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Entry tags:
April [OTP23]
Title: tower of horn and ivory
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Temeraire & Laurence & Tharkay, Background Laurence/Tharkay, Napoleon Bonaparte
Word count: ~5.5k words
Summary:The one where they're all professors. Idek what's up with this.
The day in which Laurence formally receives his promotion to Associate Professor of History at University of Wellington Dover is also the day he meets Tenzing Tharkay, the new Assistant Professor in the Geography Department. Tharkay is heart-stoppingly handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes and a quirking sort of tilt to his lips that hints at a dry sense of humour.
He is also, Laurence realises abruptly, waiting for Laurence to move out of the way of the coffee table, which Laurence does with perhaps an overabundance of apologies.
Tharkay does not reply.
This is not, of course, unusual in his colleagues in the moments before the consumption of their preferred caffeine fix, but even after Tharkay has prepared his coffee and taken a test sip with a thoughtful expression, he does not say anything to Laurence or look in his direction. It occurs to Laurence, finally, that he is probably being rather irritating.
Laurence has often had cause to note that he is uniformly incapable of meeting attractive people without humiliating himself in the process. Really, it would be entirely in character for him to meet the love of his life and annoy him into total disinterest within the first few moments of their acquaintance.
Not that Tharkay is the love of Laurence’s love. At least, Laurence hopes he’s not, given this ignominious beginning.
Laurence makes a tactical retreat from the awkward air surrounding the coffee table and enters the auditorium where the faculty meeting will be taking place. It’s still fairly empty, as Laurence habitually arrives everywhere early, so he has his choice of seats near the front—not that the seats near the front are ever crowded. Professors, like their students, have a habit of lurking in the backs of rooms during meetings like this. The professors who sit in the front at the faculty meetings have a reputation of being the trouble-makers, but Laurence refuses to apologise for taking an interest in the political machine of his institution and in all the ways it so often fails.
More and more people begin to crowd into the auditorium, talking quietly amongst themselves and giving Laurence fondly disparaging looks for the way he’s pulling out his notebook and pen to take notes by hand. Laurence isn’t certain if the looks are for the choice of paper over a tablet or the fact that he’s taking notes at all—”That’s why they give us the meeting minutes, Laurence,” they’ve tried to tell him—but really, they should be used to him by now. It’s been six years, after all.
Tharkay enters the auditorium right when Berkeley approaches Laurence. Berkeley, who is also a history professor, is one of Laurence’s closest friends in their department. Rather, he was one of Laurence’s closest friends in their department, because in this moment, he must be demoted to mortal enemy for the way he says, “Captain Laurence! Or should I say Admiral Laurence?” perfectly within Tharkay’s range of hearing.
Laurence manages not to slink down in his chair as the surrounding faculty snigger at him, but he probably goes a little red. All it takes is one (1) badly considered lecture in which he attempted to use the different professor titles as a metaphor for the naval ranks he was trying to teach his students, combined with one (1) other history professor overhearing for every professor (nprofs) in the university to start calling him “captain” with malicious glee. “I believe that post-captain would be the most analogous rank,” he says with his best mien of dignity.
Berkeley roars with laughter—he’s one of those people whose laughs are always roars—and then he collapses down into the seat next to Laurence. Tharkay moves by them to sit on the other side of the auditorium, and Laurence can’t hold back a sigh. Berkeley, unfortunately, notices, but he only raises his eyebrows curiously, which is an attack Laurence can easily parry with small-talk.
The chair of the faculty, Professor Lung Tienlien of Economics, opens the meeting with her usual style of preamble, flattering the dean’s office while sliding in little barbed comments about faculty and departments that have earned her disapproval. Laurence sits ramrod straight in his uncomfortable chair, waiting for her target to land on his favourite person, which it never fails to do.
“Unfortunately, as the mathematics department can’t be bothered to attend our meetings—”
Laurence shoots to his feet and interrupts, “I believe the faculty chair is aware that the mathematics department is currently holding their faculty interviews, which were scheduled well in advance of this meeting, and which your office was certainly notified of on multiple occasions before you decided to change the dates and times of our faculty meetings to place them in direct conflict.” Laurence hadn’t bothered to head to a microphone before speaking, as he’s confident in his ability to project, and indeed, muttering starts in all four corners of the room. The intense rivalry between the economics and mathematics department at the University of Wellington Dover was well-established and well-known, but things had grown increasingly tense since the newest tenure track professor of mathematics was hired, who was Lung Tienlien’s much younger cousin and Laurence’s dearest friend.
Despite the discontent growing in the room, Lung Tienlien looks wholly unmoved by his words. “Our reasons for rescheduling the faculty meeting were made clear, and they are no longer a relevant topic of conversation.”
“As you say,” Laurence responds noncommittally. “Nevertheless, as this scheduling conflict was caused, however unintentionally, by your office, you can hardly place the blame on the mathematics department for not attending, nor can you make any move to vote on any issues which may affect them until they are able to attend.”
Lung Tienlien’s fingers clench around her notes—paper, like Laurence’s—as the muttering of the attending faculty indicates agreement with him. “Of course,” she says. “I would certainly never think of doing otherwise.”
Laurence sits down again, Berkeley claps him in on the shoulder, and the meeting continues. It is short, and with so many agenda items struck off due to the absent department, it is lacking enough in content that it seems to have been a general waste of time for everyone. Lung Tienlien finally ends the meeting with the promise that the rest of their agenda will be dealt with at the next meeting, assuming the rest of the faculty agree to attend, and Laurence twitches in his seat, but doesn’t protest this time.
“She’s getting a lot bolder,” Berkeley says as they leave the auditorium together, frowning. “And with the retirement wave, most of the faculty in maths are too young to stand up to her properly. Only my lad Maximus even has tenure, isn’t that right?”
Laurence nods, holding open the door for a group of professors and finding himself stuck there as more and more people trickle from the room. “There’s Excidium, of course, but he doesn’t have much to do with the department now that he’s an associate provost. Professor Lily Harcourt is up for tenure this year, but even so.”
“Catherine’s little sister? Very talented scholar, that’s true. And then it's just your Temeraire and that Perscitia, who are both a long way from tenure. Two new Associate Professors and two new Assistant Professors, plus one more if the interviews go well? Hard for a fresh department like to face up against the likes of—”
“William!”
Laurence twitches, and Berkeley shoots him an apologetic look as he hurries away.
Napoleon Bonaparte, whom Laurence is perfectly willing to believe to be a descendent of the famed emperor of the same name, is a full professor of political sciences, but as an undergraduate, he’d allegedly struggled between his chosen major and history, as he enjoys to tell Laurence at every opportunity. Now the dean of the college, Laurence isn’t sure how he can have sufficient time to skulk around Laurence making unsettling observations while flashing a big, white-toothed smile, and yet Bonaparte seems present disturbingly often.
“Sir,” Laurence greets as politely as he’s able.
“I’m glad I was able to catch you. Congratulations on your promotion, cheri.” Bonaparte places a companionable hand on Laurence’s shoulder and steers him away. “There are a few points I’d like to discuss with you now. I’m hoping I can tempt you to take on a position in my office.”
Laurence’s smile becomes wooden. “It’s very kind of you to offer, sir, but—”
“Please, cheri, call me Napoleon.”
Laurence tries to hide a wince. He clears his throat. “Yes, well, I think it will take me some time to settle into my new role, and I’ve already made a number of service commitments for the year—”
“Nonsense!” says Bonaparte brightly, and then, in a very different tone, “Was there something you wanted, Mr Tharkay?”
Laurence jumps, half turning, and catches sight of Tharkay just behind them on the path leading toward the campus cafe. “Professor Tharkay,” he says, feeling himself flush. “I apologise. I do seem to be standing in your way a great deal today.”
Tharkay’s dark eyes pass between Laurence and Bonaparte, unreadable. “It’s no trouble,” he says with absolutely no inflection, “the view has been very pleasant.”
Bonaparte covers a laugh with a cough, which is how Laurence’s brain finally processes what Tharkay just said, and he turns bright red. “I—that is—thank you—that is, you as well—that is—”
Tharkay has walked away indifferently by the time Laurence stumbles to a mortified halt. Bonaparte is now laughing at him outright.
“Where did you want us to go?” asks Laurence, desperate to change the topic.
Bonaparte smiles at him, and somehow it seems rather more genuine than his previous smiles had. “The cafe, naturally,” he says. “Mais mon cheri, it seems you need my advice as a veteran of romantic manoeuvres rather than career ones.”
“Please, god, no,” mutters Laurence.
“God can’t help you now,” says Bonaparte, smirking. “Only I can. This way, cheri.”
Bonaparte buys drinks with his office credit card, belying his earlier statement that this wouldn’t be a work conversation.
“Alors, that Tharkay,” says Bonaparte when Laurence has been unwillingly sat at a cosy table by the windows, with a steaming cup of perfectly prepared coffee. “An interesting fellow. I wouldn’t have assumed he’d be your type, but I suppose that I can see the attraction, eh?”
“Can we please talk about anything else?” asks Laurence desperately.
“No,” says Bonaparte in a kind tone. “Tharkay, he came to us from Turkey, you know. Istanbul. He had tenure over there, but I believe there was some sort of, how do you say, scandal, yes? A private one, not professional, of course. Something with a lady, I believe. He opted to leave, but due to our departmental needs in the geography department, we were unable to honour his tenure, even though he’s such an excellent scholar.”
“You certainly could have honoured it if you’d felt like it,” says Laurence stiffly. He’s feeling a little disgruntled both by being the unwilling recipient of this sort of gossip and at hearing that Tharkay has apparently so recently been in a relationship with a woman. Perhaps his compliment had been said flippantly, then. Of course, he may not have a gender preference when it comes to romantic relationships, but he would certainly not be interested in another relationship so soon after whatever disaster occurred in Istanbul to have him leave. Laurence is a little surprised at how disappointed he feels at that.
“Ah, mais mon ami, these things are so difficult,” says Bonaparte dismissively. “Which you would understand if you joined my office, yes? Regardless, our Tharkay, he may not feel too pleased with being faced with your freshly promoted self, having just earned what he was so tragically denied, you see?”
“Je vois,” says Laurence dryly. He often thinks that Bonaparte and Lung Tienlien are very similar, with their habits of dodging culpability for causing other people problems to benefit themselves.
“Just so,” says Bonaparte, smiling. “This means that you will have an uphill battle when winning his heart, yes? You will have to show him your loyalty and steadfastness, those things that have done so well to win over the rest of us.”
Laurence gulps down his coffee, letting it sear his throat to avoid answering. He stares at the table with his eyes watering at the temperature.
“And of course,” Bonaparte continues brightly. “If things with Mr Tharkay don’t work out for you, you know Joséphine and I would love you to join us on occasion.”
“I believe it’s time for my office hours to begin,” says Laurence, standing abruptly. “Thank god.”
Bonaparte laughs at him as he rushes out, bright red.
Laurence’s office hours are somewhat hectic, as two of his classes have paper deadlines approaching, and when the last student leaves, he is rather exhausted. Not so exhausted, however, that he doesn’t brighten when he finds himself with one last very welcome visitor.
“My dear, how were the interviews?” asks Laurence, ushering Temeraire into his office.
“Oh, Laurence, they were dreadful,” says Temeraire, collapsing onto one of Laurence’s visitor chairs mournfully. “Everyone is so excited about this person’s theorem—and I suppose it is rather clever, though nothing compared to mine, of course—but she needn’t have such airs about it. It will be awful to work with her—she’s so frustrating. And messy. And loud. But the department seems determined to send her an offer.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” says Laurence. “But I recall you said much the same about Perscitia when you accepted your position here, and the two of you are good friends now, aren’t you?”
Temeraire huffs dismissively. “Oh, Perscitia. I wouldn’t say good friends, precisely, but I like her well enough, I suppose.”
Laurence bites back a smile. Something about the maths department at Dover seems to invite some rather exacting personalities. He’d been relieved that Temeraire had settled in so well, despite his grumbling.
“But Iskierka Granby,” insists Temeraire firmly, “is nothing like Perscitia. I’m sure Istanbul is relieved to be rid of her, but I don’t know why we need to put up with her.”
“Iskierka? What, not John’s Iskierka?” asks Laurence, startled. And then something else occurs to him. “Istanbul? Did she know Tharkay?”
“I don’t know Tharkay. Who is this Tharkay?” Temeraire observes Laurence’s face colouring, and he shakes his head pityingly. “Oh, Laurence. This isn’t another Roland situation, is it?”
“It most certainly is not.” Laurence scowls at Temeraire, fanning his face with a student’s essay draft in an attempt to pretend he’s overheated and not blushing. “Not that the Roland situation was a situation as such.”
Temeraire politely ignores this blatant falsehood and returns to the previous topic, but Laurence knows his devious little mind—alright, very large mind—is already making devious little plans to learn everything there is to know about Tharkay. “Yes, John Granby’s sister Iskierka. She’s awful, Laurence, I don’t know how Granby is able to speak of her so fondly.”
“How wonderful it will be to have her here,” says Laurence cheerfully, and Temeraire collapses on Laurence’s desk with a groan, but he’s smiling a little as he does so, meaning that Iskierka really is like Perscitia in one way—she’ll likely be another of Temeraire’s sharp, biting, and fiercely loyal group of maths friends. “You didn’t miss much at the faculty meeting, I’m afraid,” Laurence adds. “It was only your cousin making noise again.”
“Of course it was.” Temeraire rolls his eyes from where his head is still laying on the desk. “I suppose that if I accepted one of those offers, it would at least get me away from her.”
Laurence’s heart jumps. But Temeraire surely doesn’t mean to imply— “Offers?” he asks.
Temeraire doesn’t seem to hear anything odd in Laurence’s tone, thankfully. “Oh, yes, they keep coming in, especially after my last few papers made such a splash. I meant to mention them to you, but you’ve been so busy lately.”
“Yes, it’s that time in term,” Laurence sighs. He pauses a beat, but when Temeraire doesn’t seem interested in continuing the conversation, he asks, “Which institutions have offered? Anything interesting?”
“Oh, a few, I suppose,” says Temeraire, righting himself again. “A few that my mother seems to want me to take, all based in China, of course. A few scattered throughout Europe. One in Australia—that one was rather good, I remember.”
“I see,” says Laurence. Australia is so terribly far away. He clears his throat. “How lovely.”
Temeraire hums dubiously, his attention already having moved on. “I thought I ought to let you know, anyway,” he says vaguely. “Laurence, have you reached the 1800s already?”
Laurence’s special topics class has, indeed, already reached the 1800s, and the rest of their conversation as Laurence packs up his bag and they head home to their small apartment just off campus is their usual idle chatter about their classes and assignments. They make dinner together, they eat together, they work on tomorrow’s lectures together, they grade together, all just as they always do. When they finally head off to their separate bedrooms to go to sleep, Laurence thinks of their routine, established when Temeraire joined the faculty at the University of Wellington almost a year ago, his Ph.D. so fresh that the ink was still wet on his diploma. He thinks of returning to their old routine, back when Temeraire was still in grad school, of long, blurry video calls made during their rare shared free moments. It had been wonderful, back then, to know that their friendship was so strong that it could survive being stretched across the world without the fraying of a single thread.
The thought of returning to that distance indefinitely makes Laurence feel ill.
“Oh, Laurence,” says Temeraire, poking his head around Laurence’s open door as Laurence pulls down the blankets. “I forgot to say, now that it’s finally official—congratulations!”
“Hmm?”
Temeraire laughs at him. “On earning tenure! Practically as good as getting your own ship, I should think!”
The promotion has been the last thing on his mind, and a link to a place that doesn’t hold Temeraire is hardly worthy of celebration. But what can Laurence say? If Temeraire doesn’t mind the separation, then why should Laurence? So Laurence smiles back at him as brightly as he can. “Thank you, my dear.”
Laurence had thought the attention Bonaparte has paid to him was due to his reputation as someone who bucks tradition and derides authority—a very unfair reputation, he feels, as he’s always been very respectful of tradition and authority, at least when tradition and authority deserve it. But now that he has been presented with this additional piece of the puzzle, other minor mysteries start to solve themselves.
Bonaparte has been very solicitous of Laurence, always stopping in to check on him, always giving him those cheeky smiles, and those… invitations, which Laurence had always before interpreted as friendly teasing combined with some genuine interest, but which are now suspect. Bonaparte has always been very single-minded in his ambitions, and Laurence has little doubt that Bonaparte wouldn’t hesitate to enter into an affair with a random colleague regardless of any true interest in the subject of his seduction if it meant keeping a hallowed scholar like Temeraire bolstering the university’s reputation.
And Laurence had been rather flattered at Bonaparte’s supposed admiration; indeed, if Bonaparte weren’t married, he might have considered accepting his invitations. But Laurence isn’t interested in being in a relationship part-time, as it were, and certainly nothing about Bonaparte’s invitations—nor his wife’s—have implied that the invitation extended to anything deeper or more permanent.
Even his newly attained tenure is now suspect. Laurence has more than met the requirements, but while the process wasn’t easy by any means, he was never threatened with those sudden administrative hurdles he has heard spoken of. He thinks of Riley, an old friend from grad school, who has been moving from visitor position to visitor position, while Laurence got a tenure track position on his first try. Laurence is nothing special as a scholar or a man, but Temeraire had been a well-known genius even back then, and anyone who knew Temeraire knew that he and Laurence were as good as brothers. Certainly, Lung Tienlien knew.
Laurence shakes himself out of his stupor. It doesn’t matter, ultimately. Of course everyone would try to play nice with him for Temeraire’s sake. Temeraire is truly exceptional—incomparable. Who wouldn’t do whatever it takes to keep him?
Laurence will, which is why he’s hiding off campus in the early morning hours, scrolling through job postings on the cafe’s wifi. Bonaparte is a nosy bastard, and his strange ally Lung Tienlien has eyes everywhere. No need to let them catch him.
There isn’t much available. Of course, it isn’t the season for tenure-track job postings to appear, but he’d hoped to see a few visiting positions in one of the locations Temeraire had mentioned. He clicks unenthusiastically on a part-time lecturer posting from a small university near Shanghai.
“Rather a step down, isn’t it, Admiral?” asks a wry voice from behind his ear.
Laurence jumps, slaps his laptop closed, and says, “It’s captain, actually,” automatically. When his brain catches up, he feels his whole face flush red. “Or rather, it would be captain, if we were looking at naval rank parallels. I’m not a captain, either. Obviously.” He gathers himself and turns to face the newest witness to his mortification.
It’s Tharkay—of course it’s Tharkay. It could hardly be anyone else, with how his day has been going. Only Bonaparte or Lung Tienlien would be worse.
“Obviously,” agrees Tharkay, raising an eyebrow. He looks at Laurence quizzically for a moment, and then moves into the seat across from him, setting down a steaming cup of tea on the table as he does. “I know we’re strangers, but from what I can see, I may be the person best fitted to offer advice on this subject. I’ve just arrived here in flight from my own newly acquired tenure, after all.”
Laurence’s eyes narrow. “I’m hardly fleeing.” He looks at Tharkay, taking in once more the beauty of his features, the sardonic twist to his lips. He remembers Bonaparte’s little smile when he noticed Laurence’s admiration of Tharkay. “Did Bonaparte send you?”
Tharkay seems to find the idea amusing. “I’m afraid I’m here on personal business—this is the nearest cafe to my flat. Though I’m certain that he would have, given his sudden insistence that you and I have so very much in common.” Tharkay sips his tea, still studying Laurence thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have thought so before.”
“I’m not fleeing from anything,” Laurence repeats.
Tharkay raises his eyebrows in obvious disbelief, but he doesn’t disagree aloud. “Then what are you fleeing towards, Captain Laurence? A better opportunity on a better ship?”
Somehow, this second use of that silly joke is what allows Laurence to relax. His earlier tension seems ridiculous, now. And what if Bonaparte and Lung Tienlien do find out that he’s looking at other positions? What can they do other than offer him incentives to stay, and threaten his reputation elsewhere if he leaves? And if they do harm his reputation, what then? There are no jobs for them to sabotage him in, and their reach doesn’t extend outside of academia, which is where it seems his future career will necessarily lie. “This is the job I’ve always dreamed of having,” he admits quietly. “But the people in my life are more important than my job.”
Tharkay’s dark eyes are serious. “And there’s some barrier there? Your colleagues don’t understand your other relationships?”
Laurence blinks. “Oh. Oh, no, they do. No one has ever understood my relationship with Temeraire so well before I came here. Our codependence, as people frame it. But here, it seems that everyone understands what it means to have someone who’s dear in a way that has nothing to do with romance or sex. Someone you can’t live without.”
“So it’s this Temeraire who is unhappy and wants to leave?” asks Tharkay. “And you’re fleeing towards him?”
“Yes,” says Laurence. And then, “Well. At least, he’s the one with all the opportunities. He’s the famous scholar—he could go anywhere he likes.”
Tharkay quirks a tiny smile, and Laurence’s stomach twists at the sight. “And yet he’s here. Perhaps you should ask him why.” He stands to leave despite the fact that he still has more tea in his cup. “And if you two do decide to leave, come talk to me again. I’m an expert at sliding into places where no one wants me, after all.”
He is gone before Laurence can protest the point, but, it’s not as though Laurence really knows to what—or whom—Tharkay was referring.
Laurence sees Tharkay again much sooner than he’d anticipated, as he’s just sitting down for his afternoon meeting with the other members of the interdisciplinary development committee later that day when Bonaparte swans into the small conference room, a firm hand wrapped around Tharkay’s arm as he deposits him into the seat beside Laurence.
“Ah, cheri,” says Bonaparte, smiling at Laurence and ignoring everyone else in the room, including the man he himself brought. “I remembered that this committee was missing a member from the sciences, and I thought, spatial sciences count, do they not? And I know Mr Tharkay has been looking for service opportunities.”
Tharkay’s expression is perfectly blank when Laurence glances at him to evaluate his reaction to this statement. “Indeed?” Laurence hazards uncertainly.
“Yes,” says Bonaparte firmly. “I must go now, but I hope that you can stay after to get Mr Tharkay up to date?”
“I—” Laurence tries, but Bonaparte is not about to allow him the chance to refuse.
“But of course you can!” he answers himself brightly. “Have dinner! Expense it to the committee budget! I will send you some restaurant recommendations, William. Do you know Les Deux Canards? Very nice. Excellent ambiance.”
And then he bustles out of the room without a backward glance.
Granby redirects his stare from the closed door to Laurence. “What the actual fuck.”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me,” says Laurence, not meeting his eyes as he pretends to sort through his papers.
“So that doesn’t pass for normal here?” asks Tharkay. “That’s something of a relief, I’ll admit.”
“Well…” Little hesitates.
“It’s very much not normal here,” insists Laurence, as the rest of the committee make little faux polite noncommittal noises.
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” says Immortalis, and Laurence softens a little in the face of his earnestness. “Many arranged marriages have a very high success rate, you know.”
Laurence lets his face fall into his hands as Little and Immortalis burst out laughing in tandem.
“Whatever,” says Granby. “You’re not expensing to our budget, though. We can’t bloody well afford Les Deux Canapés on top of the PD training we’re hosting.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” says Laurence into his hands.
“A home-cooked meal, then?” asks Tharkay blandly. “A little bold to take me home for the first date.”
Even Granby is laughing now, and Laurence sighs. “You’ll regret inviting yourself over,” he tells Tharkay. “It’s Temeraire’s turn to cook tonight.”
“Oh?”
“He approaches the culinary sciences very… scientifically.”
Tharkay finally looks alarmed, and that really hadn’t been the expression Laurence expected to celebrate, but a victory is a victory, after all.
Temeraire texts that he is delighted to have a guest—and a test subject—for dinner, so after their committee meeting closes, Laurence leads Tharkay back to their flat on foot, describing the interdisciplinary committee’s goals, and what work they have so far completed. Tharkay listens quietly, asking the occasional thoughtful question. The conversation is surprisingly pleasant, given that their interactions up until this point have mostly involved Laurence’s general humiliation.
By the time they arrive at the flat, Laurence has almost forgotten to be nervous about introducing Tharkay to Temeraire.
Temeraire, of course, has no nerves to speak of. “Oh, so this is the Tharkay you mentioned, Laurence!” he says cheerfully, opening the door before Laurence can wrestle his keys out of his pocket. “How nice to meet you. You’re much more fit than I was expecting, based on the picture from your faculty page.”
Laurence closes his eyes. So much for getting through the rest of the evening with a minimum of mortification.
Tharkay seems to disregard the statement altogether, which is rather fair, as Temeraire likely didn’t mean it as anything more than an idle observation. “Thank you for allowing me to intrude,” he says, toeing off his shoes. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Professor… Temeraire?” There is only polite curiosity in his tone, nothing more, but Laurence scratches at his throat uncomfortably as he follows Tharkay into the flat, because, well…
Temeraire’s name is not, in fact, Temeraire. When they had met in Paris as children, Temeraire was tiny and alternately reserved and bold, dragging the older boy around the exhibits of the Louvre and chattering away in fluent French, not seeming to mind the awkward and stumbling way that Laurence responded. When Laurence said, “Je m’appelle William Laurence,” Temeraire had responded, “Salut, Laurence,” cheerfully, but he had refused to give Laurence his own name, accepting with some delight Laurence’s perhaps ill-thought-out counter-suggestion of the nickname “Temeraire, comme le navire.” Laurence had thought nothing of it as they’d wandered through the Louvre unattended together until Temeraire had whispered in his ear in his superior French, “Did you escape being kidnapped, too?” Laurence had not, and when he demonstrated this by introducing Temeraire to his distracted but present parents who were networking with business associates in one of the galleries, he set into motion a chain of events that involved a lot of adults talking to one another seriously, the police arriving, and Temeraire being taken away to the Chinese embassy, at which point Temeraire began crying until Laurence passed him his phone number and promised to find him again. The event had been confusing and frightening at the end, and on reflection, had probably been confusing and frightening the whole time for Temeraire, but at the time, Laurence had been aglow with contentment, certain that he’d found that fictional enigma that was the rumoured Best Friend Forever, his bosom buddy, his kindred spirit, his lifelong companion with whom he’d go on many daring adventures, but with whom he would always arrive safe at home just in time for tea.
At least in that he’d been right—since then, Temeraire and Laurence have become a paired set. But when they’d met again shortly after, with real introductions, and Laurence had tried to greet Temeraire properly as Lung Tienxiang, Temeraire had said tearfully, “Oh, Laurence, don’t you remember me?” and so the nickname stuck, and Laurence now only ever uses Temeraire’s real name professionally or when he is struggling his way through a conversation in Mandarin—which Temeraire insists Laurence speaks very well these days.
As Laurence and Temeraire tell this story to Tharkay in little fits and starts over dinner, interrupting one another to add clarification and details, Tharkay’s eyebrows rise higher and higher, but all he says at the end is, “And what would you like me to call you?”
“I usually prefer Temeraire when I’m speaking in English or French,” says Temeraire, tilting his head to one side. “Though I have my students call me Professor Lung, if only to irritate my cousin. In Mandarin, I prefer to be called by my Chinese name.”
“Your cousin?” asks Tharkay, though by his expression, he already knows the answer to his question.
“Lienlien,” Temeraire answers beatifically. “She hates it when I call her that, too.”
“There seemed to be a little interdepartmental rivalry on display during the faculty meeting,” Tharkay prompts. His tone sounds mild and noncommittal, but his eyes are narrowed and thoughtful as they regard Laurence and Temeraire.
“Oh, yes, that’s no secret,” says Temeraire easily. “She didn’t want me to be hired at all, but Boney insisted.” He scowls suddenly. “She’s been trying to get rid of me, too. She keeps pointing out different opportunities nearer to Shanghai to my mother, hoping I’ll be convinced to take the bait and leave.”
Laurence flinches, and it’s obvious enough that both Temeraire and Tharkay turn to look at him. “Oh, I’m certainly not actually considering it, Laurence, don’t worry. And my mother knows that, too. It’s just rather irritating having all of these offers show up, all saying, ‘we have heard that you have been looking for alternate positions,’ which is a lie.”
Laurence’s hard pounds and settles. After the anxiety that had been clenching around him since the day before, hearing Temeraire’s words makes him feel lighter than air. And yet, he can’t help but ask, “I hope you’re not settling for something lesser only for my benefit, my dear. I can follow you anywhere you like.”
“Lesser?” asks Temeraire, puffing up in offence. “It won’t be long before Wellington has the best maths program in Europe! We might be small for now, but Perscitia and I have plans—oh, but Laurence, do you mean that you are unhappy at Wellington?” Temeraire seems excessively dismayed at the idea, like he had as a young child when he had to be convinced to share some coveted toy or make some other sacrifice for a friend. “I could—I suppose I could—”
“No, dearest,” says Laurence laughing in relief. “I’m very happy with our current situation, thank you.”
“Oh, good.” Immediately reassured, Temeraire continues on his previous thread. “And if I want to stay, and you want to stay, then there’s nothing Lienlien can do about it, not while Boney is pulling all of the university’s strings. You know he’d do anything to keep Laurence here,” he tells Tharkay smugly. “Laurence is the premiere scholar in his field, you know.”
Laurence flushes at this unbelievable exaggeration. “Not nearly, my dear,” he tries, but Tharkay nods thoughtfully.
“Yes, I’ve seen that his work has been very well-received. And ‘Boney’ certainly seems invested in him.” Tharkay shoots an amused look in Laurence’s direction.
Laurence refuses to slink down in his seat, but he has rarely been so tempted. “You two are completely misinterpreting the situation. It’s Temeraire who is exceptional. Bonaparte is only so friendly with me for Temeraire’s sake.”
Temeraire and Tharkay both give him fondly dismissive smiles. “You see what he’s like,” sighs Temeraire. “It’s good that you’ll be around to help me look after him.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” says Tharkay, and his smile for Laurence softens into something that—well. Laurence smiles back helplessly.
“I hear that arranged marriages have a very reasonable success rate,” he says, and Temeraire perks up delightedly.
Tharkay laughs at him. “You still haven’t celebrated earning tenure, have you, Captain Laurence? Let’s focus on one party at a time.”
That’s right. Laurence has tenure at an institution he loves, and where he’s surrounded by people he loves. A celebration is certainly in order—the future is looking bright, after all.
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Temeraire & Laurence & Tharkay, Background Laurence/Tharkay, Napoleon Bonaparte
Word count: ~5.5k words
Summary:
The day in which Laurence formally receives his promotion to Associate Professor of History at University of Wellington Dover is also the day he meets Tenzing Tharkay, the new Assistant Professor in the Geography Department. Tharkay is heart-stoppingly handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes and a quirking sort of tilt to his lips that hints at a dry sense of humour.
He is also, Laurence realises abruptly, waiting for Laurence to move out of the way of the coffee table, which Laurence does with perhaps an overabundance of apologies.
Tharkay does not reply.
This is not, of course, unusual in his colleagues in the moments before the consumption of their preferred caffeine fix, but even after Tharkay has prepared his coffee and taken a test sip with a thoughtful expression, he does not say anything to Laurence or look in his direction. It occurs to Laurence, finally, that he is probably being rather irritating.
Laurence has often had cause to note that he is uniformly incapable of meeting attractive people without humiliating himself in the process. Really, it would be entirely in character for him to meet the love of his life and annoy him into total disinterest within the first few moments of their acquaintance.
Not that Tharkay is the love of Laurence’s love. At least, Laurence hopes he’s not, given this ignominious beginning.
Laurence makes a tactical retreat from the awkward air surrounding the coffee table and enters the auditorium where the faculty meeting will be taking place. It’s still fairly empty, as Laurence habitually arrives everywhere early, so he has his choice of seats near the front—not that the seats near the front are ever crowded. Professors, like their students, have a habit of lurking in the backs of rooms during meetings like this. The professors who sit in the front at the faculty meetings have a reputation of being the trouble-makers, but Laurence refuses to apologise for taking an interest in the political machine of his institution and in all the ways it so often fails.
More and more people begin to crowd into the auditorium, talking quietly amongst themselves and giving Laurence fondly disparaging looks for the way he’s pulling out his notebook and pen to take notes by hand. Laurence isn’t certain if the looks are for the choice of paper over a tablet or the fact that he’s taking notes at all—”That’s why they give us the meeting minutes, Laurence,” they’ve tried to tell him—but really, they should be used to him by now. It’s been six years, after all.
Tharkay enters the auditorium right when Berkeley approaches Laurence. Berkeley, who is also a history professor, is one of Laurence’s closest friends in their department. Rather, he was one of Laurence’s closest friends in their department, because in this moment, he must be demoted to mortal enemy for the way he says, “Captain Laurence! Or should I say Admiral Laurence?” perfectly within Tharkay’s range of hearing.
Laurence manages not to slink down in his chair as the surrounding faculty snigger at him, but he probably goes a little red. All it takes is one (1) badly considered lecture in which he attempted to use the different professor titles as a metaphor for the naval ranks he was trying to teach his students, combined with one (1) other history professor overhearing for every professor (nprofs) in the university to start calling him “captain” with malicious glee. “I believe that post-captain would be the most analogous rank,” he says with his best mien of dignity.
Berkeley roars with laughter—he’s one of those people whose laughs are always roars—and then he collapses down into the seat next to Laurence. Tharkay moves by them to sit on the other side of the auditorium, and Laurence can’t hold back a sigh. Berkeley, unfortunately, notices, but he only raises his eyebrows curiously, which is an attack Laurence can easily parry with small-talk.
The chair of the faculty, Professor Lung Tienlien of Economics, opens the meeting with her usual style of preamble, flattering the dean’s office while sliding in little barbed comments about faculty and departments that have earned her disapproval. Laurence sits ramrod straight in his uncomfortable chair, waiting for her target to land on his favourite person, which it never fails to do.
“Unfortunately, as the mathematics department can’t be bothered to attend our meetings—”
Laurence shoots to his feet and interrupts, “I believe the faculty chair is aware that the mathematics department is currently holding their faculty interviews, which were scheduled well in advance of this meeting, and which your office was certainly notified of on multiple occasions before you decided to change the dates and times of our faculty meetings to place them in direct conflict.” Laurence hadn’t bothered to head to a microphone before speaking, as he’s confident in his ability to project, and indeed, muttering starts in all four corners of the room. The intense rivalry between the economics and mathematics department at the University of Wellington Dover was well-established and well-known, but things had grown increasingly tense since the newest tenure track professor of mathematics was hired, who was Lung Tienlien’s much younger cousin and Laurence’s dearest friend.
Despite the discontent growing in the room, Lung Tienlien looks wholly unmoved by his words. “Our reasons for rescheduling the faculty meeting were made clear, and they are no longer a relevant topic of conversation.”
“As you say,” Laurence responds noncommittally. “Nevertheless, as this scheduling conflict was caused, however unintentionally, by your office, you can hardly place the blame on the mathematics department for not attending, nor can you make any move to vote on any issues which may affect them until they are able to attend.”
Lung Tienlien’s fingers clench around her notes—paper, like Laurence’s—as the muttering of the attending faculty indicates agreement with him. “Of course,” she says. “I would certainly never think of doing otherwise.”
Laurence sits down again, Berkeley claps him in on the shoulder, and the meeting continues. It is short, and with so many agenda items struck off due to the absent department, it is lacking enough in content that it seems to have been a general waste of time for everyone. Lung Tienlien finally ends the meeting with the promise that the rest of their agenda will be dealt with at the next meeting, assuming the rest of the faculty agree to attend, and Laurence twitches in his seat, but doesn’t protest this time.
“She’s getting a lot bolder,” Berkeley says as they leave the auditorium together, frowning. “And with the retirement wave, most of the faculty in maths are too young to stand up to her properly. Only my lad Maximus even has tenure, isn’t that right?”
Laurence nods, holding open the door for a group of professors and finding himself stuck there as more and more people trickle from the room. “There’s Excidium, of course, but he doesn’t have much to do with the department now that he’s an associate provost. Professor Lily Harcourt is up for tenure this year, but even so.”
“Catherine’s little sister? Very talented scholar, that’s true. And then it's just your Temeraire and that Perscitia, who are both a long way from tenure. Two new Associate Professors and two new Assistant Professors, plus one more if the interviews go well? Hard for a fresh department like to face up against the likes of—”
“William!”
Laurence twitches, and Berkeley shoots him an apologetic look as he hurries away.
Napoleon Bonaparte, whom Laurence is perfectly willing to believe to be a descendent of the famed emperor of the same name, is a full professor of political sciences, but as an undergraduate, he’d allegedly struggled between his chosen major and history, as he enjoys to tell Laurence at every opportunity. Now the dean of the college, Laurence isn’t sure how he can have sufficient time to skulk around Laurence making unsettling observations while flashing a big, white-toothed smile, and yet Bonaparte seems present disturbingly often.
“Sir,” Laurence greets as politely as he’s able.
“I’m glad I was able to catch you. Congratulations on your promotion, cheri.” Bonaparte places a companionable hand on Laurence’s shoulder and steers him away. “There are a few points I’d like to discuss with you now. I’m hoping I can tempt you to take on a position in my office.”
Laurence’s smile becomes wooden. “It’s very kind of you to offer, sir, but—”
“Please, cheri, call me Napoleon.”
Laurence tries to hide a wince. He clears his throat. “Yes, well, I think it will take me some time to settle into my new role, and I’ve already made a number of service commitments for the year—”
“Nonsense!” says Bonaparte brightly, and then, in a very different tone, “Was there something you wanted, Mr Tharkay?”
Laurence jumps, half turning, and catches sight of Tharkay just behind them on the path leading toward the campus cafe. “Professor Tharkay,” he says, feeling himself flush. “I apologise. I do seem to be standing in your way a great deal today.”
Tharkay’s dark eyes pass between Laurence and Bonaparte, unreadable. “It’s no trouble,” he says with absolutely no inflection, “the view has been very pleasant.”
Bonaparte covers a laugh with a cough, which is how Laurence’s brain finally processes what Tharkay just said, and he turns bright red. “I—that is—thank you—that is, you as well—that is—”
Tharkay has walked away indifferently by the time Laurence stumbles to a mortified halt. Bonaparte is now laughing at him outright.
“Where did you want us to go?” asks Laurence, desperate to change the topic.
Bonaparte smiles at him, and somehow it seems rather more genuine than his previous smiles had. “The cafe, naturally,” he says. “Mais mon cheri, it seems you need my advice as a veteran of romantic manoeuvres rather than career ones.”
“Please, god, no,” mutters Laurence.
“God can’t help you now,” says Bonaparte, smirking. “Only I can. This way, cheri.”
Bonaparte buys drinks with his office credit card, belying his earlier statement that this wouldn’t be a work conversation.
“Alors, that Tharkay,” says Bonaparte when Laurence has been unwillingly sat at a cosy table by the windows, with a steaming cup of perfectly prepared coffee. “An interesting fellow. I wouldn’t have assumed he’d be your type, but I suppose that I can see the attraction, eh?”
“Can we please talk about anything else?” asks Laurence desperately.
“No,” says Bonaparte in a kind tone. “Tharkay, he came to us from Turkey, you know. Istanbul. He had tenure over there, but I believe there was some sort of, how do you say, scandal, yes? A private one, not professional, of course. Something with a lady, I believe. He opted to leave, but due to our departmental needs in the geography department, we were unable to honour his tenure, even though he’s such an excellent scholar.”
“You certainly could have honoured it if you’d felt like it,” says Laurence stiffly. He’s feeling a little disgruntled both by being the unwilling recipient of this sort of gossip and at hearing that Tharkay has apparently so recently been in a relationship with a woman. Perhaps his compliment had been said flippantly, then. Of course, he may not have a gender preference when it comes to romantic relationships, but he would certainly not be interested in another relationship so soon after whatever disaster occurred in Istanbul to have him leave. Laurence is a little surprised at how disappointed he feels at that.
“Ah, mais mon ami, these things are so difficult,” says Bonaparte dismissively. “Which you would understand if you joined my office, yes? Regardless, our Tharkay, he may not feel too pleased with being faced with your freshly promoted self, having just earned what he was so tragically denied, you see?”
“Je vois,” says Laurence dryly. He often thinks that Bonaparte and Lung Tienlien are very similar, with their habits of dodging culpability for causing other people problems to benefit themselves.
“Just so,” says Bonaparte, smiling. “This means that you will have an uphill battle when winning his heart, yes? You will have to show him your loyalty and steadfastness, those things that have done so well to win over the rest of us.”
Laurence gulps down his coffee, letting it sear his throat to avoid answering. He stares at the table with his eyes watering at the temperature.
“And of course,” Bonaparte continues brightly. “If things with Mr Tharkay don’t work out for you, you know Joséphine and I would love you to join us on occasion.”
“I believe it’s time for my office hours to begin,” says Laurence, standing abruptly. “Thank god.”
Bonaparte laughs at him as he rushes out, bright red.
Laurence’s office hours are somewhat hectic, as two of his classes have paper deadlines approaching, and when the last student leaves, he is rather exhausted. Not so exhausted, however, that he doesn’t brighten when he finds himself with one last very welcome visitor.
“My dear, how were the interviews?” asks Laurence, ushering Temeraire into his office.
“Oh, Laurence, they were dreadful,” says Temeraire, collapsing onto one of Laurence’s visitor chairs mournfully. “Everyone is so excited about this person’s theorem—and I suppose it is rather clever, though nothing compared to mine, of course—but she needn’t have such airs about it. It will be awful to work with her—she’s so frustrating. And messy. And loud. But the department seems determined to send her an offer.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” says Laurence. “But I recall you said much the same about Perscitia when you accepted your position here, and the two of you are good friends now, aren’t you?”
Temeraire huffs dismissively. “Oh, Perscitia. I wouldn’t say good friends, precisely, but I like her well enough, I suppose.”
Laurence bites back a smile. Something about the maths department at Dover seems to invite some rather exacting personalities. He’d been relieved that Temeraire had settled in so well, despite his grumbling.
“But Iskierka Granby,” insists Temeraire firmly, “is nothing like Perscitia. I’m sure Istanbul is relieved to be rid of her, but I don’t know why we need to put up with her.”
“Iskierka? What, not John’s Iskierka?” asks Laurence, startled. And then something else occurs to him. “Istanbul? Did she know Tharkay?”
“I don’t know Tharkay. Who is this Tharkay?” Temeraire observes Laurence’s face colouring, and he shakes his head pityingly. “Oh, Laurence. This isn’t another Roland situation, is it?”
“It most certainly is not.” Laurence scowls at Temeraire, fanning his face with a student’s essay draft in an attempt to pretend he’s overheated and not blushing. “Not that the Roland situation was a situation as such.”
Temeraire politely ignores this blatant falsehood and returns to the previous topic, but Laurence knows his devious little mind—alright, very large mind—is already making devious little plans to learn everything there is to know about Tharkay. “Yes, John Granby’s sister Iskierka. She’s awful, Laurence, I don’t know how Granby is able to speak of her so fondly.”
“How wonderful it will be to have her here,” says Laurence cheerfully, and Temeraire collapses on Laurence’s desk with a groan, but he’s smiling a little as he does so, meaning that Iskierka really is like Perscitia in one way—she’ll likely be another of Temeraire’s sharp, biting, and fiercely loyal group of maths friends. “You didn’t miss much at the faculty meeting, I’m afraid,” Laurence adds. “It was only your cousin making noise again.”
“Of course it was.” Temeraire rolls his eyes from where his head is still laying on the desk. “I suppose that if I accepted one of those offers, it would at least get me away from her.”
Laurence’s heart jumps. But Temeraire surely doesn’t mean to imply— “Offers?” he asks.
Temeraire doesn’t seem to hear anything odd in Laurence’s tone, thankfully. “Oh, yes, they keep coming in, especially after my last few papers made such a splash. I meant to mention them to you, but you’ve been so busy lately.”
“Yes, it’s that time in term,” Laurence sighs. He pauses a beat, but when Temeraire doesn’t seem interested in continuing the conversation, he asks, “Which institutions have offered? Anything interesting?”
“Oh, a few, I suppose,” says Temeraire, righting himself again. “A few that my mother seems to want me to take, all based in China, of course. A few scattered throughout Europe. One in Australia—that one was rather good, I remember.”
“I see,” says Laurence. Australia is so terribly far away. He clears his throat. “How lovely.”
Temeraire hums dubiously, his attention already having moved on. “I thought I ought to let you know, anyway,” he says vaguely. “Laurence, have you reached the 1800s already?”
Laurence’s special topics class has, indeed, already reached the 1800s, and the rest of their conversation as Laurence packs up his bag and they head home to their small apartment just off campus is their usual idle chatter about their classes and assignments. They make dinner together, they eat together, they work on tomorrow’s lectures together, they grade together, all just as they always do. When they finally head off to their separate bedrooms to go to sleep, Laurence thinks of their routine, established when Temeraire joined the faculty at the University of Wellington almost a year ago, his Ph.D. so fresh that the ink was still wet on his diploma. He thinks of returning to their old routine, back when Temeraire was still in grad school, of long, blurry video calls made during their rare shared free moments. It had been wonderful, back then, to know that their friendship was so strong that it could survive being stretched across the world without the fraying of a single thread.
The thought of returning to that distance indefinitely makes Laurence feel ill.
“Oh, Laurence,” says Temeraire, poking his head around Laurence’s open door as Laurence pulls down the blankets. “I forgot to say, now that it’s finally official—congratulations!”
“Hmm?”
Temeraire laughs at him. “On earning tenure! Practically as good as getting your own ship, I should think!”
The promotion has been the last thing on his mind, and a link to a place that doesn’t hold Temeraire is hardly worthy of celebration. But what can Laurence say? If Temeraire doesn’t mind the separation, then why should Laurence? So Laurence smiles back at him as brightly as he can. “Thank you, my dear.”
Laurence had thought the attention Bonaparte has paid to him was due to his reputation as someone who bucks tradition and derides authority—a very unfair reputation, he feels, as he’s always been very respectful of tradition and authority, at least when tradition and authority deserve it. But now that he has been presented with this additional piece of the puzzle, other minor mysteries start to solve themselves.
Bonaparte has been very solicitous of Laurence, always stopping in to check on him, always giving him those cheeky smiles, and those… invitations, which Laurence had always before interpreted as friendly teasing combined with some genuine interest, but which are now suspect. Bonaparte has always been very single-minded in his ambitions, and Laurence has little doubt that Bonaparte wouldn’t hesitate to enter into an affair with a random colleague regardless of any true interest in the subject of his seduction if it meant keeping a hallowed scholar like Temeraire bolstering the university’s reputation.
And Laurence had been rather flattered at Bonaparte’s supposed admiration; indeed, if Bonaparte weren’t married, he might have considered accepting his invitations. But Laurence isn’t interested in being in a relationship part-time, as it were, and certainly nothing about Bonaparte’s invitations—nor his wife’s—have implied that the invitation extended to anything deeper or more permanent.
Even his newly attained tenure is now suspect. Laurence has more than met the requirements, but while the process wasn’t easy by any means, he was never threatened with those sudden administrative hurdles he has heard spoken of. He thinks of Riley, an old friend from grad school, who has been moving from visitor position to visitor position, while Laurence got a tenure track position on his first try. Laurence is nothing special as a scholar or a man, but Temeraire had been a well-known genius even back then, and anyone who knew Temeraire knew that he and Laurence were as good as brothers. Certainly, Lung Tienlien knew.
Laurence shakes himself out of his stupor. It doesn’t matter, ultimately. Of course everyone would try to play nice with him for Temeraire’s sake. Temeraire is truly exceptional—incomparable. Who wouldn’t do whatever it takes to keep him?
Laurence will, which is why he’s hiding off campus in the early morning hours, scrolling through job postings on the cafe’s wifi. Bonaparte is a nosy bastard, and his strange ally Lung Tienlien has eyes everywhere. No need to let them catch him.
There isn’t much available. Of course, it isn’t the season for tenure-track job postings to appear, but he’d hoped to see a few visiting positions in one of the locations Temeraire had mentioned. He clicks unenthusiastically on a part-time lecturer posting from a small university near Shanghai.
“Rather a step down, isn’t it, Admiral?” asks a wry voice from behind his ear.
Laurence jumps, slaps his laptop closed, and says, “It’s captain, actually,” automatically. When his brain catches up, he feels his whole face flush red. “Or rather, it would be captain, if we were looking at naval rank parallels. I’m not a captain, either. Obviously.” He gathers himself and turns to face the newest witness to his mortification.
It’s Tharkay—of course it’s Tharkay. It could hardly be anyone else, with how his day has been going. Only Bonaparte or Lung Tienlien would be worse.
“Obviously,” agrees Tharkay, raising an eyebrow. He looks at Laurence quizzically for a moment, and then moves into the seat across from him, setting down a steaming cup of tea on the table as he does. “I know we’re strangers, but from what I can see, I may be the person best fitted to offer advice on this subject. I’ve just arrived here in flight from my own newly acquired tenure, after all.”
Laurence’s eyes narrow. “I’m hardly fleeing.” He looks at Tharkay, taking in once more the beauty of his features, the sardonic twist to his lips. He remembers Bonaparte’s little smile when he noticed Laurence’s admiration of Tharkay. “Did Bonaparte send you?”
Tharkay seems to find the idea amusing. “I’m afraid I’m here on personal business—this is the nearest cafe to my flat. Though I’m certain that he would have, given his sudden insistence that you and I have so very much in common.” Tharkay sips his tea, still studying Laurence thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have thought so before.”
“I’m not fleeing from anything,” Laurence repeats.
Tharkay raises his eyebrows in obvious disbelief, but he doesn’t disagree aloud. “Then what are you fleeing towards, Captain Laurence? A better opportunity on a better ship?”
Somehow, this second use of that silly joke is what allows Laurence to relax. His earlier tension seems ridiculous, now. And what if Bonaparte and Lung Tienlien do find out that he’s looking at other positions? What can they do other than offer him incentives to stay, and threaten his reputation elsewhere if he leaves? And if they do harm his reputation, what then? There are no jobs for them to sabotage him in, and their reach doesn’t extend outside of academia, which is where it seems his future career will necessarily lie. “This is the job I’ve always dreamed of having,” he admits quietly. “But the people in my life are more important than my job.”
Tharkay’s dark eyes are serious. “And there’s some barrier there? Your colleagues don’t understand your other relationships?”
Laurence blinks. “Oh. Oh, no, they do. No one has ever understood my relationship with Temeraire so well before I came here. Our codependence, as people frame it. But here, it seems that everyone understands what it means to have someone who’s dear in a way that has nothing to do with romance or sex. Someone you can’t live without.”
“So it’s this Temeraire who is unhappy and wants to leave?” asks Tharkay. “And you’re fleeing towards him?”
“Yes,” says Laurence. And then, “Well. At least, he’s the one with all the opportunities. He’s the famous scholar—he could go anywhere he likes.”
Tharkay quirks a tiny smile, and Laurence’s stomach twists at the sight. “And yet he’s here. Perhaps you should ask him why.” He stands to leave despite the fact that he still has more tea in his cup. “And if you two do decide to leave, come talk to me again. I’m an expert at sliding into places where no one wants me, after all.”
He is gone before Laurence can protest the point, but, it’s not as though Laurence really knows to what—or whom—Tharkay was referring.
Laurence sees Tharkay again much sooner than he’d anticipated, as he’s just sitting down for his afternoon meeting with the other members of the interdisciplinary development committee later that day when Bonaparte swans into the small conference room, a firm hand wrapped around Tharkay’s arm as he deposits him into the seat beside Laurence.
“Ah, cheri,” says Bonaparte, smiling at Laurence and ignoring everyone else in the room, including the man he himself brought. “I remembered that this committee was missing a member from the sciences, and I thought, spatial sciences count, do they not? And I know Mr Tharkay has been looking for service opportunities.”
Tharkay’s expression is perfectly blank when Laurence glances at him to evaluate his reaction to this statement. “Indeed?” Laurence hazards uncertainly.
“Yes,” says Bonaparte firmly. “I must go now, but I hope that you can stay after to get Mr Tharkay up to date?”
“I—” Laurence tries, but Bonaparte is not about to allow him the chance to refuse.
“But of course you can!” he answers himself brightly. “Have dinner! Expense it to the committee budget! I will send you some restaurant recommendations, William. Do you know Les Deux Canards? Very nice. Excellent ambiance.”
And then he bustles out of the room without a backward glance.
Granby redirects his stare from the closed door to Laurence. “What the actual fuck.”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me,” says Laurence, not meeting his eyes as he pretends to sort through his papers.
“So that doesn’t pass for normal here?” asks Tharkay. “That’s something of a relief, I’ll admit.”
“Well…” Little hesitates.
“It’s very much not normal here,” insists Laurence, as the rest of the committee make little faux polite noncommittal noises.
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” says Immortalis, and Laurence softens a little in the face of his earnestness. “Many arranged marriages have a very high success rate, you know.”
Laurence lets his face fall into his hands as Little and Immortalis burst out laughing in tandem.
“Whatever,” says Granby. “You’re not expensing to our budget, though. We can’t bloody well afford Les Deux Canapés on top of the PD training we’re hosting.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” says Laurence into his hands.
“A home-cooked meal, then?” asks Tharkay blandly. “A little bold to take me home for the first date.”
Even Granby is laughing now, and Laurence sighs. “You’ll regret inviting yourself over,” he tells Tharkay. “It’s Temeraire’s turn to cook tonight.”
“Oh?”
“He approaches the culinary sciences very… scientifically.”
Tharkay finally looks alarmed, and that really hadn’t been the expression Laurence expected to celebrate, but a victory is a victory, after all.
Temeraire texts that he is delighted to have a guest—and a test subject—for dinner, so after their committee meeting closes, Laurence leads Tharkay back to their flat on foot, describing the interdisciplinary committee’s goals, and what work they have so far completed. Tharkay listens quietly, asking the occasional thoughtful question. The conversation is surprisingly pleasant, given that their interactions up until this point have mostly involved Laurence’s general humiliation.
By the time they arrive at the flat, Laurence has almost forgotten to be nervous about introducing Tharkay to Temeraire.
Temeraire, of course, has no nerves to speak of. “Oh, so this is the Tharkay you mentioned, Laurence!” he says cheerfully, opening the door before Laurence can wrestle his keys out of his pocket. “How nice to meet you. You’re much more fit than I was expecting, based on the picture from your faculty page.”
Laurence closes his eyes. So much for getting through the rest of the evening with a minimum of mortification.
Tharkay seems to disregard the statement altogether, which is rather fair, as Temeraire likely didn’t mean it as anything more than an idle observation. “Thank you for allowing me to intrude,” he says, toeing off his shoes. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Professor… Temeraire?” There is only polite curiosity in his tone, nothing more, but Laurence scratches at his throat uncomfortably as he follows Tharkay into the flat, because, well…
Temeraire’s name is not, in fact, Temeraire. When they had met in Paris as children, Temeraire was tiny and alternately reserved and bold, dragging the older boy around the exhibits of the Louvre and chattering away in fluent French, not seeming to mind the awkward and stumbling way that Laurence responded. When Laurence said, “Je m’appelle William Laurence,” Temeraire had responded, “Salut, Laurence,” cheerfully, but he had refused to give Laurence his own name, accepting with some delight Laurence’s perhaps ill-thought-out counter-suggestion of the nickname “Temeraire, comme le navire.” Laurence had thought nothing of it as they’d wandered through the Louvre unattended together until Temeraire had whispered in his ear in his superior French, “Did you escape being kidnapped, too?” Laurence had not, and when he demonstrated this by introducing Temeraire to his distracted but present parents who were networking with business associates in one of the galleries, he set into motion a chain of events that involved a lot of adults talking to one another seriously, the police arriving, and Temeraire being taken away to the Chinese embassy, at which point Temeraire began crying until Laurence passed him his phone number and promised to find him again. The event had been confusing and frightening at the end, and on reflection, had probably been confusing and frightening the whole time for Temeraire, but at the time, Laurence had been aglow with contentment, certain that he’d found that fictional enigma that was the rumoured Best Friend Forever, his bosom buddy, his kindred spirit, his lifelong companion with whom he’d go on many daring adventures, but with whom he would always arrive safe at home just in time for tea.
At least in that he’d been right—since then, Temeraire and Laurence have become a paired set. But when they’d met again shortly after, with real introductions, and Laurence had tried to greet Temeraire properly as Lung Tienxiang, Temeraire had said tearfully, “Oh, Laurence, don’t you remember me?” and so the nickname stuck, and Laurence now only ever uses Temeraire’s real name professionally or when he is struggling his way through a conversation in Mandarin—which Temeraire insists Laurence speaks very well these days.
As Laurence and Temeraire tell this story to Tharkay in little fits and starts over dinner, interrupting one another to add clarification and details, Tharkay’s eyebrows rise higher and higher, but all he says at the end is, “And what would you like me to call you?”
“I usually prefer Temeraire when I’m speaking in English or French,” says Temeraire, tilting his head to one side. “Though I have my students call me Professor Lung, if only to irritate my cousin. In Mandarin, I prefer to be called by my Chinese name.”
“Your cousin?” asks Tharkay, though by his expression, he already knows the answer to his question.
“Lienlien,” Temeraire answers beatifically. “She hates it when I call her that, too.”
“There seemed to be a little interdepartmental rivalry on display during the faculty meeting,” Tharkay prompts. His tone sounds mild and noncommittal, but his eyes are narrowed and thoughtful as they regard Laurence and Temeraire.
“Oh, yes, that’s no secret,” says Temeraire easily. “She didn’t want me to be hired at all, but Boney insisted.” He scowls suddenly. “She’s been trying to get rid of me, too. She keeps pointing out different opportunities nearer to Shanghai to my mother, hoping I’ll be convinced to take the bait and leave.”
Laurence flinches, and it’s obvious enough that both Temeraire and Tharkay turn to look at him. “Oh, I’m certainly not actually considering it, Laurence, don’t worry. And my mother knows that, too. It’s just rather irritating having all of these offers show up, all saying, ‘we have heard that you have been looking for alternate positions,’ which is a lie.”
Laurence’s hard pounds and settles. After the anxiety that had been clenching around him since the day before, hearing Temeraire’s words makes him feel lighter than air. And yet, he can’t help but ask, “I hope you’re not settling for something lesser only for my benefit, my dear. I can follow you anywhere you like.”
“Lesser?” asks Temeraire, puffing up in offence. “It won’t be long before Wellington has the best maths program in Europe! We might be small for now, but Perscitia and I have plans—oh, but Laurence, do you mean that you are unhappy at Wellington?” Temeraire seems excessively dismayed at the idea, like he had as a young child when he had to be convinced to share some coveted toy or make some other sacrifice for a friend. “I could—I suppose I could—”
“No, dearest,” says Laurence laughing in relief. “I’m very happy with our current situation, thank you.”
“Oh, good.” Immediately reassured, Temeraire continues on his previous thread. “And if I want to stay, and you want to stay, then there’s nothing Lienlien can do about it, not while Boney is pulling all of the university’s strings. You know he’d do anything to keep Laurence here,” he tells Tharkay smugly. “Laurence is the premiere scholar in his field, you know.”
Laurence flushes at this unbelievable exaggeration. “Not nearly, my dear,” he tries, but Tharkay nods thoughtfully.
“Yes, I’ve seen that his work has been very well-received. And ‘Boney’ certainly seems invested in him.” Tharkay shoots an amused look in Laurence’s direction.
Laurence refuses to slink down in his seat, but he has rarely been so tempted. “You two are completely misinterpreting the situation. It’s Temeraire who is exceptional. Bonaparte is only so friendly with me for Temeraire’s sake.”
Temeraire and Tharkay both give him fondly dismissive smiles. “You see what he’s like,” sighs Temeraire. “It’s good that you’ll be around to help me look after him.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” says Tharkay, and his smile for Laurence softens into something that—well. Laurence smiles back helplessly.
“I hear that arranged marriages have a very reasonable success rate,” he says, and Temeraire perks up delightedly.
Tharkay laughs at him. “You still haven’t celebrated earning tenure, have you, Captain Laurence? Let’s focus on one party at a time.”
That’s right. Laurence has tenure at an institution he loves, and where he’s surrounded by people he loves. A celebration is certainly in order—the future is looking bright, after all.