Deryn comes awake all at once, stomach in knots, heart in her throat, a shout tangled on her tongue. It takes her a moment to sort out that the roaring sound in her ears is just her pulse, and not her da's balloon.
She hates nightmares.
In her dream she had been at the foot of the Tesla cannon again, watching Zaven throw his walker against the awful thing – only it wasn't Zaven, it was her da, and when she'd tried to go help him, Alek had grabbed her arm and told her she couldn't. And then it'd been too late and she'd been on her back in the grass, watching the twisting, burning fabric of the balloon grow small and black against the blue sky.
She lets out an unsteady breath and pushes her fingers through her hair. Presses them to her face. Her hands are shaking, too, and clammy with sweat.
"Dream," she tells herself. "Just a sodding dream."
It takes a minute, though, for her to feel steady again. She knows she won't be getting back to sleep tonight, and she pulls on her jacket and boots so she can walk about the ship looking like a middy and not a little lassie scairt of midnight bogles.
Once in the corridors she finds herself at loose ends: She doesn't really have anywhere to go. Away is a fine direction, but not when what you're running from is inside your own skull.
Her feet, daft things that they are, carry her to Alek's cabin. She tells herself she'll keep walking – no point in both of them being awake in the middle of the night – until she sees a thread of green light beneath his door.
Deryn hesitates a moment, then raps softly on the door before opening it.
Alek is sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, a stack of books and papers on both sides, everything cast in the glow of a wormlamp; Bovril has made a nest of his unused blanket and is curled up snugly.
He looks up from reading as she enters.
"What're you doing still awake?" she asks, incredulous.
He frowns and checks his pocket watch, then swears softly and climbs to his feet. "I didn't realize," he says. "I've been reading."
She picks up one of the books, but it's in German, which still looks like gibberish to her, for all that she can speak it tolerably well. There are charts and figures inside, but nothing worthwhile – no airflow diagrams, no lift ratios, no volume comparisons. "Reading what?"
"That one is political philosophy," he says. "Volger suggested it; they're his books, although I suspect he brought them along only for this. It's really quite fascinating."
She wrinkles her nose and gives the book back. "Suddenly I'm barking glad I'm not an archduke."
"So am I," he says, smirking and then breaking into a yawn. "It is late, isn't it? Why are you still awake? You're not standing watch, are you?"
"I couldn't sleep," she says.
She doesn't add anything else, but she doesn't need to; after a moment his eyes fill with understanding, and he nods somberly. "Your father."
Suddenly the nightmare's horror swamps her afresh. It's foolish, because it was only in a dream, but she feels a hot pulse of resentment towards him for holding her back. Keeping her from saving her da.
Just as fast, though, it's gone, and she's simply grateful that she doesn't have to explain any further. "Aye."
"I thought –" He pauses. The next words are tentative: "I thought that you might. After… what happened."
"Aye," she says again, this time perilously soft and girlish. She clears her throat and casts about for a reason she might be in his room, other than a feeble wish he might comfort her. "I was wondering – if I could borrow Bovril."
"Of course," Alek says, clearly surprised by the request. They look at the sleeping loris, clinging to the blanket like a barnacle, and he adds dubiously, "If you can pry it free."
Bovril opens one large, liquid eye as she reaches down to collect it, and makes a drowsy sort of purr. She doesn't pick up the beastie so much as it latches on to her, and soon there's a warm, living weight on her shoulder.
She feels better.
"Dylan," Alek says.
Deryn stops rubbing behind Bovril's ears and looks at her friend – because he is that, even if he'll never be anything else.
"For what it's worth," he says, then stops. Tentative. He looks as though he's thinking something through, very carefully. Then he takes a step forward and puts his arms around her in a brief embrace.
Bovril purrs.
"For what it's worth," Alek says quietly, breath stirring her hair, "I'm sorry."
She closes her eyes, but he's already letting go. Still, for a moment all of her nightmares were gone, and she felt like the safest thing in the world.
"For what it's worth," she says, forcing herself to step away, "so am I."
He knows what she means. His eyes go sad, and he looks to his books again, but he nods. "Träum gut, Dylan."
"For what it's worth," Bovril murmurs in her ear.
"Hush, beastie," she says, stroking its fur. "G'night, Alek."
She finds she's able to fall back asleep without a squick of trouble whatsoever, and her dreams, when she has them, are just fine.
