Note: This is the eighth entry in a multiparter that began over in "Quite Peculiar", so it's less of a fun lil' scene and more of a proper chapter (or improper, as the case may be). As a reminder, they're both adults here.

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...But somehow I knew

That that would be the only time that we could be alone and foolish

- from "Destiny Rules" by Fleetwood Mac

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"This is first class?"

Alek knows he sounds ungrateful - or at the very least surprised - but the train compartment is scarcely more than a closet. A small one, at that.

"Aye," Deryn says. She removes a belt from their carpetbag and pulls the leather taut in her hands, testing it, before quickly, deftly looping it around the door handle in a stout knot. "Expensive, but a sight better than traveling couchette. Nightmare for security, that - no doors."

"Ah," Alek says, instead of People sleep on trains in open compartments? But evidently they do. He thinks of the many cars of his official train with some chagrin. An entire car as one's own bedroom hasn't seemed particularly luxurious until this moment.

There are two upholstered bench seats, one facing the front of the train, one facing the rear. He eases himself down on the front-facing seat and draws the window shade on the fading afternoon light. The fight in the Tuileries is making itself known, and he aches all over. In particular, there is a burning line across his right bicep that he suspects is from the assassin's knife, but he has not had time to investigate it properly.

At least his hearing has returned. Mostly; there is still a faint ringing in his left ear. Presumably that was closer to the rocket explosion.

"Besides," she says, examining her work, "we can afford it. 'Specially if I nick a few more wallets along the way."

He's appalled and impressed all at once. "Is that how you had money?"

She rolls her eyes. "I left Jaspert's house expecting to take a morning balloon ride. I didn't bring my bloody bankbook."

"I suppose it's just as well that I didn't, either," he says. "No doubt they could track me through the bank. Somehow."

"Likely," she says, sounding thoughtful. "For that matter, I'm still wondering how they found us in the Tuileries."

Alek has been wondering the same thing. "Do you think they followed Malone?"

Deryn drops onto the rear-facing seat, sitting in a boyish sprawl despite her feminine clothes. She'd been every inch a dainty young lady when they came aboard - as Monsieur and Madame André Leroy, victims of robbery on the dangerous Parisian streets. The conductor surely knew better, yet he had been wholly taken in by Mme. Leroy's tearful fluttering.

It had netted them a pitcher of hot water, a first-aid kit, and assurances that if M. and Mme. need anything else, they must let the porters know tout de suite.

"No reason to, was there?" she says. "No connection to you. And he's too clever to advertise where he was going."

"If they trailed us from Calais…"

She makes a noise of agreement. "They had a million easier chances than shooting a rocket. Here, get your jacket off, and I'll patch you up."

He obliges - though he winces as he does, because he has been cut. A large bloodstain, turning brown with time, has bloomed across his shirtsleeve. Fresh blood begins to seep through where he has reopened the cut by moving.

"Nasty cut," Deryn says, eyeing him. "Shirt off, too."

He wonders, as he removes his shirt, whether he should try to kiss her. He's wanted to kiss her all day, and aside from the bleeding wound, conditions seem ideal.

He's not even bleeding that badly. Surely she won't become squeamish now.

But she has a brisk, military air about her, taking hold of his injured arm with no hint of ulterior motives. She pushes the sleeve of his vest up to better see the wound, only to have it slide down immediately. "Vest off, too."

So he removes his vest, too, while she soaks a clean, soft cloth in the hot water, then wrings it out until it is merely damp.

"This is a remarkably convenient turn of events for you," he says, unable to resist teasing, although he can feel himself blushing at being half-undressed in her presence. Again.

She sits next to him and lays the dampened cloth against his cut. It burns, and he sucks in a breath. "Aye, I think I'll like being a captain."

"I must warn you, most captains don't have this sort of privilege."

"I reckon most of them wouldn't find this a privilege."

Nor would he find it as enjoyable, though that's a strange description for having a wound tended. He watches as she cleans and bandages the cut in her confident, capable way. That done, she wipes the cloth down his arm and then along his hand. One finger at a time.

Her examination has stopped being brisk. Now it is… something else.

"Deryn?" The rest of it - may I kiss you? - dies unspoken when she lifts his hand to her mouth and presses a kiss to his palm. Electrikal currents zip up his spine in a bright, pleasurable jolt.

"Walker pilot's hands," she says approvingly, splaying his fingers out. "D'you play piano, too?"

"Nein," he says. He swallows in an attempt to maintain composure. "No. I had lessons, but I was - Gott im Himmel."

She glances up, eyes alight with mischief, the tip of his index finger still inside her mouth. Far from being repentant, she sucks on it, very lightly.

"Deryn," he says again. This time, it sounds rather like begging. He might beg, at that, if he could remember the English words for it.

She releases his finger, only to kiss his palm once more. "Hush, Your Majesty," she says, and kisses the inside of his wrist.

Alek has never felt less like an emperor. In fact, he feels exactly like a young man who is vastly inexperienced with kissing, let alone what comes after. He wishes he knew what to do. It seems unfair to sit like a malfunctioning automaton, gears frozen, while she kisses her way up his arm.

He ought to do something for her. Return the action in kind. But -

She drags her tongue along his collarbone, and he loses that train of thought. Indeed, a great deal of thought leaves him altogether, rushing southward along with most of his blood.

"Mmm," she says into the skin of his neck. "You taste -"

He kisses her. Grips the back of her head and pulls her up the final few inches and kisses her. He thinks he might go mad if he doesn't.

She laughs and kisses him back, with equal fervor if superior skill. After a moment, she draws back, saying, "Sodding skirt - hold on, lad."

This makes no sense to him. He needs a moment to drag the words from the depths: "What about your skirt?"

A tsk. "It's too tight for me to get a leg over." She stands and unfastens her skirt, impatiently kicking it off while leaving her boots on. Now she is clad only in her shirt and underclothes. Knickers, she'd called them.

Her knickers are very much like his, which doesn't surprise him. He can't imagine her wearing lace and frills. Perhaps that's because his mind has stuttered to a stop watching her take off her skirt.

Skirt dealt with, she climbs onto the bench seat, one knee to either side of his legs. It means he must tip his face up to kiss her, but he doesn't mind, because it also gives him a warm, amazing weight in his lap - pressing against his chest and abdomen - moving beneath his hands when he puts his arms around her.

God's wounds. And he thought this morning's kisses were perilous.

They kiss again, peril be damned. He quite likes this new position. In fact, it's becoming increasingly evident that he likes it rather too much.

He breaks off the kiss, swearing wholeheartedly in German.

"Sorry," Deryn says, leaning back. Worry flashes across her face. "I forgot about your arm."

"It isn't that," Alek says, although now that she mentions it, the cut does sting terribly. He takes a long, slow breath and tries to focus on that small pain, instead of a much larger pleasure. "This is, er, very exciting."

The worry changes to confusion, and then she glances down between them. "Oh. Blisters, that's all right. Pure dead natural."

She rocks her hips forward, which feels sublime, and he experiences a moment of panic. Is he to utterly embarrass himself in front of the only girl he's ever kissed?

He curses again, trying to push her away without seeming rude. "I don't - that is - It's too soon, don't you think? For this - ah - sort of intimacy."

She scowls at him. "Clanker."

"A Clanker emperor," he reminds her. "Worse than most."

That earns an amused snort. "All right, then. Wouldn't want to muddle your clockworks," she says, removing herself from his lap and resettling beside him.

He feels cold and bereft, which, he tells himself, is a mercy. "Thank you."

"It's not too soon, though," she says. She nudges his leg with her knee, making him notice her bare legs again. Long and slender and strong, just like her arms. "I've been telling myself 'later', but that's mad, aye? When they're launching sodding rockets into a public garden? The truth is, I like you, and I know there's no future in it, but I'd like to roger you, too. Or whatever we can manage tonight."

She blushes at the last. Thank God, for he's blushed through the whole of it.

Two important phrases leap out.

Firstly, she likes him, which knowledge kindles something warm inside his heart.

Secondly. "By 'roger', you mean…?" he asks, cautious.

She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him, challenging. "Means exactly what you think it means."

"I see." He suddenly finds he can't look at her. Instead he glances at the walls, the floor, the other bench seat, their discarded clothing, the darkness swiftly falling beyond the drawn window shade, the Darwinist lamp glowing to life - literally - on the ceiling of their compartment. With the benefit of time, distraction, and distance, he is no longer in immediate danger of humiliating himself in front of her - but talk like this will hardly help.

He clears his throat. Honesty is a virtue, and she deserves it, regardless. "I would - I would very much like that as well."

She makes a pleased noise, but Alek holds up one hand to forestall her. "But we can't."

"Because I'm as common as dirt," Deryn says.

"No," Alek says, then sighs. She is uncommon, gloriously so, in all regards except her birth. He would be the worst sort of fraud to deny that it mattered, especially with the shadow of his parents' marriage hanging over him. Reluctantly, he says, "Yes. That is a consideration."

"We wouldn't -" she starts.

This time, he stops her with an imperial glare. "More to the point, I would feel as though I was dishonoring you. I like you, as well. I believe from the moment I heard that ridiculous tale you spun at the party."

"That was the barking truth," she says hotly. "All of my stories are true. Anyway, it's not dishonoring me if I'm the one suggesting it."

He opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again. "I suppose you have a point."

"I'm always right," she agrees. "Aside from that clart, any real objections?"

Religious prohibitions against enjoying the benefits of marriage outside of any such marriage are not, he suspects, going to deter her in the least. For all that the emperor of Austria is also His Most Catholic Majesty, that particular sin had never stopped any of Alek's ancestors, either.

He views their weakness in a very different light now.

"Only one," he says, reluctant.

"Which is?"

"I've never -" He makes a looping gesture with one hand that bears absolutely no resemblance to the act in question, although he has precious little knowledge about that. Really, if not for Bauer and Hoffman trading soldiers' tales about girls back home, in a castle too small to avoid eavesdropping, he'd know nothing at all.

Then he curses himself. She knows he hasn't; they'd discussed his inexperience this morning. Now she'll think him fixated on the matter. Or a fool. Or so nervous that he's repeating himself. Blast it, all three are true. He quickly tacks on, "I fear I'd be a disappointment."

It's less of a fear than a certainty.

"I wouldn't know," she says, shrugging. "I've never, either."

"Truly?" It comes out sounding far more astonished than he meant it to, and he quickly says, "It's only that - well - it would be entirely understandable if you had. I can't be the first to have noticed - you."

She's staring at him as if he's lost his mind. "Noticed me," she repeats, slowly.

Scheisse. Alek is truly digging his own grave. "Yes. Your bravery, of course. Your intelligence. Your skill at - well, at everything, frankly. And when I first saw you -" he abandons caution in the hopes that a full confession will buy him clemency "- I thought you were far too lovely to have made a convincing boy."

Comprehension lights behind her eyes, and he knows she's remembering his greeting to her on King George's airship: you do look like a boy.

"Aye, that's the wonder of a proper dress. I'm not so pretty in trousers," she says.

The words are wry, but there's a bitterness lurking there as well. The same fraught thread had run through I'm as common as dirt and yesterday's They stripped me of everything, at the end.

"I like you better in trousers," he says. Perhaps that's admitting too much - but those chips in her self-confidence have sharp edges. He is beginning to hate whoever put them there.

Her mouth curls up into a slow half-smile that promises dangerous things indeed. "I like you in skirts."

He grimaces; she laughs. Apparently he is forgiven. She puts out her hand, palm up, a clear invitation to lace his fingers through hers, which he is more than happy to do. "I noticed you, too, ninny," she says, squeezing. "Pure dead handsome, but…"

Something tightens within his chest. "Go on."

Her blue eyes hold his. "Lonely."

Now the tightness moves to his throat. God's wounds, yes. He is lonely. He has been lonely ever since his parents died. Ironically, the more people that have surrounded him as emperor, the lonelier he's become.

She takes his other hand. Hers are tanned and callused and scarred, the antithesis of what a lady's hands ought to be. They're also warm and strong. "Aye. And sad."

A pathetic list, for all that it's true. He attempts a smile, although a witty rejoinder is beyond him. The smile is as well, if the look on her face is any indication.

Lonely and sad. A wonder, that she can see him so clearly, on such short acquaintance. Perhaps she is more than Austria-Hungary's avenging angel, more than his protector. Perhaps Providence has finally seen fit to give him a friend.

Without another word, she tugs on his hands and draws him into a hug. There's nothing gentle about it. It's a hard, fierce embrace, promising hard, fierce sentiments behind it.

He does nothing for a moment. Then he puts his arms around her and returns the hug. Hard and fierce.

"I have you," Deryn whispers, her breath warm against his ear and cheek. "I have you, Alek."

He could weep. Instead, he pulls back just far enough to kiss her. Again and again. Hard. Fierce. Desperate. With an appalling lack of skill.

She swings a leg across and settles herself onto his lap once more. Puts her hands on either side of his face, holding him fast, forcing him to slow despite the fire roaring through his veins and beneath his skin.

"Tell me what to do," he says, voice thick.

She slants her mouth over his and kisses him, slowly, deeply. "Put your hands on me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere you sodding like," she says, as though it should be obvious.

Everywhere would be the answer to that. He starts at her waist and ventures down to her fundament, which inspires a pleased hum and a roll of her hips that makes him see stars. Verdammt. That will have him back at his original problem far too quickly. He changes course and slides his hands northward, under the buttoned shirt.

She has a chemise on, as well. Too many layers of cloth to navigate in his current state of mind, especially considering that she's no longer kissing his mouth, but rather nipping and licking her way down the side of his throat.

He makes a strangled, helpless sound. That earns another hum and a brief, sharp application of teeth.

"Bitte," he says, gasping it, though whether that's please stop or please continue he doesn't know. His hands have returned to her posterior, and he is fighting the urge to push his own hips forward.

"Here," she says, reaching down, taking one of his hands, and repositioning it down the front of her knickers. "Make yourself useful, Your Majesty."

God's wounds. His heart threatens to explode; so does a less illustrious part of his body. He truly has no idea what to do, only a determination to please her, which is less helpful than it might be. "Deryn..." he begins.

"Move," she says. "You've the - ah - aye, like that."

Her voice catches, her body shivers, and Alek, who has begun a cautious exploration with his fingers, feels a sense of victory wholly out of proportion to his efforts. He adjusts to a more comfortable angle and continues.

This is not comparable to piloting a walker, although it is not dissimilar to piloting one in darkness, in that he can't see where he's going and dreads a misstep, and thus the entire world narrows to the task quite literally at hand.

A fortuitous side effect: focusing on her reactions, analyzing them, distracts him from his own reaction to the warm, slippery flesh around his fingers. The rhythm they establish between his motions and hers. The small, helpless noises she makes.

"Kiss me," she says. Begs, rather. He does. He continues to do so even as her breath stutters and her kisses falter and her body tightens like a drawn bow against his. Finally she shudders, drops her forehead to his shoulder and puts a hand on his wrist, stilling him.

Does that mean she's, ah, satisfied, or has he hurt her? He has to swallow twice before he's able to ask, "Did I - that is -"

"Bloody sodding hell," she says into the skin of his shoulder. Happy. She sounds happy. She presses a brief kiss to his shoulder, and then another to his jaw, and then one to his lips, before drawing back and smiling at him. "That was lovely."

"Oh," he says, again with that disproportionate sense of victory. Alexander Triumphant, perhaps. He smiles at her. "It was my pleasure."

Her smile turns wicked. "No, that's next."

Alek's heart stops. Starts anew with a heavy thump, then proceeds to race.

"You don't -" He cuts himself off. Starts anew. "I wouldn't expect -"

"I've seen it done, once or twice," she says, ignoring his stammering. "Airmen, aye? Randy buggers. But you'll tell me what you like."

Clarity cuts through the haze of desire, and he perceives the uncertainty, the vulnerability behind those brash words. It relieves some of his own concern to see it mirrored in her. "I'll like anything you do," he says, being honest.

She smiles and presses forward, kissing him, her hands tugging at the waistband of his trousers. He leaves one hand on her hip and slides the other along her jaw, through her short hair. They are forced to break the kiss when neither of them is able to unfasten the front of his trousers sight unseen.

His hands are shaking, so he gives up and lets her take over. Mind racing along with his pulse. And then her hand closes around him and his hips lift instinctively, everything forward and bright, and his mind goes entirely blank.

He makes a noise. He's sure he does. She starts to draw back, her fingers loosening, but he catches her and kisses her.

She makes a noise right back and continues, although now she's the one lacking expertise. It doesn't matter, however, if her grip is awkward and alternatively too tight and too loose, and she misses the most sensitive area altogether; to be touched by someone else - to be touched by her, specifically - is so overwhelming that it only takes a few clumsy strokes before he spends.

Ah, God. He draws a shuddering breath and lays his hand over hers, showing her how to ease him through the end, and then he collapses back against the seat. Eyes closed. Breathing ragged.

"How was that?"

He opens one eye. "When I can remember the English words, I'll let you know."

She snorts in amusement and reaches behind her for the damp cloth. "Here," she says, after wiping off her hand. "We made a bit of a mess."

"We did," he says, putting himself to rights. How peculiar. He expected to feel embarrassed, and instead he feels connected. But they are connected now, not by some grand design of destiny. By simple human intimacy. By breath and skin and shared pleasure. "Do you need -?"

She shakes her head, but takes the cloth back anyway and tosses it onto the tray before sliding off of his lap. He's on the verge of protesting when she resettles herself next to him, tucking in close, so that his arm instinctively goes around her shoulders, and her head leans against his.

A warm, golden glow fills him, and he thinks he would be content to sit like this for the rest of the journey, saying nothing, merely enjoying her presence.

She seems equally content, but after a few minutes she sits up and asks, "D'you think we can risk the dining car?"

"For you, Madame Leroy, I'll risk anything."

He means it as a jest. As soon as the words leave his mouth, however, he realizes it's the truth.

"Same to you, M'sieur," she says. The words are flippant, as is the tone. The vow is solemn, and the clasp of her hand around his is security itself.

In the end, M. Leroy asks the porters to please bring them a tray of food. The porters are happy to oblige, and would M. and Mme. also like the compartment converted into beds for the night?

They would.

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There are two beds in the compartment, because a first-class bed is far too small for two people.

They manage.

It involves quite a lot of entangled limbs, and Alek grows too warm within minutes - but he will never admit it. Indeed, he draws Deryn closer. Holds her more tightly. Breathes in the scent of her.

"G'night," she mumbles.

"Gute Nacht," he says, very softly. He presses a kiss to her hair, gone silver in the darkness, and listens to the sound of her breathing even out into sleep.

If he said what he was thinking, she would call him mad. One does not fall in love on the strength of three days' acquaintance. One certainly doesn't lie awake plotting to turn a common British girl into an empress of Austria.

Volger would tell him that he's being irresponsible. Reckless. Repeating the mistakes of his father.

Entirely untrue. He's making a far, far larger mistake than his father ever did.

He's never been happier.