
"I know."
They stare at the table, both silent for a moment. This is a conversation Tharkay would prefer not to have. Finally, he raises his eyes to Granby's collar. His chin is unshaven, and his lips are bitten red. Tharkay takes another sip of his drink, places the tankard on the table with a decisive clank
"Can I see the letter?"
: :
London under Napoleon's rule is not much changed, Tharkay has found. The price of ale having risen is the most obvious sign, and the one thing punters are complaining about most. Tharkay nods with commiseration at the landlord, adds a dissatisfied grunt when paying for the drinks, and then carries them to the corner-table where Laurence is hiding. They should be left unmolested for now.
The first pint goes to discussing the information they have gathered. The second one accompanies the formulation of their plans for locating, then rescuing Granby. The third one is consumed in mostly silence, in contemplation of the likelihood of success.
Laurence had been a naval officer, Tharkay knows, but the last few years as an aviator have evidently affected his tolerance for drink. His cheeks are flushed, even in the slim light of their one candle, and there is more than concern heating his eyes. Tharkay considers whether bringing out his water-skin would draw undue attention, and whether Laurence would accept it.
Then again, they still have a few hours before it will be safe to go.
"Why did you come?"
Laurence's voice is clear, if subdued, and his eyes are sharp. Tharkay does not answer immediately, but lets the silence drag as he takes a sip of his ale. It would not do to let Laurence think it was an easy or thoughtless decision. Even if it had been.
"Captain Granby is a good man. He would not forgive me if I allowed you to walk to your death through stubbornness or foolish bravery. And I am fairly certain Temeraire would eat me."
Laurence's brow furrows even as he smiles.
"I did not realise you were so close to Granby."
There are many things he could say to that. We are not, for one. Or Temeraire has decreed us both to be part of your crew, and who am I to argue with a Celestial? Or even, we share a concern for a certain foolish captain. All of which would be potentially troublesome in their own ways. This is not a good time for creating further trouble.
Yet, the remark has potential. Tharkay waits, allows the silence gain significance. At last, he smiles, a slight hint of teeth visible.
"Would it bother you if we were?"
As soon as the words are out, he remembers how bad an idea this is. But with Laurence, the urge is always there, to prod a little further and to see what would happen. A man so concerned with propriety is a tempting target, especially since Laurence, after his years with Temeraire, can easily be drawn to follow reason and sense rather than habit.
Laurence's gaze is thoughtful. Tharkay stares calmly back, does not blink or reach for his glass. There are many ways Laurence could take the question, many things he could say in response. Most of them can be managed.
"Why would that bother me?"
Tharkay lowers his eyes, aware as he is that this is displaying a sign of weakness. He brings the glass to his mouth and wets his lips, but does not answer. He doesn't have an answer.
Laurence's fingers move closer on the table, away from his glass and towards Tharkay's. Tharkay feels his breathing cease for a moment.
"I hope you do not expect me to be troubled by your race. I would hope that our pact had put such things behind us."
His voice isn't hurt, exactly, but there is a subtle tone of disappointment in it. Tharkay gives him a direct look (Laurence appreciates directness, he reminds himself, views it as honesty) and inclines his head, as if acknowledging a point.
"I know that you are a gentleman."
"And I know how much you value those who consider themselves English gentlemen."
Laurence's eyes are gleaming and Tharkay is reminded of old soldiers flying into battle for the first time in years. Perhaps Laurence would view this as a battle. The thought is strangely thrilling, and Tharkay leans back, takes another sip of his drink. The glass is almost empty, and there is a mild blur at the back of his head. This, he decides, is not what should have happened. Another reason to guard himself more carefully around Laurence.
"Captain Laurence. I trust that you are a man of honour."
Laurence smirks. For a second Tharkay is surprised (surprised, he notes even as he recognises the feeling, at his age and by such a man) to see the glint of mischief on that usually inflexible face, but the moment is quickly dissolved as Laurence speaks.
"I'm glad to hear this, but that does not answer my question. Why would I be bothered by an intimacy between yourself and Captain Granby?"
Tharkay stills. Some things are more dangerous than a perceived familiarity between a British officer and an Oriental. Especially for him, and his circumstances and his past. The couriers between Peking and London may not fly as frequently now as they used to but they still fly, and his name is still known. For someone connected with Laurence to be a cause for scandal would be a remarkably stupid idea.
Tharkay clears his throat and makes sure to keep his voice low and even.
"That is not the word I would use. Nor would Captain Granby, I expect. It is not a word I would recommend using regarding anyone whose career one values."
A curious intensity settles on Laurence's face, but it softens into a more formal blankness as the silence continues. Now Laurence clears his throat, looks down.
"Forgive me, it is not my...I have asked you to trust my honour, but there are matters which are and should be private between gentlemen. I should not have inquired, I apologise."
Tharkay's face and voice are equally blank.
"There is nothing to be inquired about. Pray do not concern yourself."
Laurence looks up at that.
"If you say so, then of course I shall believe you."
Tharkay waits a moment, then nods, and pretends to ignore the significance of the phrasing.
: :
The first night of a journey usually calls for solitude. Tharkay likes to find a nook that is out of the way, if not quiet, before the enforced companionship of travelling by sea has become constant and unavoidable. However, the Allegiance does not encourage wanderings on the deck and on this occasion, there are other matters to be considered. Tharkay has two bottles of wine and three glasses; these, at least, will ensure his welcome.
He is about to step out of his cabin when a knock is rapped against his door. Tharkay places the glasses carefully on his bed, hides the wine bottles behind his bag, and opens the door.
Captain Granby is still wan and wearing his fatigue on his shoulders, but there is a hint of future cheer in his smile. Captain Laurence, by turn, looks unaccountably contented, considering his position, temper, and earlier mood. Tharkay is half-tempted to enquire how much rum has already been consumed, but the bottle hanging loosely from Laurence's fingers is full.
"If it is not too presumptuous to impose, we had hoped that your quarters would be the most comfortable and thus best suited for passing the evening?"
Tharkay inclines his head and smiles, then opens the door wider and moves back in invitation. The two men enter, skilfully moving around the small cabin without bumping into each other or the furniture. Laurence picks up the glasses with a delighted "Ah!" while Granby hones in on the wine with his usual unerring sense. A few moments later, a bottle is opened.
"I see you have anticipated our plans."
Tharkay shrugs and leans back against the door. His voice is fainter than he would like.
"Was I expected, then?"
A glass appears before him, full of heady-smelling wine, Laurence's fingers steady as they hold the drink for him. Tharkay takes the glass and does not worry about accidental touches. He notes the warm curve of Laurence's mouth.
"Of course."
Granby has recorked the bottle and placed it carefully between his legs, sitting back on the bed. Laurence joins him at the other end and they both look expectantly at Tharkay.
Tharkay raises his glass and coughs to clear his throat. "To Australia!"
"To Australia."
"To Australia."
He drinks deep, not wanting to loose the moment of preoccupation which the wine offers. After a while, though, it becomes difficult to ignore the two men on his bed.
Of course, it is Granby who speaks, his enjoyment in his irreverence evident in his voice.
"Won't you sit down? There is space for three here, I think."
Tharkay looks at them, his friends who have made space for him between them, and sits down. Taking another sip of his drink, he leans back and welcomes the warmth supporting him from both sides.
