Work Text:
Bevan did not tell Hester where they were going.
They walked through grey London streets still bearing the marks of last winter’s raids, her arm tucked into his, her sensible shoes clicking briskly as she tried not to speculate aloud.
When they stopped outside the building, she frowned at it.
“This is not—” she began, then stopped dead as she read the small sign by the door.
Rare philatelic collection. Temporary exhibition.
She made a small, startled sound, half breath, half gasp, and then turned on him, eyes wide, already shining.
“You didn’t,” she said. “John, you didn’t.”
“I did,” he replied mildly. “You mentioned it once.”
She clutched his sleeve with both hands, utterly forgetting herself.
Inside, Hester forgot the war.
She leaned close to the glass cases, hands clasped behind her back, rocking faintly on her heels as she read every label. Dates, printers, watermarks, everything mattered.
Her voice dropped to a reverent murmur as she traced histories only she seemed able to see.
Bevan followed a half-step behind, carrying her coat, watching her instead of the stamps.
At one point she caught his wrist, eyes bright with triumph.
“John—look. That marginal wear shouldn’t exist on this issue. It means the plate was reused longer than recorded. Which tells us—”
When they finally left, she was flushed and breathless, talking all at once, apologising repeatedly for being ridiculous.
He told her, firmly, that she was not.
—
The girls were already gathered in the room, coats off, typewriters idle for once, tea cups in hand.
“So,” Jean said lightly, “how was yesterday?”
Hester froze.
Then she sat very straight, folded her hands, and said, “Well.”
What followed was not a conversation so much as an event.
She explained provenance, moving seamlessly into printing methods, early adhesives, postal reforms, and why one particular misprint was “quietly thrilling, actually, if you understand the context.” She spoke with growing animation, hands sketching margins in the air, voice warming as she went.
The girls forgot their tea.
Bella leaned against a desk, utterly absorbed. Prezzo stopped halfway through a biscuit and never finished it. Italia murmured, “Blimey,” under her breath when Hester described a flaw that altered an entire classification.
No one interrupted her.
Even Jean found herself listening properly now as Hester’s enthusiasm carried them along. It was infectious. Irresistible. Fifteen minutes passed without anyone noticing.
Hester stopped abruptly, eyes widening.
“Oh,” she said, colour rushing to her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been talking.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Bella said, sincerely, “That was brilliant.”
Prezzo nodded. “I didn’t even know stamps could do that.”