Childermass follows Lascelles to the front door. He hands him his hat and helps him into his overcoat. None of this is done out of politeness, his rough actions and insolent stare make this abundantly clear. No, the only reason Childermass affords the detestable meddler this service is to make sure he leaves 's house as soon as possible.
The man of business is not one to be easily riled, and even when he is there are few who can tell. He maintains his distance, keeping the slanting smile and knowing look in place. Even now, when there is rage seething in his veins, only his eyes betray the firey loathing he feels. As he hands the gentleman his cane, their eyes meet. And Lascelles reads every bit of hate in that stare and matches it with is own.
Another day of battling over the best course of action towards Jonathan Strange and his damned book. Childermass urging leniency and bridge-building, Lascelles talking of revenge and annihilation. Thier opposing arguments served only to overwhelm into infuriating, frozen inaction. Each man blames the other for this impasse.
Lascelles opens his mouth to say as much, intending it as a parting shot. But Childermass kills the words in his mouth by stepping in so close that the gentleman can feel warm, ragged breath on his cheek.
'Not today, . There will be time enough for your speechifying tomorrow but today I am in no humour for it. Leave. Now.' It is low and menacingly soft, but it is an order all the same. And order, from a servant. Rage twists Lascelles' face. It lends force to his hands, which grasp Childermass and pin him agaisnt the papered wall of the entrance hall. He is taller than the Yorkshireman and at such close quarters he must stoop to bring his face level with Childermass'.
'I. Will. Destroy. You.' Lascelles' voice quivers, barely restrained huffs of breath punctuating each word. His breath catches as Childermass lifts himself onto his toes, bringing their lips a gossamer's distance from touching. John's mouth quirks into a sneer.
'I'd like to see you try.'
Lascelles' force knocks the air back down Childermass' throat as their lips as crushed together. Not willing to be passive, the servant reaches a hand into the other man's hair, twisting his head to the side for a better angle. Encouraged, Lascelles brings a hand to John's neck - fingers digging into skin as his thumb works its way into Childermass' mouth, pulling down on his lower jaw. Childermass bites at the intrusion and the other man hisses and draws back. But the servant pulls him back in, teeth hanging onto Lascelles' lower lip.
He bites until he is sure it hurts but then releases as Lascelles grins wolffishly, and yanks at the tail of Childermass' hair. His head is pulled sharply back, leaving him open mouthed and exposed. Lascelles bites at the pale skin of the man's neck, too high to be covered by a neckerchief and hard enough to bruise the fragile skin. Childermass groans and tries to twist away but Lascelles holds firm, working his way up to the earlobe which he attacks with animal fervour.
This seems to spur Childermass to action, he grasps either side of the gentleman's face and pulls him back into a rough kiss. Themir noses clash hard enough that it hurts, yet they continue pushing, neither willing to surrender and end it. Teeth clatter against each other and pull and nip at swollen flesh. In the end, the two men simply run out of air. They pull apart and stare at one another, assessing the damage they have inflicted.
Lascelles' pale complection is flushed and blotchy, his hair in wild disarray, his lips are fat and swollen and glistening wet. Childermass' hair has come undone and hangs around his face framing his burning eyes and a slightly split lip. The damage seems to be equal, neither man has won the battle. But, oh, it's going to be one hell of a war.