thisavrou_log | [open]

[open]

Who: Bel and whoever
When: December 8-10
Where: Nomo Deck, rec room, various other places
What: Various things that happen while Miles and Loki are missing. And after.
Warnings: at least one instance of sharing body heat because Bel is practical okay

December 8

The ship is slowly freezing from the inside out. Quick thinking and ingenuity among the crew, to say nothing of an encouraging amount of good humor and altruism, have made it more bearable than Bel would have guessed. The library group is lively and friendly, and people are looking out for each other; if no other systems break down, they might get through without any severe effects.

Then two crewpeople go missing. And one -- small, heat-inefficient, deeply hates the cold -- is Miles.

Searching the largely empty ship in the frigid atmosphere, half-expecting to come across a huddled figure around every corner, is made all the more disconcerting by slight movements in the shadows. In the meantime, Bel tries to find out who saw them last, but no good leads are generated.

December 9

As the crew settles into the new social scene prompted by the cold spell, Bel has been all over the ship several times. No sign of Miles -- or Loki, who also seems to be missing. Even Jane's new MID apps haven't been able to locate them.

If they're still on the ship, they must be somewhere unreadable. The deepening shadows, with their now-unmistakable whispers and movements, have everyone pairing up for any activities outside cabins or the library.

December 10

Now that Miles is back, reaction is setting in. Bel cuts down on walking the ship, keeping a careful eye on the MID for any alerts. Otherwise, though, it's time to answer late messages and take care of things closer to home.

[[Sorry for lagging behind on things! Intense thread + heavy workweek. Bel will be jumping into a lot of posts and tagbacks as soon as time and energy coincide; if you'd prefer something not be continued that's fine too. This is a quick catchall for activity during the period when Miles and Loki are missing, and immediately afterward. Please tag with date in subject line; feel free to rope Bel into other ship activities on the 8th, be roped into the increasingly concerned search for Miles and Loki on the 9th, or whatever works!]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

No MID signal. No answer to messages. And so far, no sign of their two missing persons.

Grim-faced, Bel puts in a video call to Wash. There's something they need to be sure of, before looking anywhere else.

Once that's done, it'll be time to check in on those ~~living~~ not missing. At least the library's not as cold as everywhere else.....

Edited 2015-12-15 23:48 (UTC)

It's the first time he's gotten a call directly to his MID, so it startles Wash, rightfully. Blinking down at the thing on his wrist, there's a second before he does anything about it. Then, cluing in, he answers it, only to see Bel on the screen.

"Hey," he greets, confusion clear on his face. But from the look on Bel's face, this isn't going to be a cheery conversation. Worried now, he continues; "What's wrong?"

It's been a couple days since Bel's been cheerful. The survival challenge had stopped being fun when people started disappearing, and so far, the only available response had been to search the ship, over and over (at least that's Bel's job anyway), and hope no one else fell off the map.

Bel smiles, though, a little wearily. Wash is a good guy, and a friendly face means a lot right now.

"Still looking." A wry quirk of the lips. Given that Bel had been asking everyone to keep a lookout for Miles and Loki for the last few days, there didn't seem much need for elaboration. "How are you holding out, Wash? Can I ask you a favor?"

[[I hope it's ok to assume they've been in touch in person? ^^]]

"Right." Wash nods in understanding. He knows Bel's worried about the two that are missing--and he is too, even if he's only met one of them officially. He's seen no sign of the two, and neither has anyone else--or at least, no one's said anything about it recently. From the look of Bel, though, no one's said anything at all.

"I'm about as fine as I can be, in the situation." He responds, glancing up and around the library where he's been holing up with most everyone else for warmth. His eyes come back to the MID at Bel's next question though. "Yeah, of course. What's up? What d'you need?"

[ ooc: totally okay! c: ]

"That's good." The fewer people suffering in this weather, the better. Bel considers how to phrase this, head tilting. "If you've got your armor on.... there's some ice I'd like to break. In the rec room. It's probably nothing, but could you come and lend a hand?" Or, well, a very heavy gauntlet.

[[Thanks! ^^]]

"I haven't got it on, but I can change that no problem." Wash replies, a curious and slightly worried look crossing his face. Breaking ice? So the pool in the rec room? But why? He's interested in knowing the reason behind the request, but he figures he can ask that when he gets there. Sitting up straighter, he nods to the camera.

"Yeah, I can help. I'll meet you in the rec room in...say, fifteen minutes?" It would take him about that long to put his armour on, honestly.

Bel's smile is tired and a bit odd, but the effort is genuine.

"No rush. The pool's not going anywhere. I'll see you there, okay?"

Bel's pacing the ledge near the deep end when Wash arrives, thoroughly bundled up in several layers of improvised cold-weather gear. Under a thick skin of ice, the lower four or five feet of the pool is still liquid, the underlayer glinting in the overhead lights.

Wash arrives pretty quickly, not wanting to waste any time, even if he's been told there's no rush. He's in his armour, as requested, and doesn't have to look far to spot Bel. Making his approach, he offers a small wave and comes to a stop nearby the other.

"Hey," he greets with a nod, then looks over at the pool, which he presumes is the ice he's been brought here to break. "So... You mind telling me why exactly we're doing this?"

Bel comes to a halt as Wash approaches, stance tight with some inward tension but nodding in welcome.

"I had a thought." Swallowing, voice still level, Bel waves at the deep end of the pool. "Ten to one it's just something that fell in the pool, but...."

Deep under the ice, visible only as a formless dark shape, something floats in the layer of open water, rocked now and then by the flow from the pool's pump. The size is hard to tell. About as large as a backpack, maybe. Or a small, curled-up person.

The low alto drops to a murmur. "Better to be sure, yes?"

Wash's gaze follows Bel's gesture and he spots the shape under all the ice. It takes him a little longer than it should to clue in just what Bel means, but when he does, he stands up straighter.

"You think someone fell in before it froze?" He asks, glancing back at the other, though he's already on his way to the other end of the pool to get a better look. And maybe get started on digging. If it really is a person, this is a more urgent matter than he realized. ...Although, anyone who might be under there is...definitely dead at this point. But still.

"Yeah, better to be sure. Definitely." He nods, hovering around the location right near the shape, trying to get a better look. Then, without further comment, he steps out onto the ice and keeps moving until he's directly over it and starts with a single stomp of his armoured foot, hoping that he's strong enough for this. They need someone more like Maine for something like this... But still, some of the ice cracks under his foot. It's just...going to take some work, is all.

"I hope not. Best case, we're left with a hole in the ice and cover it up with one of the tanning beds until the thaw starts." Bel's still stiff, staring at the gently moving shape. Miles already came back from the dead once, more impossibly than this; maybe there's hope yet. But back home, the brain would have been dead too long, shredded by frozen crystals without proper cryoprep.

Not that that would have stopped anyone. Everybody comes home. Even if only to whatever fate they'd requested for their body after death.

The stomp sends vibrations through the deck, and Bel walks around to the corner, checking the spread of the crack. Wash won't fall in -- there isn't enough water under there to make that a danger. The biggest risk is plunging the whole surface two feet down, displacing the water and crushing whatever's underneath. But if Wash strikes the ice while keeping the rest of his weight on the part that's frozen all the way down, it shouldn't be a problem.

"Got any cutting tools in that suit?" A plasma arc would sure come in handy. But if not, Wash is already doing fine.

Yeah, Wash hopes not, too. That'd be a terrible way to die, drowning and/or freezing. Hopefully it's just something from the rec room that got knocked under the water before things froze.

"Unfortunately not." Wash shakes his head, glancing back over at Bel. An apologetic look crosses his face, hidden behind his visor. "Closest to cutting tools that I've got are my guns." Which won't be much help here. So instead he goes ahead, carefully shifting himself so he won't fall in if he manages to break his way through, and gives the ice another good stomp. It cracks the ice some more, but it's going to take a lot of effort going this way.

Feeling a little helpless and a little good-for-nothing, Wash lifts his head and casts his gaze around the rec room, looking for something that might be of some use. And he actually spots something. Standing up straighter, he points over;

"You know, we could use some weights as improvisational tools," he comments, giving Bel a look to see if he thinks that's a good idea or not. Those have a better shot of actually digging a hole than stomping or punching the ice does, he thinks.

"Good thinking!" Bel nods quickly, striding over to have a look, and returning with a heavy pole held aloft.

"This. The ice is already cracked -- how heavy are your servos? Spear it deep as you can, then hammer it in. Make a couple of holes in a row and try stomping next to them."

Without armor, there's no way Bel's merely human strength can go through the sheet of ice. But Wash, his limbs shielded from the concussion of the blows needed, just might.

"I'll see what I can do." Wash nods, walking over and taking the pole from Bel. Seems like a better plan than just hammering at the ice until he makes a dent in it. Moving back over to the shape and the cracks in the ice, he hesitates for a moment, glancing around for a good place to start.

Finally he spots one. A crack that's open wide enough that he should be able to get the pole in with relative ease. Moving over toward it, he shoves the pole in with a fair amount of force, just to make sure it gets in there, then hammers down on it with his gauntlet, shoving it further into the ice. It seems to work, so with some difficulty, he pulls the pole back out and moves off to another spot.

He repeats the action a number of times, all around the area where the shape is below him. Once he feels like he's done it a sufficient number of times, he casts Bel a glance, almost like he's seeking approval or another suggestion, then looks back to his work. Drawing a breath, hoping that this works, he then lifts the pole out of the ice and gives the ground a good stomp.

That seems to do it. He hears the cracking before he sees it start to work, but once he does, he backs off away from the holes that he's made. The ice cracks inward and loosens, now floating in large chunks on the water below. Satisfied and in face actually quite thrilled with himself, Wash looks back at Bel with a grin hidden by his helmet.

"Let's check what's down there now."

Bel already has another pole in hand, a sheet of matting wrapped around it to protect their half-gloved hands, grimly levering blocks of ice aside and out of the water. The whole sheet settles a little, but doesn't break further, forcing the water further up into the hole. It takes some effort from the two of them, but finally there's a clear enough space to nudge the floating mass upward.

One of the ship's yoga mats, soggy and folding over where the pole catches it.

Panting, Bel stumbles back as the mat flops over out of the hole, already freezing to the surface of the ice. The pole drops with a clatter, spinning away. The face that lifts toward Wash wavers between elation and the shivering exhaustion of adrenaline draining away.

"Nobody. Good. Thank you." It had looked just Miles's size. He's still missing, not dead in the water. It's going to take Bel a moment to reorient.

When they get the thing up and it's not a body, Wash sighs with relief, almost laughs even with the amount of relief he feels that it's just a yoga mat that fucked with them. Grinning, he turns his head to look over at Bel, and his expression falters slightly seeing the state the other is in.

"No problem," he waves off the thanks, walking to the edge of the pool and climbing back up off the ice. His eyes remain on Bel, full of concern now--it's cold in here, and after exerting all that effort, they must be feeling the cold even more than before. "You okay, though? I'm thinking maybe we should head to the library and warm up."

He wants to ask just who Bel was expecting to find under the ice, but that can be asked at a later time. Right now he's just worried about his companion.

Bel rubs the sweat away with one forearm; it's already started to freeze. The hollowed-out feeling is familiar, nothing but a reaction after the exertion of nerves and effort. Despite the shaken feeling -- no answers, but not the worst answer -- there's a grateful smile for Wash. Good kid; he'd really come through. Bel would have been happy to take him on as a crewmate back home.

"Good thinking. Let's cover this up and get out of here." Whatever they put over the ice will just fall in when it melts, but the inconvenience is far preferable to letting a crewperson fall in now. "If we had more able bodies, I'd say to break it all up and leave it in the shower-rooms to drain later, but it might as well stay where it is."

And warming up in the library sounds really good.

"Right." Wash nods and quickly starts looking around for something to cover up the hole in the ice with. Quickly, because he wants to get Bel warmed up. He's fine, his armor keeps his body temperature at the norm, but Bel hasn't got that.

Humming to himself, he spots a pile of more yoga mats nearby and moves over to grab a couple. Then dropping back down onto the ice, he moves carefully toward the hole and, after setting the mats down behind himself, starts cautiously unrolling them and placing them over the hole.

"...These should work, I think?" He casts a questioning look Bel's way before continuing. The mats are a little short in some places to cover the hole, but in that situation, Wash makes sort of a patchwork pattern with them, laying them in the opposite direction of the others, using the mats beneath them as support. It's not the neatest job ever, but he manages to get the hole covered, and that's what's important, right?

Approximately three minutes after realizing Miles's name is back on the MID's map, Bel is pounding on the door to the Vorkabin.

Miles is currently rolled up in multiple layers of blankets, at least one stolen from Ivan's bunk, in an attempt to trap whatever scant warmth his feeble body can generate. Curre had taken care of the worst of the hypothermia, of course, but after a three-day diet of nothing but cold morgue chill and Loki's company, Miles is looking damn near emaciated, and that doesn't really help with the heat retention issue.

"Come in," he groans, unwilling to remove himself from the at least slightly warmer nest he's made of his bunk. Then he remembers that the cabin doors are thumbprint coded and, with another little groan, hauls himself out of bed and trundles over to the door, blankets trailing behind him like some absurd cape. He punches the door open and blinks tiredly up at Bel. Ah, of course.

"Hi, Bel," he says, too tired to transition back to the Betan accent, the words rolling out in hoarse gutturals instead and ending with a cold little sniff. He doesn't just look tired, he looks gaunt, his face framed pale in the blankets wrapped around him. "Want to come in?"

Gone for three days, turn up looking like shit, try to ride it out without telling anybody, what did Bel even expect.

"No," Bel growls, peremptorily bundling Miles tighter in the blankets and frog-marching him back to bed. "I want a magic portal back to my ship and a full medical workup for you, and then a couple of days in a sauna before I let you out again. By God...." Personal space is not a thing when another crewperson shows up in this kind of condition, much less when it's Miles. Working two fingers under the blanket to check his pulse, Bel can feel the bones sticking out of his face, and briefly gives in to the hammering relief that he probably hasn't been dead again, leaning against his forehead with the other arm tight around the blanket-wrapped shoulders.

"First of all, has Greg seen you? What do you need, besides heat? That's in short supply at the moment, but we're working on it."

Miles is too worn out to react in time, and so he suffers a good second or so delay, eyes going wide and bemused at the snarl in Bel's voice. "Bel," he yelps in surprise, rather lacking in dignity, as Bel all but shoves him back onto his bed. The several moments' confusion that roil in Miles' tired head fail to reconcile Bel's anger with their deep worry, and meanwhile Bel's sticking their hand under the blankets and pressing blessedly warm fingers to his neck. His own hand shoots up to his throat, nearly a reflexive tic by now -- checking for the scars he knows aren't there. His hand brushes against Bel's as he jerks it back under the blankets, shivering.

Once his brain has caught up to the situation his expression goes from shocked and confused to slightly less shocked and indignant. "Of course Gregor's seen me," Miles says hotly, "I've had a full medical workup, and what I need is for you to calm down! Good god, Bel, what's gotten into you?"

Okay, so, Gregor's reaction had been sort of similar, though with less growling and yelling, but Miles was sort of hoping they wouldn't all react this way.

As far as Bel's concerned, Miles has reacted just fine thank you for a man who looks like a skull poking out of a laundry heap and needs to be tucked in with a hot drink immediately. Ironic brows rise way, way up, and if Miles hasn't seen this expression on Bel in a while, it's probably a good thing.

"Good, if you say so, and this is as calm as it gets after three days of wondering if you accidentally fell off the ship." And searching it from end to end. Not to mention a couple of other missing people, in the middle of a partial life-support systems failure threatening a conscripted half-civilian crew. Maybe Miles knew they'd rise to the occasion, but Bel had to learn by experience.

Settling into a crouch beside the bed, hand still cradling Miles's face under the blanket, Bel studies him carefully, decides he doesn't look about to expire, and makes a quick mental calculation. There'd been an annoyingly small number of large metal objects suitable for temporary radiators, and few other options outside the library, which was one place Bel felt sure Miles would want to stay away from right now. With Breq missing, there are no more spare blankets in Bel's cabin either.

"You feel like ice," Bel remarks. Along with the obvious exhaustion and malnourishment, and the preexisting intolerance to cold which most of the Dendarii know about already. And they didn't even give him a better coat? "Is there anyone you want me to call for you?"

"God, Bel, I'm cold, not dying," Miles says irritably, even as he wriggles in the cocoon of blankets he's found himself trapped in. Very dignified, for a mercenary admiral. Even more dignified is the sniffling. Damn the cold. The temperature itself puts Miles in a bad mood, the relentless reminder of Camp Permafrost. And he can't even get through this by being drunk. His expression subdues, though, his head going limp against Bel's hand as his mouth twists into a frown, and he sighs.

"...I'm sorry about the radio silence," he says finally. His accent keeps wavering between the two, the dissonance struggling to reconcile, and Miles is too weary to just pick one and stick with it, or even think that hard about it. "It really wasn't intentional, you know. Things just got a bit...screwy."

His eyes are still a little dull, but his face brightens with some animation as he twists slightly under Bel to get a look up at their face. He has, at least, recovered enough of his good sense to try not to sit up just now. "Although you're really the one I wanted to talk to. I wanted to tell you about what I found in the morgue."

Did he mention he was in the morgue? Because he was in the morgue.

That'll be a no, then. "'m glad to hear it," Bel murmurs, thumbing the edge of the blanket down over Miles's forehead where their brows had met. That hand really wants to stay where it is now; it's rare to see the Admiral like this, unwound and trusting. "We'll talk about it later. I thought I'd lost you."

Which is more than Bel had meant to say too. Blame the cold, or the late hour, or the last couple of days, or any combination, though at least there's an easy solution for two of those things. Bel's mouth opens to suggest it, but then Miles tries to explain.

The morgue. Of course. Of all the dead zones on the new map, it would have to have been the morgue.

A moment's incredulity, and then Bel's head drops against Miles's swaddled shoulder, shaking with suppressed laughter. They'd left that tired semi-serious threat on Miles's dormant MID less than an hour ago. But he's not dead now, even if he had been then, and there are priorities.

"It's mutual, sir--" Catching a breath, Bel claps Miles's arm, unties their makeshift blanketcloak, and drapes it over the bed. The Dendarii jacket follows, and next two uniform jackets, two pairs of trousers, and the Moira-issued thermal, followed by all the blankets from the nearest bed -- Ivan's or Gregor's? Bel doesn't care. (Briefs and bra stay on, to spare Miles's delicate Barrayaran sensibilities -- it's not as though they haven't seen this much of each other from time to time while suiting up for a drop.) "Move over and tell me all about it while I get you warmed up."

Miles flushes at that tender touch to his forehead, discomfited by that painfully sincere moment. For all Bel's wicked humor, their attraction and affection toward Miles have never been anything but sincere and heartfelt -- which, he supposes in a sudden flash of insight, is perhaps why it discomfits him so much. It'd be easier if the attraction was only superficial -- Miles nearly snorts out loud at that absurd thought -- or some kind of sly joke, but Miles would have a difficult time pretending it was either. Miles' lips part to mouth some response to that, but that's about as far as his train of thought runs until it's derailed entirely by Bel's laughter. Ordinarily Miles has a bit more of a sense of humor about himself like this, but the cold has him in such a bad mood -- and with the image of Típota's corpse fresh in his mind, too -- that his expression goes sullen, mouth flattening and turned down at one corner.

"Bel," Miles starts hotly, winding up for some supremely annoyed remark, but whatever is to follow chokes and dies in his throat as Bel starts stripping down in front of him. Sometimes he forgets that Bel is just as much woman as they are man, if one preferred to think about it that way -- they always lean on the side of presenting androgynous-to-masculine, and at times it's easy to forget what Bel's body looks like beneath their uniform. Not...that he spends a lot of time thinking about Bel's body. He's seen Bel in this state of undress, sure, but never in this kind of context, and, it seems, context is everything. His more Barrayaran sensibilities rear their unfortunate heads in the absence of Admiral Naismith's smooth savoir faire, and his eyes widen slightly as color floods his face -- although it has the pleasant effect of bringing a little more life to his pale face, making him look slightly less than the half-thawed corpse that had dragged itself back here. He swallows thickly, his teeth chattering slightly as his voice totters bodily back into Barrayaran territory, his accent solidifying. "Bel, what -- are you doing? It's well below freezing in here!"

Edited 2015-12-15 13:08 (UTC)

Painful it was, leaving Bel glad of the excuse to laugh. Miles always shies away from such things, just as his respect for Bel's femininity can't override his discomfort with seeing too much of it. Oh, the superficial part is there too, in spades, along with so much more. But Miles responds to terrible jokes and deadpan irony, to Bel as a friend and colleague, with appreciation, delight, wicked humor, a welcoming smile.... It'll always be there, but sometimes it feels so much easier on both of them to stick to what makes him smile.

The line is drawn at letting him freeze, though.

"That's right," says Bel patiently (as much as is possible with skin already pricking with cold), touching one fold of the blanket -- an alert to the incoming cold as well as a silent apology for the necessity. If Miles had been waiting for someone to bring back a better solution, he would have said so in the first place. "That's why I'm getting in there with you. You'll thank me in the morning when you're not sneezing."

Edited 2015-12-15 21:48 (UTC)

Miles' face goes scarlet, an impressive feat considering how pale the rest of him still is. It's a kneejerk reaction, instinctive and thoughtless, a well of hot embarrassment that makes him uncharacteristically skittish, even after his wits catch up to him. And what is he so afraid of, really? What makes him shy away from it so hurriedly? What -- that Bel will press the issue and take advantage of this convenient situation? For all Bel's flirtations, the idea is really just insulting. Miles could never accuse Bel of impropriety on that level, of that sort of disrespect. However persistent they may be, Bel has always backed off on request. No, he....trusts Bel not to push that far. It'd be unfair not to. So why the hell is he so damned nervous?

Maybe it's just that he's too Barrayaran for this horseshit. His battle-forged trust in Bel doesn't make this situation any less uncomfortable. It'd be about as awkward if it were a woman stripping down to her undergarments and announcing her intentions to crawl into bed with him to keep him warm. Actually, that exact sort of thing had been the stuff of erotic fantasy when he'd been stuck at Camp Permafrost all those freezing months, where there hadn't been a woman for a hundred kilometers in either direction, and --

Ah, no. Miles abruptly steers his mind away from that territory.

He shivers when Bel pulls back the fold of the blanket, curling into a ball under what shelter remains, teeth chattering even as he protests. "I'm f-fine, Bel. If I were going to catch cold by now, you'd th-think the morgue would've done it."

Oh, right. The morgue. He keeps meaning to bring up the morgue.

And that's why Bel is going to be as businesslike as if it's a normal mission briefing, but for acknowledging the reaction with a small pained quirk of the lips. For all their bantering flirtations, there's always been that line. This far, no farther. Lean, but don't press. Admire, don't covet. Ask honestly; withdraw in good will. Years of facing tired innuendo from ignorant galactics is more than enough reason to hold those last boundaries sacred -- that Miles doesn't take that familiar, facetious route to cover his embarrassment, no 'didn't I read this holonovel once' or 'will you still respect me in the morning', still touches Bel deeply. ~~Even though it's a waste of a perfect opportunity to respond with "just pretend I'm Vorpatril.~"~~

The cold really is terrifying; a moment's brief exposure is enough to set off a bone-deep quaking in Bel's chest. Damn, should have put him in the top bunk, too late now.... Some heat does escape, despite best attempts to dive under the covers while exposing as little of Miles as possible to the open air. And it's definitely too cold in there already, though Bel shuts out the last seeping shreds of light by tucking the blankets back in. Once it's a little warmer, they can risk a small oxygen tunnel.

"I believe you, just don't wipe your nose on me." Hopefully that can't translate into some kind of innuendo -- even Bel can't think of a way it could. Of course, there's some brainfreeze to wait out.... "Make yourself comfortable--" wall side, room side, little spoon, face-to-face, it doesn't matter as long as it works. A brief glow lights the inside of the blanketnest as Bel taps out a quick MID message to Greg and Ivan, so their return won't spook Miles back out of the blankets.

"Tell me about the morgue, but first, were you with anybody else?" Loki is also back on the map now; if no one needs to be alerted to go warm him up, the rest of the night should be free. Not that Bel wouldn't be taking it anyway. And then they can talk about morgues ~~and carefully not think about having had a very similar fantasy life from time to time~~.

Edited 2015-12-17 00:33 (UTC)

Miles feels a twinge of guilt -- he sees the strain behind that little smile, knows Bel far too well not to, and he shifts in slight discomfort at that little pang. All right, fine. That's quite enough. This is a survival situation, not some steamy fantasy scenario, and he knows it. He struggles to smooth his features into something less horrendously awkward, but only succeeds halfway as Bel slides in next to him in the nest of blankets -- no, it looks like they're making a blanket tent -- or whatever -- tucking them in on all sides. It does trap the heat better.

"Do I look like a toddler to you?" Miles retorts, although the effect is rather ruined by the subsequent sniffle, however discreet he tries to make it. He shivers uncontrollably even after Bel tucks the blankets around them, even after only a little loss of heat. Under all the layers and blankets he's damn near emaciated from that impromptu three-day fast, barely able to retain any heat. No wonder he's practically blue in the lips as soon as the color fades from his face. Miles doesn't remember the last time he felt as thoroughly like shit as he does right now. Dagoola, it had to be.

Bel invites him to make himself comfortable, and Miles, tense and shivering and trying fervently to shove aside his kneejerk embarrassment, almost chokes out a laugh. He's about as comfortable as he can get, curled up tightly in a ball in an attempt to keep as warm as possible. He barely wants to move, let alone fuss over which side he's facing. He just wants to be warm, or at the very least a little less cold. After a moment of wavering, he shoves that nervous twitch aside with force and with a shallow breath, tucks in closer to Bel, head ducked against their shoulder. This isn't about this pride, or his -- whatever. Bel isn't doing this to tease him or wind him up; he might as well accept the favor with due respect, and god, yeah, he is really frigging cold. Even after their brief exposure to the cold, Bel is blessedly warm in comparison, a damn near furnace to Miles, and he huddles close, trying to control the shivers and his chattering teeth.

"Yes. I was with Loki." He grimaces. His voice still wavers, but ultimately the words roll out in the warm, now hoarse gutturals of his Barrayaran accent. "He doesn't need food or warmth or water to survive. Lucky son of a bitch."

Dammit, Miles.... If the bony, trembling body hadn't been enough, the words made quite clear what he'd been suffering for the past few days. "He can fend for himself, then," mutters Bel. One last Spacebook status -- L & MV found, all well, questions later. There. No MID interruptions from anyone who sees the missing people back on the map. Everyone else can just whistle until morning.

Determined to give him as much choice as possible, barring the option to opt out, Bel barely breathes until Miles is situated, glad the darkness is hiding them both again. There. He seems to be making his best attempt at becoming spherical. Bel curls around him as closely as possible, arms tight around his back and shoulders, cheek resting against his hair.

It won't be hard to keep this platonic, even with those rolling syllables tickling Bel's collarbone. Miles is so cold.

Miles shivers against Bel, going tense only for a moment when their arms go around him, his chest thudding with some frenetic nervous reaction -- this time he beats it back with a touch of agitation that it even cropped up at all. Bel is a friend, yes, but they're also a colleague. Miles knows how to be a professional. This shouldn't be awkward, not at this dire level of need, but there's still a catch in the breath Miles draws in to steady himself.

He realizes that this would have been somewhat less awkward if he'd managed to tuck his head a little higher against Bel. It hadn't seemed worth the effort to move at the time. As the cold slowly starts to recede, Bel's warmth seeping into his skin, he starts to really feel how frigging tired he his. He hasn't slept very much, or very well, in the last three days.

Miles is quiet for a few moment as the worst of the shivering starts to subside, the tension draining from his body bit by miniscule bit. Suddenly, without even having moved, he feels dizzy, exhausted. He swallows to steady himself, exhaling a slow breath against Bel's shoulder.

"We found something in the morgue. A body." Miles squeezes his eyes shut a moment. No shit you found a body in a morgue, you ass. "One of the captains'. She had to've been there at least a few days -- and you know, Típota, you never see her around as much, she usually keeps to her room or the Ingress..." Miles lets his voice trail off as his tired mind goes back to tearing that one apart. They'd locked the cabinet back up long before Cúrre found them, but he wonders how long it'll be before she realizes they've seen it.

Safely unseen in the dark, Bel's own eyes shut tightly, teeth clenching. Their own frame trembles a little with the chill; hopefully that's all Miles will notice. They've never pushed him this far before. That heartbreaking tension is the main reason why.

It's working, though. The shivering slows; the tightly wound body starts to relax. Bel rubs his back gently, both to generate a little friction and to stir the cold air away from them, and then settles back to just holding him as the tension seeps away. ~~Breasts are not the most embarrassing thing that could be happening here, but Bel's tired too, not to mention worn out with fear and relief.~~

The gallows-humor in the tired statement doesn't escape them, of course. "Really, a body in the morgue, what next?" Vorkosigan's accent makes it easier, really. Lord Miles, ha. You're safe. It's all right. But their body tightens again at the victim's name, before they force it to relax again.

"Típota's dead? Damn, that's why she hasn't been answering." It probably accounted for the rest of the captains' behavior too. A poor excuse, but an explanation. "I barely met her--" Only the once, in medbay they day they arrived. How well had Miles known her? And hadn't Breq been assigned as the Ingress Supervisor? Was this why she hadn't been around either? "Back up; why were you there?"

Miles feels Bel's body tighten around his, and he wonders if it's for the same reasons -- if Bel feels all this tension too, if it distracts them as much as it does him. On first thought, he can't imagine it -- smooth, shameless Bel, hot-blooded at some times, cool and collected at others... But Miles knows there's far more to Bel than their wicked humor and assertive conviction. He's seen flickers under that surface, the heartfelt sincerity behind their probing advances. He realizes, belatedly, that this probably isn't a party for Bel, either.

But he finds himself relaxing, at least as far as his cold-tense body will let him. Now that the warmth of Bel's body is starting to seep into his, more warmth made between them in the cocoon of blankets, he's just desperate for more heat, creeping toward the warmest he's felt in days. It isn't until just now that he begins to really appreciate the magnitude of what Bel's doing for him, and he feels like an ass for the way he's been reacting. It was one thing when Miles was Bel's superior and only saw them intermittently; here, that relationship is practically negated, the situation entirely different, and this stupid kneejerk response has to stop somewhere. It's no longer just about Miles' careful rejections of Bel's playful but earnest advances -- his reactions are reflexive, born of some internal discomfort he can't quite pin down. He's been in a foul, twitchy mood all month, sure -- the cold makes him frigging miserable -- but it goes further down than that.

Miles wasn't really expecting Bel's hand rubbing his back, but Miles can hardly object when he's so damn tired and it's helping to generate a little more warmth. He's been so interminably tense for days now, but he melts a little into the blankets, relaxing by degrees without pulling away. Even though Bel is cold themself, to Miles they are so very warm...

"I just wanted to see what was in there." It might have sounded like a smart remark if he didn't sound so damn tired. Instead it just comes out sounding vaguely childish. "After I -- "

He hesitates, hanging there a moment, but he figures Bel ought to have heard about his death by now, and if they don't -- he certainly owes it to them at this point. "After I died," he says finally, "and came out of cryo -- it just seemed...off. By all rights, I shouldn't even be here now. There wasn't even enough left of my body to reconstruct. It had something to do with the Ingress." It's still uncomfortable, talking about his dead body like this -- his previous body, it seems, collapsed into oblivion along with the rest of the planet. But he's glad to have the conversation to fill the space between them all the same, a distraction from the tension. "I wasn't the only one, either. We both came back despite extraordinary circumstances. So if that happens -- if we all just come back -- it kept nagging at me. I asked Captain Thán about it, but I got nothing but the usual cagey horseshit. I'm getting awfully tired of being given the runaround." He shrugs against Bel, letting out a shivering breath. "So I decided I'd take a look myself. I ran into Loki entirely by chance."

Knowing the exact reason for their own tension makes it so much easier to put it aside. That quiet ache is there anyway; why should this feel any different? (It does, but it shouldn't. It wouldn't be fair.) No, the intermittent trembling Miles feels is almost all because it's still cold in here. With a percentage set aside -- Bel's a tactile person, that's all -- for reactions to Miles's story. Deciding that this isn't the time to rag Miles for not leaving a note doesn't mean there isn't a long-suffering sigh or two softly punctuating the story.

The small body is still a heat sink, but it's worth it to feel Miles uncoiling, the ragged tension easing away. Shifting slightly to accommodate the change, so he sinks closer instead of falling away, Bel smooths a hand down his spine again, over the fabric of the altered ship's thermals. And doesn't think about the stiff brush of his hair under their cheek, the slow melt of his weight against them, the hopeless tingle in their bones at the slow, strange words and the memory of emotion flooding his face.... the wrong emotion entirely, dammit, there are so many others they've wished to see there someday.....

...definitely not thinking about any of that. Nope. Not when they can be thinking about the morgue.

Which is okay because Miles is here, slowly warming, fully alive.

Right?

"Ivan mentioned that," Bel mutters into Miles's hair. "I tried to--" track you down -- "look you up about it, but ship's business intervened, and then...." A shrug, settling in closer and wishing silence on all the chasing thoughts. Exhaustion of a different kind is settling in, now that the long days of searching are over, the heavy weight of fear released. That's all it is; all it can be. "Here we are."

It's more than Bel had known about the circumstances, though. I can't tell the difference. One impossibility on top of another; why should that be so surprising? "The horseshit is getting tiresome," they admit. "So the morgue was just the place to be that night? Does it only open from the outside?"

"Here we are," Miles agrees, the exhaustion creeping into his voice with a croak. He's quiet a moment, shivering against Bel with a tired sound, though not as violently as before. "No, it should've opened from the inside. Loki should've been able to open it. But for some reason he couldn't."

And what a fun realization that was. After that, any chance of them getting out undetected and without reprimand had dropped dramatically. "I don't know," he sighs, finally, more weariness creeping into his voice than he'd been intending to permit. Damn it. "Captain Cúrre found us a few days later and let us out -- gave us the full medical, of course, along with the reprimands. Don't think she knew what we'd seen -- Loki locked the cabinet right back up. Her body was...damaged, electrical damage, it looked like. She was intact, but -- it didn't look good. I don't know what it means," he finally admits. "Not yet. There's too much I'm still missing."

A few shivers still run through him, and he lets out a slow, controlled breath against Bel's skin, his forehead pressed to their shoulder. It's still damned cold in the room, he's still cold, but it's a tolerable cold, such a dramatic difference that it feels warm by comparison. Bel is like a furnace against his thawing body, their bare skin gently radiating heat. Even with a topic of conversation at hand, it's difficult to distract himself completely from the very here and now, or from the fact that his cheek is pressed against the strap of Bel's bra. He tries to twist his mind away from the dissonance, dizzy from it, but where there isn't physical tension, there is emotional -- he feels a twinge of guilt at not having told Bel about his death himself. He shouldn't have let them hear it from someone else, let alone Ivan. Ye gods, he can only imagine how tactless that was.

That, at least, he can address. That's one tension he can tackle, even if he has to wade through guilt to get to it. Much though Miles' face is pleasantly warm where it is, he figures he ought to look Bel in the eye for a proper apology -- and he does. When he lifts his head from Bel's shoulder he is very looking them in the eye. Well, it's not like Bel designed this blanket cocoon to be roomy. Miles licks at his lips, glad for the relative dark.

"I should have said something sooner." It still feels odd to be speaking to Bel with his Barrayaran accent, but the context of this all is strange, impossible to pin down. Miles looks tired and resigned, but the corner of his mouth tugs down regretfully. "It just seemed a lot to dump on you on your first day here, on top of everything else, and it'd only been a week since I got out of cryo then, so I thought I'd hold off, sit on it, and..." Miles blows out his breath slowly, tension drawing him in taut again, until he realizes it and lets it out with the breath. "I'm sorry you had to hear it from Ivan. No one should ever have to hear that kind of thing from Ivan."

Bel's still absently kneading Miles's back, a light, even motion they're barely even aware of. It's still inexplicable why Cúrre released him into the cold in his condition. No heated blankets even in medbay, for exactly this kind of circumstance? And people resurrected into bodies that no longer existed, but irreversible death waiting behind locked doors.... We're all going to die out here, one way or another. Ha -- but then they bring us back for more. Except Típota? Would they kill one of their own? What wouldn't they do?

There seems little to say to the rest of the story. Nothing but unknowns and ominous possibilities, things Miles would have had plenty of time to think about already.

But it doesn't feel so cold in here, anymore.

Eyes closed, slow breaths stirring the air between them, Miles's weight temperate and almost boneless now, Bel almost murmurs We broke the ice in the pool, looking for you. In a way, though, Miles's proactivity is reassuring. It's felt so strange to watch him quietly go about the business of his Moira rank and offices all month, as though he'd simply settled in. Why was it easier to imagine him staggering out of deadly peril, with a jaunty wave and some hot new intelligence to launch the rest of them into action? Say the word and we'll bust this thing wide open..... "I'll hold the door for you next time. Just count me in, will you? About time we get some answers."

Bel makes a small noise of protest as Miles moves, the dim light of their MIDS casting a glow over the blanket behind his head. They'd just begun to warm the place up.... But he isn't letting the chill back in after all. The gentle back-light and side-light picks out the lines of his pain-worn face, and his eyes glint in the dark, some faint reflection finding its way there. They're nearly nose to nose; his breath warms Bel's face.

The accent is a mercy -- the last thing Bel needs is to flash back to this during a mission when they get back home. But the guttural roll of the long syllables and the picture Miles makes, leaning close in the dim light, are definitely going to show up in Bel's dreams. Dammit.

He's tensing again as he gets the words out. Bel wants to do so many things about that, but settles for holding him as lightly as before, and the tension slowly fades. There is no context for this regretful explanation. It wouldn't have happened back home, between Naismith and his captain. A treacherous little corner of Bel's brain adds Then maybe we should hold more briefings in bed.... It's suddenly all too easy to understand why Miles needs to keep his two worlds separate, as ships space themselves apart during wormhole travel so that each might reemerge intact.

"We should work on our communication," Bel answers softly, the habitual irony faltering, impossible here. It's just what I did, on a smaller scale, if death can be measured against identity. "Miles. Thank you." A quiet huff of laughter. "Imagine, someday -- 'remember that time Ivan told me you'd been dead?' It could've been worse."

Edited 2015-12-30 19:17 (UTC)

Miles laughs hoarsely, a little weakly, but mostly from the physical exhaustion that's really starting to settle in. "You got it," he says, his accent wavering again, but this time he's too tired to catch it. "I could've used some backup there, it's true. Unfortunately, Ivan wouldn't have been good for anything, and Gregor would've just said no. And..." He runs out of steam as he runs out of excuses. Miles looks guilty, almost defeated. Betrayed by his own ego. "And I just wanted to do it myself." Just to prove I could.

A sigh escapes him as his head droops slightly, tipping forward. The last few wisps of his second wind are finally escaping him, his whole body starting to go limp against Bel. Part of him still struggles to hold on, if only on principle, or maybe just habit after these last few days. "Yeah," Miles croaks in diffident agreement, but his chest warms slightly from the inside at Bel's thanks. Miles half-grins but doesn't quite manage to laugh, his eyes half-lidding. "You're right," he agrees in a tired mumble. "I could've stayed dead."

"And left me to deal with your relatives alone," murmurs Bel, drawing Miles back down as his strength ebbs, head tipping back to let him rest more comfortably against their neck. "I can understand the temptation." The trapped air has started to feel tolerable. Bel's not shivering anymore, except on one quiet little sigh at that last dry, dark quip. Miles feels... good.

That there are even more ways it could have been worse just goes to show.... something about their priorities, probably? His whole career -- Bel's too -- is about facing situations anyone else would read as cosmic warnings to slow down and live more carefully. Why run when you could fly? Especially when all the world seems designed to keep you crawling?

The thing was, Miles wouldn't have done it back in the fleet. Admiral Naismith does delegate; he's past master at it. If this were a real undercover operation, he would have checked in.

"When Greg gets back from wherever he's gotten to, he's invited to join us. He can't say no to that." Bel waits half a beat, then adds, with perfect deadpan timing, "Too cold even for him."

Miles lets out a hoarse breath of a laugh at that, still shivering faintly, but he's feeling a little less frozen now, finally warming against Bel. It doesn't occur to him that having Gregor join this huddle pile might actually make things less awkward with Bel, although at this point he's too drowsy and comfortable to put up much of a fuss over it.

"Mm," he murmurs in agreement, letting his eyes slide closed. "Too cold even for Ivan, probably."

His voice trails off into a tired mumble as he exhales, going slack against Bel and pressing his face into their neck. The last few days have been such a nightmare, and he's felt like such utter shit, half-wasted away and nearly frozen through, and he's so immensely relieved to be done. He's bone-tired, aching all over, but this is better than he's felt in days, right here. His breathing slows, exhaling out on a drowsy sound as his head goes heavy against Bel's shoulder.

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December 8, various times

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December 9, late

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/accidentally a novel?

i love these novels :3c

i'm glad~~~

don't mind me i just wanted to fling one last tag on this