Note: Alert readers will recognize the "every cannon, every bomb" vow is a modified version of the one from the Battlestar Galactica episode "Blood on the Scales", where President Laura Roslin delivers it like the BAMF she is. So say we all!

After a lot of back-and-forth on a really unimportant issue, I've decided to use the British meaning of "vest". Americans: it's an undershirt.

Lastly, what I thought was going to be a quick visit to France turned out to be... uh... more than that. So enjoy part 2!

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Six weeks in a foreign country, how the time flew

- from "Destiny Rules" by Fleetwood Mac

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For a moment, Deryn's certain that the still form on the bed isn't breathing, and cold panic zips down her spine.

She locks the hotel door behind her and walks forward, squinting in the fast-fading light from the room's lone window. Thoughts racing. Heart thumping. She was gone less than an hour - checked for men tailing them on the train, in the station, and on the way here - Alek would've fought - surely someone would've heard -

Another step brings her close enough to see his chest rise and fall. Blisters. She heaves a relieved sigh.

He's not dead. She hasn't failed.

Yet, a nasty wee voice whispers in her head.

She tells it to sod off. She's too tired for that sort of unhelpful blether.

There's a washbasin and pitcher on a rickety stand, and a small table where she drops the dinner he's too asleep to eat. Against the other wall is a chair; she sits down and removes her boots. It gives her a chance to stretch and flex her toes - and to hide the francs she'd lifted from unwary blokes in the Gare du Nord station. Pickpocketing and laundry theft. Not the worst crimes she's ever committed, but possibly for the worthiest cause.

Her rigging knife, safe in its sheath, gets tucked into the waistband of her skirt; the assassin's compressed-air pistol gets pulled out. She tugs her shirt loose of the same waistband and undoes the top few buttons, but leaves it on. Same with her stockings.

If ever a situation called for sleeping in her clothes, this is it.

But where will she be sleeping?

Deryn stands again and crosses to the bed, where Alek slumbers on. He's still wearing the shirtwaist and skirt, and he's atop the blanket, although he at least had the sense to remove his own shoes.

She studies the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the way his mouth is parted ever-so-slightly. The rich auburn of his hair against the dishwater linen of the pillow. He looks young. Exhausted.

You and me both, laddie. It's that sort of weariness that seems to soak into your very life-threads, dragging you down from the inside out, making everything feel like a long, hard slog.

The sort that gets your bum killed in combat.

If she wakes him, he'll want to be a gentleman and give her the bed, but even she can't imagine making an emperor sleep on a bare wooden floor. She's also having a tricky time imagining herself sleeping on that floor.

He's mostly on one side of the mattress. If she's careful, she can squeeze in without waking him. Maybe.

The pistol gets stowed next to the leg of the bed, on the floor where she can make an easy grab for it. She eases onto the bed, sitting on the edge, then swinging her feet up. The fabricated wood frame squeaks the whole sodding time, unhappy with the weight of a second person, and she winces at each noise. But he doesn't wake.

Deryn shifts around, trying to find a position that doesn't have her halfway falling out of the bed while also keeping her from being plastered against him like a barnacle.

Alek makes a noise, and she freezes. He moves, turning in towards her, so that his breath is warm and ticklish against the skin of her neck.

Barking spiders. She closes her eyes, feeling the solid heat of him. Somehow he still smells as nice as he did this morning. She takes a deep breath, then another, and then, before she can stop herself, she stretches over and presses a kiss to his hair.

"Good night," she whispers.

Daft. But she's too tired to resist the temptation.

His breathing is slow and even. She finds the rhythm of it and is asleep in moments.

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Four years in the Royal Air Service mean that once Deryn's asleep, she sleeps. And indeed, the next time her eyes open, it's morning.

Blisters. What a day that was, she thinks, going over yesterday in her head. She has a stab of deep fear for Captain Wells. German bastards, shooting him like that. And that Ackermann fellow, he seemed a good sort. Loyal. Brave.

Maybe they survived. Somehow.

She has another stab of fear when she considers her current predicament. If she and Alek were trailed to Paris, they likely would have been attacked last night while they slept. Regardless, she'll feel better after a quick reconnoiter, preferably without His Majesty.

She exhales, slow and steady, then cautiously rolls over.

His Majesty doesn't stir at the movement. She smiles a little, wondering where he learned to sleep like a soldier.

Being so close to him has her feeling like she's fallen off the ratlines without making certain of her harness. She'd kissed him good night. Maybe she ought to kiss him good morning.

It's tempting.

But before she does anything regrettable, she slips out of the bed and quietly puts her shirt and skirt to rights. Retrieves some of the money from her boot, returns the rigging knife to its rightful place, and laces the boots back on. Leaves the pistol. Collects a shawl and the straw hat, then tip-toes to the door, tucking the stolen francs inside her stolen skirt's pocket.

Which reminds her - she'll have to find some way to pay back those poor sods in Calais, the ones whose laundry she filched. Maybe Alek can send them a medal for meritorious service.

The hotel is sleepy. It's too early for people to be stirring much, even in this place, where half the night's custom is probably staggering home, drunk or broke or both. She slips out to the street, trying to look inconspicuous. She's a barking sight better at it than Alek; he made a pure dead terrible girl.

She snorts at the memory, and glances heavenward, as though Flora MacDonald might be looking down in sympathy. Aye, kings are rubbish at disguises, Flora would surely say.

And yet, if Deryn is being completely honest with herself, she didn't mind Alek in a skirt.

Her cheeks heat, and she scolds herself for being a ninny.

Early as it is, the sun's up, which means newspapers are out. She buys one from the boy on the corner, tucks it under her arm, and strolls down the street a bit, looking for a patisserie or a boulangerie or even just a bloody cup of coffee.

Instead she finds a viennoiserie.

She stands on the pavement for a moment, staring through the window at the croissants, the buns studded with raisins, the apple turnovers, the brioche bread so fresh from the oven that it's steaming - stands there with the oddest tight feeling in her throat.

Viennoiserie. "Of Vienna."

Blisters. It's almost enough to make you believe in destiny.

She buys breakfast for two and takes the long, slow way round to the hotel. No one's lurking. Good.

And there's no hint of danger as she climbs the four flights of stairs to their rented room. More guests are stirring, and in one of the rooms on their floor, a baby is shrieking its unhappiness, loud enough to shake the plaster from the ceilings.

Alek's certainly awake now.

She raps on the door - a long and two shorts, Morse for "D", and if he's any kind of walker pilot, he'll know that and not shoot her - then lets herself in. Locks the door again straightaway.

Alek is indeed awake, which doesn't surprise her. He's standing over the washbasin, wiping water from his eyes with the stolen shirtwaist for a towel. His trousers are on, but the braces are dangling loose against his legs, and his vest and shirt are draped across the foot of the bed.

That is a bit of a surprise, but a good one.

"Good morning," she says, with the same brisk cheer she'd used yesterday morning. Never mind that her mouth has gone dry at the sight of him. Square shoulders, narrow hips, flat, wiry muscle everywhere, a dusting of dark auburn hair across his chest and under his navel.

Sod it all. He looks tastier than the apple turnovers.

"Ah - yes." He clears his throat. His ears are turning pink. "Good morning, Miss Sharp."

"Past that, aren't we?" she asks as he makes a belated grab for his vest and shirt.

He pulls the former on - more's the pity - and puts his arms through the latter, acknowledging her point with a nod. "Deryn. You ought to have woken me; I meant to give you the bed."

"That's exactly why I didn't wake you, Alek," she says.

He pauses in doing up the buttons on his shirt. "I see," he says, with a small, if tired, smile. "Well, we shall settle the matter properly next time."

She rather hopes they'll settle it improperly, but that's for later. "Aye, Your Majesty. Meanwhile…" She holds up the newspaper so he can see the headline. As though he could miss it.

Stark and black, it takes up most of the front page.

ALEXANDRE ASSASSINÉ HIER À CALAIS

Under that is a smaller headline explaining that l'empereur was returning to the Continent from une tournée politique in Britain when he was attacked. An official portrait of Alek takes up the rest of the page.

"You've been assassinated," she says.

His eyebrows lift, and he leans over to peer at the headline, forgetting to button the shirt any further. "So it would seem."

"Bum-rag reporters." She tosses the newspaper onto the bed. "They always get it wrong."

He makes a small hmm of agreement, then picks up the newspaper and sits on the bed while he reads the article announcing his death.

Deryn decides sitting on the bed beside him is probably not the cleverest idea. Instead she busies herself with the contents of the viennoiserie bag. Chausson aux pommes for her, pain aux chocolat for him, both pastries still warm from the oven. Coffee would be brilliant, but she's had worse - and less.

"What next?" she asks, chewing a mouthful of buttery crust and tart, sugary pommes.

"I still need to reach Vienna," he says, only half paying attention to her. "And I still haven't any idea how."

Eventually he lowers the paper, then dashes it to the floor with an exclamation that sounds decidedly un-imperial, and springs to his feet. Paces. Pushes both hands through his hair.

Deryn takes his seat on the bed, popping the last bite of her breakfast into her mouth as she does. "Aye, that's about the truth of it."

She picks up the newspaper and skims the breathless article beneath the shouting headline. It's garbled rumors of the attack in Calais, accounts of everything Alek's done since becoming emperor, a long lament about how his parents were also murdered - the French do love a tragic romance - and finally, a lot of jittery speculation about a new war.

Oh, there's going to be a new war, all right. Her war. She's going to use every cannon, every bomb, every bullet, every weapon she has down to her own eyeteeth, until the bastards who tried to kill Alek are wiped off the bloody map.

I'm coming for all of you, she thinks, fiercely.

She chooses not to think about why the notion of someone hurting Alek - Emperor Aleksandar - a young man she met two days ago - leaves her absolutely barking furious.

"No word on Captain Wells," she says, tossing the stupid newspaper back to the floor, where it belongs. "Or your lieutenant."

"It could mean nothing," he says. He pushes his hand through his hair again.

"Aye," she says, because anything else would be unkind.

"They have to know I'm alive. The conspirators, I should say. Pretending that I'm not won't help anything. In fact it will hurt my cause." He paces around some more, then stops, hands on his hips, eyes ablaze, accent sharpening with each word. "I need to contact the newspapers, to - to put the truth out in the open. Conspiracies die in the light."

"But if you go to the papers, they'll know you're in Paris," Deryn says. "Then it all starts over."

He nods and runs a hand through his hair yet again. He ought to stop doing that; it's giving her ideas.

Some of which are more daft than others. "I'll go," she says.

That earns a whipcrack glare and a curt, "I cannot ask -"

"Blisters, you didn't. I volunteered." She stands and brushes pastry crumbs from her skirts. "I happen to know a few reporters. Rogers is likely still in the States, but Malone always manages to be right in the middle of everything. I'll kick over some rocks and see if he scuttles out."

He will. He always does. Useful, that, because Eddie sodding Malone owes her for ruining her life, and it's past time he paid down his debt.

Alek is regarding her with wonder. "I cannot ask you to do that," he says again, but this time it's softer. Gentle. He steps closer to her. "You've already saved my life - heaven knows how many times. Smuggling me out of Calais..."

She shrugs. Electricity is crackling in the air between them again, but she kissed him last time, and she's not going to do all the work here. "We're meant to do great things together, aye?"

"Yes," he says, even more softly. He reaches out for her hand and she lets him collect it. "Deryn… I don't want to make presumptions -"

He's got lovely green eyes. Right now they're dark and a squick dangerous. She squeezes his hand in encouragement. "You ought to."

The corner of his mouth ticks up into a half-smile. "You must think me terribly dull."

"Not terribly," she says, only to make that smile grow wider, which it does; her heart jumps in her chest. "And if you'd stop blethering and kiss me, I'd think you were brilliant."

He kisses her. Leans in and presses his mouth to hers. It's soft and warm and sets a slow heat to unspooling in her guts.

After a second, though, he draws back, shaking his head. "Entschuldigung. I haven't much experience with…"

"Kissing?" She catches both his hands in hers and keeps hold, so he can't go too far. "True enough, lad."

Ruefully, he says, "I've gone back to terribly dull, haven't I?"

She grins and says, teasing, "Here I thought you royals were always leering about, tupping maids in corners and ruining debutantes."

He looks briefly scandalized, then puts on a haughty expression. "Perhaps British royals do such things."

Now she laughs, and the haughty expression vanishes into a smile.

A shy smile, which fades into something grimmer. "In honesty, I've been too busy. The empire was in a bad way when I came to the throne, and not everyone has been pleased with my efforts to save it."

"Aye," she says, dry, rolling her eyes in the direction of the newspaper. "I noticed."

"It seems irresponsible to seek an empress before one can guarantee that she'll keep her head," he says, equally dry. "Regardless, Volger thought I should make a diplomatic marriage, if at all possible."

"That's why you were in London," she says, understanding. "Not just a state visit, but hunting for a bride."

The grim look returns. "Along with making myself an easier target for assassins - but yes."

It's ridiculous, how badly she needs to hear this answer. "And?"

"Princess Mary and I don't suit." He rubs his thumb over her scarred, battered airman's knuckles, which shouldn't send fire blooming under her skin, though it most surely does. There are a few knicks and scars on his own hands, but, she suspects, none of them are from disgruntled flechette bats.

She says, "Better to know it now, hmm?" instead of the truly mad Do you and I suit?

There's no future in wanting an emperor.

Maybe if she reminds herself enough, the notion will stick.

She gives his hands another squeeze and pulls hers free, the better to push one through his hair. Barking spiders, she likes the feel of it. Thick and soft. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch. Breath hitching. All but purring.

Maybe she ought to remind him, too.

"We need to get a different disguise for both of us," she says, in a desperate grab at that reminder. "Then I have to find Eddie Malone, and then we have to get our bums out of Paris so you can save your empire. But first you ought to eat breakfast before it goes cold."

He reaches up and recaptures her hand. Presses a kiss to the palm that she feels all the way to her toes. "May I make a request?"

"You won't have to be a lass this time." For one thing, he's in need of a shave.

"A relief to both of us, I'm sure," he says. "After breakfast - and thank you for procuring it - ah. I was hoping... you might allow me further presumptions?"

Well, she has to kiss him for that. So she does, and this time she puts a hand on the back of his neck to hold him in place, in case she shocks his inexperienced clockworks.

"Open your mouth," she murmurs against his. For a moment she thinks that's a push too far, and then he follows orders.

He was being honest, before: he knows sod all about kissing, especially when tongues are involved, but she's patient, and he's keen to learn. His hands hover about her shoulders for a moment before settling, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat that curls her toes.

In the hall outside, several someones go stomping past, cursing at the top of their lungs in slurred French. One of them thumps heavily on the door, or maybe the wall beside it, before the whole lot clatters down the stairs.

Deryn and Alek come apart at the commotion. His eyes are wide, and she wonders if she's wearing an identically gobsmacked expression. She rather suspects she is.

A trifle breathless, he touches his mouth and says, "I think you bit me."

She runs her thumb over his lower lip. "Aye, and I've a mind to do it again."

His eyes go even wider, and then darken, and somehow they end up kissing again. She pushes closer, hungry, hands rucking up his vest to reach the soft warm skin beneath; his hands work in fits and starts down her sides to her waist. He leaves them there until she grabs one and repositions it on her bum. It startles a breathless little laugh out of him, but he follows that order, too. Even squeezes a bit. She doesn't mind. In fact she thinks they ought to tell the assassins and conspirators to get stuffed and just go on, exactly like this, for a while longer. Maybe the rest of her life.

Which will be short indeed, if they don't get out of Paris.

So the next time they surface for air, she withdraws her hands and takes a step back. It might be the most difficult thing she's ever done, excepting that keelhaul drop near Istanbul.

"Pain aux chocolat," she says. Breathing about as hard as she'd done during the keelhaul drop, too. "In - in the bag. For you."

"Ah," he says. Poor lad, he's been dropped right along with her. "Ja. Yes. Thank you."

Neither of them moves for a moment. She's not embarrassed to have kissed him like that, but can't quite bring herself to look him in the face, either.

Barking spiders. What a mess.

Alek clears his throat. "Pain aux chocolat, I believe you said?" It's a good-quality imitation of his imperial voice - but only an imitation. Part of her rejoices that her kiss can knock an emperor off his pins. The other part meets his eyes and feels herself turning red.

"Aye," Deryn says, too quickly, nodding like a perfect looby.

He busies himself with the viennoiserie bag, removing the bread before flattening the paper sack into a precise, neat rectangle. To serve as a plate, evidently, because he lays the bread atop it, then seats himself at the rickety little table as if it's a fancy banquet.

His hair is mussed. She doesn't remember doing that.

She'd like to muss it further.

Deryn blows out a heavy exhale and sits on the bed, then lets herself fall backwards, so she's staring up at the cracked, water-stained plaster of the ceiling instead of at Alek.

No future.

Bollocks.

"How do you know Mr. - Malone, was it?" he asks, back to being polite.

"Oh," she says to the ceiling. "Kept crossing paths with him during the war. One too many times, I reckon. He put it together that I was a girl."

A moment of silence. Then, voice neutral: "He told everyone."

She closes her eyes. Daft to be hurt by an old wound, and yet it's never really healed. "Aye. Made a bloody lot of money off the story, too."

"That's reprehensible," he says, heavy with disgust.

She snorts. "That's journalism."

Another pause. "May I ask - why did you do it?"

That question's never changed, not since the day Malone's article splashed the truth across the world. The answer's never changed, either. "I had to fly," she says. "Simple as that. It would've killed me, staying on the ground."

More silence. It goes on for long enough that she's contemplating a quick doze - but then the bed dips beside her, and her eyes fly open to see Alek sitting there, spine perfectly straight, face grave.

His voice is grave, too, but soft. "You deserved better, Hauptmann Sharp."

The words ease the ache in her chest even as they make it a little worse. She shuts her eyes again. "Lieutenant," she says, tired. "Though I wasn't even that, at the end. They stripped me of everything."

"Their mistake, and my gain. I hereby commission you an officer of the Kaiserliche und Königliche Luftfahrtruppen," he says formally. "You will begin as a captain, although I expect battlefield promotions will see you to colonel, at least."

Deryn opens her eyes and levers herself up onto her elbows, narrowing her eyes at him. "Truly?"

Yesterday she would've turned him down flat. Did turn him down, in fact. But today is different. And it'll be pure dead convenient to fight in his air corps, since she's already sworn to destroy his enemies.

Emperor Aleksandar doesn't nod. He inclines his head slightly.

She's grinning madly. She doesn't care. She has the urge to grab his shirtfront and drag him down on top of her, but there'll be time for that later. Instead she hops up and begins unbuttoning her skirt. "In that case, pass me my trousers, Your Majesty. We need to get to that battlefield."

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They both leave the hotel dressed as young men and take an omnibus across the river to the Île de la Cité and the police headquarters - one place you can always expect to find newsmen. Deryn strikes up a conversation with the reporters loitering outside and asks if they know where Eddie Malone is. They don't, until she confides she means to beat his arse black and blue.

He's working for Le Monde.

Back across the river. They find a telegraph station and Deryn fires off two: one to Malone at Le Monde, demanding he meet her in the Tuileries Garden in four hours, and bring along as much money as he can lay hands on; and one to Jaspert.

Alive. More later.

She'd say more now, but sending a telegraph from Paris to Twickenham is sodding expensive.

Alek sends an equally short telegraph to Vienna, to that Volger fellow. His prime minister. It's in German, of course, but he translates for her: Traveling by night.

"And he'll know what that means?" Deryn asks, doubtful. If he's even there to receive it.

Alek smiles, satisfied, as he gives the telegraph agent the message. "He will indeed."

That accomplished, they find a second-hand clothes shop. It isn't difficult; many Parisians sold off clothes during the war, trying to scare up coin for necessities like food. Now there's a surplus, and it's a buyer's market. Deryn trades her remaining francs for a new set of disguises.

Blue traveling suit dress and a matching cloche hat for herself. Brown pinstriped suit and a straw derby hat for Alek, along with a fabricated-wood cane that he insists on. A less-battered version of the carpetbag she stole in Calais.

They haven't enough money to buy new shoes, but that's just as well - ladies' boots don't have room for a rigging knife. They exit the shop comfortably, anonymously middle-class.

After that, Deryn teaches Alek how to distract a street vendor while she nicks their lunches, and how to hop on and off an omnibus without paying.

It's been a productive morning. A lucky one, too.

Now that luck just has to hold.