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Laurence took another sip of his port and pretended not to notice he was being surveilled. Tharkay was continuing his circuitous perusal of the bookshelf, an elegant figure of domesticity in slippers and silk banyan, to all apparent purposes wholly engrossed with the contents of the spines. Laurence could sense the appraising gaze across his shoulders as Tharkay made his way behind him.
They had been intimate long enough for Laurence to no longer be surprised by this particular foible of Tharkay's. There was only the apprehension to see what new whim may have gripped him. Laurence felt himself smile against the rim of his glass.
Tharkay had arrived home late that afternoon in a state of high irritation. Though he had won his birthright to lands and title, Tharkay's family continued to harry him. The spring and summer had seen Tharkay to Edinburgh almost weekly to consult with his solicitors about a flurry of petty suits and requisite countersuits that stretched now late into the autumn. At first, he had related his time in court to Laurence and Temeraire with an easy air of wry exasperation, but lately he often went away afterwards, to walk alone in the woods or take the eagle hunting. Pressed for details, he became as ill-tempered and snappish as an adder.
Laurence had seen his mood from the door and had the good sense not to ask. Temeraire, oblivious to black looks in only the way a twenty ton beast could be, put his head down to ask politely if it had not gone well. No, if days in the Scottish courts might ever go well, this one had emphatically not, Tharkay had informed Temeraire while they stood on the steps. He had then inquired with icy politeness if Temeraire might shift his head –the size of a carriage and quite blocking the door– before Tharkay froze to death. Temeraire had drawn back with some affront and looked at Laurence quite shocked. Laurence, seized with an inordinate fondness for this man who would stare into a row of teeth as large as his head and choose to be disagreeable, had gone to soothe his dragon's rankled sensibilities.
Laurence had dined that night with Temeraire, certain of Tharkay’s reappearance when he was ready. Temeraire had asked anxiously after him nonetheless. The dragon had been quite willing to extend to Tharkay the same protective solicitude he offered Laurence. But while Laurence bore the concern with greatest affection, Tharkay received such attention with no small amount of chafing. “He is used to soothing his ruffled feathers on his own, my dear.” Laurence said, patting his foreleg consolingly. “He will reappear when he knows he will not be so disagreeable.”
And indeed, as they finished their chapter Tharkay had reappeared with a new book and a very pretty apology for Temeraire. He had submitted with good grace to Temeraire’s affectionate nosing and allowed himself to be set up beside Laurence on Temeraire’s foreleg for the next chapter. When Laurence at last looked up from the page –a dense Italian of which he did not understand one word in four– he saw Tharkay tucking a cloth back into his coat pocket, the platinum of Temeraire’s breastplate polished to a mirror shine.
Tharkay had a fire already laid in the library when Laurence returned from a last few words and goodnights with Temeraire. He accepted the glass of port with pleasure and was happy enough to settle into the Naval Chronicle when Tharkay showed no inclination for conversation. He paged through it casually while Tharkay orbited about the room, considering.
Tharkay, faced with an inconvenience he was forced to endure or a problem his mind could not set aside, found his ease by simply Not Being Tharkay for a time. So perforce, Laurence must not be Laurence.
At first Laurence had obliged him with no small degree of trepidation. He had seen Tharkay assume a persona as easily as other men might put on a new suit of clothes; altering his posture, the tenor of his speech, his choice of words. He could slip into a shockingly accurate imitation that had every hallmark of truth without sliding into caricature. Laurence had feared his own efforts to engage in the pretense a poor and distant second, but Tharkay seemed quite satisfied with Laurence's earnest, embarrassed efforts.
Tharkay's Not Tharkays were as varied and as unexpected as his travels. Months later, Laurence still found himself staring into the middle distance, a blush climbing the back of his neck at the memory of the night that had found him the midshipman under a hard captain. He had submitted with more doubt to the role of odalisque in a harem bath. One Sunday after church Temeraire had inquired why he was so sweaty, unaware of the various blasphemies Laurence had committed the night before that now left him unable to look the village rector in the eye. Tharkay, predictably, had forgone the sermon entirely.
The touch of Tharkay's hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the room. Long fingers trailed across his shoulder to the edge of his collar. He could not suppress a shiver at the graze of a nail, feather light, on the exposed skin just behind his ear. Then the hand continued on past his queue, down to the shoulder on the other side. "What value can one set on mercy, Captain?"
Laurence's glass clicked indelicately against his teeth. He started in surprise, port nearly spilling from his lips. Tharkay had spoken in French – perfect and fluid as ever– but with an unmistakable accent and cadence. He could not help but turn in his seat to look at Tharkay. The jovial expression slipped for just a moment and he saw Tharkay underneath, the briefest of silent questions in his eyes, and then the mask was back in place, waiting for Laurence's response.
Laurence raised a hand to wipe his mouth, considering. He knew he could demure and that Tharkay would stop the act without question or ire. At last he set down his glass with much attention, aligning it carefully in right angles to the table. "I should think true mercy must be given without expectation of payment," he said carefully, the French awkward on his tongue after long months without use. "Or little may separate it from any other transaction or mark it as a virtue"
"Ah," Tharkay sighed. He threw himself down on the other end of the settee from Laurence and took up the bottle for himself. "I fear I am not a merciful man, my captain." His eyes slanted a look at him that was heavy with the heat of open invitation. "Nor a virtuous one."
When Laurence said nothing, Tharkay poured himself a healthy measure of port and sat back to inspect it in the light. “Would you take his life as payment for the debt that stands between us?” He asked abruptly.
“Your Majesty owes me no debt,” Laurence said quietly.
"You shame me!" Tharkay cried. He stood from his place on the settee, the better to gesticulate with his arms. "All of France stands in your debt, ready to revere you, happy to receive your affections but instead–" He shook his head at Laurence, a fond smile on his face. "You harry my men across all of Britain, you roust me from my bed with five hundred dragons you have conjured from the air, you send your companion the spy to foul my every working."
"All I have done I have done in service to my country or my God." Laurence said. "I cannot ask for -I do not desire- compensation for myself."
"And yet you do!" Tharkay said in reproach. "You would take neither fortune, nor fame, but for this man you will make a very pretty plea."
Tharkay pressed him, eyes amused, leaning so close Laurence felt himself drawing away, back against the settee. "I think you are in love with that rascal." His hand moved to Laurence's thigh and Laurence's breath caught in his throat. "I will not ask you to divide your loyalties further and take a place at my side. But let me show you how it could be. Ask me for him," Tharkay demanded.
Laurence licked his lips. "I have already asked for Your Majesty's consideration of clemency," he said.
"No, Will," Tharkay's voice was low. "Not clemency. For me, for the life of your spy, I would have you beg for my indulgence."
Tharkay's face was intolerably close, the room intolerably warm. "Ask again."
Laurence opened his mouth to speak, then instead, like a man plunging into deep water, seized great handfuls of the front of Tharkay's shirt and drew him forward. Tharkay gave a soft exclamation as their mouths met. Laurence's hands stayed clasped in his shirtfront. Thighs on either side of him pinned Laurence to the settee. Tharkay leaned over him, hands cupped around his face, kissing him deeply.
He was flushed and gasping when Tharkay at last drew back. Tharkay's eyes were bright as he tossed his hair back, color high. He kept a hand against Laurence’s cheek. “So you will bargain!”
"Please," Laurence was surprised by the ragged edge to his voice. He stared up into Tharkay's face. His palms smoothed across Tharkay's thighs in supplication. "I would ask you for this –for him."
Tharkay's mouth was hot on his again. "As though I could deny you anything," Tharkay said, and reached between them. Laurence gasped as long, clever fingers outlined the shape of his arousal through the fabric. He was rocking against Tharkay's hand, eyes closed and breath quick as they found a rhythm. Then abruptly, the hand was gone and Laurence was caught arching to find it, a moan half captured as Tharkay's mouth pulled away as well.
The stifled moan was wanton to his own ears, overly loud in the quiet room, with only the crackling fire as counterpoint. Laurence felt the heat rise to his face with embarrassment at his own arousal. Tharkay only looked pleased by his discomfiture. "Will you undress for me?" Tharkay asked, fingering the buttons of Laurence's shirt with a smile.
When Laurence nodded Tharkay settled himself on the settee, arms thrown across the back, legs stretched. Laurence stood uncertainly. “I would lock the door,” he said and took a step to do so, but Tharkay stopped him with a click of his tongue and a small gesture.
“There are two fine Imperial Guards standing just outside,” he said, nodding at the door to the hall. “They understand it is my wish not to be disturbed.” Laurence, conscious that there were not two fine imperial guards outside, went to the library door anyway, only to find it securely locked. He turned back to find Tharkay regarding him with a smug look that was not entirely Napoleon. "Please, as you were," Tharkay said, and waved a casual hand for Laurence to continue as Laurence first slipped his coat from his shoulders, then moved his hand to the buttons of his shirt.
"How you stand there like a soldier," Tharkay said with amusement when he at last stood bare. "Come, I do not mean for this to be a punishment," he said, and paused, looking thoughtful. "Unless you should like it to be?" He laughed at Laurence's expression and reached out to draw him down to his knees, making a satisfied noise as Laurence moved to take him into his mouth. Then abruptly Tharkay's hips were thrusting upwards, more than Laurence might comfortably manage.
"More than you are used to?" A hand found his hair and tugged him up. Laurence's gaze was hot with venom and there was a small thrill in his chest as Tharkay's lips parted in surprise for just a moment. "No matter, we will accustom you," and then a hand patted his cheek and Tharkay pushed his head back down again.
He was more prepared this time, the act familiar even if the soft stream of French endearments above him was not. He felt the heat of his own arousal building with the increasingly labored catching of Tharkay's breath, the tension in the hard thigh under his hand. It would be easy in a moment more to bring him to completion, but then a blunt thumb was running a line along his jaw, pressing him away. "We shall keep that for another time," Tharkay said breathlessly, and pushed him back onto the thick carpet.
Laurence had so far meant to make a game of it, to push Tharkay so far the accent fell away. But then Tharkay was looming over him, a hard thigh between Laurence's legs. He pressed the crescent of a thumbnail against Laurence's nipple and said his name with Napoleon's voice and Laurence was lost, shuddering and caught unaware by the intensity of his own arousal. He heard himself, his broken French, begging for Tharkay's life, begging at the same time for the touch of a hand, the heat of a mouth.
Tharkay was inside him and Napoleon's voice was in his ear, praising him, cajoling him, urging him to take a little more. At the moment of release he was ashamed to find it was not Tharkay's name in his mouth, but Bonaparte's; the feeling of the Emperor's hand at his throat too much to bear. Tharkay followed a moment later in a few quick, furious thrusts that wrenched a gasping cry from Laurence. Then it was Tharkay again above him, gentling his hair, eyes a question. Laurence gave him a small nod of reassurance and Tharkay rolled off him to pant breathlessly before the fire.
The light in the room was low, painting Tharkay slick and golden in the glow from the embers. Laurence flung out a hand to him, his lassitude only half exaggerated. Tharkay laughed softly and put a hand to his face to push away his sweat damp hair, muttering something in another tongue.
"You are a lucky man indeed?" Laurence hazarded and Tharkay lifted his head enough to look over at him with raised eyebrows.
"You speak Nepali now?" He asked with amusement.
Laurence chuckled. "My love, I hardly need to." He raised himself to standing with a groan and offered a hand to Tharkay. "Come to bed."
Shortly, the lights had been put out and there was only the cool glow of the moon slanting across the blankets where they lay. Tharkay's hand was a warm pressure on his back; first sliding lightly up and down, then beginning to work expertly against the muscles. "I was not the one flying back from Edinburgh today," Laurence protested, biting back a yawn. Tharkay ignored him and Laurence closed his eyes and allowed himself to be chivvied over onto his stomach.
"You did tell me when you invited Temeraire and I to Scotland that you quite looked forward to playing the tyrant," Laurence said, pillowing his head on his forearms as Tharkay leaned over him. "I had not taken you for such a literal man."
Tharkay gave a small hum of amusement. "I confess it had a certain appeal after a day at the tender mercies of the Scottish high court and my dear family," he said dryly.
“Do they still cause you pain?” Laurence asked quietly, knowing the answer and yet feeling that the question must be asked anyway.
He felt Tharkay’s clever, battered fingers still in their work, tips still resting lightly across Laurence’s shoulders. “Let us call it an old wound, imperfectly healed.” Tharkay said at last, with an easy blitheness that damned him entirely. “I beg you not to let it trouble you.”
"Tenzing," Laurence said softly and made to turn over but Tharkay pressed him down with a gentle hand to the back of his neck. His hands resumed their steady attention to his muscles and Laurence submitted again at once.
They were quiet for several minutes more, until at last Laurence thought he might never rise from the bed again, so thoroughly languid from Tharkay's ministrations. Then Tharkay leaned forward to press a kiss to his hair and, uncharacteristically, to curl beside him, drawing Laurence's back close to his chest. Surprised, Laurence turned to draw him into his arms and Tharkay went quite willingly. Laurence put a hand to his hair and felt Tharkay's warm breath against his chest.
"I said once that I would be sorrier to lose you than I yet knew. I would say now that I value you– that I am more grateful to be with you than you yet know."
Tharkay said nothing in reply, but his hand rose up to Laurence's cheek. Laurence turned his head to kiss the palm and Tharkay gave a soft sigh that carried the weight of a great many things.
They turned back to back to sleep, as they had done in New South Wales, in China, in Russia; but now Laurence could reach and run his foot gently down the compact length of Tharkay's calf and tangle their limbs together. "Thank you," Tharkay said into the darkness in the moments before Laurence drifted off.
"You are quite welcome," Laurence murmured. "There is little I would not do for you, you know."
"I begin to."