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Who: Miles, Gregor, and Bel
When: 12/1
Where: the Vor cabin
What: Miles panics over the arrival of one of his mercenary captains on the ship; Gregor decides to make everything simpler.
Warnings: miles being a dumbass idk

God. This is a nightmare situation. Worse than London had been, in some ways -- having Lieutenant Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith trapped in the same city was bad enough, but on this ship? Damn it, and he wasn't even going to do Naismith here. He was pretty clear with himself on that one. Can't afford to mix and match, here, have to keep them straight, even if he's been increasingly tempted to reach for Naismith here. Worse still is that slipping back into Naismith, even if just for Bel, just for a moment, feels so damned good.

Miles tries to brush that thought away as he careens straight toward the cabin he shares with Ivan and Gregor, his mind still racing. He'd fed Bel some horseshit about a cover story that was a little too close to the truth for anyone's comfort, but it was a hasty fiction -- nearly as hasty as Admiral Naismith had been, to start with. Ha.

"Gregor," he starts as soon as he's inside, locating his foster brother and Emperor, and shutting the door as soon as he does. Just Gregor. Oh, thank god. Miles paces inside on nervous feet, his voice already wound into a manic chatter. "We need to talk. There's -- a problem."

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Though they'd discussed Gregor's approach on the way, Bel had unconsciously braced for immediate questions the minute they arrived. No battle plan survives first contact with the Admiral.... Walking into the cabin with back straight and eyes front, leaving the answers in another's hands, took all available self-control.

Especially with Miles (achingly familiar, from the nervous joviality to the Betan syllables he must have learned at his mother's knee) staring at them with such wide eyes, wearing himself like a mask, desperation far too close to the surface.

Vorkosigan.

It came to Bel that none of them had yet spoken the name aloud.

Drawn inward, all masks cut loose, Bel watched him as Greg's words fell into the silence. No denial, no evasion, glancing up only once, at the last soft words and what they suggested -- another reason to rue this necessity. Miles... would be Miles, whatever his name; there was no fear of violence or captiousness here, even without the Emperor's grace. But for all Bel's hard-won deductions, for all they'd gone through hell and high water beside one another, the greater part of the man so torn and stressed before them was Miles in ways Bel had never been allowed to know.

Still and quiet, the moment holding as though suspended in eternity, Bel waited for whatever word would come.

Gregor's response brings Miles up short -- he feels like he's suddenly run out of road just ahead and he has to mentally skid to a halt just to avoid going over. Shock comes over his face, quickly replaced by an incredulous confusion, then chagrin. He flinches at that Imperial We -- he knows it when he hears it -- and that look of mortification settles in, though he tries hastily to smooth it over, to keep the color from rising in his cheeks. Damn it. God damn it. How could he have failed to pick up on that? All that effort, all that playing up the charade for Bel's benefit -- the story he'd told Bel back on Earth about his clone backstory, the hasty cover he'd fed to Bel earlier today -- it was for nothing, wasted on someone who knew perfectly well who he was. He feels like a complete ass.

Tear himself to pieces? Is that what Gregor thinks he's doing -- is that the way he sees it? Miles bites back a defensive impulse, and for a second a flutter of panic passes through him at the thought that Gregor might not believe him fit for the job anymore, that Miles can no longer do what he does best. No -- no. Can't go there. Miles' gaze flicks from Gregor to Bel -- silent Bel, still as a living statue, waiting -- and curses himself again. How amused Bel must have been, watching Miles bend over backwards to keep up the charade. He should have caught this. He should have known.

"Gregor -- " Miles is thrown so badly off balance that the name still comes out in his Betan accent, before he swallows and changes tracks. Why is it so much more difficult to go back to being Barrayaran Miles Vorkosigan, and not the other way around? He draws in a slow breath and tries to regain some of his composure.

"Ah," he starts over, managing a thin smile that somehow only makes his pale face look paler. "It seems I have gone far out of my way for nothing." It's awkward, speaking in that heavy Barrayaran Russian accent around Bel, to Bel. He feels suddenly as though Bel has never really met him. It just doesn't feel quite right. Miles' face flushes a little darker, but he refuses to abandon all decorum for the sake of his dignity. "Well, I certainly can't refuse an Imperial fiat. Thank you for being so kind as to bring me into the loop, Gregor."

Gregor watches Miles' face helplessly, the hard, steady impact of emotion there, the flush and pale of his cheeks. He swallows a sigh.

"If you'd call the careful guarding of my identity and your own for our safety and the sacred trust placed in you by me, your superiors, and the rest of the Imperium 'nothing,' sure, I suppose you could phrase it that way," Gregor says, his voice slightly dry. "And, as I was telling Bel, since they seemed to be similarly distressed by continuing this deception when they felt they could have confessed their knowledge, I do not believe this could have come to light in a way that was satisfactory for all parties other than this. If Bel had told you, or if you had figured out beyond a doubt that Bel knew, you would have been forced--" I hope, "--to report it to Simon, who would have been professionally bound to question the solidity of your cover identity." Gregor's eyes cool a little, his chin lifting.

"I do not question. Your cover remains intact since, as far as I'm concerned, bringing Captain Thorne officially up to speed does it no damage--quite the opposite." His eyes flick to Bel again, face unreadable, but his voice warms just slightly. "They have already proven themselves sufficiently discreet in this matter, and I do not find their loyalty to be at all uncertain." Not to Miles, anyway, no way in hell. "And, anyway," he continues briskly, "I believe that I had no small hand in their being able to put the pieces together, so if Simon wants to twist his underthings into a bunch about it at a later date, he can be referred directly to me. I'm not nearly as good at this dual-identities thing as you are--my main strategy seems to be flying as low below sensors as I can possibly manage, which firstly does not seem to be nearly as effective and second does not appear to be an ability you possess should you even desire to employ it as a tactic." He searches Miles' expression, knowing he's given Miles an unpleasant shock and not quite knowing how to reassure him. The trapped, almost hunted look flickering on Miles' face is an immediate and unlooked-for reminder of the footage he'd seen--demanded to be permitted to see--of Dagoola, twisting his belly into a sudden, sympathetic ache.

"I understand that this is a difficult position for you, Miles," he says, his eyes banked with an odd, reaching intensity. "For... a variety of reasons. But I don't care what accent you use here and when. However you decide to play this, we--" Not an Imperial We this time, but the three of them, Ivan and Bel and himself. He might not speak for an empire, in this, but his words are just as sure. He nods. "We'll back you.

Mortification. Rooted in an old Earth word for death.

Color does rise to Bel's cheeks at Miles's seething glance. They share the same expressions. The same shock, outrage, contempt.... But the voice, the voice -- meeting other Barrayarans hasn't prepared Bel enough to hear their curling gutturals roll from that familiar tongue, the tone all Miles, a trapped, rebellious surrender.

"No," Bel breathes around the chill numbing the back of their throat. "Not quite for nothing." Gregor's calm reasoning, with its reminder that there had never been another way to do this, flows soothingly over them both, jangling with I certainly can't refuse on its endless loop of echoing memory. No, you can't, can you? You're in for it now, like it or not. Whoever you are. (Not 'my lord,' like Baz or Elena -- "'denotes a specific legal relationship,'" Auson had chortled way back when, along with various low-brow suggestions as to what the relationship might be. But no 'Admiral,' either.) I could give you anything but an ignorance I didn't have--

Gregor's part in it is actually smaller than he thinks -- fortunate for Miles, as the pieces had been scattered too widely and obscurely for the rest of Bel's crew to catch on, whether or not they learned whom they'd ferried to Vervain. The little Admiral was an inspired creation, brilliantly complete despite unpredictable circumstance. The unwitting past-tense sickens Bel. Naismith will appear again, with all the care Gregor is taking to preserve his utility, but he'll only be real as the other Miles wants him to be.

Forcing back a choked, airless feeling, Bel pulls in a breath, eyes haunted but steady. Gregor's presence is lean and solid at their side, his kindness unbearable, but not all the choices leading them here belong to Barrayar; it has to take more than admiral's mercy or emperor's grace to wipe those away.

"For my part... I do care which accent you use. Go by your own judgment, but if you ever talk to me in a voice you'd only use to make anyone but you feel better, I'll personally kick your ass." Another breath, the irony a familiar refuge, sour as ever when there was no one to share it. "And then Greg will have to have your cousin stake me out for the sand worms or something, in lieu of any more culturally authentic fate. Don't worry, though. I won't tell anyone why."

Anything worth doing is worth doing well.

Suppressing a shiver of exhausted tension, Bel casts a look up at Gregor. He might trap or reason his almost-brother into compliance, but the intervention would always color the result. Not for my sake, Gregor, please.... "Greg, can we... have a little time?"

Gregor watches the shift of emotion on Bel's face, looking between them and Miles warily. This is... more difficult than he had anticipated. But then, he's always seen Miles as whole. He knows the differentiation between Lieutenant Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith, but has never been truly able to rid himself of the impression of the fierce, focused triumph shaking in Miles' seventeen-year-old voice as he watched Miles recreate everything he'd done with the Dendarii over a table in a back room behind the Council doors. Right before he saw Miles' father beg on his knees for Miles' life from an implacable enemy he then watched Miles cut off at the knees with barely more than a glance and a few words. A Miles relatively deferential and wary of nepotism and fiercely defensive in his undress greens and a Miles standing straight and tall as he can manage, lying as fast as his mouth will move in an incandescent and inescapable torch-bright flare of magnetism, his gray uniform matching his blazing eyes.. are melded inextricably in Gregor's mind, as he's seen parts of one in the other as clear as day. It's only now just striking him that the difference would be so stark for others--even for Miles himself.

Still, he's a little startled at Bel's request--not many Barrayarans would even attempt, however gently, to toss the Emperor out of his own cabin--but his eyes clear and he nods immediately.

"Of course," he says quietly, inclining his head. "I'll leave you two to get sorted, and bring Ivan at least partly up to speed if I find him." He nods again, hovering on the threshold of the door for a single, helpless instant--before he steps through and keys it shut behind him, exhaling on a too-shaky breath, and heads to the library.

God, he feels like such an ass. He sees the logic, concedes the point to Gregor -- feigning ignorance was the best plan for security, Bel's decision was the right one. Even Miles can see that. But that doesn't shrink his embarrassment any. It burns his cheeks to think about how hard he's played up Naismith to Bel from time to time. Did that make it even more obvious? Was that as uncomfortable to watch for Bel as it is uncomfortable for Miles to think about?

Miles' mouth twitches at Bel's ironic little threat, though whether it's a flinch or a smile, it's hard to tell. He lets Gregor leave the room without comment, without protest, rocking back uneasily on his heels, his hands shoved deep in his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. That Bel has requested a word in private means one thing or the other, and Miles can't decide which this is.

He sucks in a deep breath, trying to compose himself, but oddly he feels as though he's been kicked in the stomach. It isn't just the humilation -- that only goes so deeply -- but a strange, uncomfortable resonance that runs through him as though he's been struck, one that only servies to highlight all these carefully compartmentalized pieces of himself, to illustrated the cracks therein, the spaces between where they should be filled. He feels somehow deficient without Admiral Naismith; he'd taken half of Miles' life away and ran with it. And when did I stop being two sides of a coin and start being two halves of a whole?

"Bel," he starts, his voice wobbling as he wavers between Admiral Naismith and Lord Vorkosigan. Which one is appropriate -- which one is authentic? Miles' throat works as he tries to find himself, find his ground, and ultimately settles on Admiral Naismith. It isn't for Bel's sake -- it's his own. Something familiar to take hold of, and doing Naismith is just...comforting, somehow. Miles blows out his breath. "Gregor's right -- you're right," he says, and he almost winces to say it. He'd damn near had an adult tantrum over this, and that makes him feel ashamed more than anything else. He hangs there awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. He doesn't have an idea how to even begin to talk about...all this. "I'm sorry."

For a moment, the brief glimpse of Miles-of-Barrayar had loomed into a cold Imperial nightmare with no reason to humor an upstart shipmaster, someone who might respond with nothing but a contemptuous stare or simply ignore Bel entirely. The nightmare isn't unfamiliar, though the past few weeks have added a fun new twist in conflating it with Miles's clone, and for a moment all of Gregor's reassurances, senseless in connection with such a figure, had been forgotten. That tiny flash of expression, though, ambiguous as it is, makes Bel's heart jump with painful hope. Not a smile, but at least something.

Looking up at Greg, Bel briefly fears having gone too far. But the man's near-supernatural courtesy and perceptiveness leave Bel staring, bewildered and shaken, at the quietly closing door and the trust it implies.

In both of us.....

It's impossible at first to look back, but the uncertain quaver in the brief sound of their name draws Bel like a magnet. Bel has seen Miles enraged, undone, frantic, grieving, beaten bloody, torn with regret; the terrible struggle inside him now is heartbreaking, desperation limning his search for his own voice.

More even than the words -- and touching Bel with a fresh pang of shame -- the hesitation reveals Naismith as no mere cover, switched on and off like a light. Not the whole truth, perhaps, but made of no lesser material than the man himself.

Something breaks in Bel's expression as the voice settles into the old familiar one. A tentative step forward, unconsidered, brings them almost within arm's reach of one another, Bel's head bowed, lashes damp. How can they talk about this? There seems no way open, but not talking got them both into it in the first place.

"Please tell me I don't have to kick you now?" The quiet alto catches, just a little. "I really wouldn't enjoy it."

Miles lets out a short bark of a laugh, unexpected even to himself. "No. No, you don't. This isn't for your benefit, Bel, don't worry." Never for you. It's always been for me. Maybe that's the problem.

It withers in his throat, though; he's known Bel for too long not to notice the catch in their voice, and Miles' eyes flick up to Bel's face, searching. Captain Thorne's always been an emotional one -- no, not just emotional, but passionate. Miles has seen their face come alive with feeling on so many different levels -- fear, pain, coy affection, determination, sheer exhilaration -- but this is something...difficult. Oh, shit.

"Bel -- " Miles' voice falters again, but this time it has nothing to do with the accent. His hands close at his sides, then open, uncertain. It isn't as though Admiral Naismith has no ready response to these kinds of situations -- the little Admiral is as real and whole as is the rest of Miles -- but it seems almost disingenuous to fall back on those mannerisms now, in light of what Bel now knows. What they both now know. So instead he's -- what? Miles Vorkosigan? Just Miles -- whoever the hell that is? And if you're not Admiral Naismith, then what's with the accent, kid?

Miles draws in a breath. "It isn't that I don't trust you," he says, his voice still firmly in its Betan accent. His mind is tripping over itself to try and reconcile the dissonance, but he ignores it. He swallows. "That isn't why I...panicked. It's just that -- things have been complicated here, ever since we showed up. Admiral Naismith...he doesn't exist here. No, that's not right. No one knows he exists here, and I've been trying very hard to keep it that way." For his own sake, if nothing else.

Unable to stand the tension any longer, Miles breaks into a pace back and forth across the narrow cabin in front of Bel, the same little march he alwas falls into when he's deep in thought on some problem or another. "For a little while there I thought I'd have to do what I was doing back in London -- switching on and off every time I turned around -- it was exhausting, Bel." You have no idea how close I came to unraveling entirely, how delicate the balance is -- how difficult they are to keep separate in close proximity, drawing toward each other like a magnet toward the center, toward -- me? Who the hell is that, anyway? Miles rakes a hand through his hair, blowing out his breath, and rubs at his forehead.

"The thought of having to do that again, here -- hell, doing it at all -- it...well, it spooked me a little bit," Miles admits, lips twisting. "And there's no way I could have pulled it off here for even a day, with how small the ship is. Since it was just me, Gregor, and Ivan at the beginning -- well, it seemed simpler at the time to just...keep Admiral Naismith tucked away, as it were. And then you showed up." He manages a wry smile, pausing mid-pace. "But it seems to have worked itself out."

So why is he still doing Naismith? It isn't for Bel, it's for him. It's comfortable, an excuse to slip back into it. He shouldn't, he really shouldn't...

Bel tries to smile, heart still pounding, the quick-shifts and counter-purposes bewildering to follow. It's difficult, still repenting the impulsive judgment of a moment ago, not to look away from those searching eyes. Miles turns to pace, and Bel takes the chance to scrub the stinging blur away.

Does he think Bel won't be on board with the plan? That they pushed for this somehow, pulled down the veil on purpose? That they can't wait longer, as long as it takes, if the situation demands it? But the struggle is still visible over Miles's face, along the tight lines of his small body, trying to explain in that anguished voice, and the catch isn't in the expected escape plan at all--

Oh shit.

You're the situation. Not all this. Not me -- but I set it off. Oh shit....

Of all possible reasons for Miles's secrecy, this one had never crossed Bel's mind. Miles is always so careful, always makes it seem so effortless; the one time Bel tried a direct hint, cautiously letting him know that his Betan persona was almost perfect, he had immediately backed away from any follow-up. Because he's shy of me -- or just wants no questions, or both -- so Bel had thought, back then, and had let it go. But if Miles himself needs so badly to keep his two lives separate--

And I forced it out of him, just by showing up. Bel swallows. It feels like a worse invasion, somehow, than just silently knowing the secret.

"Damn...." Swiping back an unruly lock of hair, Bel tries to keep the words steady. There's no room for both of them to pace in here. "I never knew. You had every reason to be exhausted when Galen was turning up the heat. You were all ready with an explanation when I -- prodded a little -- I thought...." ...you might tell me. When you wanted me to know. He hadn't. And that crisis had passed, and the next--

But it's all right now, isn't it? It's worked itself out.

Bel can't be still any longer; a still-knotted throat is surely only the day's exhaustion, and that can't be indulged yet. The couch, near-identical to the one in Cabin 5, is two fluid steps away, and perching on its arm rather than the cushions puts them at an even height. Much better than standing at attention; Naismith has always preferred eyes at a level, though it's only a guess that Vorkosigan might as well.

"At least we don't have to be strangers if no one knows either of us here. Simpler is better, yes?" Bel musters a grin; a slim hand brushes Miles's cheek. "I won't pretend I'd rather not have to stay out of your path, but... be who you have to be and we'll take it from there. I'll even get used to the funny accent."

Miles smiles bleakly at as Bel verbalizes that realization, spreading one hand slightly as if in demonstration of himself. Now you see me...

He feels a twinge of guilt rather than embarrassment, now, watching Bel's face, hearing that slight falter in their voice. Ah. So he's not the only one feeling self-conscious about the way this whole identity panic went down. You thought that I thought that I knew that you knew... Maybe he's got his head up his ass a little farther than he realized. Food for thought. His gaze follows Bel as they pour themself into a seat with their usual fluid grace -- composure regained, all frayed edges smoothed over. Bel makes even more of an impressive show of themself than Miles does, sometimes.

But then their hand reaches out, cool fingers brushing across his cheek, and Miles, too caught off guard to react as he should -- as Admiral Naismith should -- half-leans into it just fractionally before he flinches back, color rising to his cheeks. He's only got one foot in Admiral Naismith's shoes, the other still firmly stuck in one of Lord Vorkosigan's, and his reactions are even less polished, less ready. That little lean in had nothing to do with Bel and everything to do with the weariness of the last week and change, a little starved for comfort -- that's what he tells himself, at least, as he withdraws and straightens, swallowing. The ghost of Bel's touch lingers strangely on his skin, and unconsciously he touches a hand to his cheek.

"It...isn't really that simple," Miles says with a short breath of a laugh. His accent wavers slightly in that post-stun moment, but on Bel's offhand comment he cements it firmly into Betan territory again. He coughs. "But I appreciate it, Bel. You won't have to stay out of my path -- it's just as you said. No need to pretend like we're strangers. We just have to...edit our history a little."

Can't exactly go around telling people Bel is a captain under his command when he's only supposed to be a lieutenant.

Edited 2015-12-14 03:04 (UTC)

Only Miles would be embarrassed about being that good at something Bel's had a little over twice a lifetime to learn. The years mean less nowadays than they did when the Dendarii were new, and no one outside the Inner Circle -- except Bel -- knew the truth about the "Betan rejuvination treatment." How could Miles expect anyone to think less of him for not doing the impossible? What composure Bel's mustered is barely hanging on, and nearly slips completely when--

--oh.

Admiral Naismith, as a proper Betan, should have leaned even farther. The body-shyness that had been an early clue of his real planet of origin hadn't faded much over the years, but this is... new. Bel, reacting instinctively, smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone before letting the hand fall gently to his shoulder (a routine and less-charged point of contact), reluctant to break away yet; it's over before the realization even sinks in, the flinch returning them to familiar territory.

"There's plenty of room for that." Thank goodness, since the thought of keeping a distance is suddenly unbearable; difficult, anyway, to stay out of sight when they live two doors apart. This is surely for the best. And Miles is, Miles is... Bel's own voice has quieted, a small breath of relief, fearing to spook him but not giving ground. Did he mean to -- what's happened to him out here? It's certainly past time Miles has polished that last edge, it'll serve him well when they get home -- but it's surely Barrayaran skittishness behind the old reaction, and if he can't be Naismith openly....

"We could have met on one of your courier missions." Bel's not swaying forward much; there's still a perfectly respectable distance in the equation. Anyway, this is important. They have to focus. "Courier meets... oh, pirates, or a breakdown; disaster thwarted by the Dendarii." A soft smile, warm with memory. "Daring rescues our specialty."

Edited 2015-12-14 04:47 (UTC)

Miles has seen that look on Bel's face before -- not just the wicked humor of their usual flirtations, but something relatively unguarded, the feeling behind the attraction, or maybe what makes it. Miles' lips part on a breath as Bel's hand falls to his shoulder, trying to keep the heat rising from to his face, a prickling shiver chasing the last of that odd moment -- and then it passes, his mouth twitching into a smile to mirror Bel's.

"Just so." Miles rocks on his heels and looks as though he's about to start pacing again, tapping a finger to his chin. Some of the manic momentum that's been driving him all day, fed by the initial panic of seeing Bel, is starting to ebb away, conceding to the general air of exhaustion that's hung around him since his cryorevival, what...less than a week, wasn't it? Miles mentally tallies up the days. Hardly enough time to make a full rebound from something so physically traumatic. Death really takes a tax on the body, Miles thinks with dark humor. Go figure.

"Better the rescuers," he says judiciously, tilting his head in thought. "Barrayaran soldiers don't exactly get on a first name basis with a pirate captain making a raid on them. A small group of of ImpSec agents get caught in some hostage situation with a bunch of other diplomats from a variety of other planets, the pirates demanding some grotesque ransom -- and then the planet with the biggest stake in things gets desperate and hires a mercenary company who just happens to be making orbit nearby." Miles' eyes glint slightly. "And perhaps some young upstart of an ImpSec courier made an assist with that daring rescue and won the respect of one awestruck mercenary captain."

Of course Miles can't resist granting himself the role of at least co-hero. Never mind that Bel hadn't made captain until they met. His face breaks into a grin for a moment before it sobers into something more serious, and he sweeps Bel a flourishing bow as his voice slides back into the warm gutturals of his Barrayaran accent. A little test -- not for Bel, but himself. See if he can pull all this off after all. "And Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan is forever in your debt, Captain Thorne."

Things might be simpler this way, with Bel in on all of it, but Miles is still doing mental gymnastics to get his head around the dissonance of it. He flashes a smile at Bel, but he teeters on his heels, the drain starting to catch up to him. It occurs to him that he's not sure when the last time he ate was. After a moment's consideration, Miles makes a tactical retreat from standing up and flings himself onto the short couch, though at a respectable distance from Bel. He pinches the bridge of his nose and blows out a slow breath, letting his voice slip back into that flat Betan accent. Why does that feel easier than going back to Barrayaran? "That's what I've got, anyway."

Edited 2015-12-14 13:11 (UTC)

The moment might have passed, but the tingle in Bel's fingertips won't ebb any time soon. After years of hoping, it's almost impossible to believe. Lips parted, Bel listens intently. Watching Miles think is always a genuine pleasure.

It sounds good. Uncheckable, believable, accounting for everything. And the sequel wins a delighted laugh; of course Miles wouldn't cast himself as a helpless victim if he didn't have to. Bel doesn't mind an early captaincy at all, either. ~~Or leaving Auson out of the picture entirely. Of course, if not for that interminable blockade run, the real first meeting might never have happened....~~

"The oldest story!" Bel snickers. "Dashing rescuee sweeps intrepid mercenary captain off their feet, and thanks to the brave courier's inside knowledge, there's no loss of life. It probably involved a heroic standoff. You made a big impression.~"

The voice again -- Bel listens in fascination. The name sounds different on Miles's tongue than in Ky's Earthly accent. What would his given name sound like? If they had really met like that... Bel has few illusions; Barrayar tries hard, but it's still a backward, barbaric world, rich in resources but largely lacking even basic systemic support for the bulk of its population. And it's a tossup whether they'd beat me to death as a mutant or as a perverted abomination.... no, Barrayaran courtliness holds no charms for a progressive, democratic Betan, but damned if Miles doesn't lend it enough of his own to make it count. That's always the way with you, isn't it?

Smiling in amusement and no little genuine appreciation, Bel reflects that they might as well do it right. In a way, one of them really is meeting the other for the first time.

"If they think we're embellishing, so much the better; makes it that much harder to check up on. 'Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan'--" a valiantly sincere try at the foreign syllables -- "the Ariel and her captain are at your service."

Miles grins -- both at Bel's embellishment of their little cover story and their earnest first pass through his real -- his full name. Ah, it'll get easier with practice...and you'll have time for that in spades here.

"I'll say I did at that," he says mildly, but he's still grinning, slinging one arm over the back of the couch in true Naismith style. It isn't as though Lord Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith are totally different personas, he reminds himself distantly -- what was it that Ivan had said once? That Admiral Naismith is just Miles with all restraints off? That isn't totally accurate, but it's not far off the mark, either. It was easier to keep in check when it was just him and Ivan and Gregor, but with Bel here... Well, it was starting to get a little harder as time went on, anyway. "Yes, very convenient, I should think. And it hardly relies on Ivan to keep a lie straight. That's a plus."

He leans back into the couch, sinking down into it a little more wearily than he permitted himself to show on his feet, and crosses one leg over the other. "Luckily, such formalities have long since been disposed of among friends, so you can just stick to calling me Miles. Or," he adds thoughtfully, eyes glinting, "Lord Miles, if you like."

"Only in mockery, of course." Head tilted, Bel grins wickedly. "I'm a rational democrat and couldn't possibly be impressed by you backward Barrayarans with your patriarchal pomp and ceremony and peculiarly feudal governing system." Regarding him with mock speculation, irony easing into a fond smile, Bel slides down to the cushions beside Miles and leans back too, legs stretching to their full length and finally relaxing. "No, the glamor all comes down to you. I look forward to repaying the favor, but if we keep meeting like this I might get to enjoy it.~"

That's enough teasing, probably. Miles's arm, lying comfortably across the back of the couch, doesn't quite reach to Bel's shoulder, and as nice as it would be to fix that, it's not why he put it there. "All right. We've got our story. Your identity's secure. And de-complicated." (I won't give you away." "I know....") "A full rundown aside, I don't suppose there's a chance of breaking out of here tonight?"

Edited 2015-12-17 04:55 (UTC)

Miles' grin goes a little strained at Bel's extended riff on Barrayaran society, but he lets it go with a breath when Bel settles onto the couch next to him. It isn't worth getting into, and he knows Bel's tired -- they look it. He raises an eyebrow at Bel at that question, leaning forward on the couch.

"Break out? And just where do you think we're going to go?" he snorts, shaking his head. He sounds bitter, but it isn't directed at his erstwhile captain. "This ship is it, Bel. Hate to admit it, but we're at the mercy of the Moira and her captains if we ever want to get back to where we came from. Getting off at the next planet wouldn't do us any good."

Just staying in character, sir.~ ~~You've probably heard worse from your mother.~~

Even half expecting it, if only by way of preparation for the worst, it takes Bel a moment to work through that. "So it's all true." A flat tone, not covering a dismay directed the same way as the bitterness in Miles's words. "Completely outside of any known part of the galaxy, with a fairly thin reed to lean on even if the captains are being honest with us. And you've been here for months?"

That, more than anything else, presses in how serious this is. Months, and Miles hasn't even taken over the ship yet. Bel leans forward too, hands laced together between their knees.

No easy waking from this dream. The Ariel suddenly feels an impossible distance away.

"A little over three months," Miles confirms with a sigh, although not nearly as dismayed as Bel. If he spent the last three months in stubborn denial he'd have lost his mind by now, and he's already crazy enough as it is. He runs a hand back through his hair. "We're way farther than a galaxy, Bel. We're not even in our own universe anymore. Have you talked to anyone on this ship yet? Aliens, gods, girls from twentieth century Earth? We are a long, long way from home."

"Met a few." Bel's head shakes in disbelief. "And that's it? We're trapped, until we get to wherever we're going and whoever's at the end maybe deigns to send us back where we came from? You know I love a challenge, but this is...."

...not a challenge. It's a pointless, thankless slog. No orders, no endpoint, no consensus, no clear goal, no way out.

No leadership.

The pained brown eyes glance up at Miles. It would have been better if none of them were here... but they are, and it means a lot not to be facing this alone.

"As far as I'm concerned, my Dendarii oath and contract supersede the ones made here under duress. Since there are officially no other Dendarii on board--" Lord Miles -- not yet. Bel hesitates, then dodges the title. "I'm the ranking fleet officer here, and will have to proceed on my own judgment, as far as the rest of the ship is concerned." Bel smiles bleakly. "But between the two of us, this is a terrible undercover mission and I'd like to register a complaint."

Miles laughs softly. "Complaint registered, Captain Thorne. You can even put it in the suggestions box, if you like -- I've got one, you know. Right on the door of my office. And for what it's worth, I do believe the captains are being honest about their intent insofar as getting us back to the planet of origin and getting us all home -- they're in the same boat as us. All of them want to get back to their worlds." It's their methods Miles might be concerned about. What Zhou had said back at Caducus Primary still rings in his head. Ulterior motives are in the hearts of many. They seek a place that once loved them but no longer can, and in that space, it has grown exponentially. Heed the future, Miles Vorkosigan, but never trust it. He still doesn't know what to make of it, nor the reflection of his future self he saw that night on the planet.

"It's a shit mission, I know, but we don't really have a choice. And if I can do it, so can you. Eh, Captain?" Miles grins, and nudges his elbow at Bel's arm.

Edited 2015-12-20 03:23 (UTC)

The restless eyes soften, and a small smile touches Bel's face. Just to be heard... it's a good feeling. Years of fierce loyalty and faith underlie their relationship, and the trust Miles put in them from the beginning, even if he felt he couldn't reveal his own secrets, always counted for a lot.

It's still frankly startling that Gregor -- perhaps the main reason for all the secrecy -- seems to share that opinion. If not for his intervention.....

...better not to think about it. A snort of rueful laughter at the elbow, and Bel leans over to grip Miles's shoulder for a moment. "Oh, yes." Always. "You look like it's been hard on you, though, in spite of having only one name to juggle. Is the food that bad here?"

Only the one name? Oh, I wish that were true. He's been juggling them since he got here, even before Bel's arrival -- on a purely internal basis. Just as well, he thinks, that no one else is privy to that particular struggle.

Miles smiles bleakly. Somehow it seems inadvisable to drop the news of his recent death on Bel on top of everything else -- his poor captain's been through enough shocks today, he thinks, and they look tired to boot. "The head chef around here is Loki. You decide." He sinks back into the couch a little more, but the look he gives Bel with his brows slightly raised is direct. "You're not looking so hot there yourself, Bel. When was the last time you slept, anyway?"

The chef's name is familiar, but at the moment Bel can't call it to mind. "Don't tell me, he's a goblin. Isn't there an Old Earth rhyme about staying away from goblin fruit?" But there's something else behind Miles's expression. A day ago, Bel might not have said anything, even after noticing that Miles was still using the Admiral's accent. Now... should I? Guess or intrusion or allowable liberty?

Stall. Then reassess. "Might ask you the same question. The Ingress pulled me through at midnight, ship's time. I was about to sleep. Didn't happen."

"A god, apparently." Miles' mouth quirks ironically. "At first I thought he was just a lunatic, but you've met the people around here -- a bit eclectic, isn't it? Turns out he's a lunatic and a god, or as good as one, anyway.

Ah, and Bel's trying to turn this one around on him, are they? "Last night," he says, eyebrows creeping a little higher. "And I got up at 0600 to get ready for my shift this morning. You've been awake at least twenty-four hours now, Bel. Go get some sleep."

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i accidentally wrote u a novel im sorry

YOU WRITE THE BEST NOVELS THOUGH ;;

WOW YOU!!

WHAT~~

U HEARD ME

/THE MOST INNOCENT FACE~~~

CLASPS THAT FACE!!

^/////^ NO U~

/)w(\

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