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“God’s wounds you’re mad!” exclaimed Alek in response to Deryn’s statement, putting his teacup down in shock. They were taking advantage of the clear day and seated on the terrasse of their favourite café nearby the zoo. Deryn as per usual during work hours presented as Dylan; the pair conscious to school their body language to mimic that of any two male colleagues taking an afternoon tea break together.
“I mean why not! All sailors have one. And I won’t be getting it on my arm. I am thinking of something wee on my hip which is more discreet,” responded Deryn. “Naturally I won’t be getting an anchor, but rather something like the Service’s wings.”
Alek sputtered and furrowed his brow. “But you’re a lady! Why would you blemish…” The ex-prince trailed off as he registered the familiar irritated glint flashing in Deryn’s eyes. Of course, he of all people should have known that Deryn never played by the rules, especially when they were a product society’s expectations of women. Calming himself and sitting up straighter, Alek tried again in a gentler tone. “That’s a big and permanent step Deryn. We all know, well I mean, some of us already know that you are a brilliant Airman. Is it necessary to brand yourself with a tattoo as well?”
Deryn’s returning gaze over her coffee cup was defiant. “It will be my design, and it is my body.” The steel in her tone brooked no further argument from Alek. Satisfied with only his continued furrowed brow of concern in response, she took a deep draw of her brew, swivelled in her seat, and closed her eyes to soak up the rare London sun. She demonstrated her now second-nature and uncanny ability to mimic men. One arm was thrown behind her head in a cocky manner and her legs were splayed wide open, right ankle resting on the left knee.
Alek remained where he was, conscious that his horror at Deryn’s apparently sincere intention to tattoo herself was terribly old-fashioned, but he was nonetheless unable to stop himself. A moment later she looked over to him again, the dark clouds of her previous expression replaced with a mischievous grin. Alek’s brow rearranged into a quirk of curiosity.
“Aye it’s not so bad. Besides, where I’m thinking about getting it, it will be for your eyes only.” Her Scottish lilt was at the typical low register of her Dylan voice, however as Alek’s mind processed Deryn’s meaning, he was struck by the sultry and disarmingly feminine dimensions her voice took. In response he stiffened as a flash of searing heat ignited low in his stomach, and spread outwards throughout his entire body, culminating in a furious blush on his face.
Over the last couple of years, they had shared mostly gentle and innocent kisses with the shyest of touches ghosting over each other’s clothed bodies. But never had Deryn been so forward. She only laughed joyfully in satisfaction, turning her head back towards the afternoon sun. “I love you, my daft prince” she murmured quietly through her grin.
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Alek frowned in reaction to the surge of possessive anger he felt at the sight of the tattooist’s hands on Deryn’s exposed hip. He was sitting on a spare chair in the tattoo parlour’s cramped studio in a less dingy part of East London, providing the emotional support Deryn requested of him. Not that she seemed to need it. She was in her alter ego clothing, having a laugh with the artist whilst describing her past adventures in His Majesty’s Air Service and the rationale for her tattoo.
“Aye, that’s right I want this design here,” she had explained earlier, tapping on the elegant sketch she had made of a nautilus flanked by a bird’s wing. “If you don’t mind recreating what I’ve drawn.”
“That’s not a problem,” the heavily tattooed and muscled artist replied. “But you don’t want it on your upper arm? That’s sailing tradition.”
“I prefer my hip, sir. I am not very traditional,” said Deryn simply.
“Alright,” he had replied gruffly. “But keep your pants on! I’m not interested in seeing none of your business.”
Alek knew Deryn well enough to read the subtle relief in her face. They had discussed tattoo logistics a couple of weeks ago as she researched tattoo parlours. She was concerned that the tattooist would demand she strip down to her drawers, instead of allowing her to only push down the minimum amount of trouser waistband to get the job done.
On the tattooing lounge, Deryn was laying down on her right side, a hand clutching down her trousers’ waistband. If the tattooist noticed how smooth and fine the small patch of skin was, he didn’t say anything.
Deryn had taken great pains to research a decent artist in London, having seen enough botched backyard tattoos on her former crewmates on the Leviathan. As such the fellow appeared to be concentrating on the job at hand. He was putting on his gloves, arranging his equipment and briskly wiping cleansing alcohol on Deryn’s hip. With these tasks complete, he immediately shifted his attention to scrutinising Deryn’s drawing, his fingers mimicking the art he was about to memorialise onto the body of the young woman.
Deryn was too excited and nervous to notice, but Alek was grateful that the tattooist paid no mind to the way Deryn’s gentleman’s jacket crumpled due to the awkward angle of her resting position, betraying the delicate curve of her waist. He only dragged his eyes away once the buzz of the Clanker-imported tattoo machine started up.
“Ready?” grunted the artist.
“Aye,” replied Deryn, her voice softer and higher than Dylan’s should be.
It appeared that Deryn did now need his support, but the constraints of their public lives did not permit Alek to simply reach out to grasp her hand like he always wanted. Instead, he gave Deryn an encouraging smile and nod that she returned gratefully. He then shuffled his seat closer to observe the process, admittedly curious now to observe a novel way that machines could interact with nature.