Sometimes Alek regrets not being emperor.
Sometimes he mourns that lost chance – the opportunity to help his homeland. He might have done so much, if only fate had allowed it, and sometimes that gnaws at his heart.
Sometimes.
But not at moments like these, when it's just himself and Deryn in her mother's house in Glasgow. Clear summer sun fills the sitting room, spilling across the pages of his book and flashing in bright sparks on her sewing needle.
This quiet, appallingly domestic moment is precisely the kind that would never happen to an emperor, which is why he doesn't mind being Alek right now, as opposed to His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty Aleksandar. He's in a comfortable chair, reading The Descent of Man, and Deryn's sitting nearby, tailoring a jacket.
The book is to stave off boredom. The jacket is for him, to wear at her brother's wedding – whether he likes it or not.
He rather doesn't. It's not the jacket he objects to, specifically; it's the rest of the clothes. Earlier this week, when she first presented him with the outfit (which smelled strongly of camphor), he took one look and said, "Is that a skirt?"
"No, it's a kilt. It's traditional, aye?"
"I'm not going to wear a skirt!"
"Kilt. And you bloody well are. It's Jaspert's wedding and he wants you in this, so you're going to wear it."
"Deryn, there's no reason for me to wear your brother's old kilt. I have more than enough formal suits –"
"You ninny, they're trying to show you're part of the family. And it's not Jaspert's old kilt," she added, blue eyes snapping a warning. "It's my da's."
His arguments abruptly deflated. "Oh."
Without further fuss, he submitted to the initial round of trying on the shirt, the kilt, the waistcoat, and the jacket, all of which she stuck full of pins and has since been industriously altering, much to her mother's finally-she's-a-girl approval.
(Her mother will be less delighted if she finds out the sort of shenanigans they've been getting up to during all of the fittings. Which is why neither of them are going to mention those incidents to her mother.)
"There we are," Deryn says now, satisfied, around the two pins in her mouth. She holds up the jacket by its shoulders and gives it a shake. "Try it on."
He closes the book, lays it aside, stands, and obediently lets her use him, again, as a dressmaker's dummy. She tugs and straightens, smoothes and shifts, and steps back to give him a critical once-over. "Not bad," she says, taking the pins out of her mouth and sticking them back into her pincushion. "Go put on the rest, and let's see it finished."
"All of it?" he asks, balking.
"No, just the shoes, Dummkopf," she says, rolling her eyes impatiently. "Aye, all of it! I have to make certain it looks right together."
He looks at her, at the stubborn set of her jaw, and sighs. "Very well."
He shrugs out of the jacket and carries it upstairs, to the room that he's been given, where the rest of the made-over clothes are laid out on the chair. With another sigh, he changes into the shirt and the kilt, which still smells a bit too much of camphor for his tastes. Despite multiple opportunities to practice wrapping and buckling the kilt, his fingers somehow remain awkward. Perhaps it's because he really doesn't want to wear it. Or perhaps it's because, in the end, it's always been Deryn who's done this part.
(And undone it… which they will not be mentioning to her mother.)
He puts on the waistcoat and the jacket before sitting down to pull on the socks and his own black leather Oxfords.
Carrying the tie, the belt, and the sporran, he goes downstairs again. He feels absolutely ridiculous wearing what he knows is – her assurances otherwise – a skirt. The front pieces are called "aprons" and there are pleats in the back, for heaven's sake. All that and his knees are showing. It's difficult to believe that in a matter of days he's going to be standing about in public like this.
Oh well; it's for a good enough cause.
Deryn whistles appreciatively when he reappears, and Alek flushes red despite himself. He tries to hide his embarrassment in nonchalance: "I suppose I pass inspection, then?"
"I didn't say that," she says, then plucks the final accessories out of his hands. She loops the tie around his neck and fastens the knot. Her fingers are quick and sure, and he marvels privately. No one should be able to handle a rigging knife, a necktie, and a sewing needle alike with such aplomb. She's quite amazing.
But then, he already knew that.
She does up the belt around his waist and makes further minute adjustments to everything. He stays motionless and derives a quiet satisfaction from breathing in her scent as she moves.
Then she draws away and studies him; he tries not to fidget.
A slow, wide smile spreads across her face. "Dead perfect. You look like a proper Scot."
"Wonderful," he says, doing his utmost not to show how much the compliment means to him. He's not Scottish; he's Austrian. He shouldn't care that he looks good in a kilt. Skirt. He gestures broadly at the ensemble. "May I take this off now? It's a bit, well, uncomfortable."
"No." She steps close again and fiddles with the jacket lapels, avoiding his gaze. "Not for a while yet. I want Ma to see when she gets back. Mind you, she'll cry her eyes out, but it won't be because of you."
"I understand," he says softly, touching her chin, making her look at him. The sadness that's been lurking in the back of her own eyes comes out in full force. He leans forward and places a gentle kiss on her mouth – one fatherless child to another. "And I'm honored by – all of this. Truly. I don't believe I've said that yet."
"You haven't," she says. "But say it as much as you like."
"I shall. Do I really look Scottish?"
"Aye, mostly," she says, mischief glinting, "but there's one more tradition about kilts you'll need to follow, if you want to be a true Scotsman."
"What?" he asks, a bit apprehensive – and rightly so, he discovers, as she grins and whispers it into his ear.
.
.
.
Note: Not a request (still working on those, BTW), but it had to be written! Because there are few things in this world better than cute boys in kilts. ;)
If you don't know the joke about what true Scotsmen wear under their kilts… where have you been? According to Wikipedia, "The Scottish Tartans Authority, however, has described the practice as childish and unhygienic." Boo.
