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Negotiations (More Feathers, Please) [Temeraire, oneshot]
Title: Negotiations (More Feathers, Please)
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Laurence & Temeraire, Laurence & Temeraire & Harcourt, Laurence/Napoleon preslash
Word count: ~4k words
Summary: A cracky no-war AU. Despite the lack of war, Laurence and Temeraire still manage to be a diplomatic incident.
Notes: For the Temeraire summer gift exchange.
When they sighted the French frigate limping along the newly calmed waters after the long storms of the previous night, Captain William Laurence of the Reliant ordered the crew to approach and assist.
This order came to the surprise of absolutely no one. With the long peace between Britain and France, the two navies were well familiar with the process of helping a ship flying the flags of their neighbours, despite the occasional friendly rivalries that arose. That peace had not been disrupted by the rise of the new self-styled French Emperor, and though Laurence did not think much of his nation’s leaders for abandoning their previous allies in the wake of the French civil war, he nevertheless was pleased to be helping rather than fighting his neighbours.
It was, however, possible that that sentiment was not quite universal. The crew of the Amitie was stiff and unfriendly when the Reliant approached and Laurence came aboard to speak with their captain, and they almost refused aid despite their obvious desperate need of it. Whatever was going through their heads, practicality finally won through, and they grudgingly accepted help with repairs and supplies.
The atmosphere was so tense, and the expressions of the French crew so sullen, that Laurence found himself unable to risk worsening conditions even further by leaving the crews unattended by himself. The men of the navy could be, Laurence acknowledged, rather coarse, and though he had made great strides with the manners of his own crew, he was not yet willing to test how those new niceties would hold up when faced with the ambivalence—and even malevolence—of their French allies. If opinions of Britain were this bad across the border, then Laurence didn’t want to imagine how much worse they might become should a fight break out between these two crews during a rescue mission.
And so, Laurence and a few carefully selected workmen came aboard the Amitie along with a load of supplies, and the two ships matched speed and heading toward the Amitie’s original destination, a port off the coast of southern France. The French crew did not soften to Laurence or the other Britons throughout their journey, but they did seem to relax slightly as they slowly grew closer to French shores.
Of course, that only lasted until a midshipman burst up from below deck yelling, “Capitaine, capitaine, la bête, elle est arrivée!”
Laurence’s French was rather too pitiful for him to understand even such a short sentence, but the midshipman’s panic was alarming in and of itself, especially when the captain of the Amitie paled and jerked forward as though to follow the midshipman back below deck. Before he was able to do so, sailors began streaming up to the deck of the ship, clearly fleeing from something.
The French captain cursed—that French, Laurence understood.
“What is it?” asked Laurence urgently. “A fire? A breach?”
For despite the absence of any of the symptoms he might have expected from either of those two disasters, he could not comprehend what else could be causing such panic amongst the crew.
When he received no response, he pushed forward through the crowd, but the progress was slow-going, as the sailors were trying desperately to shove themselves in the opposite direction.
“Où est Jean, ce bâtard?” Laurence heard the French captain demand behind him.
“Il est tombé! Il s’est fait mal à la tête et ne peut pas se relever! Mais peu importe, comme la bête ne l'a jamais regardé!”
“Merde!”
Laurence had just reached the edge of the crowd when the answers to all of his confusion from the last week were made clear. A small, black snout rose from the ladder to the decks below, and then a small black head, and then a long, serpentine neck.
It was a dragon. The French had been hiding a dragon—or, more probably, an egg—aboard the Amitie. This explained why they had been so anxious and cold, though Laurence didn’t think much of their reasoning. Did they believe Laurence would steal it, claim it for England? He was a captain of an allied vessel, not a pirate!
He began to back away slowly, intending to speak to the captain to understand what must be some very quickly revised plans, when the little dragon finished levering itself onto the deck and immediately came toward him, barely stopping to investigate the curiosities around him, though he did eye them as though with the intent to return to them later.
The dragon looked up at him and said, “Hello.”
Laurence had to close his eyes for a moment. Apparently, he would be stealing the dragon after all.
So much for avoiding a diplomatic incident.
Despite the protests of the Amitie, Laurence returned to the Reliant and changed their heading to nearby Gibraltar to let someone else handle the political mess.
The French government was furious that a Briton should have stolen their egg, and they demanded that their dragon be returned to their soil immediately. Apparently, the egg had been a gift from China intended not only for the French, but for the emperor, Napoleon I of France.
The British government was apologetic, but made no efforts to force the return of the dragon, referring the matter instead to their experts in the Corps.
The British Aerial Corps were also furious that a man not of the Corps should have stolen their egg, and they demanded that they try to convince the newly named Temeraire to accept the harness of a different British man. On Temeraire’s firm and nearly violent refusal, Laurence and Temeraire were relocated to the covert in Dover as the political fires burned on.
It was all a terrible mess, so Laurence wasn’t sure why he was so happy.
Temeraire was wonderful—terribly clever, curious, passionate, interesting. Laurence had always been pleased and proud of his friendships before, but somehow Temeraire had, in the span of a few short weeks, risen to being his very favourite person in the world.
While the humans fought over the provenance and allegiance of the new dragon, the dragons themselves took the situation much more practically.
“Regardless of where you end up, you are here now, so we might as well teach you to fly properly,” said Celeritas, their training master.
Temeraire bristled at the implication, but the truth was that Celeritas had a great deal of very useful advice for him in how to manoeuvre most effectively in the air.
“Of course he does!” said Berkley when Laurence remarked on this. Captain Berkley and his Regal Copper, Maximus, were also students of Celeritas, and of all of their new peers, Berkely had proven the friendliest to Laurence. “He’s the best instructor in the Corps, and no wonder that he is, as he’s been doing it the longest.” Berkley eyed Laurence thoughtfully. “You’re bloody lucky that he’s here at all. I don’t suppose they would have let you two escape to Loch Laggan, not with the noise you’ve raised.”
“Likely not,” agreed Laurence. “Celeritas was recently stationed at Loch Laggan? A Scottish covert, I assume?”
“What gave it away?” asked Berkley, grinning.
Laurence smiled back. “I hazarded a guess,” he said wryly. “Why did the admiralty reassign him to Dover?”
Berkley roared with laughter, but this time, Laurence wasn’t in on the joke. His smile stiffened a little in awkwardness as he waited for an explanation.
“The admiralty had nothing much to do with it,” said a quiet voice from behind Laurence.
He turned to greet their fellow student, Captain Harcourt, whose Longwing Lily and her poison sacs had inspired Temeraire to perhaps even more jealous competition than the massive Maximus. Competitiveness aside, Temeraire got along with both Maximus and Lily much better than Laurence got along with Harcourt, who had become no warmer even after spending nearly all of the past few days together in the same company. In keeping with that attitude, Harcourt only gave Laurence a stiff nod in response to his greeting.
“No?” asked Laurence. “Surely they have a say in which dragons are assigned where.”
“The admiralty assigns the captains to posts,” Harcourt agreed, “and their dragons follow. Celeritas has no captain, so he goes where he wishes. That’s usually Loch Laggan, but recently, he decided he wanted a bit of southern sea air, so he moved down here. He’s our training instructor, so of course we followed him.”
“And the admiralty didn’t protest?” Laurence couldn’t help but frown. Dragons were, after all, sworn to service, and as such, their duty was to report where and when they were ordered. Their duty was not to lead a mass exodus to a station with warmer beaches.
To Laurence’s surprise, something about this question made Harcourt grin. The young captain turned to call, “Dearest, come tell Temeraire’s captain how all the humans reacted at us moving down here.”
Lily came at once on hearing Harcourt’s call, with Temeraire and Maximus following along behind her. “They were very loud,” said Lily, shaking her massive head. “All shouting and panicking and waving their arms around.”
“And that didn’t concern Celeritas at all?” asked Laurence incredulously.
That set Harcourt and Berkley off, and their amusement was starting to grate on Laurence. Dereliction of duty was not a laughing matter.
“Why should it have?” Lily stared down her snout at him. “Humans are always loud and panicking.”
Temeraire’s tail twitched in irritation. “Humans do make such a fuss over the silliest of things.” He seemed to catch sight of Laurence’s expression then, for he added quickly, “Oh, not you, Laurence. But, you know. Humans in general.”
Laurence sighed, resigned on the subject. After all, how could he correct Temeraire when, outside of the protection of the covert, a lot of humans were making a very loud fuss over an infant dragon choosing the wrong captain?
“They do,” said Lily. “Why, they even squawk about my captain being female!”
“What?” said Laurence, voice strangled. He darted a glance over at Harcourt and Berkley, who were nodding along with Lily, commiserating.
“Yes, exactly,” said Lily. “They sound just like that.”
Eventually, the impasse reached was this: the French and Chinese would send their delegates to Britain to argue in the courts while also sending delegates to observe the training and treatment of Temeraire, and his bond with Laurence. It would be months before the Chinese delegates would make port in England, but their French counterparts arrived nearly before Laurence received official notice of their visit.
At the urging of Lily, Temeraire, and Maximus, their little training cohort found a place to watch the French ambassadors disembark and begin their long procession to their Dover lodgings.
“Oh,” said Lily, disappointed. “They just look like the same kind of humans we get here.”
Harcourt laughed. “Dearest, what were you expecting?”
“Well, some dragons in France breathe fire, and others have those interesting spinal ridges. I expected their humans to be more like them.”
“You’ll have to travel a long way to find humans who can breathe fire and who have ridges of any sort,” said Berkley.
“Immortalis said that some dragons in the Americas have feathers,” said Maximus. “Are there no humans with feathers?”
“Certainly not!” said Berkley.
“Humans are so very uniform in shape and design,” sighed Temeraire. “And it’s clear that we three have the best of the lot.” Though he said this, it was evident from his significant look at Laurence that he was phrasing it as three out of politeness, and not out of any belief that it wasn’t really Temeraire alone who had the best human, with those of Lily and Maximus coming in tied at a low second.
“Ah, it hurts to hear you say so, Monsieur Téméraire,” came a new voice in, yes, a French accent.
Laurence sighed as he turned to greet the newcomer. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “I assure you that no offence was meant.”
The newcomer was wearing an unadorned uniform—Laurence had never seen a dress uniform for the French equivalent of the Aviator’s Corps, but he was sure this was not it—and identified himself as “Louis” with an odd little smile that made the name instantly suspect.
“Mr Louis,” Laurence said, voice pointed, “While it is a pleasure to meet you, I had understood that the representatives of the Armée de l’Air would proceed directly to the covert for a formal exchange of greetings.”
“Yes, yes,” said Louis amiably. “That is also my understanding. But, here we are!”
Along with Louis were two blank-faced, over-armed men in matching uniforms.
Laurence frowned at the little party standing before them. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose you are.”
“Ah, but my friends, you were hard to miss, yes?” Louis smiled up at the dragons, his eyes lingering on Temeraire. “The eye is drawn to you. And after all, we are here to meet you Monsieur Téméraire! You are here, and so, we are here, too.”
Unfortunately, this was precisely the sort of logic dragons were most susceptible to, so Temeraire simply said, “It does save time. I must say, I saw some of the rehearsal for the greeting ceremony, and it was dreadfully dull. It was just a lot of walking around oddly in big squares, and the dress uniforms seem to be very plain.” At this reminder, Temeraire said to Laurence, “I’m sure no one will mind if we add a little more braid to yours, and perhaps some gold medals.”
“And some feathers,” added Maximus, eying Berkley’s uniform critically.
Louis hummed thoughtfully, his gaze trailing up Laurence’s body with exaggerated slowness. “Yes,” he said, his eyes finally meeting Laurence’s and crinkling into a smile. “Feathers are always an improvement.”
“Why don’t we show you the way to the covert,” said Laurence hurriedly, before this terrible man could give Temeraire any further encouragement.
“Lead on, my friend,” said Louis, and Laurence cleared his throat to shake off the strange warmth that settled on him at this unrelenting onslaught of cheer.
He could already tell that this was going to be a long and arduous visit.
As it turned out, Louis and his ever-present companions were not the only French aviators to have arrived at the covert, but they were the only ones dogging Laurence’s every step. Louis was polite, except where he was over-friendly, and he was intelligent, except where he seemed unable to grasp Laurence’s hints that perhaps his attention was needed elsewhere.
One morning, Laurence managed to wake up early enough to grab a roll in the mess hall without suffering a bright, “Bonjour!” and he stepped out into the dim, predawn light with relief, eager to spend some time alone with Temeraire.
And yet, when he came to the corner of the field Temeraire had claimed as his own, Temeraire already had a guest.
Louis—did he ever sleep?—had already found his way over, and he was speaking to Temeraire in French, his tones soft and fond in a way that made Laurence’s stomach tighten.
Laurence had no reason to be jealous, of course. Temeraire had made his preference for Laurence quite clear, and no matter how friendly and intelligent this newcomer was, and no matter that he always seemed so effortlessly charming, and no matter that he had that mischievous grin that made Laurence feel awkward and ungainly in a way that he hadn’t since his midshipman days, and no matter—
—Well, no matter. That was the point. None of that would matter to Temeraire, so Laurence shouldn’t let it matter to him.
“Good morning, Mr Louis,” said Laurence briskly. “You’re up rather early today.” He softened as he looked up at Temeraire, who seemed to have grown even larger overnight. It was probably only Laurence’s imagination, as the Temeraire in his mind was sometimes still only the tiny, pony-sized hatchling who had come to find Laurence fresh from his shell. Still, Temeraire’s growth spurts were immense, and it was probably time for him to be measured again. “Good morning, Temeraire,” said Laurence, his voice low, as he reached out a hand to stroke the massive snout.
“Good morning, Laurence,” said Temeraire happily. “I was just telling Louis about the Principia Mathematica, and he was very interested! I don’t suppose you happen to have it on you?”
Laurence winced. In that moment, he couldn’t think of much he would like less than to have Monsieur Frenchman listen to Laurence butcher his way through a Latin treatise on a topic his less-than-a-year old dragon understood better than he did. Still, Temeraire’s huge blue eyes were staring at him hopefully, so Laurence said, “I’m afraid not, but I’ll make sure to bring it for you this evening, my dear.” He turned to Louis and added, “I apologise in advance for my poor pronunciation. I’m certain it must grate on the ears of any speaker of a Romance language.”
Louis had been watching him closely, uncharacteristically quiet. It took a moment for him to respond, and when he did, something in his manner seemed different. Perhaps he hadn’t fully woken up yet. Even now, the sun was only just beginning its slow ascent over the horizon. “No, no, I look forward to it, my friend.” The smile on his face was familiar, but the intensity in his eyes made the expression seem new and strange. “Maybe I will even hear you speak French one day?”
“We can only hope that the future is not so unkind to you, sir,” said Laurence dryly. For some reason, he was starting to feel a little flushed, though the morning was rather chilly. He hoped he wasn’t getting a cold, of all things.
Louis laughed, his whole face lighting up, and—
Oh. Laurence swallowed, resisting the urge to touch a hand to his face to see if it was as warm as it felt.
This wasn’t a cold. This was so much worse than a cold.
“I’m sure it will take Laurence no time at all to learn French!” declared Temeraire loyally. “Especially if we were to use it all the time. Perhaps we should go stay in France for a while.”
No doubt, that was exactly the kind of sentiment that Laurence was meant to be discouraging in Temeraire.
By the way Louis cocked a teasing eyebrow at Laurence, he seemed to have had the same thought, but all he said was, “I agree, my friend. France would be happy to have you.”
“Rather bold of you,” said Laurence, hoping the rasp in his voice could be explained away by the early hour, “to speak on behalf of the whole of France.”
Louis grinned at him. “Is it?”
Laurence made a private oath that he would bury all signs of this incredibly unfortunate crush under a polite but distant facade, and that no one would ever learn of its existence.
Naturally, then, he had barely managed to utter a “Good morning” to his training cohort when Harcourt leaned in disconcertingly close to study his face.
After a moment of careful scrutiny, she nodded sharply and pulled away to smack Berkley on the shoulder. “He’s figured it out,” she said. “Pay up.”
Berkley looked Laurence over. “Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully.
Laurence narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What’s this about?”
Harcourt shrugged. “I saw Louis earlier—” she began, and Laurence’s entire face went red.
Berkley sighed. “Fine,” he said ruefully. “I don’t have anything on me now. I’ll cover your tab later, how about that?”
“I am sure,” said Laurence stiffly, “that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Harcourt patted his arm. “I know,” she said. “But that’s alright. Berkley can’t help you with romancing men, but I can.”
Somehow, in the rush of nerves that had come with recognising his growing crush on an agent of a foreign government during a dicey time for international diplomacy, Laurence had forgotten to consider that the object of his unwilling attention was, yes, a man. Learning this about himself, on top of all the other life changes and revelations he had experienced so very recently… Well, he felt like a sailboat with a punctured hull, and rather than grabbing a bucket and bailing, he was just watching the water rise around him helplessly.
“Right,” said Berkley agreeably. And then he asked, with all evident curiosity, “So how do you romance men, then?”
There was a brief pause. “I usually just punch them to get them to bugger off,” admitted Harcourt thoughtfully. “But I suppose that if I wanted to romance them, then I just wouldn’t punch them.”
Berkley nodded. “Seems simple enough.”
“No,” said Laurence. “No, there will be no romance.”
Berkley looked unflatteringly incredulous. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Laurence.
“Hmm,” said Berkley.
“I can show you how to throw a punch, then,” offered Harcourt.
“Thank you,” said Laurence stiffly. Of course, he knew how to punch a man, but escaping this conversation was more important than his martial pride. “Much obliged, I’m sure.”
The diplomatic drama ended as suddenly as it had begun. The Chinese delegates had barely arrived—suspiciously early though they were—when Temeraire, irritated by all the people desperate to speak with him alone just when they were getting to the good part of Principia Mathematica, snapped, “Lily was right, you do fuss so about whether a dragon lives here or there. If Celeritas can choose to live sometimes in Loch Laggan and sometimes in Dover, then I can choose to live sometimes in England, and sometimes in France, and sometimes in China, and sometimes even somewhere else entirely.”
“That’s completely different,” blustered one of his majesty’s finest diplomats, stunned enough by the departure from protocol to respond directly to the dragon he had been avoiding acknowledging at all costs. “Dover and Loch—wherever, they’re both British! You can’t compare that to choosing which country you belong to.”
Temeraire tossed his head dismissively. “If Britain and France and China can all claim me as their dragon at the same time, then I don’t see why I can’t claim Britain and France and China as my homes at the same time. Why should there be a problem with me being British and French and Chinese? It is not as though we are fighting.”
The diplomats continued to argue the point for some time, but when faced with an opponent who was twenty-tonnes and in possession of proportional talons and teeth, they ultimately ran out of steam. The Chinese delegates watched this exchange with narrowed eyes, but they did not protest the final decision that Temeraire could live where he liked.
“Ah, well,” said Louis as the train of diplomats finally began to depart from the covert. “It seems it is time for me to go. I hope you will come visit your French home soon, my friends.”
“Certainly, that would be very pleasant,” said Temeraire. “I hope we will see you there, Louis?” he added hopefully.
“Depend on it,” said Louis with a crooked little smile. He winked at Laurence, “Just as France welcomes you, I will welcome you, too.”
Laurence smiled back, charmed at this display of arrogance despite himself. “And how will we let you know to expect us? Should we seal a letter in a bottle addressed only to ‘Louis’ and drop it in the Channel?”
Louis laughed. “Rest assured, mon cher ami, if such a bottle were to appear on any French shore, it would reach me,” he said, because he seemed to delight in making absurd statements like that. “But it would probably be faster to simply send your letter directly to my palace.”
Laurence rolled his eyes, but Temeraire asked, interested, “You live in a palace?”
“Of course,” said Louis cheerfully. “Where else would you expect Napoléon of France to live?”
Really, thought Laurence faintly, this crush just kept getting worse and worse.
“Never fear,” Napoleon added. “I will make sure your captain has more feathers and braids than anyone else in all of France.”
“Oh,” breathed Temeraire, delighted. “How splendid! Laurence, we must go to France!”
It was probably a good thing that the many official ambassadors never realised how easy it would have been to sway Temeraire to their side, if only they’d known what to offer him.
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Laurence & Temeraire, Laurence & Temeraire & Harcourt, Laurence/Napoleon preslash
Word count: ~4k words
Summary: A cracky no-war AU. Despite the lack of war, Laurence and Temeraire still manage to be a diplomatic incident.
Notes: For the Temeraire summer gift exchange.
When they sighted the French frigate limping along the newly calmed waters after the long storms of the previous night, Captain William Laurence of the Reliant ordered the crew to approach and assist.
This order came to the surprise of absolutely no one. With the long peace between Britain and France, the two navies were well familiar with the process of helping a ship flying the flags of their neighbours, despite the occasional friendly rivalries that arose. That peace had not been disrupted by the rise of the new self-styled French Emperor, and though Laurence did not think much of his nation’s leaders for abandoning their previous allies in the wake of the French civil war, he nevertheless was pleased to be helping rather than fighting his neighbours.
It was, however, possible that that sentiment was not quite universal. The crew of the Amitie was stiff and unfriendly when the Reliant approached and Laurence came aboard to speak with their captain, and they almost refused aid despite their obvious desperate need of it. Whatever was going through their heads, practicality finally won through, and they grudgingly accepted help with repairs and supplies.
The atmosphere was so tense, and the expressions of the French crew so sullen, that Laurence found himself unable to risk worsening conditions even further by leaving the crews unattended by himself. The men of the navy could be, Laurence acknowledged, rather coarse, and though he had made great strides with the manners of his own crew, he was not yet willing to test how those new niceties would hold up when faced with the ambivalence—and even malevolence—of their French allies. If opinions of Britain were this bad across the border, then Laurence didn’t want to imagine how much worse they might become should a fight break out between these two crews during a rescue mission.
And so, Laurence and a few carefully selected workmen came aboard the Amitie along with a load of supplies, and the two ships matched speed and heading toward the Amitie’s original destination, a port off the coast of southern France. The French crew did not soften to Laurence or the other Britons throughout their journey, but they did seem to relax slightly as they slowly grew closer to French shores.
Of course, that only lasted until a midshipman burst up from below deck yelling, “Capitaine, capitaine, la bête, elle est arrivée!”
Laurence’s French was rather too pitiful for him to understand even such a short sentence, but the midshipman’s panic was alarming in and of itself, especially when the captain of the Amitie paled and jerked forward as though to follow the midshipman back below deck. Before he was able to do so, sailors began streaming up to the deck of the ship, clearly fleeing from something.
The French captain cursed—that French, Laurence understood.
“What is it?” asked Laurence urgently. “A fire? A breach?”
For despite the absence of any of the symptoms he might have expected from either of those two disasters, he could not comprehend what else could be causing such panic amongst the crew.
When he received no response, he pushed forward through the crowd, but the progress was slow-going, as the sailors were trying desperately to shove themselves in the opposite direction.
“Où est Jean, ce bâtard?” Laurence heard the French captain demand behind him.
“Il est tombé! Il s’est fait mal à la tête et ne peut pas se relever! Mais peu importe, comme la bête ne l'a jamais regardé!”
“Merde!”
Laurence had just reached the edge of the crowd when the answers to all of his confusion from the last week were made clear. A small, black snout rose from the ladder to the decks below, and then a small black head, and then a long, serpentine neck.
It was a dragon. The French had been hiding a dragon—or, more probably, an egg—aboard the Amitie. This explained why they had been so anxious and cold, though Laurence didn’t think much of their reasoning. Did they believe Laurence would steal it, claim it for England? He was a captain of an allied vessel, not a pirate!
He began to back away slowly, intending to speak to the captain to understand what must be some very quickly revised plans, when the little dragon finished levering itself onto the deck and immediately came toward him, barely stopping to investigate the curiosities around him, though he did eye them as though with the intent to return to them later.
The dragon looked up at him and said, “Hello.”
Laurence had to close his eyes for a moment. Apparently, he would be stealing the dragon after all.
So much for avoiding a diplomatic incident.
Despite the protests of the Amitie, Laurence returned to the Reliant and changed their heading to nearby Gibraltar to let someone else handle the political mess.
The French government was furious that a Briton should have stolen their egg, and they demanded that their dragon be returned to their soil immediately. Apparently, the egg had been a gift from China intended not only for the French, but for the emperor, Napoleon I of France.
The British government was apologetic, but made no efforts to force the return of the dragon, referring the matter instead to their experts in the Corps.
The British Aerial Corps were also furious that a man not of the Corps should have stolen their egg, and they demanded that they try to convince the newly named Temeraire to accept the harness of a different British man. On Temeraire’s firm and nearly violent refusal, Laurence and Temeraire were relocated to the covert in Dover as the political fires burned on.
It was all a terrible mess, so Laurence wasn’t sure why he was so happy.
Temeraire was wonderful—terribly clever, curious, passionate, interesting. Laurence had always been pleased and proud of his friendships before, but somehow Temeraire had, in the span of a few short weeks, risen to being his very favourite person in the world.
While the humans fought over the provenance and allegiance of the new dragon, the dragons themselves took the situation much more practically.
“Regardless of where you end up, you are here now, so we might as well teach you to fly properly,” said Celeritas, their training master.
Temeraire bristled at the implication, but the truth was that Celeritas had a great deal of very useful advice for him in how to manoeuvre most effectively in the air.
“Of course he does!” said Berkley when Laurence remarked on this. Captain Berkley and his Regal Copper, Maximus, were also students of Celeritas, and of all of their new peers, Berkely had proven the friendliest to Laurence. “He’s the best instructor in the Corps, and no wonder that he is, as he’s been doing it the longest.” Berkley eyed Laurence thoughtfully. “You’re bloody lucky that he’s here at all. I don’t suppose they would have let you two escape to Loch Laggan, not with the noise you’ve raised.”
“Likely not,” agreed Laurence. “Celeritas was recently stationed at Loch Laggan? A Scottish covert, I assume?”
“What gave it away?” asked Berkley, grinning.
Laurence smiled back. “I hazarded a guess,” he said wryly. “Why did the admiralty reassign him to Dover?”
Berkley roared with laughter, but this time, Laurence wasn’t in on the joke. His smile stiffened a little in awkwardness as he waited for an explanation.
“The admiralty had nothing much to do with it,” said a quiet voice from behind Laurence.
He turned to greet their fellow student, Captain Harcourt, whose Longwing Lily and her poison sacs had inspired Temeraire to perhaps even more jealous competition than the massive Maximus. Competitiveness aside, Temeraire got along with both Maximus and Lily much better than Laurence got along with Harcourt, who had become no warmer even after spending nearly all of the past few days together in the same company. In keeping with that attitude, Harcourt only gave Laurence a stiff nod in response to his greeting.
“No?” asked Laurence. “Surely they have a say in which dragons are assigned where.”
“The admiralty assigns the captains to posts,” Harcourt agreed, “and their dragons follow. Celeritas has no captain, so he goes where he wishes. That’s usually Loch Laggan, but recently, he decided he wanted a bit of southern sea air, so he moved down here. He’s our training instructor, so of course we followed him.”
“And the admiralty didn’t protest?” Laurence couldn’t help but frown. Dragons were, after all, sworn to service, and as such, their duty was to report where and when they were ordered. Their duty was not to lead a mass exodus to a station with warmer beaches.
To Laurence’s surprise, something about this question made Harcourt grin. The young captain turned to call, “Dearest, come tell Temeraire’s captain how all the humans reacted at us moving down here.”
Lily came at once on hearing Harcourt’s call, with Temeraire and Maximus following along behind her. “They were very loud,” said Lily, shaking her massive head. “All shouting and panicking and waving their arms around.”
“And that didn’t concern Celeritas at all?” asked Laurence incredulously.
That set Harcourt and Berkley off, and their amusement was starting to grate on Laurence. Dereliction of duty was not a laughing matter.
“Why should it have?” Lily stared down her snout at him. “Humans are always loud and panicking.”
Temeraire’s tail twitched in irritation. “Humans do make such a fuss over the silliest of things.” He seemed to catch sight of Laurence’s expression then, for he added quickly, “Oh, not you, Laurence. But, you know. Humans in general.”
Laurence sighed, resigned on the subject. After all, how could he correct Temeraire when, outside of the protection of the covert, a lot of humans were making a very loud fuss over an infant dragon choosing the wrong captain?
“They do,” said Lily. “Why, they even squawk about my captain being female!”
“What?” said Laurence, voice strangled. He darted a glance over at Harcourt and Berkley, who were nodding along with Lily, commiserating.
“Yes, exactly,” said Lily. “They sound just like that.”
Eventually, the impasse reached was this: the French and Chinese would send their delegates to Britain to argue in the courts while also sending delegates to observe the training and treatment of Temeraire, and his bond with Laurence. It would be months before the Chinese delegates would make port in England, but their French counterparts arrived nearly before Laurence received official notice of their visit.
At the urging of Lily, Temeraire, and Maximus, their little training cohort found a place to watch the French ambassadors disembark and begin their long procession to their Dover lodgings.
“Oh,” said Lily, disappointed. “They just look like the same kind of humans we get here.”
Harcourt laughed. “Dearest, what were you expecting?”
“Well, some dragons in France breathe fire, and others have those interesting spinal ridges. I expected their humans to be more like them.”
“You’ll have to travel a long way to find humans who can breathe fire and who have ridges of any sort,” said Berkley.
“Immortalis said that some dragons in the Americas have feathers,” said Maximus. “Are there no humans with feathers?”
“Certainly not!” said Berkley.
“Humans are so very uniform in shape and design,” sighed Temeraire. “And it’s clear that we three have the best of the lot.” Though he said this, it was evident from his significant look at Laurence that he was phrasing it as three out of politeness, and not out of any belief that it wasn’t really Temeraire alone who had the best human, with those of Lily and Maximus coming in tied at a low second.
“Ah, it hurts to hear you say so, Monsieur Téméraire,” came a new voice in, yes, a French accent.
Laurence sighed as he turned to greet the newcomer. “My apologies, sir,” he said. “I assure you that no offence was meant.”
The newcomer was wearing an unadorned uniform—Laurence had never seen a dress uniform for the French equivalent of the Aviator’s Corps, but he was sure this was not it—and identified himself as “Louis” with an odd little smile that made the name instantly suspect.
“Mr Louis,” Laurence said, voice pointed, “While it is a pleasure to meet you, I had understood that the representatives of the Armée de l’Air would proceed directly to the covert for a formal exchange of greetings.”
“Yes, yes,” said Louis amiably. “That is also my understanding. But, here we are!”
Along with Louis were two blank-faced, over-armed men in matching uniforms.
Laurence frowned at the little party standing before them. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose you are.”
“Ah, but my friends, you were hard to miss, yes?” Louis smiled up at the dragons, his eyes lingering on Temeraire. “The eye is drawn to you. And after all, we are here to meet you Monsieur Téméraire! You are here, and so, we are here, too.”
Unfortunately, this was precisely the sort of logic dragons were most susceptible to, so Temeraire simply said, “It does save time. I must say, I saw some of the rehearsal for the greeting ceremony, and it was dreadfully dull. It was just a lot of walking around oddly in big squares, and the dress uniforms seem to be very plain.” At this reminder, Temeraire said to Laurence, “I’m sure no one will mind if we add a little more braid to yours, and perhaps some gold medals.”
“And some feathers,” added Maximus, eying Berkley’s uniform critically.
Louis hummed thoughtfully, his gaze trailing up Laurence’s body with exaggerated slowness. “Yes,” he said, his eyes finally meeting Laurence’s and crinkling into a smile. “Feathers are always an improvement.”
“Why don’t we show you the way to the covert,” said Laurence hurriedly, before this terrible man could give Temeraire any further encouragement.
“Lead on, my friend,” said Louis, and Laurence cleared his throat to shake off the strange warmth that settled on him at this unrelenting onslaught of cheer.
He could already tell that this was going to be a long and arduous visit.
As it turned out, Louis and his ever-present companions were not the only French aviators to have arrived at the covert, but they were the only ones dogging Laurence’s every step. Louis was polite, except where he was over-friendly, and he was intelligent, except where he seemed unable to grasp Laurence’s hints that perhaps his attention was needed elsewhere.
One morning, Laurence managed to wake up early enough to grab a roll in the mess hall without suffering a bright, “Bonjour!” and he stepped out into the dim, predawn light with relief, eager to spend some time alone with Temeraire.
And yet, when he came to the corner of the field Temeraire had claimed as his own, Temeraire already had a guest.
Louis—did he ever sleep?—had already found his way over, and he was speaking to Temeraire in French, his tones soft and fond in a way that made Laurence’s stomach tighten.
Laurence had no reason to be jealous, of course. Temeraire had made his preference for Laurence quite clear, and no matter how friendly and intelligent this newcomer was, and no matter that he always seemed so effortlessly charming, and no matter that he had that mischievous grin that made Laurence feel awkward and ungainly in a way that he hadn’t since his midshipman days, and no matter—
—Well, no matter. That was the point. None of that would matter to Temeraire, so Laurence shouldn’t let it matter to him.
“Good morning, Mr Louis,” said Laurence briskly. “You’re up rather early today.” He softened as he looked up at Temeraire, who seemed to have grown even larger overnight. It was probably only Laurence’s imagination, as the Temeraire in his mind was sometimes still only the tiny, pony-sized hatchling who had come to find Laurence fresh from his shell. Still, Temeraire’s growth spurts were immense, and it was probably time for him to be measured again. “Good morning, Temeraire,” said Laurence, his voice low, as he reached out a hand to stroke the massive snout.
“Good morning, Laurence,” said Temeraire happily. “I was just telling Louis about the Principia Mathematica, and he was very interested! I don’t suppose you happen to have it on you?”
Laurence winced. In that moment, he couldn’t think of much he would like less than to have Monsieur Frenchman listen to Laurence butcher his way through a Latin treatise on a topic his less-than-a-year old dragon understood better than he did. Still, Temeraire’s huge blue eyes were staring at him hopefully, so Laurence said, “I’m afraid not, but I’ll make sure to bring it for you this evening, my dear.” He turned to Louis and added, “I apologise in advance for my poor pronunciation. I’m certain it must grate on the ears of any speaker of a Romance language.”
Louis had been watching him closely, uncharacteristically quiet. It took a moment for him to respond, and when he did, something in his manner seemed different. Perhaps he hadn’t fully woken up yet. Even now, the sun was only just beginning its slow ascent over the horizon. “No, no, I look forward to it, my friend.” The smile on his face was familiar, but the intensity in his eyes made the expression seem new and strange. “Maybe I will even hear you speak French one day?”
“We can only hope that the future is not so unkind to you, sir,” said Laurence dryly. For some reason, he was starting to feel a little flushed, though the morning was rather chilly. He hoped he wasn’t getting a cold, of all things.
Louis laughed, his whole face lighting up, and—
Oh. Laurence swallowed, resisting the urge to touch a hand to his face to see if it was as warm as it felt.
This wasn’t a cold. This was so much worse than a cold.
“I’m sure it will take Laurence no time at all to learn French!” declared Temeraire loyally. “Especially if we were to use it all the time. Perhaps we should go stay in France for a while.”
No doubt, that was exactly the kind of sentiment that Laurence was meant to be discouraging in Temeraire.
By the way Louis cocked a teasing eyebrow at Laurence, he seemed to have had the same thought, but all he said was, “I agree, my friend. France would be happy to have you.”
“Rather bold of you,” said Laurence, hoping the rasp in his voice could be explained away by the early hour, “to speak on behalf of the whole of France.”
Louis grinned at him. “Is it?”
Laurence made a private oath that he would bury all signs of this incredibly unfortunate crush under a polite but distant facade, and that no one would ever learn of its existence.
Naturally, then, he had barely managed to utter a “Good morning” to his training cohort when Harcourt leaned in disconcertingly close to study his face.
After a moment of careful scrutiny, she nodded sharply and pulled away to smack Berkley on the shoulder. “He’s figured it out,” she said. “Pay up.”
Berkley looked Laurence over. “Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully.
Laurence narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “What’s this about?”
Harcourt shrugged. “I saw Louis earlier—” she began, and Laurence’s entire face went red.
Berkley sighed. “Fine,” he said ruefully. “I don’t have anything on me now. I’ll cover your tab later, how about that?”
“I am sure,” said Laurence stiffly, “that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Harcourt patted his arm. “I know,” she said. “But that’s alright. Berkley can’t help you with romancing men, but I can.”
Somehow, in the rush of nerves that had come with recognising his growing crush on an agent of a foreign government during a dicey time for international diplomacy, Laurence had forgotten to consider that the object of his unwilling attention was, yes, a man. Learning this about himself, on top of all the other life changes and revelations he had experienced so very recently… Well, he felt like a sailboat with a punctured hull, and rather than grabbing a bucket and bailing, he was just watching the water rise around him helplessly.
“Right,” said Berkley agreeably. And then he asked, with all evident curiosity, “So how do you romance men, then?”
There was a brief pause. “I usually just punch them to get them to bugger off,” admitted Harcourt thoughtfully. “But I suppose that if I wanted to romance them, then I just wouldn’t punch them.”
Berkley nodded. “Seems simple enough.”
“No,” said Laurence. “No, there will be no romance.”
Berkley looked unflatteringly incredulous. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Laurence.
“Hmm,” said Berkley.
“I can show you how to throw a punch, then,” offered Harcourt.
“Thank you,” said Laurence stiffly. Of course, he knew how to punch a man, but escaping this conversation was more important than his martial pride. “Much obliged, I’m sure.”
The diplomatic drama ended as suddenly as it had begun. The Chinese delegates had barely arrived—suspiciously early though they were—when Temeraire, irritated by all the people desperate to speak with him alone just when they were getting to the good part of Principia Mathematica, snapped, “Lily was right, you do fuss so about whether a dragon lives here or there. If Celeritas can choose to live sometimes in Loch Laggan and sometimes in Dover, then I can choose to live sometimes in England, and sometimes in France, and sometimes in China, and sometimes even somewhere else entirely.”
“That’s completely different,” blustered one of his majesty’s finest diplomats, stunned enough by the departure from protocol to respond directly to the dragon he had been avoiding acknowledging at all costs. “Dover and Loch—wherever, they’re both British! You can’t compare that to choosing which country you belong to.”
Temeraire tossed his head dismissively. “If Britain and France and China can all claim me as their dragon at the same time, then I don’t see why I can’t claim Britain and France and China as my homes at the same time. Why should there be a problem with me being British and French and Chinese? It is not as though we are fighting.”
The diplomats continued to argue the point for some time, but when faced with an opponent who was twenty-tonnes and in possession of proportional talons and teeth, they ultimately ran out of steam. The Chinese delegates watched this exchange with narrowed eyes, but they did not protest the final decision that Temeraire could live where he liked.
“Ah, well,” said Louis as the train of diplomats finally began to depart from the covert. “It seems it is time for me to go. I hope you will come visit your French home soon, my friends.”
“Certainly, that would be very pleasant,” said Temeraire. “I hope we will see you there, Louis?” he added hopefully.
“Depend on it,” said Louis with a crooked little smile. He winked at Laurence, “Just as France welcomes you, I will welcome you, too.”
Laurence smiled back, charmed at this display of arrogance despite himself. “And how will we let you know to expect us? Should we seal a letter in a bottle addressed only to ‘Louis’ and drop it in the Channel?”
Louis laughed. “Rest assured, mon cher ami, if such a bottle were to appear on any French shore, it would reach me,” he said, because he seemed to delight in making absurd statements like that. “But it would probably be faster to simply send your letter directly to my palace.”
Laurence rolled his eyes, but Temeraire asked, interested, “You live in a palace?”
“Of course,” said Louis cheerfully. “Where else would you expect Napoléon of France to live?”
Really, thought Laurence faintly, this crush just kept getting worse and worse.
“Never fear,” Napoleon added. “I will make sure your captain has more feathers and braids than anyone else in all of France.”
“Oh,” breathed Temeraire, delighted. “How splendid! Laurence, we must go to France!”
It was probably a good thing that the many official ambassadors never realised how easy it would have been to sway Temeraire to their side, if only they’d known what to offer him.