It's probably just the maple mead blunting his usual edge, but Bel genuinely startles Miles when they vault unexpectedly over the bar to land next to one of the stepstools Miles usually stands on just to be able to see over the bar, let alone tend it. In fact, it's a pretty neat landing even with the swaying. The fact that Bel didn't break anything is a bonus. He half-jerks back in surprise, but a stuttering breath of a laugh escapes him anyway. Bel's unmitigated drunken chipper is almost helplessly endearing. Maybe they don't need that third glass of maple mead. Well, it's already been poured; no sense in letting it go to waste.
But that moment flickers out again almost immediately. Green Squad Taura? Green Squad? Unless there've been some personnel changes no one notified him about, there's no Sergeant Taura on Green Squad. Miles feels that knot of dread tighten in his chest, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. No freefall here -- this is all gravity, inescapable. Has he just discovered another hole in his memory? He searches what's there frantically, comes up empty for anything with the name Taura. Just like he came up empty trying to remember what happened on Kyril Island, who his CO had been back there. He has to know, has to fill in the cracks with secondhand knowledge if nothing else.
Miles looks at Bel, at that bright, soft-focused light in their eyes, warm and close and most definitely drunk, and decides this isn't the time. He can't spring this on Bel now, not like this -- a bad time to drop bad news, especially news that makes Miles inclined to panic, and besides that -- he's reluctant to spoil this good mood. He doesn't know exaclty how they came about this odd place of honesty except by way of maple mead, and he finds himself surprisingly reluctant to let go of it just yet.
He shoves that growing feeling of dread aside and the slightly nauseated look on his face with it, forcing a smile and wrenching it into place. A little easier, unexpectedly, with Bel this close, though it comes with that tightening of his chest he's always taken as some other kind of discomfited panic. Mistook, maybe. Miles' gaze strays to Bel's glass. Maybe he ought to help Bel with that last drink.
"Nothing. It's alright. Just the maple mead." His grin widens slightly, far more convincingly, a touch sardonic. "Now you know yet another well-guarded Dendarii secret -- that the Admiral is a terrible featherweight." There, ply Bel away from any worry with a little levity, or so he hopes. He leans his side against the bar, hand out to Bel's shoulder to keep them from swaying any farther. "Besides, don't you want to hear how I got from my grandmother's flat on Beta Colony all the way to a war zone in Tau Verde?"
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But that moment flickers out again almost immediately. Green Squad Taura? Green Squad? Unless there've been some personnel changes no one notified him about, there's no Sergeant Taura on Green Squad. Miles feels that knot of dread tighten in his chest, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. No freefall here -- this is all gravity, inescapable. Has he just discovered another hole in his memory? He searches what's there frantically, comes up empty for anything with the name Taura. Just like he came up empty trying to remember what happened on Kyril Island, who his CO had been back there. He has to know, has to fill in the cracks with secondhand knowledge if nothing else.
Miles looks at Bel, at that bright, soft-focused light in their eyes, warm and close and most definitely drunk, and decides this isn't the time. He can't spring this on Bel now, not like this -- a bad time to drop bad news, especially news that makes Miles inclined to panic, and besides that -- he's reluctant to spoil this good mood. He doesn't know exaclty how they came about this odd place of honesty except by way of maple mead, and he finds himself surprisingly reluctant to let go of it just yet.
He shoves that growing feeling of dread aside and the slightly nauseated look on his face with it, forcing a smile and wrenching it into place. A little easier, unexpectedly, with Bel this close, though it comes with that tightening of his chest he's always taken as some other kind of discomfited panic. Mistook, maybe. Miles' gaze strays to Bel's glass. Maybe he ought to help Bel with that last drink.
"Nothing. It's alright. Just the maple mead." His grin widens slightly, far more convincingly, a touch sardonic. "Now you know yet another well-guarded Dendarii secret -- that the Admiral is a terrible featherweight." There, ply Bel away from any worry with a little levity, or so he hopes. He leans his side against the bar, hand out to Bel's shoulder to keep them from swaying any farther. "Besides, don't you want to hear how I got from my grandmother's flat on Beta Colony all the way to a war zone in Tau Verde?"