Four Reasons Alek Will Have a Terrible Valentine's Day
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I. He has no money.
As they exit the shop, Alek counts out the few pence left to his name – or, at least, to his pocket – and tucks them away again with a sigh. The new boots were a necessity, given the sorry state of his old pair and the nasty weather of wintertime London, but a shockingly expensive one. Even fabricated leather is costly enough to make him wince.
"I think I preferred being ignorant of money," he says to Count Volger, who has accompanied him on this errand, as he too needed new footwear. The boots took up a shocking amount of Alek's latest cheque from the Society; where Volger found his money is a mystery for another time.
The count lifts an eyebrow. "A luxury that only royalty can afford, Mr. Hohenberg."
Alek cuts Volger a dark look. "Very droll."
"Your father was careful with money, by such standards." The wind gusts, and Volger pauses on the sidewalk to adjust his hat. "He practiced economy wherever he could. He never paid me for my services as your fencing tutor, for example."
Alek finds himself staring at the wildcount. They rarely discuss the late Archduke Franz Ferdinand, and they never discuss his possible shortcomings, financial or otherwise. Alek isn't entirely sure how to respond.
And then Volger says, "I imagine your association with Miss Sharp has been most instructive in this regard. The Scots are known for thrift" – which solves the problem of how to respond.
"She's brilliant with money," Alek says shortly. He begins walking forward once more. "As she is with everything."
Volger harrumphs.
It's true, though. After two months working for the Zoological Society, Deryn has already saved enough money to let a flat of her own, while Alek continues to live off of the charity of various Society members. Currently he and Volger are occupying the house of a boffin collecting specimens overseas.
Alek admires her brisk confidence and independent nature. It's just… It rather makes him feel like a waste of hydrogen sometimes. He pushes his hands into his jacket pockets and frowns. "I should be providing for her."
"Inappropriate, as you aren't married," Volger says brusquely, followed by a muttered thank God that Alek suspects he isn't meant to hear.
The February air is cold; the handful of coins seems to burn through his clothes. He casts a glance at the gaily bedecked storefronts, their windows full of lacy hearts and cut-paper flowers. Darwinist cupids are… unsettling.
He looks back at Volger, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes. "All the more reason I ought to give her something for St. Valentine's Day tomorrow."
"I understand that cards are popular," Volger says. "And affordable, even on a commoner's salary."
They reach the omnibus stop. "Thank you, Count," Alek says, not completely able to disguise the irritation in his voice. The irritation is for the bitter truth of Volger's words, not Volger himself. Alek is a commoner – and a rather poor one.
Volger inclines his head and touches the brim of his hat. "Naturally, Mr. Hohenberg."
His fencing tutor continues on then, bound for business elsewhere, leaving Alek to stand in the cold with other citizens of London too impoverished for taxis.
Or for proper valentines.
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II. He doesn't know what to give her, regardless.
He thinks about it again during the omnibus ride to the Zoo, where Deryn and Dr. Barlow have already begun their workday.
What does one give Deryn Sharp for St. Valentine's Day?
It's quite a dilemma, really. Everything about the holiday – flowers, cards, poetry, sweets, lace, ribbons – all of those things are exactly what she has the least amount of patience for.
Which is not to say that she is unfeminine. She can sew beautifully (has tailored the shirt he's wearing, in fact), can knit, embroider, and cook, and when she's in a dress, God's wounds, she takes one's breath away.
But Deryn is not flowers and lace. Deryn is airmen's boots, callused fingers, spit and swagger and a laugh that rings like a bell in a blue and cloudless sky. He imagines handing her a heart-shaped card emblazoned with cupids and syrupy sentiments, and winces.
Of course she would be polite about it, but there would be, he thinks, a large part of her disappointed by his failure to give her a more suitable token of affection.
No. No cards.
Likewise he can safely discard the idea of flowers, or jewelry, or a candlelit dinner. Assuming he could afford the latter two, which he can't.
She would like a knife, he's certain of that. Airship tickets – but he's saving for those, for her birthday in June.
He frowns at his reflection in the omnibus windows, ghostly and swaying with the movement of the beast pulling the vehicle. If he could give her anything… if money were no object…
Home. He would give her a home. A country estate, with a wide grassy sweep where she could launch and land a balloon. A fine house with rooms for their children and a balcony where she could balance on the railing and laugh at his requests to come down. A small woods and a lake for exploring, and adventures, and moonlit swims and kisses against trees.
Konopischt. He would give her Konopischt.
Alek blinks, hard, at the living city beyond the window glass. He drops his eyes to his hand, which has curled into a useless fist beside his leg. He does not regret casting away his titles; they never brought him joy, which Deryn most certainly does. Konopischt, however, is likely the only thing he shall miss about being His Serene Highness, the Prince of Hohenberg.
But – don't be such a Dummkopf, he hears Deryn's voice tell him. No need to start blubbering over castles. It's only a holiday.
He straightens on the uncomfortable bench seat and scoffs at himself. She wouldn't appreciate a castle any more than a frill-laden card.
Though perhaps chocolates…
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III. She isn't particularly interested.
As he suspected. Still, a disappointment.
"Would you like to go to the cinema tomorrow?" Alek asks as he and Dylan make their way to the administration building's record room – dispatched, of course, by Dr. Barlow, who suddenly must needs have a particular file.
Around a mouthful of food, Deryn says, "What're they showing?"
"I haven't the slightest." Hopefully, something featuring airships, or she'll be making noises about leaving before the second act.
She swallows the final bite and licks her fingers clean, then carelessly wipes them on her trousers. "Why go, then?"
They reach the record room. It's locked, but Deryn somehow acquired a master key during her first week on the job, and she lets them in.
Alek waits until the door is shut behind them and he's certain there's no one in the room with them. He tries to sound nonchalant: "It's St. Valentine's Day tomorrow."
Deryn freezes, hand with the key halfway back to her pocket.
"Oh," she says. It might be his imagination, but she seems to flush. She clears her throat. "Aye, so it is."
"You don't want to celebrate it?" he asks, or begins to. The majority of the question is lost when she kisses him.
God's wounds. St. Valentine can wait.
He curls a hand around the nape of her neck, the other around her arm, drawing her closer. She tastes rather strongly of whatever it was she was eating, but he hardly cares. The soft skin of her lips and the hard press of teeth behind it, the warm wetness of her mouth, the pinpricks of discomfort where her short, blunt fingernails dig into his waist (and how did she untuck his shirt so swiftly?) – far more important.
He was in love with her, he knows now, quite a while before he could put a name to the feeling. Possibly before he knew her as anything more than Dylan Sharp. He expects to be in love with her ages hence.
Another reason to make a memorable first Valentine's Day.
Alek continues kissing her until she slips sideways and nips at his earlobe, at which point the situation becomes rather, ah, desperate.
As much as he would prefer otherwise, he leans back, putting cool air between them.
"What – what would you like?" he asks, breathing hard.
She gives a short laugh and flexes her fingers against the skin of his waist, scorching him through to the spine. "Barking spiders, that's not obvious?"
God's wounds. He shuts his eyes and prays for fortitude. "For St. Valentine's Day," he manages.
"Barking spiders, are you still blethering on about that?" Her hand slithers free of his shirt, much to his relief, and she takes a step back as well. "It's only a holiday. A daft one, really. All those sodding cupids."
"I should think my reasoning would be obvious," he says, dry.
Deryn smirks; there's a wicked edge to it that makes his ears heat despite himself. "Aye, we're sweethearts, no mistaking that."
"Yes, well, that's rather why I would like to celebrate with you."
"Dummkopf. We can go to the cinema any day."
"It doesn't have to be the cinema," he says, getting impatient now. And – don't argue over a romantic holiday, he tells himself; most counter-productive. He takes a breath before saying, in a more even tone, "We don't have to go anywhere at all. I would merely like to – to spend the occasion with you."
Her eyebrow lifts, and she studies him for a long moment. "All right, then, if you like."
Alek smiles, pleased to have wrung this small concession (she shall be grateful, in thirty or forty years, when their grandchildren beg for the details).
"But no gifts," Deryn says hurriedly. She scuffs the toe of her boot along the floor, looking embarrassed. "I know… Look, I know you haven't got the money. I haven't either, to be honest. And there's nothing I need."
The coins still in his pocket prick at his pride. At least they'll be together. "A Valentine's Day with no gifts and no special outing? What's left?"
"Well," she says, the wicked edge returning, "there's always kissing."
In the next several minutes, there is quite a lot of kissing.
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IV. He'll be otherwise occupied, anyway.
"I have something else for you to retrieve," Dr. Barlow says when they return, decidedly late, to her office with the requested records. She's seated behind her desk, writing something on a piece of Zoo stationery, and doesn't bother to look up to address them.
"Aye, ma'am?" Deryn asks, setting the records on the desk.
"A certain Dr. Nicolai has recently escaped imprisonment in Germany and will arrive, secretly, in Ramsgate tonight. In its great wisdom, the Society neglected to tell me until the proverbial last minute. I find their security precautions lacking." Dr. Barlow finishes with the note. "You two shall be extra eyes and ears, specifically on the watch for German agents."
"German agents?" Alek repeats, eyebrow raising.
"Bit like asking the hen to mind the foxes, isn't it?" Deryn says, then gives him an apologetic glance and mouths, Sorry, love.
Alek shakes his head. In truth, that's exactly what it's like. He feels a strong pull of sympathy for Dr. Nicolai; it's rather tiresome to have the threat of German assassins hanging over him like the sword of Damocles. He tries not to dwell on the fact, particularly as there's nothing he can do about it.
"Try to remain out of sight," Dr. Barlow says, glancing at them from beneath the brim of her bowler, a wry twist to her words. "That should help."
"What has Dr. Nicolai done?" Alek asks.
"Most recently, he published a manifesto decrying Mr. Tesla's Goliath, and calling upon the scientists of the world to cease work on 'engines of destruction'. I suspect, however, that it was his tract urging Germany to surrender that resulted in his imprisonment."
Deryn blinks. "Blisters, what sort of boffin is he?"
"A physiologist," Dr. Barlow says briskly, "and one who shall make a fine addition to the Society. You'll leave immediately."
She gives Alek the paper. It bears a ship's name, port of origin, scheduled berth along Ramsgate pier, and arrival time.
The assignment is certainly more interesting than retrieving files, assignations aside. Though…
Alek rechecks the arrival time listed on the paper, and some of his enthusiasm fades.
He isn't quite certain how far away Ramsgate is from London, but with the ship not due until the small hours of the morning, it seems likely that they'll be in for a long wait, and a tired return journey to the city.
So much for his half-formed plans.
"Aye, ma'am," Deryn says, nodding smartly. She looks eager at the prospect of action. Or rather – "Are we going by air? The Air Service keeps a field at Manston."
"Why not," Dr. Barlow says, with another wry twist. She picks up her pen once more and withdraws a chequebook from an inner drawer of her desk. "I'll put the necessary funds at your disposal. Consider it a Valentine's gift."
"Thank you," Alek says, heart sinking. He tries to hide his dismay; even Dr. Barlow is able to give Deryn a gift, and all he'll be able to offer is a promise for next year.
Dr. Barlow gives the cheque to Deryn, then fixes both them, in turn, with a cool and level stare. "I expect you will exercise the utmost discretion, Mr. Sharp, Mr. Hohenberg, while remaining focused on the work at hand, rather than… personal matters."
Evidently their delayed returned did not go unnoticed after all.
"Aye, ma'am," Deryn says again.
"Of course," Alek says, coloring.
They make their exit; as the door is closing, Dr. Barlow adds, "And do try to stay out of the water."
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…And One Reason He Won't
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I. None of those other things matter.
Somewhere in the midst of a very long night, Deryn elbows him in the side. "Here," she says under her breath, pressing something into Alek's hands.
They've found a position inside a warehouse and are perching near an upper window, Bovril dozing fitfully on a pile of abandoned burlap. The spot offers an excellent vantage point of the slip where Dr. Nicolai's ship shall be arriving.
Thus far no Germans have made an appearance. As little as Alek wants them to, he must admit that it would be a welcome change from the excruciating boredom of watching a dark, empty pier.
It seems, however, that Deryn has found a way to occupy her time. Alek squints, then holds the object up to the meager light. "May I ask why you're giving me a piece of rope?" he whispers.
Not even a rope; two thin lengths of fabricated leather cord, tied together into a loop just large enough to slip over one's wrist.
She makes a short, impatient noise in her throat. "It's a knot, ninny."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Why are you giving me a knot?"
She shrugs. "It's after midnight. It's Valentine's Day." At his blank look, she grins and adds, "That's a true-love's knot."
He turns the loop in his hands. Runs his fingers across the complicated surface of the knot. Fights down the sudden, exultant urge to grin like a Dummkopf.
"I haven't anything for you," he says, somewhat tartly. "I was led to believe there would be no such marking of the occasion."
Her grin grows, and she elbows him again. "I reckon you'll find a way to make it up."
"Most assuredly," he says, and begins by ignoring Dr. Barlow's warning and soundly kissing his valentine.
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Note: Well, this was supposed to be Valentine's fluff, but some history snuck in anyway.
1) Franz Ferdinand did have a reputation as a cheapskate, not unreasonably: he was once overheard scolding a cook for using too many strawberries, and he never did pay Feirherr Max Wladimir von Beck (the real-life Volger) for four years' worth of difficult legal work regarding the Hohenberg kids' inheritance.
Of course, miserliness is relative. Bottom line: Franz was one of the richest men in Austria-Hungary and spent more money than most people will ever see. So.
2) Georg Friedrich Nicolai was a real person, primarily remembered today for his anti-war/anti-nationalism writings like "Manifesto to the Europeans" and 1917's "The Biology of War", the latter of which was promptly banned – and got him jailed – in Germany. But he wasn't imprisoned for long: in 1918, he escaped by way of a daring aeroplane flight to Denmark.
Now! Thank you to everyone that's read and reviewed in the last five years. Without your love and enthusiasm, I would have probably let this ficlet collection drift away into the ether a long time ago… but gosh darn if y'all don't keep bringing me back. :D
