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slashficletsTitle: Égalité
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Pairing: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Summary: Belligerent sexual tension in the library.
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: teen
Contains: Violent thoughts, bring-your-own-slash-goggles with some innuendo.
Prompt: #19 Wait
It has previously been recorded that Childermass and Mr Lascelles reached a state of near-open enmity on an occasion of the mismanagement of Mr Norrell’s correspondence, but it was not the first or the last of their disagreements. One such happened over the translation of a letter in French about the Absaloms’ stay at the court of Mary, Queen of Scots.
Rain had been falling on London for most of the morning, turning the streets muddy and the indoor light grey and dull. It drummed on the windows of the library at the house in Hanover-street and had driven Mr Norrell to bed with a headache, a book, and a foot warmer. One might wonder why Mr Lascelles, who prided his pristine stockings and spotless cravat, had braved the weather, but after years of never comfortable association, John Childermass did not marvel at it. Magic had a way of occupying one’s thoughts to a degree that dwarfed other concerns. It had been apparent for some time that Lascelles was as addicted to it as was Mr Norrell, and Childermass himself.
The two men worked, as always when proximity was unavoidable, at opposite ends of the library, Childermass at his small table and Lascelles at another, larger writing-desk under a window. Childermass’s work that morning consisted of cross-referencing lists of cunning folk and suspected witches of the last century with local birth records, a task which made no great demand on his attention. He became aware, in a distant way, of Mr Lascelles shifting in his seat and picking up a paper already inspected, a frustrated sigh, and then the clatter of an inkwell too forcefully set down.
It had been his mother Joan’s way when nothing was going her way to rattle about angrily for a while before exploding. Mr Norrell’s rising temper, though expressed through more fidgeting, also had its warning signs. At the prospect of Mr Lascelles’s pique, Childermass simply tidied up his papers, corked his inkwell, and put his finished work in a drawer to keep it safe from any of Lascelles’s petty shows of dominance.
“Childermass,” Lascelles called after a while. “Come here.”
Childermass finished the line he had been begun on a new sheet without looking up. “What is it?”
There was the scrape of a chair as it was pushed back and the click of Lascelles’s heels across the floor. Three sheets of paper dropped on top of Childermass’s list. “What is this?”
He looked slowly up at Lascelles’s tight-lipped face, then glanced at the papers. “Can you not read, Mr Lascelles? It is a translation of Pagez’s letter from Jedburgh.”
“The third paragraph on the second page, if you please.”
Childermass read it, taking his time. “Yes? I see no error.”
“No error. No, perhaps there is no error, but I see you have left intact Pagez’s suggestion that Absalom may have been sent there on orders of the English. This is to be published, at least in part, in a paper, Childermass. You didn’t think it might cause some controversy to claim a magician may have murdered Darnley, or made an attempt on the life of a queen?”
Childermass sat back, rolling onto the back legs of his chair—a fine carved oakwood thing selected by Drawlight all those years ago—and crossed his arms. “It says what it says, sir.”
For a moment Lascelles looked like he might strike him. Childermass squared his jaw in anticipation, almost wishing the man would. If it wasn’t for the damage it would do to Norrell, and therefore the cause of English magic, Childermass would have taken Lascelles to task long ago, and sod all his wealth and exalted ancestry. Under all that finery there was a body as breakable as any other, and they both knew it.
Then Lascelles moved his jaw and his features shifted back into their usual veneer of bored disdain. “If you will allow, Childermass, I will address you for a moment as something of an equal.”
Childermass raised his brows. “Aye? That would be a change, sir.”
“Due to the nature of our occupation and your experience in Mr Norrell’s service, we must perforce share our insights as we do our work. So allow me to say, as your colleague—” the word was dripping with poison, “—that I would appreciate a little less accuracy and a little more forethought in the future. In order to make this letter ready for print, I would have to translate this section anew, and likely the following sheets as well, merely to accommodate your—” his lip twitched, “—oversight.”
“Speaking as your equal, Lascelles,” said Childermass, lingering on that last name without its heretofore necessary honorific, “fuck you.”
He had expected the man’s face to turn to astonishment or rage—instead, though his eyes widened in surprise, something like a smile also twisted his mouth. It was almost as if he had been hoping for that response, much as Childermass had idly wished for a slap.
This dislike had been brewing between them since the first time Lascelles had appeared uninvited in Norrell’s circles, like a shark swimming in the wake of the far more controllable Mr Drawlight. It was time for Lascelles to make the next move. The potential of it crackled between them like the sparks of an electrical contraption.
Lascelles simply leaned in, his breath ghosting across Childermass’s cheek. This close, he could smell the perfume traces his handkerchief had left on his skin. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
With that, the bastard turned back towards his own desk. “Rewrite your own translation, Childermass. It will be made palatable or it will not be printed; it is quite that simple.”
Childermass considered grasping the short hair on the back of Lascelles’s head and yanking him back, shoving him against the desk and bruising that clean, well-tended skin. Instead, he sat down, uncorked his inkwell and recovered his finished lists from the drawer.
Pagez’s letter would not be published in English until 1843.
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Pairing: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Summary: Belligerent sexual tension in the library.
Word Count: 1,000
Rating: teen
Contains: Violent thoughts, bring-your-own-slash-goggles with some innuendo.
Prompt: #19 Wait
It has previously been recorded that Childermass and Mr Lascelles reached a state of near-open enmity on an occasion of the mismanagement of Mr Norrell’s correspondence, but it was not the first or the last of their disagreements. One such happened over the translation of a letter in French about the Absaloms’ stay at the court of Mary, Queen of Scots.
Rain had been falling on London for most of the morning, turning the streets muddy and the indoor light grey and dull. It drummed on the windows of the library at the house in Hanover-street and had driven Mr Norrell to bed with a headache, a book, and a foot warmer. One might wonder why Mr Lascelles, who prided his pristine stockings and spotless cravat, had braved the weather, but after years of never comfortable association, John Childermass did not marvel at it. Magic had a way of occupying one’s thoughts to a degree that dwarfed other concerns. It had been apparent for some time that Lascelles was as addicted to it as was Mr Norrell, and Childermass himself.
The two men worked, as always when proximity was unavoidable, at opposite ends of the library, Childermass at his small table and Lascelles at another, larger writing-desk under a window. Childermass’s work that morning consisted of cross-referencing lists of cunning folk and suspected witches of the last century with local birth records, a task which made no great demand on his attention. He became aware, in a distant way, of Mr Lascelles shifting in his seat and picking up a paper already inspected, a frustrated sigh, and then the clatter of an inkwell too forcefully set down.
It had been his mother Joan’s way when nothing was going her way to rattle about angrily for a while before exploding. Mr Norrell’s rising temper, though expressed through more fidgeting, also had its warning signs. At the prospect of Mr Lascelles’s pique, Childermass simply tidied up his papers, corked his inkwell, and put his finished work in a drawer to keep it safe from any of Lascelles’s petty shows of dominance.
“Childermass,” Lascelles called after a while. “Come here.”
Childermass finished the line he had been begun on a new sheet without looking up. “What is it?”
There was the scrape of a chair as it was pushed back and the click of Lascelles’s heels across the floor. Three sheets of paper dropped on top of Childermass’s list. “What is this?”
He looked slowly up at Lascelles’s tight-lipped face, then glanced at the papers. “Can you not read, Mr Lascelles? It is a translation of Pagez’s letter from Jedburgh.”
“The third paragraph on the second page, if you please.”
Childermass read it, taking his time. “Yes? I see no error.”
“No error. No, perhaps there is no error, but I see you have left intact Pagez’s suggestion that Absalom may have been sent there on orders of the English. This is to be published, at least in part, in a paper, Childermass. You didn’t think it might cause some controversy to claim a magician may have murdered Darnley, or made an attempt on the life of a queen?”
Childermass sat back, rolling onto the back legs of his chair—a fine carved oakwood thing selected by Drawlight all those years ago—and crossed his arms. “It says what it says, sir.”
For a moment Lascelles looked like he might strike him. Childermass squared his jaw in anticipation, almost wishing the man would. If it wasn’t for the damage it would do to Norrell, and therefore the cause of English magic, Childermass would have taken Lascelles to task long ago, and sod all his wealth and exalted ancestry. Under all that finery there was a body as breakable as any other, and they both knew it.
Then Lascelles moved his jaw and his features shifted back into their usual veneer of bored disdain. “If you will allow, Childermass, I will address you for a moment as something of an equal.”
Childermass raised his brows. “Aye? That would be a change, sir.”
“Due to the nature of our occupation and your experience in Mr Norrell’s service, we must perforce share our insights as we do our work. So allow me to say, as your colleague—” the word was dripping with poison, “—that I would appreciate a little less accuracy and a little more forethought in the future. In order to make this letter ready for print, I would have to translate this section anew, and likely the following sheets as well, merely to accommodate your—” his lip twitched, “—oversight.”
“Speaking as your equal, Lascelles,” said Childermass, lingering on that last name without its heretofore necessary honorific, “fuck you.”
He had expected the man’s face to turn to astonishment or rage—instead, though his eyes widened in surprise, something like a smile also twisted his mouth. It was almost as if he had been hoping for that response, much as Childermass had idly wished for a slap.
This dislike had been brewing between them since the first time Lascelles had appeared uninvited in Norrell’s circles, like a shark swimming in the wake of the far more controllable Mr Drawlight. It was time for Lascelles to make the next move. The potential of it crackled between them like the sparks of an electrical contraption.
Lascelles simply leaned in, his breath ghosting across Childermass’s cheek. This close, he could smell the perfume traces his handkerchief had left on his skin. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
With that, the bastard turned back towards his own desk. “Rewrite your own translation, Childermass. It will be made palatable or it will not be printed; it is quite that simple.”
Childermass considered grasping the short hair on the back of Lascelles’s head and yanking him back, shoving him against the desk and bruising that clean, well-tended skin. Instead, he sat down, uncorked his inkwell and recovered his finished lists from the drawer.
Pagez’s letter would not be published in English until 1843.
