I've wanted to write for this fandom for some time, but somehow my life just waylaid it time and time again. But here it is. A passing moment in the life of a boy and his most/least favorite of djinn. Take it as pre-slash or a platonic ball of hate and affection.
Written Aramaic, and Other Tips for Everyday Living by KyuuketsukiShounen
"Your Syriac looks a right mess, Natty boy."
Nathaniel can only purse his lips in annoyance. He has little patience left in him at this hour of night, and at the same time he can't rest. He leans back from the pentacle he'd been inscribing and sits on his haunches. Newspapers from the past week surround him, as if taunting him with their reports of riots and war defeats. And worst of all, none of it comes as a surprise. They're virtually the same stories he's been reading for months.
"Perhaps you should give your tongue some rest now, Bartimaeus."
"But who could ever tire from the ever thrilling task of watching you trying to totter about like a real magician? And by the looks of it, you're the one who needs resting," Bartimaeus returns, not missing a beat. As usual the djinni's observations, despite their truth, come with their fair share of barbs. Continuing with his jibes, he hovers about the edges of the pentacle smearing the chalk lines with his heels as he passes. "What's this rubbish here?"
"That took me nearly an hour to prepare, Bartimaeus," Nathaniel says through his tightly clenched jaws.
"And a fat load of good it would have done, you stupid child," the djinni cackles. "Trying to call up a spirit of Edessa with such an amateur grasp on genitive pronouns—and using Nestorian script, no less!"
Nathaniel remains silent, eyes scanning back and forth from the pages of the spell casting tome to the pentacle. He hasn't made a mistake like this in at least three years—and even then, he'd have caught himself more quickly. He continues to flip through the heavy book, his frantic turning nearly causing a few pieces of vellum to come loose from the binding.
"I believe this might be the better reference," Bartimaeus offers. The voice has come from behind, and Nathaniel turns around just in time to catch a corner in the forehead. For a second he lays splayed out on the floor of his office.
"Perhaps I should give you a nice go on the Essence Rack, demon," the boy mumbles furiously, waiting for the ceiling to stop spinning.
"That's 'djinni' to you, Nathaniel," Bartimaeus cracks back, snappy as ever, and nudges Nathaniel's cheek with his toe. "Seems like you've taken my advice to have a break. Shall I go fetch a pillow?"
Nathaniel grunts. "I can see up your loin cloth, you know." He nearly expects a good kick to the temple for his gall, but Bartimaeus only laughs. Nathaniel sits up—too abruptly, as the room begins to spin again—and gingerly reaches up to touch the spot above his left eye.
"I'm not bleeding, am I?"
Bartimaeus makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat before crossing his arms. "No, frail as you are, you're perfectly fine. Though, there may be a mark in the morning."
Nathaniel checks his fingertips for blood, just in case, but it seems at least this time his servant has not lied. "There isn't a word in the English language for someone like you," he says, rubbing the corners of his eyes clumsily, the way a young child might. "Though, if I think hard enough, I could probably come up with a few in Phoenician."
Bartimaeus plunks himself down next to Nathaniel and merely smirks. "That an insult or a compliment?"
"Both, I suppose," Nathaniel responds, surprising the both of them and slapping on a good heap of apprehension on his servant's face.
"This a trick of some sort?" Bartimaeus ventures.
Nathaniel does his best to glower, but somehow the corners of his mouth just want to spread out into a crazy grin. The look on Bartimaeus' face—the mere idea of the djinni being caught off guard—suddenly amuses Nathaniel more than he can say. And just for a second, Nathaniel allows himself to speculate that it's moments like these, when he gets to see his servant make such faces, to hear him curse in a dozen dead tongues, that keep him from stringing himself up by his own tie. He laughs giddily, brain half drunk with fatigue.
Bartimaeus' left eye twitches magnificently. "Here, I haven't knocked anything loose up there, have I? Or perhaps you've been hexed or charmed while my back was turned?"
He grabs Nathaniel by the chin with his left hand, using the fingers of his right to ply open the boy's eyelids.
"You're grabbing too hard," Nathaniel grumbles, but the djinni does not relent. He gets into a crouch and pulls in close, presumably to better inspect this potential case of insanity. Nathaniel himself wonders for a moment what exactly has gotten into him.
The newspapers littering the room are filled with more than the headaches of his work. Real people, real warm-blooded British citizens are getting hurt all around him. And somehow in the pit of his stomach he feels an uncanny contentment.
"It's a strange routine, we've made for ourselves," he starts.
Bartimaeus pulls back, appearing to have concluded that this strange behavior has no magical basis. But he does not let go of Nathaniel's chin. In fact his grip is close to bruising. "Your eyes are very bloodshot," he reports.
"Stranger still how much I've gotten used to it," he continues. "Accustomed even."
"How many times have I told you that it's much too dangerous for an inexperienced little pup to be playing with spirits past bedtime?"
"Shut up," Nathaniel replies weakly, not knowing what else to say.
They stare in silence for a bit longer, and the inexplicable excitement in Nathaniel's gut fizzles out into ordinary exhaustion. The silly grin fades into the usual pout, and he suddenly can't bear the intensity of the djinni's gaze. He turns his eyes aside and grips Bartimaeus' wrist.
"Let go of me," he says, voice suddenly withered down to half it's volume.
Bartimaeus complies." Here's your book," he says, placing it in the boy's lap before rising up out of his crouching position to stand and stretch.
Nathaniel looks blankly down at the small text. Un Grammaire de l'araméen, et les autres langues de la Mésopotamie antique, the title reads, embossed in florid black characters across the cover. The cover, a faded red, has the familiar dry and dusty texture of other archaic books. He runs his fingers over the letters before setting it beside him and raising his head.
Bartimaeus is at the window, staring out at the black sky. Perhaps the moon. Nathaniel wonders if he should take the time to appreciate the djinni's silence.
But that just isn't the Bartimaeus that he knows. And the strange giddy feeling flares up for just a moment again.
"I'm going to bed," he announces.
Without turning from the window, Bartimaeus humphs in assent. "It's about time." He continues to stare for a while longer before tearing himself away to help Nathaniel to his feet. The wear finally hits Nathaniel's body and his legs nearly buckle, but Bartimaeus catches him. The djinni sniffs with disdain before pulling the boy's arm over his shoulder to support him.
As the two pass the ruined pentacle, Bartimaeus turns his head for one last chance to scoff at it. "The Assyrians would be appalled," he notes.
Before closing the door, Bartimaeus snuffs out the lights with a snap of the finger. The room succumbs to darkness.
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A/N: It was a strange and somewhat harrowing experience writing this, despite it being excessively pedestrian. Mainly because I had no idea what exactly I was trying to convey, at first. But then it suddenly came to this. An everyday moment from the experiences of Bart and Nat - with a minor revelation on Nathaniel's part that he and Bartimaeus are distressingly close to being a squabbling married couple, haha. I live for relationships between people with dysfunctional notions of affection.