Sanctuary Fic -- Consolation
This is what I'm doing instead of cleaning the hall bathroom before my inlaws arrive!
The third story in my series about the early days of The Five, following The Best Laid Plans and Withering on the Vine.
James Watson did not want a wife.
James Watson did not want a wife. Not in the conceivable future, not ever. He intended to be a confirmed bachelor, forever unsubjected to the whims of woman, a mysterious species to be sure. Indeed, other than his mother, he was not entirely certain that he had ever spoken with a woman beyond the conventional pleasantries required, or the inevitable directions to laundresses and the like. James was the son of his father's old age, an only child fatherless before he was ten. He had attended an excellent school with other boys, and while he was aware that girls his age existed, he had in fact no experience of them, nor felt the lack.
Oxford was not precisely replete with young ladies either. One or two could occasionally be seen, sitting in the backs of lectures they were allowed to audit, scribbling wildly in composition books. He'd never spoken to any of them. After all, what was there to say? And so his encounter with the outspoken Miss Magnus left him rather -- shaken. Surely he was not such a poor specimen as to elicit distaste upon first meeting? Or perhaps he had called it correctly and the difficulty was with his sex in general rather than with his person in specifics. In any event, he should now have to take up the pretense of a courtship, having achieved his internship upon expressing to Dr. Magnus how charming the young lady was. He was out of his element and he knew it. Such things required the advice of those more knowledgeable than he.
Fortunately, as he walked down the hall leading to his room, he could easily tell that his best friend was in residence next door. A rhythmic thumping emanated from the room, an infallible clue. The door was cracked and swung open at his knock.
John Druitt lay sprawled upon his bed in shirt sleeves, his feet not quite overhanging the end, a volume of verse held above his head with one hand so that the light of the table lamp might fall full upon it. With the other hand he was absently bouncing a cricket ball against the wall, thus creating a continual thump thumping. At James' entrance he lowered the book. (A volume of Byron, James noted with some irritation.) "Back from tea already? Won't the old man take you on?"
"He'll take me on," James said grimly. "But I've got to court his daughter. Or at least make it look good."
John threw the cricket ball again, catching it neatly on the return. "Too bad, old boy. What's wrong with her? Has she got a squint?"
"No," James said.
Thump. The ball hit the wall again. "Hairlip?"
"Nothing like that," James said.
"Peg-leg? Leprosy? Or is she just old?" Thump. Thump thump.
"She's certainly past her first bloom," James said with consideration. "But I shouldn't think she's older than I am. Early twenties, probably."
Thump. Thump. "So what is wrong with her?"
"Will you stop throwing that damned ball?" James snapped.
John retrieved it with a grin, snapping his wrist to make it disappear like a conjuror. "Sorry." He looked almost contrite. "What is the matter with her?"
James closed the door carefully behind him. "I think she's a tribadist."
John choked. "How in the hell did you find that out at tea?"
"Well, obviously I don't know from personal experience!" James snapped. He hated being at a disadvantage, and he'd been at one since the moment he'd walked into Dr. Magnus' house.
"I should hope not!" John looked vaguely shocked. "What, she up and told you?"
"Not in so many words," James said. "What do you take me for?"
"Then how do you know?"
"She said that she had no intention of ever marrying and that she intended to live her life entirely among women, and I tested the waters and said like Sappho, and she agreed and then I said that perhaps Anacreon could pay court to Sappho and she said we could have a mock courtship. It's all perfectly clear. Isn't it?"
His friend looked thoughtful, which on John's long face always looked like it hurt. "I suppose?" he said doubtfully. "I mean, if she knew who Anacreon is."
"Everybody knows who Anacreon is," James said.
"And Sappho."
"And Sappho, of course," James said.
"Everyone who hopes for Honors in Classics," John pointed out. "Which I do, and so I do, but I'm not everybody, old man."
"In any event, we agreed that I'd pay court to her to keep the rest of the field out, and to please the Pater so that I'd have my internship. Strictly as a business matter, of course." James sat down glumly on the foot of the bed.
"Well, if it's strictly business…." John shrugged, flipping over to drop the book on the floor beside the bed and reach for a cider bottle he had stashed there. The movement tightened his trousers across his buttocks in a way he was entirely unaware of, and yet James caught his breath. It had been years since. Schoolboy fumbles were one thing, a part of one's life left behind when one became a man. Certainly John had long since left that part behind. And James…. How could one risk one's dearest friendship by asking for things that were no longer needed? Best to put it away, as John had, and let the affection remain.
He lifted the cider bottle and flipped over again, holding it out to James. "If it's strictly business, what's the difficulty?"
James took a drink gratefully, though it really was incredibly bad. "I've no idea how to court a young lady. Even if I don't mean to do it in earnest."
John shrugged. "If you're not actually trying to win her heart it's not that much effort. Just take her on the occasional picnic, stroll in the gardens and the like. Play croquet. Sit next to her at a concert. Stand up with her once or twice at some assembly or other. You can dance, can't you?"
"I've never attempted it, but I'm sure I can rise to the occasion," James said with dignity.
John shook his head, his brow furrowing. "That won't do. It's not one of those things you can just pick up as you go."
"Can you dance then?" James demanded. John had gone to Winchester with him, and they'd known each other since the age of twelve. He was quite certain no dancing lessons had been involved.
"Course I can." John flopped back against the headboard like an overgrown afghan hound. "I've two sisters. Who do you think they learned on?"
"You danced with your sisters?"
"They're girls, aren't they?" John replied somewhat belligerently. "Alright, they're older than me, but they had to practice on someone, even if he was shorter."
"Your sisters are about twelve feet tall," James reflected.
"My sisters are both just short of six feet," John said. "And I'm six four. I did outgrow them eventually. But my point is that when they had half a foot on me, when they said dance I danced."
"So you can minuet and sarabande and all that," James said dubiously.
John blinked. "I said I could dance, not put on a masque in the last century. James, do you have any notion it's not 1780?"
"Somewhat," James said miserably. "John, I'm no good at this."
At that his friend's face shifted, and he sat up, thumping James on the shoulder sympathetically. "I know, old boy," he said. "It's not your wicket at all. It's rotten, the way it makes you feel like a freak show and all."
"It does, rather," James admitted. After all, there was nothing John didn't know. Whether he chose to see it or not. "I've no idea how to go about it and small stomach for pretending…." He shook his head. "And the girl's a harridan on top of it. Read me my papers in the first two minutes. I can't imagine how anybody could stand to really court her. But I've got to do it. Her father's the best surgeon in England. It's worth a great deal to work with him."
"Then you buck up and do it," John said with the same tone he'd used when looking forward to a dozen of the best in Mr. Cooper's office. "After all, you don't have to really make love to her."
"Concerts and dancing…." James said.
"I'll tell you what," John said, dropping an arm about his shoulders. "I'll give you a hand. Stand up with her once at an Assembly, and then I'll take her off your hands for a dance or two. And surely there are some other lads we can pay to take a turn unless she's utterly hideous. I'll fill her dance card for the waltzes, and you can take something nice and easy. Really, you'll only be tied up for ten minutes or so out of the evening, and then you can repair to the punch or the flask."
"I expect I'll need the flask," James said. John's arm was against the back of his neck, warm skin against the nape just above the collar. When they were boys together….
"You'll have it," John promised. "Come on. We'll get you through this."
It was more or less what James had said, pale and sickened though he'd been, looking at the welts oozing blood from his friend's back, treating them with lineament. You've hands like a doctor, John had said then, fourteen and furious with tears unshed. He'd deserved the punishment for fighting, for striking a prefect. Small matter what said prefect had intended to do to James. John took the punishment and James mopped him up after.
"I can't ask you to put yourself to the trouble," James said.
John shrugged and squeezed his shoulders affectionately. "Anything for a friend. Besides, how bad can she be?"
The third story in my series about the early days of The Five, following The Best Laid Plans and Withering on the Vine.
James Watson did not want a wife.
James Watson did not want a wife. Not in the conceivable future, not ever. He intended to be a confirmed bachelor, forever unsubjected to the whims of woman, a mysterious species to be sure. Indeed, other than his mother, he was not entirely certain that he had ever spoken with a woman beyond the conventional pleasantries required, or the inevitable directions to laundresses and the like. James was the son of his father's old age, an only child fatherless before he was ten. He had attended an excellent school with other boys, and while he was aware that girls his age existed, he had in fact no experience of them, nor felt the lack.
Oxford was not precisely replete with young ladies either. One or two could occasionally be seen, sitting in the backs of lectures they were allowed to audit, scribbling wildly in composition books. He'd never spoken to any of them. After all, what was there to say? And so his encounter with the outspoken Miss Magnus left him rather -- shaken. Surely he was not such a poor specimen as to elicit distaste upon first meeting? Or perhaps he had called it correctly and the difficulty was with his sex in general rather than with his person in specifics. In any event, he should now have to take up the pretense of a courtship, having achieved his internship upon expressing to Dr. Magnus how charming the young lady was. He was out of his element and he knew it. Such things required the advice of those more knowledgeable than he.
Fortunately, as he walked down the hall leading to his room, he could easily tell that his best friend was in residence next door. A rhythmic thumping emanated from the room, an infallible clue. The door was cracked and swung open at his knock.
John Druitt lay sprawled upon his bed in shirt sleeves, his feet not quite overhanging the end, a volume of verse held above his head with one hand so that the light of the table lamp might fall full upon it. With the other hand he was absently bouncing a cricket ball against the wall, thus creating a continual thump thumping. At James' entrance he lowered the book. (A volume of Byron, James noted with some irritation.) "Back from tea already? Won't the old man take you on?"
"He'll take me on," James said grimly. "But I've got to court his daughter. Or at least make it look good."
John threw the cricket ball again, catching it neatly on the return. "Too bad, old boy. What's wrong with her? Has she got a squint?"
"No," James said.
Thump. The ball hit the wall again. "Hairlip?"
"Nothing like that," James said.
"Peg-leg? Leprosy? Or is she just old?" Thump. Thump thump.
"She's certainly past her first bloom," James said with consideration. "But I shouldn't think she's older than I am. Early twenties, probably."
Thump. Thump. "So what is wrong with her?"
"Will you stop throwing that damned ball?" James snapped.
John retrieved it with a grin, snapping his wrist to make it disappear like a conjuror. "Sorry." He looked almost contrite. "What is the matter with her?"
James closed the door carefully behind him. "I think she's a tribadist."
John choked. "How in the hell did you find that out at tea?"
"Well, obviously I don't know from personal experience!" James snapped. He hated being at a disadvantage, and he'd been at one since the moment he'd walked into Dr. Magnus' house.
"I should hope not!" John looked vaguely shocked. "What, she up and told you?"
"Not in so many words," James said. "What do you take me for?"
"Then how do you know?"
"She said that she had no intention of ever marrying and that she intended to live her life entirely among women, and I tested the waters and said like Sappho, and she agreed and then I said that perhaps Anacreon could pay court to Sappho and she said we could have a mock courtship. It's all perfectly clear. Isn't it?"
His friend looked thoughtful, which on John's long face always looked like it hurt. "I suppose?" he said doubtfully. "I mean, if she knew who Anacreon is."
"Everybody knows who Anacreon is," James said.
"And Sappho."
"And Sappho, of course," James said.
"Everyone who hopes for Honors in Classics," John pointed out. "Which I do, and so I do, but I'm not everybody, old man."
"In any event, we agreed that I'd pay court to her to keep the rest of the field out, and to please the Pater so that I'd have my internship. Strictly as a business matter, of course." James sat down glumly on the foot of the bed.
"Well, if it's strictly business…." John shrugged, flipping over to drop the book on the floor beside the bed and reach for a cider bottle he had stashed there. The movement tightened his trousers across his buttocks in a way he was entirely unaware of, and yet James caught his breath. It had been years since. Schoolboy fumbles were one thing, a part of one's life left behind when one became a man. Certainly John had long since left that part behind. And James…. How could one risk one's dearest friendship by asking for things that were no longer needed? Best to put it away, as John had, and let the affection remain.
He lifted the cider bottle and flipped over again, holding it out to James. "If it's strictly business, what's the difficulty?"
James took a drink gratefully, though it really was incredibly bad. "I've no idea how to court a young lady. Even if I don't mean to do it in earnest."
John shrugged. "If you're not actually trying to win her heart it's not that much effort. Just take her on the occasional picnic, stroll in the gardens and the like. Play croquet. Sit next to her at a concert. Stand up with her once or twice at some assembly or other. You can dance, can't you?"
"I've never attempted it, but I'm sure I can rise to the occasion," James said with dignity.
John shook his head, his brow furrowing. "That won't do. It's not one of those things you can just pick up as you go."
"Can you dance then?" James demanded. John had gone to Winchester with him, and they'd known each other since the age of twelve. He was quite certain no dancing lessons had been involved.
"Course I can." John flopped back against the headboard like an overgrown afghan hound. "I've two sisters. Who do you think they learned on?"
"You danced with your sisters?"
"They're girls, aren't they?" John replied somewhat belligerently. "Alright, they're older than me, but they had to practice on someone, even if he was shorter."
"Your sisters are about twelve feet tall," James reflected.
"My sisters are both just short of six feet," John said. "And I'm six four. I did outgrow them eventually. But my point is that when they had half a foot on me, when they said dance I danced."
"So you can minuet and sarabande and all that," James said dubiously.
John blinked. "I said I could dance, not put on a masque in the last century. James, do you have any notion it's not 1780?"
"Somewhat," James said miserably. "John, I'm no good at this."
At that his friend's face shifted, and he sat up, thumping James on the shoulder sympathetically. "I know, old boy," he said. "It's not your wicket at all. It's rotten, the way it makes you feel like a freak show and all."
"It does, rather," James admitted. After all, there was nothing John didn't know. Whether he chose to see it or not. "I've no idea how to go about it and small stomach for pretending…." He shook his head. "And the girl's a harridan on top of it. Read me my papers in the first two minutes. I can't imagine how anybody could stand to really court her. But I've got to do it. Her father's the best surgeon in England. It's worth a great deal to work with him."
"Then you buck up and do it," John said with the same tone he'd used when looking forward to a dozen of the best in Mr. Cooper's office. "After all, you don't have to really make love to her."
"Concerts and dancing…." James said.
"I'll tell you what," John said, dropping an arm about his shoulders. "I'll give you a hand. Stand up with her once at an Assembly, and then I'll take her off your hands for a dance or two. And surely there are some other lads we can pay to take a turn unless she's utterly hideous. I'll fill her dance card for the waltzes, and you can take something nice and easy. Really, you'll only be tied up for ten minutes or so out of the evening, and then you can repair to the punch or the flask."
"I expect I'll need the flask," James said. John's arm was against the back of his neck, warm skin against the nape just above the collar. When they were boys together….
"You'll have it," John promised. "Come on. We'll get you through this."
It was more or less what James had said, pale and sickened though he'd been, looking at the welts oozing blood from his friend's back, treating them with lineament. You've hands like a doctor, John had said then, fourteen and furious with tears unshed. He'd deserved the punishment for fighting, for striking a prefect. Small matter what said prefect had intended to do to James. John took the punishment and James mopped him up after.
"I can't ask you to put yourself to the trouble," James said.
John shrugged and squeezed his shoulders affectionately. "Anything for a friend. Besides, how bad can she be?"