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...Other than her, he had met or seen from a distance perhaps a dozen omegas. Some had looked to his uncollared throat with envy, others with a kind of triumph, but he had never sought a private audience with them nor been applied to for one. Even Lenton, who had given him such a hard look of understanding that Laurence had been sure that he could have pulled the older omega aside for a conversation in safety, had not tried to get him alone. - Ch. 12

The formation's introduction to Dover covert is rather more exciting than expected, coming off the end of a hard and dispiriting battle. Lily is left badly wounded, rendering all the dragons and men melancholy. Temeraire falls quickly into sleep, so Laurence drags himself to covert headquarters, specifically the dining hall for senior officers. There he finds a great deal of noise despite the hour, and sits with his fellow formation-captains. They are soon joined by Choiseul and Admiral Lenton.

Laurence knows as soon as he meets the Admiral's eyes.

He's never been able to describe it, how he can recognize another omega; nor can he explain why betas cannot. But he sees the same recognition in Lenton's gaze, for just an instant.

The admiral doesn't blink. “No, no, don't get up.” He's addressing Laurence and Choiseul – the others only belatedly register his presence. “After the day you've had, for heaven's sake...”

Lenton addresses the captains briskly, checking in, inquiring on their health. Laurence's heart thuds in his throat; he eats mechanically, listening with a bowed head for several minutes. Finally he reminds himself to act normal, and inquires if they've had any dispatches from the blockade at Cadiz.

“That's right – you're our fellow from the Navy, aren't you? Come stop by my office before you sleep; I'd like a word with you.”

“Will you want us all tomorrow, then?” Chenery yawns.

“No, I can spare you a day. See to your dragons, and enjoy the rest while it lasts! I'll be having you rousted out of bed at dawn the day after.”

Lenton departs; everyone returns to their wine and food. Laurence only picks at his, suddenly lacking an appetite.

It's ridiculous to be worried, he tells himself. Lenton is an omega, not an alpha. And very clearly sees no problem with an omega serving. There's no reason to think the conversation will go poorly. No reason to think that's even why Lenton wants to speak with him. Laurence is that fellow from the navy; it's perfectly normal for the Admiral to investigate his competency. No one else even blinked at the invitation.

So as people start peeling away, Laurence finds a young Lieutenant who's been to Dover before and gets directions to Lenton's quarters. It's not far from the dining halls, and when Laurence knocks, a voice immediately calls for him to enter.

“There you are,” Lenton says, quill scratching away. Laurence halts in front of the desk, rigid with attention. “Settle yourself, now. I'm sure you know why you're here.”

Laurence says nothing.

“Everyone knows,” Lenton says. “About me, that is.”

Laurence stares, mind suddenly blank. “ - What?”

“There is a special dispensation. Like for women – omegas can serve in the Corps. Though there's no guarantee of safety until we're captains, of course.”

“I - “ Laurence's mouth feels dry. Somehow he still didn't expect Lenton to actually acknowledge him.

No one has ever spoken of it.

“Sir, I – “ Sheer alarm dumbs him. “I cannot – no one knows. Not even my – I do not - “

Laurence cannot remember stammering so badly in his life, not even as a nervous boy suddenly commanding men. But the fear that grips him eclipses anything in his past, too. Surely Lenton doesn't suggest...

“Do not be absurd; keep it secret as long as you can,” Lenton says. The relief that rushes through Laurence makes him feel weak. “I only tell you so you understand – if anyone finds out, if they try to take you away, do not let them. They have no legal right to it. Understand?”

“I – yes, Sir. Yes. Thank you.”

The full implications will hit Laurence later – right now, though, he just realizes Lenton does not mean to reveal him. He sways.

Lenton sighs. “Hell,” he says, and heaves himself from the desk. “Come here.”

Laurence stumbles to follow Lenton through a side-door.

It's a smaller office, perhaps a storage-room for more delicate files; shelves stacked with paper line the walls. There's also a long couch, and a table with a bottle of brandy.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” says Lenton, waving Laurence to the couch; he pours a glass, puts it in his hands. This room is smaller, more intimate, and the lack of formality is a relief in its own right. As though Lenton is saying, this is not an official talk. “Calm down, now. It's not so bad, you know. Just as the Corps are used to women, they are used to me; even if you are discovered, it is not the end of the world. Not for us.”

“I cannot believe that,” Laurence croaks. He hastily takes a drink – perhaps too large, but it wets his throat, and the sting of alcohol grounds him. “They – no alpha would accept that.”

“Oh, they do not. But Obversaria is a good enough deterrent, usually. And Temeraire is even more of one.” Lenton shakes his head, sitting beside Laurence and helping himself to a glass. “I've no idea how you managed it, in the navy. Damn alphas everywhere! You never came across a single one?”

“...Only once,” says Laurence.

“And he didn't say anything?”

“He died.”

“Ah,” says Lenton, and takes a drink. Abruptly Laurence realizes how that sounds; but Lenton just nods. “Good. Goodness, set that down before you drop it. You're a nervous one, aren't you?”

Laurence has never been accused of being nervous in his life. Perhaps it's that he's so taken aback, why he doesn't react immediately when the admiral squeezes his shoulder, leaning in to brush their cheeks together.

Laurence jolts, flushing. “Sir?”

Lenton leans back a little. Squints at him. “You've never met another omega, have you?”

The word – hearing it aloud, in such context, for the first time – makes Laurence tense. “ - No, Sir. Not in any context where we acknowledged it.”

“Hmm. Makes sense. Don't mean to make you uncomfortable, Captain, my apologies.”

Laurence – isn't quite sure what that means. He's heard rumors omegas are more tactile then most – is that it? He assumed it was nonsense, although personally he took it as a reason to gain a reputation for being taciturn with his touch.

Lenton doesn't seem interested explaining. Just sips his brandy, leaning back. He's still sitting quite close, and Laurence becomes cognizant of an odd sound. Like -

Like purring. Surely that's a myth, too?

Laurence tries to imagine how a human would even make that sound. His breath hitches once, twice; then an echoing sound stutters from deep in his own chest.

What on earth.

“There we go,” Lenton snorts. “Relax a minute, Captain; I'm not sending you out looking like you're about to faint on me.”

“Yes, Sir.”

It's no hardship to sit in silence a few minutes – relative silence. Laurence listens to that soothing rumble, bewildered. It's a pleasant sound. It's not a sound Laurence would have thought he could make, without trying to emulate it.

Laurence presented nearly fifteen years ago. How can he still be learning about what he is?

“Sir, when did you – that is to say - “

Laurence halts, unsure how to ask the question. A highly inappropriate question, he realizes belatedly; after all most omegas present through heat.

“I was seventeen,” says Lenton. The rooms suddenly seems very quiet. Laurence stares at his hands. “Already a lieutenant. And already being considered for an egg, thank god. I probably would have been alright, even if... sometimes we can have trouble holding onto midwingmen, if people outside the Corps learn about them. But we can usually argue for lieutenants. Anyway, I still didn't tell anyone until well after she hatched. So there was never a question of leaving.”

Even just the thought, the casual way he says it – being taken. Laurence takes another sip of brandy, but declines an offer to refill. His head is already swimming.

He realizes he's leaning on Lenton. Laurence has never liked touching people. But this doesn't bother him, somehow. And despite the clear impropriety, Lenton doesn't seem to mind.

“My mother was an omega,” he says. “And two of her sisters, so I wasn't caught quite as much by surprise. Though I am afraid I only knew my aunts and cousins. My father was a beta. An alpha took her away, a year after I was born; we never did learn what happened to her.”

“I wish I were a beta,” says Laurence, quiet.

“Don't we all,” says Lenton, and they lay slumped together in silence.

Laurence is left off-kilter after the meeting. He makes his way back to his quarters in the early morning, while it's still dark. There he sits awhile on his bed, rubbing his throat, wondering how the hell that strange sound came from his own body.

Purring. He can purr. Laurence tried it once, ages ago as a teenager; he felt so foolish he stopped at once when nothing happens. Sometimes he wishes he could just ask people questions about being an omega.

Maybe he can, now.

When you need to take some time, send one of your runners, Lenton added before he left. Just that you're under the weather, and must miss our meeting; I'll ensure no one disturbs you.

It's a novel thing, to know someone would cover for him. That someone will help Laurence hide – that he can actually trust another officer, fully. Even when he's in heat.

Laurence expects a heat relatively soon – perhaps within a month or two. He's been fretting about the prospect awhile. On one hand, there is more space to hide away on land; on the other, he is no longer the senior-most authority around. If he wanted to ban doctors from his quarters and keep everyone away, on the Reliant, no one could argue with him. It relieves him more than he can express to know the highest authority here will also support his seclusion.

Temeraire was exhausted from the battle, and with a day of freedom Laurence has good excuse to sleep in. By the time he goes to meet Temeraire the dragon is fortunately a bit cheerier. “Everyone has been so friendly,” he tells Laurence, tail twitching with excitement. “And I'm looking forward to some different work, Laurence! I'm told you spoke with the Admiral – did it go well?”

“Very well,” says Laurence, smiling. “I look forward to our work, my dear; I think Dover will be a fine place for us.”

That could be the end of it.

But a few days later, Lenton waves over Laurence in the officer's rec lounge. “Ah, Will – come join us for a game,” he invites. He's sitting with three other captains – St. Germaine, of Mortiferus, and two men Laurence doesn't recognize.

Laurence hesitates. A paranoid part of him thinks he ought not spend any time in close proximity with the other omega, as though this will somehow make Laurence easier to guess. But that's absurd. There's nothing wrong with an admiral wanting to assess an odd new captain, and certainly Lenton can invite anyone he wants to his table. Laurence sits beside Lenton and one of the men deals out a round of cards.

The other two captains introduce themselves as Abramson, of Judicatio, and Padmore, of Relevatus. They're all pleasant and amiable enough, albeit unusually interested in Laurence; but he knows well that he's an object of speculation.

“Is it much different than the navy?” St. Germaine asks him.

“Not as much as one might think; although it a pleasure to come back to land every night, rather than twice a year,” says Laurence wryly. “but I must admit it raises my blood, to have the wind change and not shift the sails; I am constantly afflicted with the sense I'm forgetting something.”

She laughs politely. “Nice that we can leave such things to the dragons,” Padmore agrees. “Your Temeraire seems a bright one, too.”

“Quite an understatement – he would be a proper scholar if he could hold a pen. And I think he may start tutoring me in Latin, if I should mispronounce any more words when we read.”

Laurence pauses here, because he can start boasting over Temeraire's brilliance. But everyone just smiles at him. There's a friendly atmosphere here, in the covert, that he's never experienced when meeting other navy-captains at docks or official meetings. Not that other captains were usually rude; only there were often undercurrents to the conversation, a sense that Laurence was being constantly assessed. These aviators are strange to him still. But Laurence thinks there is something nice about it, the lack of formalities, no matter how much he yet flounders.

Though perhaps their acceptance is at least partly motivated by Lenton's regard. The favor of an admiral is no small thing, and Lenton speaks to him warmly through the night, with the same informality all aviators same to hold. Like they are old friends, and not officer and subordinate.

Still, it is a pleasant way to spend an evening. When Laurence leaves it's with an open invite to join them again – which he does, two nights later.

Laurence and Temeraire settle easily into life at Dover. Work goes more and more smoothly as the formation learns how to work together. Laurence finds himself at ease in the presence of the other captains, too. After years at sea it's odd to have senior-captains nearby to consult as needed. Though Granby – and sometimes Lenton – tend to fill in most of his questions.

Lenton continues to invite Laurence frequently to his table. If anyone considers this odd, Laurence isn't aware of it. And he admits – albeit only privately, to himself – there's something relaxing in having another omega nearby. In fact once or twice in the officer's rec room Laurence has felt the strange twitch in his chest that precedes purring. He always tamps down on the urge; he's experimented with the strange ability in the safety of his own quarters, but it's not something he dares indulge in much, for fear it may become habitual.

Then the day comes that Laurence wakes, feeling achy and hot all over. And he knows he's in heat again.

He calls at once for a servant to pass along the message to Lenton. Laurence is under-the-weather; those words exactly. He will need to miss their meeting. More belatedly, he has the word sent to Mr. Granby as well.

Laurence half-expects Keynes to come knocking at his door, or Granby himself. But days pass with nothing more than the occasional servant with food and drink.

It's the easiest heat he's ever had. Laurence is terrified the entire time.

Laurence returns to patrol, assuring Temeraire that he is well now and praising the dragon's restraint. 'Restraint,' in this case, means that Mr. Granby convinced Temeraire not to tear down the headquarters searching for him.

After two days of patrolling – perhaps so no one would be paying as much attention – Lenton summons Laurence for another private talk. This time, in his own quarters.

“You're alright, I hope?” asks Lenton. He has brandy again, and wine; Laurence accepts a glass. To his surprise Lenton waves him down to sit next to the admiral on the bed; after only a moment's hesitation, Laurence does.

“It is nothing new, Sir.”

Lenton grunts. “Going to put me into heat. Getting damn flashes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Happens if omegas spend time together,” Lenton explains. “Every year I hope I'm too old for it, but not yet.”

Oh. Well, that's an unpleasant bit of new information. Laurence is suddenly glad he's never spent much time around younger omegas. “You learned that from your cousins, I suppose.”

“Yes. Had to be careful about when I visited, let me tell you! Thought I'd warn you. We live close enough now, the time might start becoming unpredictable.”

“I did think it a bit early,” Laurence confesses.

“Nothing for it. Hopefully it won't take too long to settle things into a new pattern.”

During heats Laurence always finds himself longing for company. Not necessarily in a sexual way; just to have someone there, someone to hold, would be enough. He realizes suddenly that he's shifter closer; then Lenton turns, nudging their heads together briefly.

“...Why do you do that?”

Lenton snorts. His gruff manner is part of what makes the affection so baffling. “You really haven't met other omegas, have you?”

Laurence, of course, has not. When Lenton nudges him again, he finds himself automatically tilting his neck to the side.

Laurence knows all the strange stereotypes of omegas, but that's a new instinct for him, too. But it's not the same as submitting to an alpha would be, he somehow knows. It just feels friendly.

“The girls used to do this all the time,” Lenton adds. “Especially when they were young, after presenting.”

“Forgive me if I do not usually base my behaviors on the habits of teenage girls,” says Laurence, wry. But he shifts, curling closer until he's nearly huddled in the other omega's chest.

It does feel nice, is the thing. Safe. Laurence rarely feels truly safe – not since he presented, although with Temeraire he's come close. Even here there is the unease of indulging, the ever-present threat of discovery.

But it's different, having someone with him. A deep purr rumbles from Lenton's chest; Laurence echoes it without thinking. He buries his head in the man's neck.

There are a lot of reasons Laurence ought not do this. The possibility they'll be interrupted, most certainly. The fact that Laurence is, in this moment, acting in a wildly familiar manner with a superior officer. A man he's barely known a month!

But Laurence is so, so tired. Lenton tugs him down, wrapping an arm over his shoulder; and Laurence stays.

“I wasn't sure you would say yes,” says Jane, looking cheerful and pleased as she dresses.

Her mood is flattering, certainly. Laurence watches with appreciation from the corner of his eye while he finds his own clothes. “Only because I was not certain you were offering, I assure you.”

“Well, I wasn't certain of your circumstances with the admiral,” she says. “But I would certainly be happy to do that again.” She adjusts her coat, giving Laurence one last, pleasant kiss on the edge of his mouth before leaving.

Laurence stares at the door, half-dressed. The admiral? Lenton?

- Oh.

For a new captain Laurence has been spending an unusual amount of time with the admiral. Including, more than once, nights. And everyone knows Lenton is an omega.

Do people think he's having sex with the old admiral? He finds himself laughing under his breath – incredulous, horrified. Relieved.

If they think Laurence is sleeping with an omega – sleeping in the sexual sense, not what they're actually doing – nobody will suspect the reality. That's a good thing. A wonderful thing, albeit uncomfortable.

Jane left early, and Laurence skips breakfast today. Instead he sits with Temeraire in his favorite spot on the dragon's shoulder. Temeraire stretches under the sun, still half-asleep and content.

“It is a very nice day,” he says. “Do you think we could visit the ocean, Laurence? Not for patrolling, but maybe we could fish. It's been awhile since we did that.”

Laurence remembers the way Temeraire was so often covered in fish-scales and gore after fishing. But he doesn't have the heart to refuse. “Certainly, my dear. I expect there will be time for it, as long as we do not disturb any boats.”

Temeraire hums happily. Laurence slumps against his neck, and feels a vibration start up in his chest.

“Oh, what is that sound?” Temeraire asks, perking up. He looks around.

“ - I heard nothing,” Laurence lies, soft. Guilt tugs at him, and he slides to the ground. “Let us prepare for the patrol. Where is Mr. Hollin?”

It occurs to Laurence, eventually, that Lenton's lonely.

It's an odd thing to realize. Like most aviators, Lenton displays a casual disregard for rank. He's friendly with plenty of captains and lower-officers. But it hasn't escaped Laurence's notice that even though everyone 'knows' about the Admiral, no one ever mentions he's an omega. 

There is something stifling in having to hide part of yourself away - in fearing judgment, even if you have the rank to withstand it. No one knows about Laurence; but they are aware of Lenton. Yet he never purrs in public, however much he does in private. In Laurence's experience, few stereotypes about omegas are true. But physical differences exist, and Lenton ruthlessly squashes anything that would mark him out. He never gives any hint in his behavior that he might be omega. He is careful, too; so perhaps it's not so strange that he always welcomes Laurence into his private spaces with something like relief.

Sometimes when Laurence visits they barely interact. Sometimes Lenton grumbles and rants about the condescending alphas he must deal with in London, the ones who parade their teenaged omegas in front of him purely to smirk and offer silent challenge. Look, they seem to say. This could be you.

Lenton is gruff and brash, experienced in his age. And he is like Laurence, which means he must be afraid, too.

Laurence doesn't take any special note when he hears that Lenton's hosting a meeting for some admirals and generals. He doesn't intend to go anywhere near them, of course; but he doubts any officers from the other branches of the Service will go wandering about a covert full of dragons. He thinks vaguely he ought to avoid the headquarters higher levels that day – Lenton's office being located nearby – and otherwise puts it from his mind.

So after the day's patrol, Laurence resolves to eat and then spend the evening reading with Temeraire. Perhaps the night, too; Temeraire is always happy when Laurence sleeps outside with him, and the weather is still good for it.

He finds a seat with a few captains of the formation, as well as a scattering of lieutenants. Harcourt slips in beside him. “Goodness, I'm tired,” she yawns.

“It was an easy day, I thought,” says Chenery.

“It was. Lily just kept me up last night, is all. Got it into her head to start experimenting with her acid, and managed to burn through her own harness. Silly creature!”

“I am glad Maximus doesn't have acid,” Berkley reflects. “God alone knows what he could do with it.”

“If only we had a fire-breather – or even one of those water-spitters, to combat them,” Chenery sighs. “Which would you rather have? Laurence?”

Laurence startles, glancing up from his plate. “Neither; I am perfectly happy with Temeraire.”

Chenery rolls his eyes; Harcourt nudges him, smiling. “Yes, of course you are; but if Temeraire could be one or the other - “

Behind Chenery, the door opens. Laurence's hand jerks, knocking aside his glass and sending his plate to the ground with a clatter. Silence falls as he leaps to his feet.

The alpha in an army uniform – a colonel - sees Laurence in the same instant. He at once adjusts his direction, striding forward even as Laurence nearly knocks over a servant in his haste to back away.

Laurence still remembers the way he felt around Barstowe – always alert, always afraid, suspicious. But Barstowe kept at least some distance from him, purely for a desire to wait and claim Laurence only when he was in heat. Kept away, so no one else should suspect, and take his prize before then.

This alpha, apparently, has no such compunctions.

“Not another one!” the colonel says. “This is a damned embarassment. Might not be able to put him in a collar, but you - “

The man grabs his arm.

Laurence, hearing the word 'collar' and already shaken, does the natural thing: he hisses and punches the alpha in the face.

There's an immediate uproar. Over all the shouts and squealing chairs Laurence becomes aware he's making a strange sort of spitting, growling sound he's never heard before. The answering growl from the alpha is much deeper, and frankly more intimidating. The corporal curses and reaches for him again. At this point Laurence figures he's past the point of no return, and again smashes his fist into the alpha's cheek.

Alphas are famously hard-headed; the man barely stumbles. His whole face twists with fury; he lunges for Laurence.

But someone halts him, yanking the corporal back by his coat to send him sprawling.

“Briggs! Field! Restrain this idiot!” Lenton barks.

The noise falls again – all except Laurence, fighting the half-automatic hisses that keep trying to escape; the furious alpha; and of course Lenton, moving between the two and growling like a furious cat himself.

Laurence realizes he's shaking again.

“The devil do you think you're doing!” Lenton shouts. “The Corps have a dispensation, Colonel Goffe! You have no damned right - “

“The fact we can't slap a collar on you doesn't mean you ought to recruit more degenerates,” Goffe snaps. “It isn't decent!”

“I am sure that would be a fascinating discussion to have with Captain Laurence's dragon,” Lenton grits. “If you put one hand on him I'll let Temeraire settle this dispute. And don't think I won't be mentioning this to the General! Get out.”

“You can't - “

Another snarl tears from Lenton's chest, making aviators flinch throughout the room. It's a wild sound, aggressive, wholly unlike the quiet purrs Laurence knows. “Escort him out,” he orders his men. “And feel free to shoot if he fights you.”

Briggs and Field drag the alpha outside. Lenton pulls Laurence behind immediately after.

They go to Temeraire's clearing. The sunny day disorients him; Laurence keeps remembering the shocked faces in the dining hall, Berkley and Harcourt gaping at him. Blood floods his face; he stumbles along after Lenton.

“Temeraire! Someone attacked your captain,” Lenton announces, attracting all of Temeraire's attention at once. “Keep an eye on him – I need to yell at some fools.”

One day – hopefully – Laurence will have the boldness and temerity to look that alpha in the eye and stand his ground as Lenton did. Certainly he could have done it, if he'd had warning – if he hadn't looked at Goffe and seen, spanning in front of him, the destruction of his future in a single instant.

Temeraire bristles as Lenton departs, wrapping around his captain. “Laurence, is everything well? Are you hurt, do I need to get Keynes? Roland, go get Keynes.”

Right. There are other people here. Laurence gladly lets the dragon hide him from sight, stroking Temeraire's side. “I am not hurt, dear. Just – startled.”

“But what happened?”

Laurence takes a slow breath.

Temeraire might be concealing him from view, but there are other aviators nearby. Temeraire's crew, doubtlessly curious and eavesdropping. They will hear any explanation he gives, any questions Temeraire might pose.

Not that it matters, Laurence thinks. Dozens of people saw his reaction, heard Goffe shouting. The whole covert will know within a day or two. There is no longer any secret to keep.

Laurence will have to think on the full consequences later – his father's reaction, for one. God, he never asked Lenton whether the dispensation for the Corps means they can own property; should he transfer his funds to someone while he still can? Will there be consequences for his illegal service in the navy?

“...Do you remember our discussion about orientations, my dear?”

By the time Granby arrives Temeraire has thoroughly chased every other aviator from the clearing in a fit of temper. He watches the lieutenant's approach while coiled suspiciously around Laurence, ruff rigid.

Laurence would have protested by now, except he doesn't really want to talk with anyone either.

But some conversations ought not wait; and he can't hide behind his dragon forever. “Temeraire, pray let him through.”

Temeraire watches Granby with narrowed eyes. He's become fond of the lieutenant, Laurence is sure of that. But right now Temeraire assesses Granby with all the cold, hard disdain he would hold toward an enemy boarder. “Are you one of those people who wants to chain up Laurence?” he accuses.

Granby blanches. “I certainly do not,” he says, raising his hands nervously. “Lenton sent me; and anyway I want to make sure he's alright.”

“And you won't try to have sex with him?”

“Temeraire!” Laurence snaps, as Granby's face turns a mottled red. “There is no reason to be crude. Nor to suspect your own crew of mischief.”

“I heard Gray and Yoxall and talking about wanting to catch an omega, before,” says Temeraire. “So I do not see why it matters if he's my crew; they can be stupid and awful as anyone else.”

“I will see that they are removed at once,” says Granby immediately. Which is exactly what Laurence wanted to do from the start, if he hadn't thought it would seem suspicious. “Are you alright, Captain? I heard half a dozen different stories just on the way here.”

“I am perfectly well.”

“Laurence hit that alpha in the face,” says Temeraire, pride apparently overriding suspicion.

“Good,” says Granby. “I do not doubt he deserved it; some people are damn idiots about the whole thing. I'll ask around and make sure no one else in the crew will be an issue; but most of us are well-used to Lenton, at least, so I don't think it should be much of a problem.”

Laurence is taken aback by the practicality of this. “...Very good. Thank you, Lieutenant, I – you do not seem surprised.”

“I am certainly surprised; though it does fit, in hindsight. Most of the covert thought you an alpha, you know.”

“An alpha?”

The thought is almost more appalling than fitting the stereotypes of an omega. Does Granby mean people thought him a brute?

“Only because you cozied up to Lenton so fast,” Granby clarifies quickly. “ - But I suppose this answers for it, too. Much better, in fact; I've never known an alpha the admiral didn't act like he wanted to fight.”

Laurence leans back against Temeraire, briefly closing his eyes. What a damned mess.

But he always knew this day would come. Years and years in military duty – it's a shock he's never encountered an alpha before. If he were still in the navy...

But he is not, so he pushes the thought away.

His silence worries Granby. “...It's really alright, Sir. It doesn't change anything.”

“It changes everything,” says Laurence flatly, and Granby falls silent. They both know he's right.

“Then I can only promise I will do my best to support you, Sir. You're a damned fine captain, if I may say so; and hell to anyone who says otherwise.”

“And you have Lenton,” says Temeraire. “And I will certainly not let anyone take you away, Laurence. I will take you away first, maybe to the Continent or beyond. So there's no reason to be worried, you see. I am sure I am stronger than any silly human alpha.”

“Thank you,” says Laurence tiredly, and does not say that it won't be enough – that three people can hardly be a barrier against the world.

But it is more than he ever hoped to have in the navy; it is better than the goal of death in battle, rather than death under an alpha's chain. What comes will come, and whatever consequences follow - at least he no longer needs to fear discovery. He has a chance still at happiness – and Laurence will manage, if only because all of Society insists he cannot.

At least he has that.