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Entry tags:
OTP23 - December
Title: Novels and Novelties
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Laurence/Tharkay
Word count: ~5k words
Summary: Post-canon crack treated seriously. Laurence writes a completely fictional book about an unlikely protagonist stumbling upon a dragon egg and becoming a captain. He's quite certain he doesn't deserve all this mockery.
Notes: The prompts for December: holidays together | crack treated seriously | moving in together | "that's my favorite thing about you | forgiveness | tattoo parlor / flower shop au.
Laurence cannot remember his last leisurely spring. He wanders through the untamed gardens of Tharkay’s estate, admiring the splashes of colours and wafts of fragrance from the flowers that have survived years of dominance fights in their spreading beds. He’s grown strangely fond of the wilder parts of the estate, and he’s starting to dread the day the final repairs are completed and everything is trimmed in tidy geometric rows once more.
After all, once everything is in its place, will there still be a place for him?
He meets Tharkay as he heads in for breakfast, and Tharkay greets him with his increasingly common smile.
“Good morning, Will,” says Tharkay, and Laurence’s stomach swoops. There’s something so domestic in those words—or rather, not in the words themselves, but in their repetition, in their routine, in the way Tharkay says them with his eyes still misty with sleep and his neck cloth completely missing. Laurence used to view domesticity as something he’d like very much to dip his toes into during leave, but nothing he would ever want to truly settle into. And yet, the idea of a domestic life with Tharkay… Well, at any rate, it certainly doesn’t sound boring.
“Good morning, Tenzing,” Laurence responds after a moment of letting his eyes linger too long. But what is too long when it’s Tharkay who he’s looking at? Tharkay, who Laurence trusts wholly to never betray him to the authorities, even if he disagrees with his decisions. Tharkay, who Laurence trusts wholly to be gentle with his heart, even if he doesn’t want it. Tharkay, who Laurence trusts wholly.
Tharkay sees him looking and simply looks back calmly, waiting to react until Laurence has committed to action. He thinks Laurence isn’t ready to discuss his thoughts, and of course he is right.
“Tenzing, would you mind if I were to settle in the blue parlour today?” asks Laurence, averting his eyes. “I seem to have accumulated a great deal of writing to do.”
In a flash, Tharkay’s soft smile is gone, and Laurence mourns its absence guiltily. “You may settle wherever you like whenever you like, Will,” says Tharkay firmly, rehashing an ongoing and largely unspoken disagreement.
“Yes, of course, pardon me,” says Laurence quickly. “Shall we eat?”
Tharkay was very clear, in his way, that Laurence was not a guest and shouldn’t think of himself as such. Laurence was honoured, of course, but the reality is that he is living in a place that is unfamiliar to him and familiar to his companion, and so he must tread lightly. For all that his presence here may be earnestly desired, he is still an interloper.
After breakfast, Laurence retreats into the blue parlour, which has become a favourite room of his. Anything truly valuable has long since been stripped from the room, right up to and including the gilding, but the faded wallpaper has a very pretty flowering design against a pale blue field, and the books on the shelf against the far wall were clearly selected by some long ago denizen for their engaging stories rather than their informative content. The desk by the window is small and worn, with some stains from where rain must have come in through some cracks in the glass, but it is still sturdy and serviceable. Best of all, if he leans a tad to the left, he can just make out Temeraire’s pavilion in the distance. The room, as a whole, is very comfortable, and Laurence was starting to feel slightly possessive over it when he noticed that a whole shelf of the books are written in an unfamiliar script. It is one thing to take on someone else’s things when they are no longer able to use them, but there is a story to this room that Laurence does not know, and he fears that any misstep of his will dirty some cherished childhood memory of Tharkay’s.
And yet, he can’t quite let the room go. It’s such a pleasant space, so peaceful and gentle, that he returns day after day to work on his extensive and ever-growing correspondence, and to stare out the window and watch Temeraire at work when he is home, or to miss him desperately when he is gone to London.
He settles at the desk now and pulls down the first of his letters. Granby and Little are getting on well, as are Emily and Demane. Sipho has met a young lady who Laurence firmly requests to be introduced to at the first opportunity, and Jane writes of some of her recent exploits in a gentle tone clearly intended to remind him of her unavailability to him, not entirely trusting him to have moved on after his latest bout of clinginess.
Everyone who has any desire for such things seems to come in pairs (and trios and quartets, for those who are aviators). And so does Laurence, in a way—he and Tharkay are, in nearly every way that matters, a matched set these days. But Tharkay is still waiting for Laurence to be ready, and for all that his acceptance or refusal won’t be the end of their partnership, the waiting might be. Laurence has had cause over the course of his life to be aware that in most cases, he isn’t someone worth waiting for.
Laurence still isn’t sure what he wants his relationship with Tharkay to be, but he does know that he doesn’t want to be forever living in someone else’s home, and he doesn’t know how to make a home in a place that is so wounded with someone else’s memories. He doesn’t know how to make a home at all.
And so, Laurence hesitates, and Tharkay waits, and they never quite form the pair that they could be.
Laurence sets aside his letters and wanders over to the bookcase, feeling restless. He runs his hand carefully over the cracked spines that he knows are filled with an increasingly familiar unknown script, and he pauses when he reaches the section of English-language books. He pulls one down and finds that it’s an old, cheaply bound novel.
Laurence never was fond of reading as a lad, and the joy he took from reading as an adult has chiefly been due to his reading partner and not any intrinsic joy in the activity. Still, he finds himself carrying the book over to the little chaise longue in the room and settling in to read with his pile of cheerful letters placed firmly behind him.
The novel is a romance, of course.
“I’ve missed you at lunch,” says Tharkay several days later over supper. He doesn’t seem concerned until Laurence flushes bright red, and then his eyebrows lift.
“I’ve been reading,” says Laurence evasively.
“Indeed?” When Laurence only nods and stares down at the tablecloth, Tharkay offers, “If you’ve found a particular topic of interest, I could place an order for you?”
Laurence weighs Tharkay’s certain mockery against the knowledge that the collection of old British novels in the blue parlour are dwindling down, and grudgingly admits, “I’ve been—that is, I’ve taken the liberty of reading some of the books stored in the blue parlour. I hope that was not too great of an imposition.”
“It’s no imposition at all,” Tharkay responds automatically. It doesn’t take long for his lightning-fast brain and eerie memory to run through a mental catalogue, and Laurence knows that he’s made the connection when his lips begin to twitch slightly. “I’m certain I can find some updated volumes of that particular genre.”
Laurence says primly, not meeting Tharkay’s eyes, “Yes, thank you,” and then desperately tries to change the subject to Emily and Demane’s adventures and Sipho’s latest studies.
Tharkay allows the topic change and makes no effort to revisit the subject, but every time the mail comes in, it brings with it a new romance novel for Laurence to squirrel away to the blue parlour and devour at his leisure.
These newer novels are more experimental than the ones he had been reading, and the conventions and themes take on different forms, particularly in one specific, frustrating way. The older novels, Laurence is startled to realise, had all seemed to take place in some alternate universe where dragons don’t exist beyond the roundabout mention of an unseen courier delivering mail. The newer novels also largely avoid mentioning dragons directly, but they do have characters who are aviators—lazy gamblers who contribute nothing meaningful to the likewise unaddressed wars, and who are uniformly despicable, terrorising the reputations of young ladies. He frowns at the marriage and settlement of Mr Wickham, an antagonist who Laurence would have stripped the bottle-green coat straight off his back if he’d ever served under him. One bad aviator in a book is merely a character, but the pattern across books and authors is disturbing.
Of course, perhaps the authors simply aren’t aware of the stereotypes they are perpetuating. So few have had any meaningful contact with aviators, and as Laurence knows painfully well from his own early days in the Corps, not all aviators present themselves with manners that are consistent with the expectations of polite behaviour as formed by the British elite.
Laurence flips back to the publishing page of the latest novel he read. It was published anonymously—no surprises there, really, if it really was written by a “lady” who was no doubt concerned of her reputation as a female novelist. But that is no matter. Laurence briskly drafts two letters—one to John Murray, the printer, and the other to be forwarded on to the author herself. He takes care to express his admiration of her work, but asks for her consideration in regards to the reputation of the Corps, which by no means deserves her slander. He details of some of the exceptional gains only possible due to the intervention of the Corps even beyond their military might, including access to medicine and exotic foods. He ends the letter pleading that the author might consider making corrections to her novels, or at least providing a more balanced and nuanced perspective of the Corps in her future works.
He signs his name neatly and seals the letters. With that finished, he returns with a sigh to his pile of regular correspondence, which due to his neglect has been growing larger rather than smaller.
And to think that he used to take such pleasure in writing letters, back when that wasn’t all he ever did.
“A letter for you, Will,” says Tharkay over breakfast. “From a printer! I seem to have been remiss in supplying your hobbies, if you feel obliged to head directly to the source.”
Laurence frowns at Tharkay severely as he accepts the letter, quite certain that that level of mockery wasn’t necessary.
The letter writer professes to be writing on behalf of his unnamed sister who, though very apologetic that Laurence should have noticed any inaccuracies about side characters in her fictional romantic comedy, suggests that if Laurence is concerned about the reputations of his own people as she is of hers, perhaps he ought to write novels himself, as he has so many of his own experiences to draw on.
In short, Laurence now feels mocked on all sides, though he suspects that the self-addressed Lady’s teasing is no more mean-spirited than Tharkay’s.
Likewise, she very obviously is not sincere in her recommendation that he write his own novels, but as Laurence returns to the blue parlour and lets his eyes run over the dearly loved space, he wonders… why shouldn’t he?
It isn’t as though he doesn’t have the time to spare.
Temeraire visits. Temeraire leaves.
Laurence sits down at the worn desk of the blue parlour, staring out at the empty pavilion, and then he grabs a pen and ink and begins to write on the back of an abandoned letter draft.
The heroine of this story will be a gentleman’s daughter. Not the eldest daughter, no, that wouldn't do, better make her the second daughter. No, but there it's looking dangerously like the Lady’s own work, so perhaps it’s better to make the heroine the third daughter of a lord, perhaps someone with rather strong political leanings to counter the Lady’s firmly apolitical settings. Yes, that seems appropriate. And the heroine, against her parents' and especially her father's wishes, decides to take up the position of governess in a respectable household, as she's interested in independence and exploration.
An unlikely circumstance, certainly, but Laurence is writing a novel, after all. As Laurence develops Miss Lawson, as he has decided to style her, he feels himself growing increasingly sympathetic to her plight. And as that is the mark of a well-drawn character, he forgives himself for his fondness of her.
However, he finds he has written himself into something of a knot. After all, his purpose in writing was to introduce a positive portrayal of dragons and aviators, but his heroine seems unlikely to encounter them in the life he has set up for her. Of course, Laurence was nearly as unlikely to have become a dragon captain as his Miss Lawson is, so perhaps reality is as strange as fiction after all.
He decides that Miss Lawson will stay with her employers in their town home in Dover, and during their stay, a group of naval officers will visit and leave important cargo to be safeguarded in the basement of the townhouse. Very ominous, but if the gentleman of the household has deep connections to the navy, perhaps not entirely beyond belief, and Laurence can clearly remember several occasions in which some object or message of importance to the state was left in a civilian household.
Yes, so this cargo is left in the basement under guard until officers from the local covert can retrieve it. Of course, once coverts have been mentioned, there can be little wonder as to what's contained in the parcel, and the reality of the reputations of aviators and dragons means that the household, including Laurence’s heroine, would certainly intend to steer clear of the newly designated guest quarters. But one of the family's children escapes to sneak a peek at the fabled egg, and Miss Lawson must go to retrieve the child. She is very stern to child and guards both, and she returns to the main household with every belief that the entire incident is over. The aviators collect the egg without any contact with the household, and life moves on. However, some weeks later, Miss Lawson is visited again—the egg has hatched, and the infant dragon will hear of no one being her captain but “Lawson, she wants her dear Lawson.”
Laurence pauses to think tenderly of Temeraire, newly hatched and so vulnerable in all the ways Laurence didn’t think to perceive at the time. Temeraire, who was certain of little else at the time than that he was hungry and that the only person he was interested in speaking to was Laurence.
Miss Lawson is highly sceptical, and here Laurence draws a great deal on his own shameful past feelings, but she agrees to meet the dragon. The dragon is very small, surprisingly cute, and somehow very nearly instantly dear. Miss Lawson finds that she can't bear to separate from the dragon, and she finds herself obliged to join Britain’s Aerial Corps—which, she discovers, contains other women! She is surprised to find that while the manners and education in the Corps are sorely lacking, their principles, overall, are very good. She sets about instructing her new crew as to the proper ways to behave in society, and in the process is confronted by the realisation that good manners aren't the end all of humanity, and she'd much rather be with good people than good mannered ones.
When he is finished, Laurence is rather proud of his new work, though he suspects it won't hold up to any real scrutiny. Nevertheless, he sends it off to a publisher under a pseudonym, and he carefully doesn’t tell anyone he knows. The manuscript is rejected, as he suspected it would be, but in a fit of something like pique, he sends it on to another, and then another. After a series of rejections and revisions, one printer agrees to take it on. Laurence feels—well, he isn’t certain how he feels. Embarrassed and excited and nervous of the response. Now is likely the time when he should confess his new occupation to his friends, but he feels strangely shy over the idea.
And then, Temeraire runs into some snags with the human contingent of Parliament, and so Laurence heads to London to devote himself to support his friend's research of precedents and practicalities. He is so single-minded in this work that he has quite put his new book out of mind when he receives another letter from a Lady ℅ her equally anonymous brother ℅ Mr Murray.
How unique your novel is, Mr Laurence! she writes after the initial pleasantries required of letters have been dealt with. Laurence is slightly embarrassed that she was so easily able to identify him through his pseudonym, but of course, she was the one who directed him to this work, and so perhaps it is not so strange. You have certainly succeeded in presenting a defence of the reputation of your kind. But, if you will forgive me my presumption, I believe that in your haste and distraction, you have forgotten to include one of the core elements of the genre you profess to be contributing to: where, sir, was the romance?
She is quite right, Laurence realises. His novel does feel lonely in some ways.
When Laurence returns with Temeraire to Tharkay’s estate, the grounds are blanketed in thick layers of snow. After helping Temeraire heat up his pavilion, Laurence makes his way back across the grounds, admiring the beauty of the new season even as he shivers.
“Will?” asks Tharkay, blinking in surprise at Laurence shaking out his outer clothes in the entrance. “I hadn’t expected you back quite yet.” He comes in closer and helps Laurence peel off his damp coat. “You wouldn’t think a dragon could sneak up on you. Is Temeraire still up?”
“Thank you,” sighs Laurence in relief as he’s finally freed from his outermost layers. “No, I believe Temeraire was headed directly to bed, though no doubt he’d be happy to complain to you face-to-face in the morning.”
Tharkay smirks at him. “Has he finally managed to crush his fellow ministers into submission, then?”
Laurence tries to fix his hair and makes a face as his fingers get caught in the wet tangles. “No actual crushing took place, though I understand there were some close calls.”
Tharkay huffs a laugh. “Naturally,” he says. “Come, then, Will. We’ll heat you a bath, and then you can tell me the details over a late supper.”
There is that slide into domesticity again. It feels warm and lovely. Laurence wonders if Tharkay, who lived so much of his adult life dealing with humanity as little as possible, finds the sensation as pleasant as Laurence does. Perhaps Tharkay finds it restrictive and suffocating.
Laurence doesn’t know how to ask these questions, so he only says, “Thank you,” and allows himself to be ushered away.
Supper is plain, but hot and filling, and everything is wonderful until Tharkay ruins it by commenting, “And I’ve ordered more paper, as we seem to be going through so much lately.”
Or perhaps it is Laurence who ruins the mood by apologising.
Regardless of who is really at fault, the air turns tense as Tharkay says, abandoning all levity, “Will, it is my hope that you see this as your home as well. You and Temeraire are not guests to me.”
“I do see this as my home,” says Laurence firmly. “But it was your home first, and your sentimental and legal claim to the place mean that it is my duty to defer to you on household matters.”
Tharkay throws back his head in frustration. “I have given you all the legal claim I can, and you know it. Do as you like with the house whenever you like it. When have I ever cared for sentiment?”
Laurence focuses on relaxing his muscles, trying to will his mind and heart to follow along. He still isn’t able to completely strip the ice from his voice when he replies, “Yes, when have you ever cared for sentiment? So you won’t mind when I repaper the blue parlour? Perhaps a nice red and gold pattern.”
Tharkay’s whole face seems to flinch.
“And what of the furniture? I can switch it out for something newer? And the books? I can dispose of them?”
“At this point, most of the books in that room are yours,” snaps Tharkay.
“Not all of them.”
They sit in silence for a long moment.
“Sentiment isn’t something shameful,” Laurence tells him, softening a little. “I am committed to our life here, Tenzing. I am simply taking my time in settling. I want to be a good addition to your life, not a destructive one. Well,” Laurence adds, smiling a little bitterly, “no more destructive than I already have been, at any rate.”
“France may have cause to complain at your destructiveness, but I don't,” is Tharkay's rejoinder. After a moment, he adds quietly, “But it's true that I would prefer that you keep your destructive tendencies away from the blue parlour.”
“I'm very fond of it as is,” Laurence reassures him. “And perhaps someday, you'll tell me about her?”
After all, Tharkay isn't the only one who's been waiting. Laurence has been waiting, too, if not for as long or as painfully.
“Someday,” Tharkay agrees.
When they separate to go to bed, the mood is solemn, but Laurence feels a little lighter than he has for some time.
With his schedule finally open again, he decides to write a sequel with—he steels himself—a romantic plotline. Miss Lawson, in her duties as a captain, must retrieve some from eggs from… Laurence flounders, his mind desperately dodging the spectre of Istanbul. Nepal, he decides. That's fictional enough as it pertains to his own experiences, and perhaps Tharkay can advise him on some details if Laurence finds a way to ask with sufficient subtlety.
So, Miss Lawson has retrieved her eggs in Nepal, but due to a series of tragedies, she must now attempt to make her way back to England over the much more perilous land route. Thankfully, she has acquired a local guide, the son of a British woman and a wealthy Nepalese man. After a series of misunderstandings, this young gentleman confesses his love to Miss Lawson in a suitably dramatic way, and the two get married.
Miraculously, this book is accepted by the printers as well. Laurence wonders if the surprising success of previous novel maybe—now in its third edition!---lead the printer to complacency and perhaps an insufficient test read.
Laurence expects quite the reaction to this interracial love story between an independent woman and a wealthy gentleman of mixed heritage, but he doesn't exactly operate in the right social circles to hear this reaction. Eventually, he receives a letter from a Lady expressing a great deal of shock and a somewhat roundabout demand for a sequel, and Laurence feels rather smug about this.
What he doesn't expect is for his mother to give him a very long look the next time he visits. “Is there anything you’d like to share with me, Will?” she asks finally. “You are quite well?”
Laurence frowns, confused. “Yes, quite well. I don’t believe any part of my circumstances has changed since I last saw you.”
Lady Allendale narrows her eyes. “I see,” she says. “And how is Mr Tharkay doing? I wonder why he never comes with you to visit us.”
Laurence stares at his mother, completely bewildered by this new line of questioning. Beyond her perpetually worried sighs and her assurances that he was welcome home at any time, Lady Allendale had never raised the topic of his residence at Tharkay’s estate before.
“He’s… well.” Laurence clears his throat nervously, feeling that he is missing some major part of the conversation. “I can invite him over, if you would like. Or you could come to stay with—that is, you could come to visit.”
Lady Allendale raises her elegant eyebrows. “Perhaps I shall. I’m certain he’s a very interesting young man, and with such an interesting history. His father was from Nepal, wasn’t he?”
"No, he was Scottish," says Laurence in confusion.
And then he realises the problem.
Laurence has never seen his mother pick up a novel, never mind read it, but then, she has never seen him pick up a novel, either, and he is fast approaching connoisseurship on the topic. His mother, or someone in her social circles, must have read the novel, and his authorship is apparently evident to more than simply the inspirational Lady. Even worse, his mother apparently believes the story to be based on his own life despite the very clear differences.
“The books are fully fictional,” he says, feeling his face grow tellingly warm. “It’s not—while perhaps I drew on some of my own experiences as inspiration, they’re not—I’m not—”
But he is, isn’t he? Can he really tell his mother that his feelings for Tharkay didn’t sneak their way into Miss Lawson’s love story? This is not a confession he has ever wanted, or intended, to deliver to his mother, and yet outright lying is even more impossible.
Lady Allendale understands her son too well, and she only shakes her head at him pityingly. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” she says. “Young men are so quick to misunderstand these things. As it seems you are well aware.”
Even his mother is mocking him now.
Laurence is still overcome with horror as he returns home.
In retrospect, he is very relieved that he never revealed his authorship to his friends, which would have motivated them to seek out the books out of loyalty to him if not any interest in the subject matter. If his personal inspirations were so transparent to his mother, doubtless they would be even more so to anyone who has ever seen him interact with Tharkay, and he doesn’t want any of his friends to draw the correct conclusions before he’s ready to share them on his own terms.
Thankfully, he reassures himself as he bids Temeraire goodnight and heads into the manor house, no one in his circle reads novels, particularly not novels with romantic plotlines.
But as he ducks into Tharkay’s study to let him know they’ve arrived home safely, he sees Tharkay holding his second volume and paging through it with raised eyebrows.
Laurence clears his throat nervously. “I really don’t think that’s quite your type of story,” he says.
“I disagree,” Tharkay responds mildly, looking up at him. “And as I'm on my second read through, I think I should know.”
“…Ah,” says Laurence. “Well.”
“Will,” says Tharkay, and then he stops.
It’s rare to see Tharkay at a loss for words; though he often chooses not to use them, he generally has long backlogs of rejoinders available to cast into conversations at a moment’s notice.
“I hadn’t intended for it to become known this way,” says Laurence. “The novels were intended to be… subtle.”
“...Subtle,” Tharkay repeats.
Laurence flushes. “That is, I didn’t intend for it to be so obvious that I am the author.”
Tharkay huffs out a laugh, and some of the tension that had built up between them starts to ebb away. “It is quite transparent, likely even to the general audience of Britons, that this story was inspired by your life, but I suppose that anyone unfamiliar with you would be unlikely to guess you the actual author rather than an unwilling muse.” After a delicate pause, Tharkay adds, “They’d be equally unlikely to have any additional genuine speculations about you and I, given the gender changes and the ambiguous authorship.”
“I am relieved to hear that.” Laurence looks away. “I suppose it makes me cowardly, but I’m not ready to face them yet.”
“Yet?”
Laurence smiles wryly. “No doubt Temeraire will force the issue eventually.”
“No doubt.” Laurence hears Tharkay coming closer, and he lifts his head to meet Tharkay’s eyes as Tharkay asks, “And are you ready to face me?”
Laurence is silent for long enough that Tharkay pulls away. Finally, he says, “I trust you. I want to stay with you forever. But no, I’m not ready to face you, yet.”
Tharkay nods slowly, his face calm and serious, but Laurence can see the glow in his eyes. “Then I’ll wait for as long as you need.”
Laurence trusts Tharkay so very much, and this trust has been ever present within him for years, but this is the first time he is able to hear those words and truly, truly believe them—not just that Tharkay means them, but that he himself will be able to hold up his end of the bargain.
“Well, then, aren’t you going to invite me in for a drink?” Laurence asks. “You can tell me your honest opinion about my foolish passtime.”
“My honest opinion is that your novels were very enjoyable,” says Tharkay easily as he gently pulls Laurence in by his elbow and directs him to a chair. This type of casual touching is not new for them, but it is newly intimate, and Laurence feels his stomach twist with nerves and giddiness. “Especially that part where you described how very attractive my counterpart was.”
Laurence laughs. “Well, I had to bow to the conventions of the genre, even where it breaks from realism.”
Tharkay snorts. “Perhaps you won’t be getting a drink after all, Captain Laurence.”
“I just hope none of our friends find out about this,” sighs Laurence. “Can you imagine? My mother was bad enough.”
Tharkay freezes in place and nearly spills the bourbon that he has started to pour. “Your mother?”
“My mother,” confirms Laurence grimly. “She is considering coming over to visit.”
For the second time in an hour, Tharkay seems unable to speak. “How… lovely.”
“May I show her the blue parlour?”
Tharkay looks at him for a long moment, thinking over his true feelings rather than giving his habitual and thoughtless argument that it is Laurence’s home, too. “Yes. Yes, but I would prefer nothing to be changed, for now.”
“Thank you,” says Laurence. “I’ll be careful.”
Tharkay smiles at him, that genuine smile that used to be so rare to find on his face. “I know, Will.” He hands Laurence a glass and settles down beside him. “You can show her your collection of novels.”
Laurence laughs. “God, where can I hide them? But no, it’s simply that it’s such a lovely room, and I want her to see it.”
Tharkay nods slowly.
“And I want her to see you, too,” says Laurence quietly. “I want her to see you as she has slowly come to see Temeraire. As an inextricable part of me.”
Laurence is staring into his glass as he says this, unable to bear the thought of seeing Tharkay’s expression.
As always, Tharkay understands him and gently carries the conversation away. “And who will tell Temeraire about your new occupation?”
Laurence closes his eyes and lets his face fall into his hands, trying not to imagine Temeraire’s jubilation and pride broadcast through Parliament—and the world.
“Please don’t exclude me from your reading sessions,” Tharkay continues easily. “There are certain phrases that I look forward to hearing from your voice.”
“Temeraire won’t like the novels,” Laurence insists. “They haven't nearly enough maths.”
“But plenty of dragons,” Tharkay counters. “Shall we place a bet to see who is right?”
Indeed, Temeraire declares the novels excellent works, far and away the best of their genre, and he demands for them to be read to him repeatedly. He grows particularly quiet during those tender scenes when Miss Lawson and her new hatchling are first becoming accustomed to one another, his tail twitching and his massive blue eyes fixed on Laurence’s face.
The softness of those moments is even worth the jeering letters he receives from what seems to be the entirety of the British Aerial Corps, who, it turns out, actually do read novels.
END
Fandom: Temeraire
Characters/Ship: Laurence/Tharkay
Word count: ~5k words
Summary: Post-canon crack treated seriously. Laurence writes a completely fictional book about an unlikely protagonist stumbling upon a dragon egg and becoming a captain. He's quite certain he doesn't deserve all this mockery.
Notes: The prompts for December: holidays together | crack treated seriously | moving in together | "that's my favorite thing about you | forgiveness | tattoo parlor / flower shop au.
Laurence cannot remember his last leisurely spring. He wanders through the untamed gardens of Tharkay’s estate, admiring the splashes of colours and wafts of fragrance from the flowers that have survived years of dominance fights in their spreading beds. He’s grown strangely fond of the wilder parts of the estate, and he’s starting to dread the day the final repairs are completed and everything is trimmed in tidy geometric rows once more.
After all, once everything is in its place, will there still be a place for him?
He meets Tharkay as he heads in for breakfast, and Tharkay greets him with his increasingly common smile.
“Good morning, Will,” says Tharkay, and Laurence’s stomach swoops. There’s something so domestic in those words—or rather, not in the words themselves, but in their repetition, in their routine, in the way Tharkay says them with his eyes still misty with sleep and his neck cloth completely missing. Laurence used to view domesticity as something he’d like very much to dip his toes into during leave, but nothing he would ever want to truly settle into. And yet, the idea of a domestic life with Tharkay… Well, at any rate, it certainly doesn’t sound boring.
“Good morning, Tenzing,” Laurence responds after a moment of letting his eyes linger too long. But what is too long when it’s Tharkay who he’s looking at? Tharkay, who Laurence trusts wholly to never betray him to the authorities, even if he disagrees with his decisions. Tharkay, who Laurence trusts wholly to be gentle with his heart, even if he doesn’t want it. Tharkay, who Laurence trusts wholly.
Tharkay sees him looking and simply looks back calmly, waiting to react until Laurence has committed to action. He thinks Laurence isn’t ready to discuss his thoughts, and of course he is right.
“Tenzing, would you mind if I were to settle in the blue parlour today?” asks Laurence, averting his eyes. “I seem to have accumulated a great deal of writing to do.”
In a flash, Tharkay’s soft smile is gone, and Laurence mourns its absence guiltily. “You may settle wherever you like whenever you like, Will,” says Tharkay firmly, rehashing an ongoing and largely unspoken disagreement.
“Yes, of course, pardon me,” says Laurence quickly. “Shall we eat?”
Tharkay was very clear, in his way, that Laurence was not a guest and shouldn’t think of himself as such. Laurence was honoured, of course, but the reality is that he is living in a place that is unfamiliar to him and familiar to his companion, and so he must tread lightly. For all that his presence here may be earnestly desired, he is still an interloper.
After breakfast, Laurence retreats into the blue parlour, which has become a favourite room of his. Anything truly valuable has long since been stripped from the room, right up to and including the gilding, but the faded wallpaper has a very pretty flowering design against a pale blue field, and the books on the shelf against the far wall were clearly selected by some long ago denizen for their engaging stories rather than their informative content. The desk by the window is small and worn, with some stains from where rain must have come in through some cracks in the glass, but it is still sturdy and serviceable. Best of all, if he leans a tad to the left, he can just make out Temeraire’s pavilion in the distance. The room, as a whole, is very comfortable, and Laurence was starting to feel slightly possessive over it when he noticed that a whole shelf of the books are written in an unfamiliar script. It is one thing to take on someone else’s things when they are no longer able to use them, but there is a story to this room that Laurence does not know, and he fears that any misstep of his will dirty some cherished childhood memory of Tharkay’s.
And yet, he can’t quite let the room go. It’s such a pleasant space, so peaceful and gentle, that he returns day after day to work on his extensive and ever-growing correspondence, and to stare out the window and watch Temeraire at work when he is home, or to miss him desperately when he is gone to London.
He settles at the desk now and pulls down the first of his letters. Granby and Little are getting on well, as are Emily and Demane. Sipho has met a young lady who Laurence firmly requests to be introduced to at the first opportunity, and Jane writes of some of her recent exploits in a gentle tone clearly intended to remind him of her unavailability to him, not entirely trusting him to have moved on after his latest bout of clinginess.
Everyone who has any desire for such things seems to come in pairs (and trios and quartets, for those who are aviators). And so does Laurence, in a way—he and Tharkay are, in nearly every way that matters, a matched set these days. But Tharkay is still waiting for Laurence to be ready, and for all that his acceptance or refusal won’t be the end of their partnership, the waiting might be. Laurence has had cause over the course of his life to be aware that in most cases, he isn’t someone worth waiting for.
Laurence still isn’t sure what he wants his relationship with Tharkay to be, but he does know that he doesn’t want to be forever living in someone else’s home, and he doesn’t know how to make a home in a place that is so wounded with someone else’s memories. He doesn’t know how to make a home at all.
And so, Laurence hesitates, and Tharkay waits, and they never quite form the pair that they could be.
Laurence sets aside his letters and wanders over to the bookcase, feeling restless. He runs his hand carefully over the cracked spines that he knows are filled with an increasingly familiar unknown script, and he pauses when he reaches the section of English-language books. He pulls one down and finds that it’s an old, cheaply bound novel.
Laurence never was fond of reading as a lad, and the joy he took from reading as an adult has chiefly been due to his reading partner and not any intrinsic joy in the activity. Still, he finds himself carrying the book over to the little chaise longue in the room and settling in to read with his pile of cheerful letters placed firmly behind him.
The novel is a romance, of course.
“I’ve missed you at lunch,” says Tharkay several days later over supper. He doesn’t seem concerned until Laurence flushes bright red, and then his eyebrows lift.
“I’ve been reading,” says Laurence evasively.
“Indeed?” When Laurence only nods and stares down at the tablecloth, Tharkay offers, “If you’ve found a particular topic of interest, I could place an order for you?”
Laurence weighs Tharkay’s certain mockery against the knowledge that the collection of old British novels in the blue parlour are dwindling down, and grudgingly admits, “I’ve been—that is, I’ve taken the liberty of reading some of the books stored in the blue parlour. I hope that was not too great of an imposition.”
“It’s no imposition at all,” Tharkay responds automatically. It doesn’t take long for his lightning-fast brain and eerie memory to run through a mental catalogue, and Laurence knows that he’s made the connection when his lips begin to twitch slightly. “I’m certain I can find some updated volumes of that particular genre.”
Laurence says primly, not meeting Tharkay’s eyes, “Yes, thank you,” and then desperately tries to change the subject to Emily and Demane’s adventures and Sipho’s latest studies.
Tharkay allows the topic change and makes no effort to revisit the subject, but every time the mail comes in, it brings with it a new romance novel for Laurence to squirrel away to the blue parlour and devour at his leisure.
These newer novels are more experimental than the ones he had been reading, and the conventions and themes take on different forms, particularly in one specific, frustrating way. The older novels, Laurence is startled to realise, had all seemed to take place in some alternate universe where dragons don’t exist beyond the roundabout mention of an unseen courier delivering mail. The newer novels also largely avoid mentioning dragons directly, but they do have characters who are aviators—lazy gamblers who contribute nothing meaningful to the likewise unaddressed wars, and who are uniformly despicable, terrorising the reputations of young ladies. He frowns at the marriage and settlement of Mr Wickham, an antagonist who Laurence would have stripped the bottle-green coat straight off his back if he’d ever served under him. One bad aviator in a book is merely a character, but the pattern across books and authors is disturbing.
Of course, perhaps the authors simply aren’t aware of the stereotypes they are perpetuating. So few have had any meaningful contact with aviators, and as Laurence knows painfully well from his own early days in the Corps, not all aviators present themselves with manners that are consistent with the expectations of polite behaviour as formed by the British elite.
Laurence flips back to the publishing page of the latest novel he read. It was published anonymously—no surprises there, really, if it really was written by a “lady” who was no doubt concerned of her reputation as a female novelist. But that is no matter. Laurence briskly drafts two letters—one to John Murray, the printer, and the other to be forwarded on to the author herself. He takes care to express his admiration of her work, but asks for her consideration in regards to the reputation of the Corps, which by no means deserves her slander. He details of some of the exceptional gains only possible due to the intervention of the Corps even beyond their military might, including access to medicine and exotic foods. He ends the letter pleading that the author might consider making corrections to her novels, or at least providing a more balanced and nuanced perspective of the Corps in her future works.
He signs his name neatly and seals the letters. With that finished, he returns with a sigh to his pile of regular correspondence, which due to his neglect has been growing larger rather than smaller.
And to think that he used to take such pleasure in writing letters, back when that wasn’t all he ever did.
“A letter for you, Will,” says Tharkay over breakfast. “From a printer! I seem to have been remiss in supplying your hobbies, if you feel obliged to head directly to the source.”
Laurence frowns at Tharkay severely as he accepts the letter, quite certain that that level of mockery wasn’t necessary.
The letter writer professes to be writing on behalf of his unnamed sister who, though very apologetic that Laurence should have noticed any inaccuracies about side characters in her fictional romantic comedy, suggests that if Laurence is concerned about the reputations of his own people as she is of hers, perhaps he ought to write novels himself, as he has so many of his own experiences to draw on.
In short, Laurence now feels mocked on all sides, though he suspects that the self-addressed Lady’s teasing is no more mean-spirited than Tharkay’s.
Likewise, she very obviously is not sincere in her recommendation that he write his own novels, but as Laurence returns to the blue parlour and lets his eyes run over the dearly loved space, he wonders… why shouldn’t he?
It isn’t as though he doesn’t have the time to spare.
Temeraire visits. Temeraire leaves.
Laurence sits down at the worn desk of the blue parlour, staring out at the empty pavilion, and then he grabs a pen and ink and begins to write on the back of an abandoned letter draft.
The heroine of this story will be a gentleman’s daughter. Not the eldest daughter, no, that wouldn't do, better make her the second daughter. No, but there it's looking dangerously like the Lady’s own work, so perhaps it’s better to make the heroine the third daughter of a lord, perhaps someone with rather strong political leanings to counter the Lady’s firmly apolitical settings. Yes, that seems appropriate. And the heroine, against her parents' and especially her father's wishes, decides to take up the position of governess in a respectable household, as she's interested in independence and exploration.
An unlikely circumstance, certainly, but Laurence is writing a novel, after all. As Laurence develops Miss Lawson, as he has decided to style her, he feels himself growing increasingly sympathetic to her plight. And as that is the mark of a well-drawn character, he forgives himself for his fondness of her.
However, he finds he has written himself into something of a knot. After all, his purpose in writing was to introduce a positive portrayal of dragons and aviators, but his heroine seems unlikely to encounter them in the life he has set up for her. Of course, Laurence was nearly as unlikely to have become a dragon captain as his Miss Lawson is, so perhaps reality is as strange as fiction after all.
He decides that Miss Lawson will stay with her employers in their town home in Dover, and during their stay, a group of naval officers will visit and leave important cargo to be safeguarded in the basement of the townhouse. Very ominous, but if the gentleman of the household has deep connections to the navy, perhaps not entirely beyond belief, and Laurence can clearly remember several occasions in which some object or message of importance to the state was left in a civilian household.
Yes, so this cargo is left in the basement under guard until officers from the local covert can retrieve it. Of course, once coverts have been mentioned, there can be little wonder as to what's contained in the parcel, and the reality of the reputations of aviators and dragons means that the household, including Laurence’s heroine, would certainly intend to steer clear of the newly designated guest quarters. But one of the family's children escapes to sneak a peek at the fabled egg, and Miss Lawson must go to retrieve the child. She is very stern to child and guards both, and she returns to the main household with every belief that the entire incident is over. The aviators collect the egg without any contact with the household, and life moves on. However, some weeks later, Miss Lawson is visited again—the egg has hatched, and the infant dragon will hear of no one being her captain but “Lawson, she wants her dear Lawson.”
Laurence pauses to think tenderly of Temeraire, newly hatched and so vulnerable in all the ways Laurence didn’t think to perceive at the time. Temeraire, who was certain of little else at the time than that he was hungry and that the only person he was interested in speaking to was Laurence.
Miss Lawson is highly sceptical, and here Laurence draws a great deal on his own shameful past feelings, but she agrees to meet the dragon. The dragon is very small, surprisingly cute, and somehow very nearly instantly dear. Miss Lawson finds that she can't bear to separate from the dragon, and she finds herself obliged to join Britain’s Aerial Corps—which, she discovers, contains other women! She is surprised to find that while the manners and education in the Corps are sorely lacking, their principles, overall, are very good. She sets about instructing her new crew as to the proper ways to behave in society, and in the process is confronted by the realisation that good manners aren't the end all of humanity, and she'd much rather be with good people than good mannered ones.
When he is finished, Laurence is rather proud of his new work, though he suspects it won't hold up to any real scrutiny. Nevertheless, he sends it off to a publisher under a pseudonym, and he carefully doesn’t tell anyone he knows. The manuscript is rejected, as he suspected it would be, but in a fit of something like pique, he sends it on to another, and then another. After a series of rejections and revisions, one printer agrees to take it on. Laurence feels—well, he isn’t certain how he feels. Embarrassed and excited and nervous of the response. Now is likely the time when he should confess his new occupation to his friends, but he feels strangely shy over the idea.
And then, Temeraire runs into some snags with the human contingent of Parliament, and so Laurence heads to London to devote himself to support his friend's research of precedents and practicalities. He is so single-minded in this work that he has quite put his new book out of mind when he receives another letter from a Lady ℅ her equally anonymous brother ℅ Mr Murray.
How unique your novel is, Mr Laurence! she writes after the initial pleasantries required of letters have been dealt with. Laurence is slightly embarrassed that she was so easily able to identify him through his pseudonym, but of course, she was the one who directed him to this work, and so perhaps it is not so strange. You have certainly succeeded in presenting a defence of the reputation of your kind. But, if you will forgive me my presumption, I believe that in your haste and distraction, you have forgotten to include one of the core elements of the genre you profess to be contributing to: where, sir, was the romance?
She is quite right, Laurence realises. His novel does feel lonely in some ways.
When Laurence returns with Temeraire to Tharkay’s estate, the grounds are blanketed in thick layers of snow. After helping Temeraire heat up his pavilion, Laurence makes his way back across the grounds, admiring the beauty of the new season even as he shivers.
“Will?” asks Tharkay, blinking in surprise at Laurence shaking out his outer clothes in the entrance. “I hadn’t expected you back quite yet.” He comes in closer and helps Laurence peel off his damp coat. “You wouldn’t think a dragon could sneak up on you. Is Temeraire still up?”
“Thank you,” sighs Laurence in relief as he’s finally freed from his outermost layers. “No, I believe Temeraire was headed directly to bed, though no doubt he’d be happy to complain to you face-to-face in the morning.”
Tharkay smirks at him. “Has he finally managed to crush his fellow ministers into submission, then?”
Laurence tries to fix his hair and makes a face as his fingers get caught in the wet tangles. “No actual crushing took place, though I understand there were some close calls.”
Tharkay huffs a laugh. “Naturally,” he says. “Come, then, Will. We’ll heat you a bath, and then you can tell me the details over a late supper.”
There is that slide into domesticity again. It feels warm and lovely. Laurence wonders if Tharkay, who lived so much of his adult life dealing with humanity as little as possible, finds the sensation as pleasant as Laurence does. Perhaps Tharkay finds it restrictive and suffocating.
Laurence doesn’t know how to ask these questions, so he only says, “Thank you,” and allows himself to be ushered away.
Supper is plain, but hot and filling, and everything is wonderful until Tharkay ruins it by commenting, “And I’ve ordered more paper, as we seem to be going through so much lately.”
Or perhaps it is Laurence who ruins the mood by apologising.
Regardless of who is really at fault, the air turns tense as Tharkay says, abandoning all levity, “Will, it is my hope that you see this as your home as well. You and Temeraire are not guests to me.”
“I do see this as my home,” says Laurence firmly. “But it was your home first, and your sentimental and legal claim to the place mean that it is my duty to defer to you on household matters.”
Tharkay throws back his head in frustration. “I have given you all the legal claim I can, and you know it. Do as you like with the house whenever you like it. When have I ever cared for sentiment?”
Laurence focuses on relaxing his muscles, trying to will his mind and heart to follow along. He still isn’t able to completely strip the ice from his voice when he replies, “Yes, when have you ever cared for sentiment? So you won’t mind when I repaper the blue parlour? Perhaps a nice red and gold pattern.”
Tharkay’s whole face seems to flinch.
“And what of the furniture? I can switch it out for something newer? And the books? I can dispose of them?”
“At this point, most of the books in that room are yours,” snaps Tharkay.
“Not all of them.”
They sit in silence for a long moment.
“Sentiment isn’t something shameful,” Laurence tells him, softening a little. “I am committed to our life here, Tenzing. I am simply taking my time in settling. I want to be a good addition to your life, not a destructive one. Well,” Laurence adds, smiling a little bitterly, “no more destructive than I already have been, at any rate.”
“France may have cause to complain at your destructiveness, but I don't,” is Tharkay's rejoinder. After a moment, he adds quietly, “But it's true that I would prefer that you keep your destructive tendencies away from the blue parlour.”
“I'm very fond of it as is,” Laurence reassures him. “And perhaps someday, you'll tell me about her?”
After all, Tharkay isn't the only one who's been waiting. Laurence has been waiting, too, if not for as long or as painfully.
“Someday,” Tharkay agrees.
When they separate to go to bed, the mood is solemn, but Laurence feels a little lighter than he has for some time.
With his schedule finally open again, he decides to write a sequel with—he steels himself—a romantic plotline. Miss Lawson, in her duties as a captain, must retrieve some from eggs from… Laurence flounders, his mind desperately dodging the spectre of Istanbul. Nepal, he decides. That's fictional enough as it pertains to his own experiences, and perhaps Tharkay can advise him on some details if Laurence finds a way to ask with sufficient subtlety.
So, Miss Lawson has retrieved her eggs in Nepal, but due to a series of tragedies, she must now attempt to make her way back to England over the much more perilous land route. Thankfully, she has acquired a local guide, the son of a British woman and a wealthy Nepalese man. After a series of misunderstandings, this young gentleman confesses his love to Miss Lawson in a suitably dramatic way, and the two get married.
Miraculously, this book is accepted by the printers as well. Laurence wonders if the surprising success of previous novel maybe—now in its third edition!---lead the printer to complacency and perhaps an insufficient test read.
Laurence expects quite the reaction to this interracial love story between an independent woman and a wealthy gentleman of mixed heritage, but he doesn't exactly operate in the right social circles to hear this reaction. Eventually, he receives a letter from a Lady expressing a great deal of shock and a somewhat roundabout demand for a sequel, and Laurence feels rather smug about this.
What he doesn't expect is for his mother to give him a very long look the next time he visits. “Is there anything you’d like to share with me, Will?” she asks finally. “You are quite well?”
Laurence frowns, confused. “Yes, quite well. I don’t believe any part of my circumstances has changed since I last saw you.”
Lady Allendale narrows her eyes. “I see,” she says. “And how is Mr Tharkay doing? I wonder why he never comes with you to visit us.”
Laurence stares at his mother, completely bewildered by this new line of questioning. Beyond her perpetually worried sighs and her assurances that he was welcome home at any time, Lady Allendale had never raised the topic of his residence at Tharkay’s estate before.
“He’s… well.” Laurence clears his throat nervously, feeling that he is missing some major part of the conversation. “I can invite him over, if you would like. Or you could come to stay with—that is, you could come to visit.”
Lady Allendale raises her elegant eyebrows. “Perhaps I shall. I’m certain he’s a very interesting young man, and with such an interesting history. His father was from Nepal, wasn’t he?”
"No, he was Scottish," says Laurence in confusion.
And then he realises the problem.
Laurence has never seen his mother pick up a novel, never mind read it, but then, she has never seen him pick up a novel, either, and he is fast approaching connoisseurship on the topic. His mother, or someone in her social circles, must have read the novel, and his authorship is apparently evident to more than simply the inspirational Lady. Even worse, his mother apparently believes the story to be based on his own life despite the very clear differences.
“The books are fully fictional,” he says, feeling his face grow tellingly warm. “It’s not—while perhaps I drew on some of my own experiences as inspiration, they’re not—I’m not—”
But he is, isn’t he? Can he really tell his mother that his feelings for Tharkay didn’t sneak their way into Miss Lawson’s love story? This is not a confession he has ever wanted, or intended, to deliver to his mother, and yet outright lying is even more impossible.
Lady Allendale understands her son too well, and she only shakes her head at him pityingly. “Don’t let him hear you say that,” she says. “Young men are so quick to misunderstand these things. As it seems you are well aware.”
Even his mother is mocking him now.
Laurence is still overcome with horror as he returns home.
In retrospect, he is very relieved that he never revealed his authorship to his friends, which would have motivated them to seek out the books out of loyalty to him if not any interest in the subject matter. If his personal inspirations were so transparent to his mother, doubtless they would be even more so to anyone who has ever seen him interact with Tharkay, and he doesn’t want any of his friends to draw the correct conclusions before he’s ready to share them on his own terms.
Thankfully, he reassures himself as he bids Temeraire goodnight and heads into the manor house, no one in his circle reads novels, particularly not novels with romantic plotlines.
But as he ducks into Tharkay’s study to let him know they’ve arrived home safely, he sees Tharkay holding his second volume and paging through it with raised eyebrows.
Laurence clears his throat nervously. “I really don’t think that’s quite your type of story,” he says.
“I disagree,” Tharkay responds mildly, looking up at him. “And as I'm on my second read through, I think I should know.”
“…Ah,” says Laurence. “Well.”
“Will,” says Tharkay, and then he stops.
It’s rare to see Tharkay at a loss for words; though he often chooses not to use them, he generally has long backlogs of rejoinders available to cast into conversations at a moment’s notice.
“I hadn’t intended for it to become known this way,” says Laurence. “The novels were intended to be… subtle.”
“...Subtle,” Tharkay repeats.
Laurence flushes. “That is, I didn’t intend for it to be so obvious that I am the author.”
Tharkay huffs out a laugh, and some of the tension that had built up between them starts to ebb away. “It is quite transparent, likely even to the general audience of Britons, that this story was inspired by your life, but I suppose that anyone unfamiliar with you would be unlikely to guess you the actual author rather than an unwilling muse.” After a delicate pause, Tharkay adds, “They’d be equally unlikely to have any additional genuine speculations about you and I, given the gender changes and the ambiguous authorship.”
“I am relieved to hear that.” Laurence looks away. “I suppose it makes me cowardly, but I’m not ready to face them yet.”
“Yet?”
Laurence smiles wryly. “No doubt Temeraire will force the issue eventually.”
“No doubt.” Laurence hears Tharkay coming closer, and he lifts his head to meet Tharkay’s eyes as Tharkay asks, “And are you ready to face me?”
Laurence is silent for long enough that Tharkay pulls away. Finally, he says, “I trust you. I want to stay with you forever. But no, I’m not ready to face you, yet.”
Tharkay nods slowly, his face calm and serious, but Laurence can see the glow in his eyes. “Then I’ll wait for as long as you need.”
Laurence trusts Tharkay so very much, and this trust has been ever present within him for years, but this is the first time he is able to hear those words and truly, truly believe them—not just that Tharkay means them, but that he himself will be able to hold up his end of the bargain.
“Well, then, aren’t you going to invite me in for a drink?” Laurence asks. “You can tell me your honest opinion about my foolish passtime.”
“My honest opinion is that your novels were very enjoyable,” says Tharkay easily as he gently pulls Laurence in by his elbow and directs him to a chair. This type of casual touching is not new for them, but it is newly intimate, and Laurence feels his stomach twist with nerves and giddiness. “Especially that part where you described how very attractive my counterpart was.”
Laurence laughs. “Well, I had to bow to the conventions of the genre, even where it breaks from realism.”
Tharkay snorts. “Perhaps you won’t be getting a drink after all, Captain Laurence.”
“I just hope none of our friends find out about this,” sighs Laurence. “Can you imagine? My mother was bad enough.”
Tharkay freezes in place and nearly spills the bourbon that he has started to pour. “Your mother?”
“My mother,” confirms Laurence grimly. “She is considering coming over to visit.”
For the second time in an hour, Tharkay seems unable to speak. “How… lovely.”
“May I show her the blue parlour?”
Tharkay looks at him for a long moment, thinking over his true feelings rather than giving his habitual and thoughtless argument that it is Laurence’s home, too. “Yes. Yes, but I would prefer nothing to be changed, for now.”
“Thank you,” says Laurence. “I’ll be careful.”
Tharkay smiles at him, that genuine smile that used to be so rare to find on his face. “I know, Will.” He hands Laurence a glass and settles down beside him. “You can show her your collection of novels.”
Laurence laughs. “God, where can I hide them? But no, it’s simply that it’s such a lovely room, and I want her to see it.”
Tharkay nods slowly.
“And I want her to see you, too,” says Laurence quietly. “I want her to see you as she has slowly come to see Temeraire. As an inextricable part of me.”
Laurence is staring into his glass as he says this, unable to bear the thought of seeing Tharkay’s expression.
As always, Tharkay understands him and gently carries the conversation away. “And who will tell Temeraire about your new occupation?”
Laurence closes his eyes and lets his face fall into his hands, trying not to imagine Temeraire’s jubilation and pride broadcast through Parliament—and the world.
“Please don’t exclude me from your reading sessions,” Tharkay continues easily. “There are certain phrases that I look forward to hearing from your voice.”
“Temeraire won’t like the novels,” Laurence insists. “They haven't nearly enough maths.”
“But plenty of dragons,” Tharkay counters. “Shall we place a bet to see who is right?”
Indeed, Temeraire declares the novels excellent works, far and away the best of their genre, and he demands for them to be read to him repeatedly. He grows particularly quiet during those tender scenes when Miss Lawson and her new hatchling are first becoming accustomed to one another, his tail twitching and his massive blue eyes fixed on Laurence’s face.
The softness of those moments is even worth the jeering letters he receives from what seems to be the entirety of the British Aerial Corps, who, it turns out, actually do read novels.
END