Note: Someone requested a Deryn and Alek make-out scene. Honestly, people, hasn't there been enough kissing already?

But anyway, here you go: 1,780 words of snogging, set immediately after the infamous bonus chapter. (And that, in case you haven't heard about it/seen it yet, can be found on Mr. Westerfeld's site.)

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"God's wounds," Alek says, batting the feather out of his face as she shuts the door. It's too late; he sneezes. "That's quite a dangerous hat, Mr. Sharp."

Deryn rattles the door handle to be certain it's locked, then turns, nearly smacking Alek in the face with the feather again. "Aye, but I'm supposed to be a peacock. I needed a feather somewhere."

She'd expected tonight to be an ordeal. Stuffed into a dress, paraded around a party with boffins and the richest, most famous folks in London… none of that had sounded enjoyable.

But to her surprise, she's having fun. More than that: there's a lightness in her chest, a giddiness, that she can't credit to the champagne. Half of it is from having Alek here with her. And the other half is from the gobsmacked look on his face when he first saw her in this barking dress.

"No one is here to notice the lack of plumage," he says, gesturing. Indeed, the changing room is empty except for the two of them and Bovril, who's mincing about in front of the mirror in its wee dress, snout held high like a proper lady.

Aside from the mirror, there's a divan, an armchair, and a rack of carefully hung men's suits. Bowler hats are lined up in a neat row along a shelf. A dead fancy glowworm lamp hangs from the ceiling. And if Deryn put out both arms at once, she could brush the two walls with her fingertips.

Small and dark and cozy. Perfect.

She smirks at Alek. "A girl for five minutes and already you're blethering on about fashion, Mr. Hohenberg…?"

He steps closer and lays a hand, lightly, on her waist. His fingers burn right through the fabric and into her skin. In the heeled boots he's wearing, she notices, he's much closer to her height. "I fear it might get in the way," he says quietly, only an inch distant; his breath is warm on her cheek.

She could lean forward and kiss him. He could lean forward and kiss her.

Anticipation crackles in the air between them, hot and dangerous as electricity.

"Aye, well, in that case," she says, and hands him the bottle of champagne she'd left on the divan. "Hold this."

He takes it and fiddles with the cork while she pulls out the hairpins keeping her hat in place. She plucks the last one free just as he succeeds in popping the cork. Foam overflows and splashes his skirts; he swears.

"D'you have to give it back?" she asks, meaning the dress. She tosses the hat onto the armchair, takes the bottle, and plunks herself down on the divan.

He picks up Bovril to set it on the armchair as well. It begins poking at the feather, making the end bobble. "No, as it happens."

"Then sod it," she says, "and come sit down with me."

He moves to do just that, then hesitates and gestures at the bustle on his dress. "I'm not sure I can sit down."

She has to laugh. "Now you see why I was so quick to trade skirts for britches!"

"Indeed," he says, giving her a rueful grin as she takes pity on him and gets him settled on the divan. His old-fashioned skirts billow up around him, but there's no way to help that. "You are the soul of wisdom."

" 'Course I am, daftie. Cheers," she says, saluting him with the champagne and then taking a swig. It tickles the back of her throat on the way down. She passes the bottle to Alek, who echoes the toast and takes a drink of his own.

They trade the bottle back and forth for a few minutes, chatting about the mad costumes they've seen tonight. She's slightly alarmed to hear that Adela Rogers is nosing about – this sodding dress was picked to dazzle Alek, not to protect her disguise – but reckons she's in the best available hiding place already.

Somehow they end up scooting closer, so that they're pressed together from shoulder to knee, her right foot sneaking between his – three dainty girls' shoes in a row. And then he's running the beads on her necklace through his fingers and saying, "You make a beautiful girl."

The giddiness and the champagne cloud her attic with bright, fizzing bubbles. "So do you," she says.

"No," he says firmly, amusement and embarrassment coloring his voice. "I most certainly do not. But you… God's wounds. I knew you were amazing. I didn't know you were… that you were…"

He's got that daft expression again. It doesn't usually make her skin prickle and her mouth go dry, but maybe it's only because he's still toying with the string of beads, his knuckles sometimes brushing against her body. "What?"

He studies her for a long moment, green eyes serious. Instead of answering her properly, he closes the distance between them and kisses her.

Barking spiders, she likes kissing him.

His lips are soft and warm, and his hands slide up her arms to her shoulders, trailing fire.

Aye, it's lovely. But when he starts to draw back, she finds she's not content with one soft kiss. Deryn reaches up to cup his face and hold him near. Kisses him again – mouth closed at first, the way all their kisses have been. Then she pushes her tongue against his lips.

He immediately stiffens and pulls away with a startled Mm! and a shocked, slightly horrified expression.

She can't say she blames him. The first time she'd heard (eavesdropped, from her perch in a tree above them) Jaspert and his daft friends talking about kissing girls open-mouthed, she'd thought it was pure dead disgusting. Only after she started kissing Alek did it sound exciting.

"Alek," she says, heart thudding, "stop being a perfect sodding Clanker and give it a try, hm?"

He stares at her for a moment. Then he clears his throat and says, "If you insist, Miss Sharp," with a touch of bravado that tells her he's still not certain about it, but can't think of why he should object.

This time, when she opens her mouth, he copies her. It's hesitant and awkward, as neither of them know what they're about. She doesn't care, because something clicks into place as soon as their tongues touch, and a hot thrill runs through her belly.

"Right," she says, only it comes out more like Mmph. And then he's kissing her harder, deeper, putting his hands on her waist and pulling her closer, tighter… which is just fine by her, since she's doing the same to him.

It's more than exciting. It's pure dead brilliant. Every nerve ending, every life-thread, is burning white-hot, and her blood is roaring in her ears. She finds herself up on her knees, leaning over him, trying to get their combined skirts out of the way so she can press even closer. Why haven't they tried kissing like this before? She could carry on all night.

Or until they overbalance and fall off the sodding divan.

It's not very soldierly, but she yelps on the way down, and oofs when she lands.

For a moment they both lie stunned and breathless and half-tangled with each other, and then they start to laugh. The giddiness returns. Deryn presses her face to the perfumed cloth over Alek's collarbone and feels the vibrations of his laughter tremble through her own skin and bones.

She loves his laugh. She wants to hear it all the time.

Above them, Bovril cackles, and it brings them out of their giggles.

"Barking spiders," she says, using the edge of the divan to hoist herself up again. "I wasn't expecting that."

"Most undignified," the loris contributes.

Alek needs her help to get to his own feet. Once he's vertical and his skirts have been tugged straight, he touches his mouth, wincing. "Scheiße. I think I bit my cheek."

"I'll kiss it better, then," she says, happy, and grabs for the front of his dress, pulling him in again.

"Wait!" he says, hurriedly backing away from her. He gets caught up in his skirts and nearly trips, but catches his balance at the last moment. "Deryn - not that I didn't, ah, enjoy that, but -"

"-but you're a perfect sodding Clanker," she finishes for him.

"No!" he says, indignant, then checks himself. "Well, perhaps. But Volger and the entirety of the Zoological Society are on the other side of that door, not to mention Miss Rogers. This may not be the best time."

She puts her hands on her hips. Even with the bubbles fizzing up her attic, she can see the sense in what he's saying. Still… "Scheiße," she says.

His mouth quirks up in a smile. "Indeed."

She looks at the divan, calculating, then back at him. "No more kissing for tonight, then. No more champagne, either. We'll just… sit and talk, aye?"

"That sounds excellent," he says.

They sit again, a cautious distance apart, and start talking about their plans for tomorrow. A safe enough topic, as it mostly involves the Zoo and running Dr. Barlow's errands.

After a few minutes, though, Alek clears his throat. "Could we… It wouldn't be dangerous to hold hands, would it?"

Bovril cackles, but when Deryn throws it a quick, suspicious glance, it's toying with the peacock feather again.

"Safe as houses," she says to Alek. So they do.

Of course, Alek has to scoot closer to her in order to find a more comfortable position, but, well, that's only his daft skirts getting in the way. They have an agreement, after all. A sensible agreement that'll keep them out of quite a lot of potential trouble.

It therefore takes nearly five more minutes before Alek's pushing her back and down against the divan, one hand buried in her hair, muttering something about "verdammte Kleid" in her ear as they're both trying to maneuver around the heaping skirts.

She takes her mouth away from the wonderfully salty skin of his neck to ask, "What's that mean?"

He shakes his head. "I hate dresses," he informs her, breath hot and close on her face. "Don't ever wear one again."

"Only if you promise the same, Mr. Hohenberg," she says, grinning.

A single, short hiccup of a laugh. "God's wounds, I promise."

"Aye, all right, then," she says. Happiness and wanting bubble inside her chest, and somewhere in the tangle of fabric she finds his other hand and weaves their fingers together. "No dresses."

Although, she thinks as he runs his tongue along the roof of her mouth, if this is what dresses lead to…

we might have to reconsider.