Alek wakes with the scent of burnt flesh thick on his tongue.

For a moment he is in a blind panic. He needs to stand, he needs to escape – he needs to find her

As soon as his feet hit the polished, fabricated wood floor of his borrowed room, however, his mind clears somewhat. He takes a breath. Looks around. Tries to calm his racing pulse with rational thoughts.

He is not in Goliath's control room. Nikola Tesla is not about to fire and send the Leviathan bursting into flames.

And Deryn is not in danger. She's safely asleep down the hall.

He pushes his hands through his hair, refusing to notice that they're shaking. What he should do, of course, is calm down, climb back into bed, and try to go to sleep again. What he should not do is walk down the hall, wake Deryn, and make certain that she's all right.

She'll be furious if he wakes her up.

But then again – she is familiar with nightmares.

And right now he could very much use a friend.

Accordingly, he pulls the dressing gown over his nightshirt, eases his door open, and slips down the darkened hall to her room. The floorboards of Darwinist houses don't creak, he's noticed, and it's a blessing right now, because he'd rather not awaken Count Volger or any of the Barlows.

Deryn's door is shut, and he hesitates only a moment before he turns the knob and lets himself in.

She is, of course, asleep – sprawled, blanket tangled, mouth slack, one arm and leg flung out and hanging over the edge of the bed. Bovril has been reduced to curling up on a nearby armchair, possibly for its own safety.

Alek smiles despite himself: she doesn't even sleep like a girl.

He leaves the door slightly ajar (for propriety's sake) and crosses the room to stand beside the bed. "Deryn," he says softly, first touching her shoulder and then shaking it, gently, when she doesn't respond. He says her name more loudly.

She twitches, then blinks, stirs, and looks up at him with a bleary glare that could nonetheless melt steel. "What?"

Feeling all of five years old, he says, "I had a nightmare."

She groans and sits up, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Barking spiders, Alek, I was dead asleep. What time is it?"

"I'm not certain."

"Brilliant," she mutters. Her hair is sticking every which way, and she's still glaring at him. The bedsheets have left red lines imprinted on the side of her face as well; he wonders, fleetingly, how long she was lying in that position. She yawns. "Where's Bovril?"

"Over there," Alek says, nodding at the chair.

Bovril lifts its head long enough to say, "I was dead asleep," in a fair approximation of Deryn's aggrieved tone. Then it curls up again, apparently done with them.

Deryn sighs, scrubs a hand over her face, and looks at Alek. "What sort of nightmare?"

He hesitates. "About Tesla."

"Aye, that nutter would give anyone a fright." She tilts her head, studying him for a moment, then sighs and moves over on the bed, patting the empty space beside her. "Come on, then. Lay your head and tell me about it."

A flip of panic. "But we shouldn't –"

She grabs his wrist and pulls him sharply down, so that his choices are to fall flat on his face or climb into the bed. He chooses the bed – though he's careful to stay atop the covers.

It takes a few moments of arranging, but eventually they sort themselves out: side-by-side, facing one another in the darkness. He's more than close enough to kiss her, and he knows if he does, she would kiss him back, and that would be a fine distraction indeed from the lingering unease of his dream… but that's not the type of comfort he's come seeking.

Her eyes are grey in the shadows, her hair silver-white, and her voice is soft. "Tell me."

He takes a breath to begin, and the full horror comes crashing back. He swallows, tasting smoke, hearing the unnatural drone of the Goliath. It threatens to overwhelm him.

Somewhat blindly, he reaches out for Deryn's hand.

She catches hold; their fingers weave together. Her grip is reassuringly hard.

He takes another breath. This one turns into an unsteady chuckle. "I'm sorry to be such a Dummkopf about it."

"It's all right, Alek," she says. A grin flickers. "I'll only tease you once or twice."

He finds he's able to smile in return, and squeezes her hand. She scoots a few inches closer, so that their foreheads are touching, and the last threads of his anxiety unwind themselves.

His friend. No matter what else she may be, she is first and foremost his friend, and he can tell her anything.

They have no secrets.

"I killed a man," he says quietly, closing his eyes. "I suppose I ought to have nightmares."

"Aye, maybe," she says. Her breath tickles against his face. "But he was mad, Alek, thinking to kill millions of people like that. And I wouldn't be alive if you hadn't."

"I know." Without quite meaning to, he shifts his grip on her hand so that his thumb is gently rubbing across her rough, scarred airman's knuckles. "Small comfort, though, in the middle of a bad dream."

She hmms under her breath. For a long moment neither of them say anything, and he wonders if she isn't going back to sleep.

Then she says, "Mine's always the same. The balloon catches, Da pushes me out, and then I watch it burn. Sometimes I know it's a dream, but I can't change anything. Those're the worst, aye? Being helpless."

He opens his eyes and nods. Swallows the taste of charred flesh. Confesses: "He wasn't dead, in my dream. He was - burnt - but he wasn't dead. He... he got up and fired Goliath, and I couldn't stop him... And I watched you burn."

Much to his dismay, Alek finds himself on the verge of tears. He blinks hard. God's wounds. Perhaps he can still blame it on his cracked skull.

Deryn shakes her hand free of his and puts her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close against her, head to toe, the blanket crumpled between them. "Just a dream," she whispers into his ear, breath warm, voice hitching. "Just a dream, love."

It's that one, small, final word that does it – that drags him fully out of dreamland and into the present. He presses his face into her neck and breathes in the warm, living scent of her. She strokes his hair the way a mother might. And he doesn't cry – but it's a near thing indeed.

"Thank you," he whispers after a while. "Thank you, Deryn. Meine Liebe."

"Keep on like that," she says quietly, amusement in her voice, "and I reckon we'll be awake for another reason."

He is suddenly, keenly aware of how closely they are pressed together, how still the rest of the house is... how lovely it would feel to kiss her... and slide beneath the blanket... and kiss her again...

"Perhaps I should go, then," he says, common sense warring with somewhat baser instincts.

She stifles a yawn and disentangles herself from him, resettling a safe distance away. "Aye, if you want. Think you'll have another nightmare?"

He rolls onto his back and briefly presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. "No. Though I doubt I shall sleep well now, regardless."

"Poor boy," she says. Grinning.

He smiles at her in return, then - quickly - swoops over and gives her a kiss. He means it to be square on her lips, but his aim is imperfect, and half of it catches her cheek. She sputters and snickers and tries to grab him, but he's already making his escape.

"Thank you," he says from the door, putting his nightclothes to rights. "I will see you in the morning."

"G'night, Alek," she says. Yawns hugely and flops back onto the bed, drawing the blankets up after her. "For what it's worth - I'm barking glad you didn't let him do it."

He watches her wallow, as unladylike as ever, and smiles again.

"So am I," he says, perhaps too quietly for her to hear.

He sleeps well after all.