between flying and falling [Tharkay/Granby; R]

[etharei]

Title: between flying and falling
Fandom: Temeraire
Pairing: Tharkay/Granby
Rating: R
Wordcount: 4,400
Summary: The rush of air and the pull of the harness has him gasping, despite himself; energy is thrumming under his skin, with a small edge of instinctive fear that quickens his heart and makes every breath feel glorious. He hasn't felt so alive in weeks. Which is, in a way, part of the problem.
Author’s Notes: Flashfic! Apologies for all inaccuracies.
+ Also found on AO3.
Written for Kink Bingo, prompt: suspension on my card.

between flying and falling

"Granby." Something nudges him, gently but with sufficient force to dislodge his head from the hard surface it's become well-acquainted with. "Granby. It's Tharkay; he has returned."

Tharkay. His mind summons a watery image of the man, dark hair and potent eyes and lines of amusement fixed constantly upon his face. Though Granby suspects that no one else in the crew has taken such note of the latter.

"Granby."

Iskierka's distress pulls his eyelids open where the well-meaning cajoling of his crew have failed. He sees that he is in his tent, and his dragon has poked her head in through the opening. Fresh air and a little of her steam trickle inside, and he realizes just how thickly the smell of alcohol lies upon his breath.

"Granby?" Iskierka slithers in further and nuzzles him, unheeding of the way the tent is bowing inwards and the supports wobble precariously.

He strokes her head, a little helplessly. He seems to be doing everything helplessly, these days. "I'm sorry, my dear. You deserve a more attentive Captain."

This incites an indignant squawk. "You are perfectly attentive! I do not blame you for being out of sorts - who could not be, with all that has happened, and those horrid trials. If anyone is to blame, I'm sure it is Temeraire; I have no doubt that all that foolishness was his idea. Not," she adds conciliatorily, "that he was entirely wrong, just that he should have come to us, first, and maybe we would have come up with a better way."

Granby is long past wincing at that kind of talk - all the thin-skinned and politically cautious of his crew have transferred to other dragons at this point.

"Anyway, the others are saying that Tharkay has returned, and he has brought more ferals."

Of course - more ferals mean possible additions to the disorderly mob already paying Iskierka regular attendance.

But Iskierka surprises him by saying, "Granby - you should be the one to tell him about Temeraire, and Laurence."

He stares at her, abruptly remembering that Tharkay had left before they'd found the cure. Admiral Roland will likely tell him the bare details, and the newspapers will tell him more - but Laurence deserves to have a friend learning from another.

"You're right, dearest," he says to her, smiling gratefully. She visibly perks up, sending even more steam billowing into the tent. Evidently she's been very worried about his moods and sojourns with the bottle; she doesn't even protest when he dons a regular coat instead of one of the gold-braided costumes she usually insists on.

Another time, Granby might have found the image he and Tharkay are presenting over dinner somewhat comical, or perhaps depressing: the two of them sitting at table with only crumbs left on their plates and the bottle of wine empty, mirror images of exasperation and annoyance.

"Of course he gave himself up," Tharkay mutters, glaring at his empty wineglass.

Granby nods; that part of it had surprised no one of Laurence's close acquaintance.

A brooding sort of silence settles over them.

"Damn it," Tharkay bursts out, drawing a few reproachful looks from the other aviators having a late meal. "If only I had not gone-"

"You know how he is, once he's committed himself," Granby interjects, "I doubt you could have dissuaded him. Assuming you found out what he was about in the first place."

Tharkay shoots him a pointed look, lips twitching up in a familiar way. "I could have done the deed myself, with less fanfare and to the same result."

Granby hadn't thought of that. He shrugs, rubs tiredly at the bridge of his nose. "It is hardly any more your fault than it is ours for not anticipating his reaction." Damn it, Laurence. "He is-" Granby makes a vague gesture, as if that can encapsulate all the unbelievable, infuriating, absolutely maddening aspects of the man they've been discussing.

Surprisingly, Tharkay doesn't stare at him as if he's gone mad, but instead grumbles a terse, "Yes, he is."

Dayes had acted cooler towards Granby ever since Granby had accepted the position of Laurence's first lieutenant. This was somewhat expected; Granby knew well every aviator's longing for a dragon of his own, and moreover Dayes has always been slow to forgive any perceived insult. It does not surprise, then, that Granby acquiring his own dragon appears to have eviscerated any semblance of friendship that remained between them.

Thus, it is with little pleasure that Granby receives orders to ferry a group of officers from Dover to London. It's a short trip, thank the Lord, hardly requiring his whole crew. Granby opts to have only the ensigns and a couple of his officers, and invites Tharkay along as his guest when he finds the man at liberty.

He's been handling Iskierka since she hatched, and hardly thinks about her spikes and her steam now, features not shared by any of the British dragons. Tharkay is similarly familiar, and knows where to position himself so that the jets of steam do not catch him. The newcomers, Dayes among them, have no such knowledge, and look decidedly soaked and uncomfortable within minutes of taking off.

They'd all exchanged the expected pleasantries before boarding, and with the added discomfort, Granby assumes his passengers will be silent for the rest of the journey. To his surprise, Dayes climbs close to Granby's position at the base of Iskierka's neck.

"How fares your family, Granby?" asks Dayes. "You are from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, correct? I hope your uncle's business has not been affected by the French incursions."

"No, they are fine," Granby answers, puzzled. "Thank you. And how are your own family?"

"Oh, the same as always." Dayes waves a hand dismissively. "I just wanted to see how you are; check that you haven't run into any-" Dayes' gaze flicks downwards, "-old problems."

Granby is glad that the heat suffusing his face can be blamed on the steam. "No, I have not," he replies coldly, "And I will thank you to return to your place now, sir."

Dayes ignores him and looks at Tharkay, eyes lingering on Tharkay's bars of rank. "We were young ensigns together, you see, and rose up the ranks in lock-step. He used to have a little issue, from the flying. Now that he's a dragon-captain, I just wanted to make sure that he's not embarrassing himself, or the Corps, or giving strangers the impression that he has certain... illegal proclivities."

Tharkay gives Dayes a bland expression, which Granby knows now to be a mask to conceal how much attention he's really paying to the situation. Then, in a crisp tone that would have rivaled Laurence's lapses back into a Lord's son, Tharkay says, "It takes a mean sort to spread insinuations about a former friend, and a special form of stupidity to do so when said friend's fire-breather is but a breath away."

Granby realizes, rather belatedly, that Iskierka is watching them, the elegant line of her neck strung with tension. She eyes Dayes with a worryingly familiar gleam.

"No, Iskierka," Granby says firmly. He glares at Dayes, who is only starting to look alarmed and is watching Iskierka's head warily. "I will not ask again - please return to the others."

Dayes does, and there are no further incidents; Granby drops off his passengers in London covert, with no small amount of relief on either side. The flight back to Dover eats up the remainder of the daylight hours.

True to form, Tharkay doesn't press him for details or ask him any questions. That's the thing about the man - he gives an impression of not particularly caring about people's personal affairs. Which only makes Granby want to tell him, if only to abolish any colorful misconceptions that Dayes' words might have implied.

His father was a coal merchant, and they lived in a mining town. Granby's first memories were overlaid with the smell of coal, of smoke; he couldn't remember his father's face, but he remembered the dark dirt all over his father's hands, the smell heavy on his big coat.

But one of these early memories, strangely, was of looking up on a clear day and seeing a great winged shape crossing the sky. It caused a bit of talk around the town; generally, dragon routes diverted around populated areas, and few of their neighbours had seen such beasts up close.

All the talk was of fear, of dragons swooping down and eating babies. Young John, who reasoned that dragons probably wouldn't find scrawny coal-flavored villagers particularly tasty anyway, wondered what his little town looked like from up there.

"It's... not uncommon; everyone just pretends not to see, when it happens," Granby says defensively. He's lost track of how many bottles have passed through his hand; the important thing is that there is one in it now. Tharkay's face is a blur somewhere to his left. "I had less control. As a youth. The second lieutenant - wonder what's become of him, he was a good chap - assured me that it's... quite natural. Part of growing up, he'd said."

At some point, strong hands extract the bottle from his unresisting hand and help him to his feet. He can't feel his legs, though, nor his arms. It makes a strange impression of floating in mid-air. "I think I'm flying," he says, turning his head and getting a mouthful of wiry hair.

"That would certainly make our current predicament easier," a familiar voice remarks.

"You're a good man," he says fervently. "One o' the best." He flaps his hand and hits something that feels like a shoulder.

A sigh, the shoulders holding Granby up rising and falling under him. "I suspect that a better man would not have let you drink at all."

His first time on dragon-back, Granby was seven years old. He, along with all the other ensigns, were a cautious mixture of excitement and fear. Patria, an exceedingly mild-tempered Yellow Reaper, waited patiently for the group of children to approach her and climb on.

Her captain checked that all their harnesses were secure, whilst she advised them on how to distribute their weight and where to position themselves to help her balance. They'd been taught the basics and the theory - Celeritas had even allowed them to clamber all over him, once, to get the feel for it - but it was different to do it for real.

Once the captain was in his customary place, Patria leapt into the air.

That first moment, that first rush of air, that first powerful wingbeat - as the ground rushed away from them, Granby's breath caught in his throat, his skin and senses and soul opening, soaring; he knew, then, that he would never truly return to ground again.

The noise that escapes Granby's mouth bears close resemblance, to his ears, to the cries of a tortured animal.

"Here, have some water."

Granby looks blearily around him, recognizing the interior of his tent and the humid warmth indicating Iskierka's presence nearby. Tharkay is sitting on a chair next to the bed.

"You brought me back?" Granby asks, and winces; his throat feels like sandpaper. And smells like something has died in it.

"I could hardly return to the covert without you," says Tharkay.

That is a good point. He can well imagine the amount of damage a worried Iskierka could have caused in searching for him.

And then he remembers what he'd ended up babbling about whilst deep in his cups. "Oh, dear Lord in Heaven," he groans, covering his face with his hands. "Tharkay, the things I spoke of - I am sorry, more than I can say-"

"Drink some water," Tharkay repeats. Granby peeks through his fingers and sees a cup hovering over his head. "You will feel better."

He obliges; it's the least he can do after what he'd put the man through.

"Granby!" Iskierka exclaims upon seeing him leave the tent. She appears to be gnawing on the charred remains of her breakfast.

"Good morning, my dear." Granby musters up a smile and strokes her neck. He casts a curious eye at Tharkay. "Not that I'm not grateful - but normally, when I have been-"

"- too drunk to walk on your own?" supplies Tharkay helpfully.

"Yes, that." Granby can feel his face heating. But, call a spade a spade. "She normally frets and wakes me up far too early."

"That is because Maximus' Berkeley told me that men can die if they're left to drink alone," says Iskierka with a sniff. "But Tharkay was with you, so it was all right."

"Oh." A part of Granby prickles at the intervention, however subtle and likely unintended; but he has to concede that it is sensible advice.

"Anyway, now that you are up," Iskierka continues, tossing away a thighbone, "we can go flying! Though," her nose wrinkles, "perhaps after you have made yourself more presentable."

"Flying?" Granby echoes in confusion.

"Yes, Tharkay said that fresh air will do you good."

"He did, did he?" Granby arches an eyebrow. "But, my dear, we can't just go where we please, we are due to go back on patrol soon and may receive orders at any time-"

"Oh, Excidium and Roland came by when we were talking, and overheard; Roland said, that is a damn good idea, take a rest-day somewhere that has no public houses. I've already told the ferals to behave while I am gone."

"When was the last time you took Iskierka out flying, just the two of you?" Tharkay asks gently, just as Granby opens his mouth to protest. "You've been marinating down here long enough. You are both creatures of the open air - take joy in it; if not for yourself, then for friends who no longer have similar liberties."

Granby stares, words catching in his throat, and nods. He ducks into his tent to grab a change of clothing, intending to go for a quick bath in the covert; outside, he hears Iskierka suggesting, "your fourth-best coat should do very nicely. And what do you mean, Tharkay - of course you are coming with us."

Please let this not be happening, Granby mentally chants. Iskierka executes another graceful roll. The rush of air and the pull of the harness has him gasping, despite himself; energy is thrumming under his skin, with a small edge of instinctive fear that quickens his heart and makes every breath feel glorious. He hasn't felt so alive in weeks.

Which is, in a way, part of the problem.

He doesn't dare to look behind him, where Tharkay is sitting. The man has been as unobtrusive as a shadow, like at the beginning of their acquaintance, evidently determined to let Granby and Iskierka have their free-time together. Granby has never met anyone so attuned to the needs of handlers and their dragons, who hasn't been raised to the life himself. The man had been right - Granby hadn't realized just how much he'd needed this, until the moment they'd taken off.

A day of flying, in perfect weather, with no duty to think of or crew to be the captain for. He has his dragon, and company he likes, and the world stretched out around them; Granby feels uncomplicated, encompassing joy down to his bones, and entertains the possibly-blasphemous thought that this is the only Heaven worth praying for.

Unfortunately, his body seems to have taken its reawakening with enthusiasm and fervor, and there is one specific aspect that Granby is dismayed to find quiescent.

He tries to think of unpleasant things: dead creatures, the brutal desert, the aftermath of war. Clearly his body is seeking revenge for his lack of care, for the matter remains stubbornly... unresolved.

Iskierka, at least, has not noticed. Tharkay - the man has a hawk's vision, but the only sounds that have come from his passenger have been the jingling of his harness. Granby might have hoped that Tharkay wouldn't entertain the possibility, like most others, fellow aviators included - except Granby had told him about it, all the previous night.

This, he decides, may be the incident that permanently cures him of his need for drink.

After a while, Iskierka takes a break from the showing-off, flying level again at her coasting speed, and Granby starts to think that maybe it will be okay, maybe he hasn't noticed anything.

But then Tharkay is speaking directly into his ear, "freedom is a wonder, a terror, life and death, a mystery to chase and a monster to cage, more potent than any substance man can create," and he is much, much closer than Granby had assumed him to be, "surely you know that you do not have to explain this to someone like me."

Granby swallows, though his throat seems like a separate, alien thing. "This is..."

A slight jolt, from Iskierka catching a good wind. He briefly feels Tharkay's chest pressing against his back, a wiry hand landing on his side as if for balance. Tharkay chuckles drily. "How far up in the air, would you say, do England's laws apply?"

Iskierka will see! But then a large cloak is cast over his front, shielding most of him from view. It is not without cause; a cross-wind hitting them from the side carries the tang of mountain snow.

"Are you too cold, Granby?" Iskierka inquires. Granby hopes he doesn't look too startled, not having noticed her turning her head. She doesn't seem to find anything odd about the cloak, or Tharkay sitting so close to him.

"We are perfectly comfortable," answers Granby, his smile coming easily. "You are in magnificent form today, my dear."

Iskierka preens, and seems to take it as a sign to start playing again. He gasps audibly when she rolls; for a few, shining seconds, the world lies above their head and the sky below them, his harness straining taut between his fingers.

"Will you tell me about it?" asks Tharkay quietly, after Iskierka rights herself again. "How it feels?"

"But you are right here with me."

Tharkay sighs, his breath teasing the side of Granby's neck. "Freedom, for me, is in open plains, the wild mountains, the long unrolling road. Untethered to any nation, with only responsibilities of my choosing."

"I wanted the sky," admits Granby, matching Tharkay's quiet tone, "to be as far away from the ground as man can get - away from the mines, the coal, the hardships. I've never felt as whole as when I'm up here."

Despite the winds, the dragon whooping and letting out small bursts of flame, their exchange feels heavily intimate. It occurs to Granby that if he just turns his head, tilts his neck-

Kissing Tharkay is unlike any woman Granby has ever been with, unlike any of the men of his cautious dalliances. Tharkay's lips are rough and cold, but the inside of his mouth tastes deliciously hot in contrast. And Granby has never kissed anyone mid-flight before; he suspects he may be ruined for all other kinds.

When they part, Tharkay's hands have wormed their way around Granby's front, and are delving into his clothes with remarkable dexterity. Granby shivers, lets go of the harness to help. The moment he does, Iskierka changes direction abruptly and goes into another full-body roll.

He dearly hopes that she takes his heartfelt cry as just another whoop of joy.

"This excites you," says Tharkay. There is no recrimination in his voice, no disgust - only mild interest.

"The danger," Granby gasps. The lightest of Tharkay's touches on his bare skin feel like fire; then Tharkay's hand snakes lower, finding him and gripping him. "Oh, oh - it's the feeling, the body thinking, danger, we are falling, but at the same time the mind knows that it is safe, the safest place in the world-"

"John," growls Tharkay, and Granby nearly loses it then. "Your body in pleasure - it is exquisite. I curse the men who taught you to be ashamed. It is no wonder that you look to wine and drink, when you cannot have this; better to be numb than to pine."

Granby has long noted the roughness of Tharkay's skin, especially on his hands, marks of a hard life and rough experiences. Feeling that grip and scrape upon his most sensitive part is exquisite beyond words, leaving him gasping for breath, his legs widening of their own accord. Tharkay whispers encouragements into the back of his neck, lips writing over Granby's skin; mostly English but also snatches of other languages, half-familiar consonants rolling out to convey wonder and heat.

And then Tharkay is saying something louder, in one of those other languages; Turkish, Granby thinks, right before his lust-fogged brain realizes, he's talking to Iskierka.

Iskierka makes a vague reply in the same language. Under the cloak, Tharkay's motions change, turning rougher, tighter. Granby has enough presence of mind to bite back his shout, until it's only a whimper at the back of his throat. The world narrows down to Tharkay's hand between his legs, the other hand caressing his chest; he turns and finds Tharkay's lips, lets Tharkay drink in his sounds of pleasure.

And then Iskierka flips herself around.

They're upside down. The ground is far, far below; they're tethered to Iskierka by a meager collection of leather and buckles.

Granby has never felt safer.

"Tenzing!"

They land on a hill, overlooking a valley that seems to be home to a flock of sheep. Tharkay goes down to buy a couple of the sheep for Iskierka, while Granby unpacks the lunch that they'd gotten from kitchens before setting out.

He expects Iskierka to complain about the chill in the air and the dampness of the grass, but she finds a patch of relatively dry ground, noses a couple of rocks into the center, and heats them.

"There," she says in a satisfied tone, and settles down. She peers at Granby. "You seem much better; is this not an excellent plan?"

"It is," concedes Granby. He hopes his face is not blushing. It's difficult to tell; his skin does not feel quite like his own, and the rest of him might as well be scattered to the four winds.

Tharkay returns with the sheep in tow; from the way they follow him, unprotesting, and start grazing at the grass around Iskierka, he'd dosed them with opium after purchasing them.

"I only gave them a small dose," Tharkay tells Granby. "Also, I suspect her preference for burning her meat eliminates any opium left in them."

Granby shrugs. "If she must sleep a little, it will hardly make any difference to our plans - seeing as we have none."

They stretch out over the grass and eat their sandwiches, while Iskierka flames her sheep and similarly digs in.

"I do not know why you were so concerned," says Iskierka, an indiscernible length of time later. Granby, stirred out of his half-doze, raises his head and finds, to his surprise, that she is addressing Tharkay. "We had a lovely flight, and he seems much improved already."

"I make a habit of preparing for the worst eventualities," replies Tharkay. "That way, any outcome short of the worst will be a pleasant surprise."

"But even if Granby refused you, he would hardly have had you arrested," Iskierka insists.

Granby let out an indignant noise. "Did the two of you plan-?"

"Well, the idea was mine," Iskierka says, perfectly oblivious to embarrassment. "Tharkay suggested introducing you to a young lady, but there are lots of them wherever we go and you've never shown any interest, so this morning I told Tharkay that he ought to be the one to do it, as you already get along, and this way I won't have to share you-"

"If it helps, she only means that she asked me to accompany the two of you on your flight," Tharkay clarifies.

Granby lets out a breath. "Ah. Right."

"Tharkay also explained that I should not go around saying you prefer to go with other males," Iskierka continues. "Though I do not see what business it is of the government's, who you like and who you spend time with."

Granby's coughing fit nearly doubles him over. Tharkay pats his back sympathetically.

"It's all stuff, anyway," says Iskierka. "Considering how many others do the same."

"Dear Lord," Granby says weakly.

Iskierka does decide to take a nap, after an hour, so Granby and Tharkay go on a stroll along the hill. Granby feels very much back in his body, now, and dearly wishes he'd brought a change of clothing, for the wet grass and their earlier... indulgence, have made his current clothing stick to his skin. He shivers slightly, then blushes when Tharkay wordlessly drapes his extra cloak over him - the very same cloak that had shielded their activities on dragonback.

"Tenzing, why did you come back?" he blurts out. "When you tracked us all the way to Danzig - you have little love for this country, and less concern for this war. Yet you returned to us, when we did not expect to see you again and no one would have blamed you for staying away."

Tharkay is quiet for a long while. They come upon an outcropping of rocks, and seat themselves comfortably. Finally, he says, "All my life, I have met men who look at my face and see only those parts which are not of their people. Suddenly, I knew two who cared not one whit. Laurence, I've realized, tends not to see in others those qualities he does not possess himself. You, however - do not think I did not notice, John, how you frowned at all the suspicion, how you forbade ill talk of me among your men. After I left all of you with the Prussians, I found that I could not stop wondering if there was a way to help your cause. There were times when I saw another dragon under harness and thought, I am Temeraire's." He gives a dry chuckle. "It seems a dragon's attachment runs both ways."

Granby smiles. "Yes, though make sure Iskierka does not hear that; I suspect she considers you hers."

"It is a strange thing, to be so wanted." Tharkay's tone remains casual, but there's something unguarded in his expression, and he's gazing straight at Granby.

Granby clears his throat. "But not unwelcome?"

"No," Tharkay says, quiet and sure, "not unwelcome at all."

++end++