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I'm working my way through various pairings. This one is ... very painful, in a lot of ways -_-;
Title: More Than Service
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (TV)
Characters/Pairings: John Childermass, Gilbert Norrell, Childermass/Norrell
Summary: It was not service, what happened between him and the master in private. It would be seen that way, which was why it was private, but that was not the truth of it. It never had been
Wordcount: 3266
Warnings/Notes: Secret relationship, asexual relationship, initial misapprehensions, touch-starvation, loneliness, service, loyalty, permission, touching, kissing, hugs, comfort, bittersweet
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: More Than Service
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (TV)
Characters/Pairings: John Childermass, Gilbert Norrell, Childermass/Norrell
Summary: It was not service, what happened between him and the master in private. It would be seen that way, which was why it was private, but that was not the truth of it. It never had been
Wordcount: 3266
Warnings/Notes: Secret relationship, asexual relationship, initial misapprehensions, touch-starvation, loneliness, service, loyalty, permission, touching, kissing, hugs, comfort, bittersweet
Disclaimer: Not mine
More Than Service
It was not service, what happened between him and the master in private. Childermass knew it would be seen that way, should anyone become aware of it, but that was the reason it was private. He'd no need to see it bandied about, to see it laughed at, to see people smirking knowingly behind their hands. It was too small and tender a thing to be made tawdry that way.
It'd been an odd thing to come about. He'd half expected something of the sort, after a while in Hurtfew. Mr Norrell did not much care for company, yet he also did not much care for loneliness. He'd begun gravitating to Childermass after a while, at first without noticing, then with increasing self-aggravation once he did notice. It'd been mildly amusing, to start with, in maybe a cruel sort of way. It had flustered the man very much, to find himself in need of another human being. To need company, to need a presence besides his own. He had not wanted to want that, and perhaps a cruel part of Childermass had found it funny that he did.
It had seemed to settle down, after a while. Norrell had seemed to come to terms with his desires, had come to accept that a few hours spent reading at one end of the library with Childermass reading at the other was no bad thing to want. He'd made no fuss about it, either. He'd been snappish, yes, but he had never truly taken his ill-temper out on anyone else, not even the cause of it. It was around that point where Childermass began to think ill of his own earlier humour, to feel small and ugly for having even privately laughed at the man. Mr Norrell could hardly help his wants, nor the fact that his life had left him so little experience of accepting them. He had resolved himself, there, to be gentler with the man, at least in those matters. He'd made himself that promise, and thought the matter closed.
It wasn't, of course. Company was not the only desire that Norrell had stifled inside himself for so long. He hadn't known what to do with those desires, any more than he'd known what to do with the first, but gradually they had come to make themselves known regardless. He hadn't wholly noticed, at first. Again, the same as the last time, it had taken Norrell quite some time to figure out his own feelings. It hadn't taken Childermass quite as long. He'd seen it, or thought he had, long before Norrell had managed to root inside himself long enough to figure it out.
So Childermass had been ready, in a way, for the request to come. He'd thought the same as anyone would think, the same as everyone thought. It wasn't exactly an unusual thing for a master to want 'service' from those beneath him, and a man at least had the advantage that he wouldn't come up with child. When he noticed the odd looks Norrell began sending his way, the shuffling nervousness of a man who didn't entirely understand his own desires, Childermass had come to expect that sooner or later such service would be what he was asked for.
He might even have given it, he thought. Norrell was magic. As strange and odd a man as he was, he had magic, was the return of magic waiting to happen, and he'd treated Childermass well. Better than most, even. Childermass might have given him any service he asked for, just for that sake. It would have been tawdry, it would have been an empty, dirty thing, but he might have given it nonetheless. He'd been half-prepared to allow it.
Except that it wasn't what Norrell had asked for. Perhaps it had been the end goal, perhaps the man had vaguely envisioned it in his head, but Childermass somehow doubted that, even now. That kind of thing, that kind of base pleasure, was something of an anathema to Gilbert Norrell. It baffled him, not only because he lacked experience of it, but because he didn't want it. He physically shrank at the thought, as they had found out somewhat to their mutual embarrassment a good deal later. He hadn't wanted service, even mutual. He'd wanted something a good deal smaller and simpler than that.
He'd wanted to touch. No more, and no less. He had wanted, very simply, to be allowed to touch someone. To smooth their clothing as he smoothed the covers of his books. To brush and card their hair as he might leaf through pages. To tug them to his chest as Childermass had often seen him hug a tome on long evenings by the fire, when the words had touched him and brought him to tears. He'd wanted to touch, nothing more. In an almost childlike manner, Norrell had simply wanted to touch him.
It had been a shaking thing, at first. A flinching, almost terrified thing on Norrell's part. Childermass, bemused by the request, had been very little help. He'd simply sat there, at his desk in the library, and watched without a word as the man's hand reach questioningly towards his hair. He'd done nothing as careful fingers brushed through his fringe, as unkempt then as it was now, and shakily pushed it back behind his ear. Norrell had looked at him, genuinely terrified, as though he'd dared something unforgivable, and tucked his hand back against his own chest in shame. Childermass had blinked. He'd expected ... He'd not even known. Not that. Anything in the world, maybe, except that.
"I'm sorry," Norrell had whispered, wrapping one hand protectively across the offending one. "I just wanted ... I'm sorry. I'll leave you to your reading."
And he had. He'd gone away, a small, trembling sort of figure, with his dusty wig and the pair of books he'd snatched to himself in something like comfort. He'd repaired to his own end of the library, looking anywhere but at Childermass, and set to reading with a quiet, determined sort of terror. Childermass had watched him. He'd sat there, not an intelligible thought in his head, and simply watched the man.
Then, after a very moment, he had carefully climbed to his feet. He'd seen the flinch in the man across from him, saw the sudden tightness across Norrell's shoulders. He'd not commented on it, though he had taken note. He'd just crossed the room, at a gentle, unhurried pace, and come to stand above the man where he sat shaking. Norrell had looked up at him. It had taken courage, Childermass thought, and Norrell was not a man with a great supply of that. He'd done it anyway, in some small little way determined to face his fate. For some reason, that little scrap of bravery had done more to warm Childermass towards him than almost anything else, then or since. He'd leaned down, and rested his hand very carefully on Norrell's knee.
"What did you want, sir?" he'd asked, low and gentle. "I don't think I quite understood. Will you not tell me, so I can manage better?"
Norrell had looked down, at the hand on his knee, and then up again, searching Childermass' face, looking for some sign of ... cruelty? Mockery? Something of those, Childermass thought. Something he'd learned to expect, or simply feared to cause. He'd not found it. Childermass had laid those aside already in their acquaintance, and had had no urge to recall them then. Norrell had seemed to realise that, after a moment. He'd seemed to understand, and a rush of such naked relief had crossed his face that it had been truly painful to see.
"I ..." he'd tried to explain, holding his books to his chest like a shield. "You must not ... That is, you mustn't feel obliged, but ... I wondered, Childermass, if I might ... touch you. Sometimes." He'd swallowed, glancing down in shame once again. "Nothing ... nothing untoward! Only your hair is very untidy, and sometimes your waistcoat doesn't ride so neatly, and I just ... If I might fix them, should I notice them, then I would ... I would be much obliged to you. If you didn't mind. Once in a while."
Childermass had considered that for a moment. It had not been ... It had seemed too simple. A trap, a prelude to something else, but if that were the case then why did Norrell not just ask for it? He was the master here. A touch here or there was setting the bar a bit low, even as a start. Childermass had not entirely understood, but the man's fear had been very obvious. So he'd decided to test it a little. To imply, and see what answer he might gain.
He'd knelt down, smoothly and carefully. He'd firmed his hand a little bit around Norrell's knee, brushing a thumb beneath it to draw the man's startled attention. He'd let only curiosity into his expression, only confusion, and both genuine enough.
"Only to touch?" he'd asked quietly. Norrell had stared at him, confused in his turn. "You'd not be wanting ... That is, you'd not want to be touched in return?" He'd gestured a little with the hand, a tiny stroke at the crease of the man's knee, just to illustrate. Norrell had jumped a little at the sensation, staring in blank confusion for a second, and then ... Then comprehension had flowered in his expression, followed almost immediately by stuttering horror. He'd put together the caress with Childermass on his knees before him, and he'd realised just exactly what Childermass had been thinking.
"No," he'd stammered, with horrified force. "I would not ... That is, I would never ... I would not ask that!" He'd dropped his books in his vehemence, the little volumes tumbling into his lap, and nothing could have illustrated his earnestness more plainly. The horror was genuine, not an affectation. "I didn't mean ... I would not ask that of you. I could not!"
Childermass had blinked curiously at him, and shrugged a little bit. "People do," was all he'd said, with careful disaffection. "Most often with women, yes, but a man is not so strange. A servant is there to serve, after all. You'd not have been the first."
It had been mutiny, not horror, in Norrell's expression then. It had been a set, stubborn refusal, and Childermass had felt a curious stagger in his chest for the sight of it. Norrell had shaken his head, a mulish expression on his face, and outright refuted that.
"That is wrong," he'd said, with low vehemence and an odd sort of innocence. "Such things are not ... They're not to be bought and sold. How can they ... how can they mean anything, if they have been bought from someone? Why not be content with yourself, if that is all they matter to you! It would at the very least be neater!"
Childermass had felt something then. It had taken him a while to understand it himself. He was not always so aware of his own feelings as he liked to pretend. It had been tenderness. A strange, aching rush of it. He'd felt something so small and so careful, that moment.
"What are 'such things'?" he'd asked softly. He'd still been kneeling, though perhaps for a different reason now. "What is it you want, sir. In truth. What do you hope for from me?"
Norrell had bitten at his own lip, his hands clenched into fists in his lap, above the tumbled shapes of his books. He'd been flushed, unhappy. He'd not wanted to speak of it, and not entirely out of shame. He'd not known, and not wholly understand, and he didn't like to speak of things that he did not understand. A need to make amends had compelled him, though. Childermass thought that was largely what had spurred him. A need to make amends, and a need to untangle the mess into which he'd landed himself.
"Only to touch," he'd said, somewhat defiantly. "I mean it. I don't ... I only want to touch you. You're very ... You're warm, and you're untidy, and you smell strange. I just want to touch you sometimes. To ... to be near. I don't know. I've never wanted before, I don't know. I don't want to hurt you. I just ... like it when you're near. I want to be nearer to you. I want to be allowed. If ... If you don't ... If you want to allow it. That's all."
He'd been nearly crying. Frustration, shame. An earnest desire to be somewhere else, to not have to explain this, to not be laughed at because of it. Childermass had seen all of that. It'd not been difficult. Norrell's emotions were only really a mystery to himself, not those around him. He had seen the degree of pain that admission had caused. He had not liked it, nor had he thought it warranted. It was a very small thing to want, so much less than Childermass had expected, and at the same time so much more ... more real. So innocent and genuine a thing. He'd seen no reason not to grant it, when he'd been half-willing to grant so much more and so much worse.
It had meant more, though. He'd not entirely understood that yet. In time, that smaller thing would come to mean so much more than the other might have. It would come to weigh much more heavily. The other, he would have endured. This, it came to matter. Not only to Norrell, but to him. It became not a thing he granted, but a thing he needed in his own right. He'd not known that then, though. He'd said what he did in a certain innocence of his own.
"You may touch me," he'd said, reaching up to grasp Norrell's chin very gently, drawing the man around to see the earnestness in his expression. "You may touch me, sir. You may straighten my hair, and fix my waistcoat, if you should wish to. You may do more than that. You may ask that I touch you, and I will. If you ever want it, you may ask that I kiss you, and I'll do that too. You need not be ashamed of that. You have not touched without my leave. There's nothing to be ashamed of here."
Norrell had stared at him, uncertain, still half-ashamed. He'd picked up his books, worried them gently in his hands. "I don't know what I want," he'd said, a pained sort of admission. "I've never felt ... There hasn't been anyone besides you. I don't know what I want from you."
Childermass had smiled, patted him gently on the knee. Not the caress of before. He wasn't trying to be suggestive. He'd meant it only as reassurance. "Then we'll figure it out together, sir. You need not fear. I will not abandon you, in this or anything else. You have my word on that."
Norrell had pressed his lips together once more. He'd gathered up his scraps of courage, very visibly once again, and then ... Then he had taken one hand away from the familiarity of his books, and reached towards Childermass instead. He had touched the strands of hair at his temples, a shaking query, and brushed them gently back behind his ear once more. When Childermass had not flinched, when he had nodded encouragingly instead, Norrell had brought his palm to cup the side of his face, and traced it down to cradle his jaw and brush his thumb against Childermass' cheek.
It had been a strange sensation. It had been a very long time since Childermass had felt something so intimate and so innocent at the same time. It had hurt him, a little bit. It wounded him to realise the strangeness of it. He'd been sure not to let that show. He'd leaned into the touch instead, turned his head a little in Norrell's hand to press a small kiss to that wandering thumb. The hand had flinched, a little bit. Norrell had flinched, and looked at Childermass in something like amazement, and then in something painfully like hope. It had been terrible. It had been wonderful and terrible, and Childermass had not known then just how much it would come to hurt him later on.
They'd done a few things, since then. In private, where none might see and mock them for it. Only kisses, only touches at brow or temple, small embraces hidden where none might see. A few deeper explorations, wanderings with more intent, but they had never really seemed right. Maybe that first conversation had frightened Norrell away from more overt pleasures, but Childermass didn't really think so. There was no stifled lust, no hastily disguised physical reactions. Norrell seemed genuinely not to want, and to be honest Childermass had never been much inclined to either, with Norrell or with anyone. This was ... This was different. He didn't know why, but it was.
He liked to touch the man. He liked to sit across from him, to rest his ankle next to Norrell's. He liked to brush against his arm while opening the door, to smile at him behind the curtain of his hair. He liked to feel a cautious hand creeping along his side when no-one else was there, careful fingers tweaking his waistcoat and then sitting happily atop it, content with his warmth. He liked to brush his fingers beneath the edges of Norrell's wig, to touch the hair kept secret underneath it, to bring his hand down and cup Norrell's cheek in an echo of that first touch between them. He liked to lean down, to brush careful kisses to Norrell's forehead, then nose, then lips, soft and gentle at the end of it, in chaste sort of fashion. He liked to be kissed in return, liked to be embraced, liked to have Norrell hide his face against the front of his waistcoat. He liked to sit without heat and without worry beside someone, to enjoy their presence and know that his own was enjoyed in turn. He liked to touch, and be touched, and be safe in the touching. He liked the smallness of it, and the intimacy.
It wasn't love. He didn't think so, at least. It was something, but he didn't think love was quite the right word. He had given Norrell something, more than just his service, more than just his loyalty, but it was not so deep or all-encompassing as love seemed to imply. Whatever it was, though, he had given it. There was no going back from that now. And while it wasn't love, it wasn't service either. It was small, but not tawdry. It was not what anyone might think.
And so it was private. Here and now. So it was a thing they kept to themselves, a secret even from the household, from Strange, from Lascelles and Drawlight and all the rest of the world. So it was touches where no-one might see, and embraces where none might stumble across them. It was kisses behind closed doors, and nights spent resting beside each other only when the rest of the house had already retired. There was a sort of a joy to that, a pleasure in this thing that no-one knew but them. He'd asked for that, and Norrell had agreed. He'd wanted it to be private, and it had been a secret Norrell had been all too happy to keep.
If only, he thought tiredly, it had been the only one.
A/N: I could see Norrell as asexual. Childermass too, actually. Mind you, I could see them as not, either, but it worked for the fic, so I went with the idea. Heh.
It was not service, what happened between him and the master in private. Childermass knew it would be seen that way, should anyone become aware of it, but that was the reason it was private. He'd no need to see it bandied about, to see it laughed at, to see people smirking knowingly behind their hands. It was too small and tender a thing to be made tawdry that way.
It'd been an odd thing to come about. He'd half expected something of the sort, after a while in Hurtfew. Mr Norrell did not much care for company, yet he also did not much care for loneliness. He'd begun gravitating to Childermass after a while, at first without noticing, then with increasing self-aggravation once he did notice. It'd been mildly amusing, to start with, in maybe a cruel sort of way. It had flustered the man very much, to find himself in need of another human being. To need company, to need a presence besides his own. He had not wanted to want that, and perhaps a cruel part of Childermass had found it funny that he did.
It had seemed to settle down, after a while. Norrell had seemed to come to terms with his desires, had come to accept that a few hours spent reading at one end of the library with Childermass reading at the other was no bad thing to want. He'd made no fuss about it, either. He'd been snappish, yes, but he had never truly taken his ill-temper out on anyone else, not even the cause of it. It was around that point where Childermass began to think ill of his own earlier humour, to feel small and ugly for having even privately laughed at the man. Mr Norrell could hardly help his wants, nor the fact that his life had left him so little experience of accepting them. He had resolved himself, there, to be gentler with the man, at least in those matters. He'd made himself that promise, and thought the matter closed.
It wasn't, of course. Company was not the only desire that Norrell had stifled inside himself for so long. He hadn't known what to do with those desires, any more than he'd known what to do with the first, but gradually they had come to make themselves known regardless. He hadn't wholly noticed, at first. Again, the same as the last time, it had taken Norrell quite some time to figure out his own feelings. It hadn't taken Childermass quite as long. He'd seen it, or thought he had, long before Norrell had managed to root inside himself long enough to figure it out.
So Childermass had been ready, in a way, for the request to come. He'd thought the same as anyone would think, the same as everyone thought. It wasn't exactly an unusual thing for a master to want 'service' from those beneath him, and a man at least had the advantage that he wouldn't come up with child. When he noticed the odd looks Norrell began sending his way, the shuffling nervousness of a man who didn't entirely understand his own desires, Childermass had come to expect that sooner or later such service would be what he was asked for.
He might even have given it, he thought. Norrell was magic. As strange and odd a man as he was, he had magic, was the return of magic waiting to happen, and he'd treated Childermass well. Better than most, even. Childermass might have given him any service he asked for, just for that sake. It would have been tawdry, it would have been an empty, dirty thing, but he might have given it nonetheless. He'd been half-prepared to allow it.
Except that it wasn't what Norrell had asked for. Perhaps it had been the end goal, perhaps the man had vaguely envisioned it in his head, but Childermass somehow doubted that, even now. That kind of thing, that kind of base pleasure, was something of an anathema to Gilbert Norrell. It baffled him, not only because he lacked experience of it, but because he didn't want it. He physically shrank at the thought, as they had found out somewhat to their mutual embarrassment a good deal later. He hadn't wanted service, even mutual. He'd wanted something a good deal smaller and simpler than that.
He'd wanted to touch. No more, and no less. He had wanted, very simply, to be allowed to touch someone. To smooth their clothing as he smoothed the covers of his books. To brush and card their hair as he might leaf through pages. To tug them to his chest as Childermass had often seen him hug a tome on long evenings by the fire, when the words had touched him and brought him to tears. He'd wanted to touch, nothing more. In an almost childlike manner, Norrell had simply wanted to touch him.
It had been a shaking thing, at first. A flinching, almost terrified thing on Norrell's part. Childermass, bemused by the request, had been very little help. He'd simply sat there, at his desk in the library, and watched without a word as the man's hand reach questioningly towards his hair. He'd done nothing as careful fingers brushed through his fringe, as unkempt then as it was now, and shakily pushed it back behind his ear. Norrell had looked at him, genuinely terrified, as though he'd dared something unforgivable, and tucked his hand back against his own chest in shame. Childermass had blinked. He'd expected ... He'd not even known. Not that. Anything in the world, maybe, except that.
"I'm sorry," Norrell had whispered, wrapping one hand protectively across the offending one. "I just wanted ... I'm sorry. I'll leave you to your reading."
And he had. He'd gone away, a small, trembling sort of figure, with his dusty wig and the pair of books he'd snatched to himself in something like comfort. He'd repaired to his own end of the library, looking anywhere but at Childermass, and set to reading with a quiet, determined sort of terror. Childermass had watched him. He'd sat there, not an intelligible thought in his head, and simply watched the man.
Then, after a very moment, he had carefully climbed to his feet. He'd seen the flinch in the man across from him, saw the sudden tightness across Norrell's shoulders. He'd not commented on it, though he had taken note. He'd just crossed the room, at a gentle, unhurried pace, and come to stand above the man where he sat shaking. Norrell had looked up at him. It had taken courage, Childermass thought, and Norrell was not a man with a great supply of that. He'd done it anyway, in some small little way determined to face his fate. For some reason, that little scrap of bravery had done more to warm Childermass towards him than almost anything else, then or since. He'd leaned down, and rested his hand very carefully on Norrell's knee.
"What did you want, sir?" he'd asked, low and gentle. "I don't think I quite understood. Will you not tell me, so I can manage better?"
Norrell had looked down, at the hand on his knee, and then up again, searching Childermass' face, looking for some sign of ... cruelty? Mockery? Something of those, Childermass thought. Something he'd learned to expect, or simply feared to cause. He'd not found it. Childermass had laid those aside already in their acquaintance, and had had no urge to recall them then. Norrell had seemed to realise that, after a moment. He'd seemed to understand, and a rush of such naked relief had crossed his face that it had been truly painful to see.
"I ..." he'd tried to explain, holding his books to his chest like a shield. "You must not ... That is, you mustn't feel obliged, but ... I wondered, Childermass, if I might ... touch you. Sometimes." He'd swallowed, glancing down in shame once again. "Nothing ... nothing untoward! Only your hair is very untidy, and sometimes your waistcoat doesn't ride so neatly, and I just ... If I might fix them, should I notice them, then I would ... I would be much obliged to you. If you didn't mind. Once in a while."
Childermass had considered that for a moment. It had not been ... It had seemed too simple. A trap, a prelude to something else, but if that were the case then why did Norrell not just ask for it? He was the master here. A touch here or there was setting the bar a bit low, even as a start. Childermass had not entirely understood, but the man's fear had been very obvious. So he'd decided to test it a little. To imply, and see what answer he might gain.
He'd knelt down, smoothly and carefully. He'd firmed his hand a little bit around Norrell's knee, brushing a thumb beneath it to draw the man's startled attention. He'd let only curiosity into his expression, only confusion, and both genuine enough.
"Only to touch?" he'd asked quietly. Norrell had stared at him, confused in his turn. "You'd not be wanting ... That is, you'd not want to be touched in return?" He'd gestured a little with the hand, a tiny stroke at the crease of the man's knee, just to illustrate. Norrell had jumped a little at the sensation, staring in blank confusion for a second, and then ... Then comprehension had flowered in his expression, followed almost immediately by stuttering horror. He'd put together the caress with Childermass on his knees before him, and he'd realised just exactly what Childermass had been thinking.
"No," he'd stammered, with horrified force. "I would not ... That is, I would never ... I would not ask that!" He'd dropped his books in his vehemence, the little volumes tumbling into his lap, and nothing could have illustrated his earnestness more plainly. The horror was genuine, not an affectation. "I didn't mean ... I would not ask that of you. I could not!"
Childermass had blinked curiously at him, and shrugged a little bit. "People do," was all he'd said, with careful disaffection. "Most often with women, yes, but a man is not so strange. A servant is there to serve, after all. You'd not have been the first."
It had been mutiny, not horror, in Norrell's expression then. It had been a set, stubborn refusal, and Childermass had felt a curious stagger in his chest for the sight of it. Norrell had shaken his head, a mulish expression on his face, and outright refuted that.
"That is wrong," he'd said, with low vehemence and an odd sort of innocence. "Such things are not ... They're not to be bought and sold. How can they ... how can they mean anything, if they have been bought from someone? Why not be content with yourself, if that is all they matter to you! It would at the very least be neater!"
Childermass had felt something then. It had taken him a while to understand it himself. He was not always so aware of his own feelings as he liked to pretend. It had been tenderness. A strange, aching rush of it. He'd felt something so small and so careful, that moment.
"What are 'such things'?" he'd asked softly. He'd still been kneeling, though perhaps for a different reason now. "What is it you want, sir. In truth. What do you hope for from me?"
Norrell had bitten at his own lip, his hands clenched into fists in his lap, above the tumbled shapes of his books. He'd been flushed, unhappy. He'd not wanted to speak of it, and not entirely out of shame. He'd not known, and not wholly understand, and he didn't like to speak of things that he did not understand. A need to make amends had compelled him, though. Childermass thought that was largely what had spurred him. A need to make amends, and a need to untangle the mess into which he'd landed himself.
"Only to touch," he'd said, somewhat defiantly. "I mean it. I don't ... I only want to touch you. You're very ... You're warm, and you're untidy, and you smell strange. I just want to touch you sometimes. To ... to be near. I don't know. I've never wanted before, I don't know. I don't want to hurt you. I just ... like it when you're near. I want to be nearer to you. I want to be allowed. If ... If you don't ... If you want to allow it. That's all."
He'd been nearly crying. Frustration, shame. An earnest desire to be somewhere else, to not have to explain this, to not be laughed at because of it. Childermass had seen all of that. It'd not been difficult. Norrell's emotions were only really a mystery to himself, not those around him. He had seen the degree of pain that admission had caused. He had not liked it, nor had he thought it warranted. It was a very small thing to want, so much less than Childermass had expected, and at the same time so much more ... more real. So innocent and genuine a thing. He'd seen no reason not to grant it, when he'd been half-willing to grant so much more and so much worse.
It had meant more, though. He'd not entirely understood that yet. In time, that smaller thing would come to mean so much more than the other might have. It would come to weigh much more heavily. The other, he would have endured. This, it came to matter. Not only to Norrell, but to him. It became not a thing he granted, but a thing he needed in his own right. He'd not known that then, though. He'd said what he did in a certain innocence of his own.
"You may touch me," he'd said, reaching up to grasp Norrell's chin very gently, drawing the man around to see the earnestness in his expression. "You may touch me, sir. You may straighten my hair, and fix my waistcoat, if you should wish to. You may do more than that. You may ask that I touch you, and I will. If you ever want it, you may ask that I kiss you, and I'll do that too. You need not be ashamed of that. You have not touched without my leave. There's nothing to be ashamed of here."
Norrell had stared at him, uncertain, still half-ashamed. He'd picked up his books, worried them gently in his hands. "I don't know what I want," he'd said, a pained sort of admission. "I've never felt ... There hasn't been anyone besides you. I don't know what I want from you."
Childermass had smiled, patted him gently on the knee. Not the caress of before. He wasn't trying to be suggestive. He'd meant it only as reassurance. "Then we'll figure it out together, sir. You need not fear. I will not abandon you, in this or anything else. You have my word on that."
Norrell had pressed his lips together once more. He'd gathered up his scraps of courage, very visibly once again, and then ... Then he had taken one hand away from the familiarity of his books, and reached towards Childermass instead. He had touched the strands of hair at his temples, a shaking query, and brushed them gently back behind his ear once more. When Childermass had not flinched, when he had nodded encouragingly instead, Norrell had brought his palm to cup the side of his face, and traced it down to cradle his jaw and brush his thumb against Childermass' cheek.
It had been a strange sensation. It had been a very long time since Childermass had felt something so intimate and so innocent at the same time. It had hurt him, a little bit. It wounded him to realise the strangeness of it. He'd been sure not to let that show. He'd leaned into the touch instead, turned his head a little in Norrell's hand to press a small kiss to that wandering thumb. The hand had flinched, a little bit. Norrell had flinched, and looked at Childermass in something like amazement, and then in something painfully like hope. It had been terrible. It had been wonderful and terrible, and Childermass had not known then just how much it would come to hurt him later on.
They'd done a few things, since then. In private, where none might see and mock them for it. Only kisses, only touches at brow or temple, small embraces hidden where none might see. A few deeper explorations, wanderings with more intent, but they had never really seemed right. Maybe that first conversation had frightened Norrell away from more overt pleasures, but Childermass didn't really think so. There was no stifled lust, no hastily disguised physical reactions. Norrell seemed genuinely not to want, and to be honest Childermass had never been much inclined to either, with Norrell or with anyone. This was ... This was different. He didn't know why, but it was.
He liked to touch the man. He liked to sit across from him, to rest his ankle next to Norrell's. He liked to brush against his arm while opening the door, to smile at him behind the curtain of his hair. He liked to feel a cautious hand creeping along his side when no-one else was there, careful fingers tweaking his waistcoat and then sitting happily atop it, content with his warmth. He liked to brush his fingers beneath the edges of Norrell's wig, to touch the hair kept secret underneath it, to bring his hand down and cup Norrell's cheek in an echo of that first touch between them. He liked to lean down, to brush careful kisses to Norrell's forehead, then nose, then lips, soft and gentle at the end of it, in chaste sort of fashion. He liked to be kissed in return, liked to be embraced, liked to have Norrell hide his face against the front of his waistcoat. He liked to sit without heat and without worry beside someone, to enjoy their presence and know that his own was enjoyed in turn. He liked to touch, and be touched, and be safe in the touching. He liked the smallness of it, and the intimacy.
It wasn't love. He didn't think so, at least. It was something, but he didn't think love was quite the right word. He had given Norrell something, more than just his service, more than just his loyalty, but it was not so deep or all-encompassing as love seemed to imply. Whatever it was, though, he had given it. There was no going back from that now. And while it wasn't love, it wasn't service either. It was small, but not tawdry. It was not what anyone might think.
And so it was private. Here and now. So it was a thing they kept to themselves, a secret even from the household, from Strange, from Lascelles and Drawlight and all the rest of the world. So it was touches where no-one might see, and embraces where none might stumble across them. It was kisses behind closed doors, and nights spent resting beside each other only when the rest of the house had already retired. There was a sort of a joy to that, a pleasure in this thing that no-one knew but them. He'd asked for that, and Norrell had agreed. He'd wanted it to be private, and it had been a secret Norrell had been all too happy to keep.
If only, he thought tiredly, it had been the only one.
A/N: I could see Norrell as asexual. Childermass too, actually. Mind you, I could see them as not, either, but it worked for the fic, so I went with the idea. Heh.
