Chapter Text
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Tharkay’s feet thud on the rough dirt path, and his breath comes sharp and fast in his lungs. Whether he is referring to himself or Granby, he hardly knows. It is not as though he has been insensible of the danger; it is not as though he has not known that this was a possibility if he failed. But the peril has crept up on him like a snake in long grass, and now they are properly in the soup, as Granby would say.
“Did you know?” Laurence asks.
Tharkay stays silent: answer enough.
“Good Lord,” says Laurence, as emphatically as he is able to. “How long?”
Longer than even Granby supposed is the answer, though Tharkay has not the breath to expand on it now. “Long enough,” he bites out. That he holds himself partly responsible for the current situation went unsaid - Granby had trusted him to help locate a supply of suppressants, vanishingly rare on this side of the world, and he has failed.
It is only by pure luck they had heard in time - luck and incautious rumor, two drunken militiamen snickering together over a tot of rum about the omega in heat just past the boundary of the town.
Laurence matches Tharkay stride for stride as they make for the outskirts of town, where Granby had been waiting to rendezvous with them.
They can hear the argument before they crest the hill. Iskierka's voice, strident and cross, is clearly audible, though Granby's response is not.
"- and we ought to hear them out. Who is at the covert, anyway? No one worth hurrying for, I am sure."
They are not the only ones to have noticed the scene, nor are they the first to arrive. Perhaps a dozen alphas have formed up in a loose group, crowding around Iskierka and the prize she holds in her immense forehand: an omega, just starting to go into heat.
Tharkay can tell when the scent hits Laurence. His stride falters and, pausing, he sniffs at the air. Tharkay can smell it too, of course - sweet and perfumed as jasmine, more tempting than siren song by far. "John," Laurence breathes.
It is one thing to know that Granby is an omega; it is another to have the knowledge thrown in his face like this: to know that the tantalizing scent that beckons so powerfully to Tharkay and Laurence and any other alpha who might catch a hint of it is John. Tharkay's hands curl into fists. He glances at Laurence, takes in the glint in his eye, the way his lips pull back just slightly to bare his teeth. Laurence's blood must be starting to stir, just as Tharkay's is. Tharkay is surprised to feel a rush of anger toward his friend. He has many times had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch Laurence with more than brotherly affection appropriate between two alphas, but now he must hold himself back from physical violence instead. He wants to get to John before I do. John, who trusted me with his secret, who shares my campfire and laughs at my stories. Laurence wants to take him for himself. He tamps down the welling aggression as much as he can.
"Iskierka, listen to me," Granby is saying desperately. "You must let me up now, dear one, and we can go back to the covert—"
Whatever fear of dragons the group of convicts and militiamen might have had clearly holds no sway over their behavior now, nor is anyone in the crowd currently ruled by good sense. Iskierka, for her part, does not seem to grasp the danger that the crowd poses— she twists her head this way and that, eyeing each alpha critically, and as Tharkay draws near and can hear the shouts and jeers from the crowd, it becomes apparent that she is entertaining offers.
"But this is just what you were telling me about," she says in response to another plea from Granby. "You said you needed an alpha, and this fellow here claims to know the location of an opal mine. Would it not be wonderful to have opals of our own? Perhaps a necklace or a diadem could be made for me, and you could wear a ring to match."
Granby's only answer is a whine. Tharkay cannot help but feel a stab of sympathy for him— to be surrounded by alphas, breathing in their scent, would only stoke the fire surely burning in Granby even more sharply.
A soldier in a ragged militia uniform, perhaps the alpha who claims to have opals to spare (though Tharkay has his doubts regarding the veracity of that claim) reaches out and touches Granby's arm through the cage of Iskierka's talons.
Tharkay hears the shocked and needy sound that Granby makes, sees the way his body jerks and sways toward the man, and then little else, as red has suffused his vision. He and Laurence are upon the crowd a moment later, fists swinging wildly, elbows sinking into sides. A shout behind him, a sickening crack, the heavy thud of a body hitting the earth. Tharkay's heartbeat is pounding in his ears. A few of the men are backing away, one with his hand over his face, blood streaming from his nose.
When Tharkay looks back at Granby he sees the soldier has a stronger hold on him now, one hand twisted in the fabric of Granby's shirt and the other reaching for his shoulder. Granby, panting and flushed pink, does not seem to be pulling away; the only thing that separates the two is Iskierka's forehand, still tight around Granby's waist. Why is Granby not fighting back? He should not be so far gone as this, so early in his heat. Tharkay yanks the man away from Granby and knees him hard in the kidney, then tosses him to the side; the man falls, groans, does not rise.
"Will!" Tharkay hears Granby's shout as if from a great distance. "Tenzing! Oh, please, it hurts— Iskierka, please take them!" Something is wrong. Granby should not be so desperate yet, not to the point of pain. How long has it been since his last heat? How long has he been on suppressants? All the long way from England, at least - impossible to conceal a heat onboard the ship. How long before their trip commenced had he been taking them? The scent of his heat is getting stronger, impossible to ignore.
Iskierka pays no mind to Granby's pleas, except to the one thing that has caught her attention. "You are hurt?" she demands, lifting Granby up to the level of her eyes. "Oh! Did one of these men hurt you?"
"No, no, of course not—"
"Yes," Laurence growls, cutting off Granby's protests as he shoves another of the alphas sprawling into the dirt, "or at least any one of them would, if they get the opportunity. Iskierka, you must take us back to the covert immediately."
"But Granby—"
And that is all Tharkay hears, for a solid blow connects suddenly with his chin, and he is sent reeling off balance. The militia man has gained his feet, if not his good sense, and is shouting as he aims another blow at Tharkay's face. The roaring in Tharkay's ears is back; he lashes out once, twice, feeling flesh split, tasting the splatter of blood across his face. His knuckles are wet with blood. The man lies limp on the ground before him, but Tharkay does not feel sated. He wants to pound this man into a bloody pulp with his bare fists. He wants to kill him for daring to touch Granby -
"Tenzing."
That is Laurence gripping his wrist, Laurence putting himself in between Tharkay and his prey. Tharkay snarls at him and wrenches away from his grasp. He breathes deep to try to calm himself, but to no avail: Granby's scent fills his nose, lies thick upon his tongue. His head is swimming with it, and Laurence might have put himself in front of Tharkay but that only means that Tharkay is closer than Laurence is to Granby, and now is his chance, now he can grab Granby and claim him and make sure Laurence and all the other alphas know that Granby is his—
He shakes himself, hard. He is better than this.
"The man is only unconscious, not dead,” he growls, mastering himself. “Which is better than he deserves. No, do not look at me like that, Laurence; the law is on my side. No court in the world would punish me with a crowd of heat-maddened alphas after John.”
He turns away from Laurence. "Time to go," he barks. "Iskierka, take us back to the covert. Your captain is not in any state to be issuing orders, and these men want to hurt him. If you care about him at all, you will get him and us to safety."
Granby proves his point a moment later when he whines high and piteous, curling in on himself.
That, at least, seems to get through to Iskierka. None of the alphas look particularly inclined to launch another attack; she snarls at them even so as she places Granby upon her back. His hands shake on his carabiners, and it takes him a few tries to clip on properly as Tharkay and Laurence scale Iskierka's sides. Laurence is faster and claims the place next to Granby at the base of Iskierka's neck, and Tharkay bares his teeth at him as he attaches himself behind them.
"Granby, are you secure?" Iskierka asks, and when he gives a weak affirmative she leaps aloft.
The clear air and the wind whipping past them snatches most of Granby's scent away, and Tharkay feels his mind clear somewhat. Granby seems to settle as well once they are in the air and away from the crowd of alphas. His breath still comes fast and a little ragged, and from time to time he whines and tenses. After a few minutes on the wing, near-silent save for the rush of the air around them and Iskierka's wingbeats, Laurence lays one hand on the back of Granby's neck, rubbing small circles into the skin there. The sharp scent rises again at Laurence's touch, and Tharkay's blood runs hot, for Laurence is right there with his hand on Granby.
Laurence had offered a challenge when he stood between Tharkay and the man who had attacked him, and he is offering a challenge now. Tharkay will not allow it to go unanswered. He ought to prove now who is the stronger between himself and Laurence, who is fiercer and more worthy of claiming Granby -
Tharkay deliberately turns himself away, attempting to slow his breathing and calm himself. He has more sense than to get into a brawl on dragonback. He will keep himself under control.
"Are you hurt?" Laurence murmurs. Tharkay can just make out Granby's quiet answer in the negative. A moment of quiet, and then: "I never— you never told me."
"I did not want you to know," says Granby miserably. "At first, I thought you wouldn't like it— there are some officers who don't, you know, and you seemed the type— and then it was too late to tell you."
"Forgive me for asking," asks Laurence, "but I am afraid I must, if only so I can make some explanation when called to account for our behavior in town. How long has it been—" He stumbles over the words as though shocked at his own daring for asking the question.
Tharkay, his curiosity piqued, cannot help but listen in.
"Well, what with one thing and another— there can be some fluctuation— it can be difficult to say— " Granby hedges, and a few things click into place in Tharkay's mind. The pain, the sudden onset, the way Granby had seemed to lose his mind so soon: all point to the same conclusion.
Laurence, it seems, has come to a similar realization. "You have been on suppressants for too long," he breathes. "John, I only ask out of concern as a friend. Pray tell me: how long has it been since your last heat?"
Tharkay turns to look, but Granby only bites his lip and looks away, his cheeks flushing even brighter red under the fever of his heat.
Tharkay leans in close. "Answer the question, John," he growls low in Granby's ear.
His tone has the desired effect: Granby shudders, the scent of him growing sharper still. "Before China," says Granby, and he squirms under Laurence's astonished stare.
Tharkay counts backward in his mind. He did not know the exact date that Laurence and his crew had set sail for China, but even allowing for uncertainties, that made for roughly three years without a heat. "I only wonder that this did not happen sooner," he says.
"As do I," says Laurence coldly. "I cannot think much of it, when you must have known that this would be the result."
Oh, that had been the wrong thing to say. Granby shakes off Laurence's hand with a glare and bares his teeth. He might be dizzy with his heat, but it seems his temper has not left him. "When ought I to have gone off the suppressants?" he demands. "In Beijing, when you had bandits and assassins after you? In the middle of the Taklamakan, or in a war camp in Prussia? Oh, perhaps when all the other dragons were sick— that would have been the perfect time to ground Iskierka for days on end— or when Napoleon landed half his army in London?" Granby is breathing hard, his cheeks bright red.
"Is something the matter, Granby?" Iskierka interjects, turning her sinuous neck back on itself to peer at them with an angry yellow eye. "You sound upset— are you in pain still?"
"Yes, dear one, I am," says Granby tersely. "And I will be until we get back to the covert and these two leave me alone to take care of myself."
Tharkay blinks at that; a glance to the side shows him that Laurence is similarly dumbfounded.
Laurence recovers first. "Forgive me: I had rather thought that—"
"That I would spread my legs for you and take it like a good little omega, just because you happened to be nearby?" Granby spits. "If you think me a fool, then very well: I accept the consequences of my foolishness, and you need have nothing further to do with the matter."
Tharkay fights to keep his countenance, but inside he is reeling. Somehow, things have started to go very poorly indeed. Gone is the begging, desperate omega overcome by the first clutches of his heat; now Granby is wracked with shudders as he huddles in on himself, as far away from Tharkay and Laurence as his straps will allow for.
"Oh, hell," Tharkay sighs.
The next minute is silent and tense. Tharkay's blood still pounds in his ears, irritation stewing beneath his skin. He cannot help the way his hands will occasionally curl into fists, but he consoles himself that Laurence can hardly be in better shape— he holds himself stone-still, as though he were afraid he would betray himself with any movement.
Laurence is the first to break. He crouches down beside Granby and lays a hand on his shoulder. "I would not see you suffer needlessly when— if there is any relief I can provide." His voice is wooden. "I can find someone else, if you require—"
"I do not require anyone else," Granby says miserably. "This was for you, you know. All of it. And you have never wanted me before, either of you, so I do not really see why you should want me now, excepting the obvious."
Oh, that was the outside of enough. "Well I am at your service, John, if you should wish it," Tharkay says, "and indeed I would have been happy to be of assistance any time you needed it, ever since— when was it—" he taps his chin, pretending to consider. "Just after Istanbul, was it not?"
"Istanbul," Laurence repeats incredulously. "You told him in Istanbul, and you never told me."
Granby bristles at that. "How could I, if this is how you were going to respond?"
Hurt flickers across Laurence's face, and Tharkay feels a brief, vicious stab of satisfaction. See how you like it, he does not say, to be thought so untrustworthy.
"It seems I have apologies to make," says Laurence a moment later, and his hand resumes its slow, soothing motion on Granby's neck. "Even so, I beg you not to put yourself through even more pain with no purpose."
Granby hunches his shoulders at that, but he nods all the same, and he after a moment he nuzzles against Laurence's hand where it lays on his shoulder.
And then a soft, wet noise, and Laurence breathes: "John—"
Granby has taken Laurence's hand in his mouth, sucking on the first two fingers with a blissful expression. As Tharkay watches, Laurence slowly withdraws his fingers and pushes them back in, his eyes wide and dark.
"Needy little thing." It comes out more fond than Tharkay intended. He leans forward to watch, and chucks Granby gently under the chin. "You couldn't even wait until we get to the covert, could you? You just had to have an alpha inside you straightaway."
Granby moans at that, and his throat works as he swallows around Laurence's fingers. Greatly daring, Tharkay crouches down and rests his chin on Laurence's shoulder for a moment as they both watch Granby. "Imagine that mouth on your prick," Tharkay says, and he enjoys the way Laurence's jaw clenches.
"You will let one of us help you?" Laurence asks Granby. "You may refuse, of course: if you wish to see to matters yourself, that is your choice. But I— I count you as a dear friend, John—"
Tharkay thinks it likely that the sentiments are returned, as Granby is clutching Laurence's wrist as Laurence presses his fingers even deeper into Granby's mouth.
"And I pray you will forgive me for acting in such a way that led you to believe I would not treat you with all the respect and honor I would any officer, no matter their designation," continues Laurence gamely. Granby's mouth makes a wet noise around his fingers. "I beg your forgiveness, and if there is anything I can do to provide for your comfort, or— or to see you through safely—"
"Or I," Tharkay interjects. "You have honored me with your trust in the past, and I would not have you think it misplaced." He reaches out and lays his hand along Granby's jaw, strokes his thumb over Granby's cheek. Granby hums happily around Laurences fingers.
"Will you let us be of service?" asks Laurence, so quiet it is barely audible over the rush of wind around them.
Granby's eyes slide from Laurence to Tharkay. He blinks once, slowly, and then nods.