thisavrou_log | [ closed ] let me pour you the drink of my people

[ closed ] let me pour you the drink of my people

Who: Miles Vorkosigan & Bel Thorne
When: late...December...ish. 12/30 or 12/31??
Where: the bar
What: Miles gets Bel drunk on maple mead just to see what happens, gets a little more than he bargained for
Warnings: idk drunk shenanigans

Miles feels it's only fair that he take a couple of extra shifts at the bar, considering Jacky had to man it single-handedly while he was trapped in the morgue. Not to mention the week last month he'd been dead. Rather discourteous of him to not give notice, he finally agrees. He'll have to make sure he doesn't do it next time -- well, having given his word to Gregor, that's a pretty safe guarantee.

The extreme cold had indeed damaged some of the beer beyond repair, but Miles was delighted to find the maple mead intact. Well, with that alcohol content, it could probably survive anything. He'd had to run some hot water over the tap to get it to unfreeze, though. By the time people start trickling in, Miles has wiped the bar free of any lingering frost and polished a good number if glasses in prepration. Ah, to be busy again.

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"That," says Bel, leaning both elbows back against the bar with a mostly-convincing air of supercilious solemnity, "is not a secret." At least not to someone who's worked so many receptions alongside him as Bel has. Poor Miles, facing the Jacksonian barons without more than a drop in him.....

They're just about at a height, with Miles sitting on the barstool. Bel knows too many of Miles's moods for any amount of drink to distract from his bewilderment. Dammit, something's wrong, but... he's closing it off, saving it for later. Bel can't help but be glad. Falling-over-drunk is not the ideal state to deal with whatever put that look on his face.

Later. Good.

The solemn air drops almost immediately, crowded out by a thankful smile, the touch of irony softened by happiness as Miles's hand finds Bel's shoulder. Moving the glass from between them, Bel tucks an arm around Miles's back in turn, a comradely gesture, squeezing a little and then letting the hand fall back to the board. That's okay, right? Right here for you, Miles. Whatever it is, we'll work it out.

"Oh, yes." A small sip of the mead burns away the effort involved in moving. "In that rattletrap of a -- Arde's RG, with the Necklin rods. I tried to look your family up, you know, just out of curiosity, but just my luck, too many Betan Naismiths. How did it happen?"

Miles swallows slightly when Bel's hand slips around his back, but he doesn't flinch this time, oddly enough -- and Bel's withdrawn their hand just as quickly anyway. A little breath of relief escapes him when Bel permits themself to be distracted, and he tucks that uncomfortable revelation away for now, to ask Bel again when they're both more sober. His eyes glint with genuine delight at getting to repeat this story to Bel -- no half-truths, no lies of omission or otherwise, just a tale between friends. Friends, that's right. Miles might be the Admiral back home, and even a little here, if only between Bel and Miles, but functionally Naismith doesn't exist here. Just a bartender and interrogation officer, sharing old stories. Ha, sounds like the start of a bad joke.

"What, you never thought to look up Captain Cordelia Naismith?" Miles' grin flashes. "Yeah, we made it all the way from Beta to Tau Verde in that RG, if you can imagine it. But the story actually has its origins on Barrayar. Would you believe it all started when I broke both my legs jumping off a wall?"

Miles isn't sure how, but by the end of that story they're both sitting on the deck behind the bar, Bel's scarf wound around both their shoulders, the glass empty on the floor beside them. Miles is pretty sure he helped with that. "And that's how I avoided being executed for treason," he concludes with a lazy flourish of one hand. He's still speaking in the flat, irreverent tones of Admiral Naismith, got stuck on it somewhere along the telling. He struggles with himself momentarily over it, knowing he's edging into dangerous territory. But maybe a little Naismith is what he needs right now. "Saved only by my own wits and Ivan's insatiable seventeen-year-old sex drive. I guess I shouldn't give him such a hard time for it, saved my ass back there. I really put Gregor in a bad spot, though."

He heaves a sigh, more contented and nostalgic than anything, leaning against Bel's shoulder, and then he starts to straighten up, plucking at the scarf wrapped around them both and glancing at his MID. "Closing time," he announces, picking up the glass and reaching to put it on the lowest shelf at hand. He'll clean up tomorrow, before Jacky's next shift. He nudges Bel gently. "Come on, let's get you back to your cabin. I'm afraid I don't trust you to make it back on your own right now, Captain Thorne."

Edited 2016-01-10 20:40 (UTC)

For the most part, Bel had listened in avid fascination, gasping or cheering or laughing at the appropriate parts. The only temptation to interrupt was Cordelia's name; Bel's eyes had glinted at that, but Miles was on a roll and the opportunity passed. The part where Miles had stormed through the Ariel waxing so beautifully sarcastic about everything he found prompted a couple of asides (and/or peals of laughter). What a day that had been. Awful, exhausting, exhilarating.

The scarf had been to ward off the cold; it was important to stay warm, especially with the alcohol killing all pain. For some completely incomprehensible reason Miles hadn't wanted to cuddle up on Bel's lap and share body heat again (they both even have all their clothes on! Barrayarans, seriously), but Bel had insisted on the scarf and managed to get away with wrapping one arm snugly around him. He'd relaxed so beautifully, even if he'd kept up the Betan accent through the wrapup of his precipitous flight back to Barrayar and the subsequent incredibly Barrayaran proceedings.

"Seventeen," Bel marvels, cheek pressed once again on Miles's short dark hair. He fits so nicely this way. "I almost knew, rejuv'nation treatmen' my ass, but I thought... nineteen, twenty. Your age, I was still on Beta." Three glasses are definitely the limit, and then only if Miles is around to help. (Which he should be, always, based on the results of this experiment.) "Be proud, Miles. You had us all taken in. I was r'ly hoping you'd be real." Shifting slightly to look down at Miles, Bel winds up mumbling into his hair, an unintended but pleasant consequence. "Took a while, but you made it real."

The story is a more thorough introduction to Miles Vorkosigan than Bel had ever hoped for. Chaos, heartbreak, cultural extremes, but the same frantic mind and struggling body, the lightning tactician trained in a more bitter school than a Betan would have credited. Bel's mind is still whirling with it; there'll be questions later, after what decades of drinking experience foretells will be a killer hangover. They should both get some liquids in them. Non-alcoholic liquids.

"I c'n -- no, I can't--" Grinning suddenly, Bel becomes a complete deadweight. "Why did we invent gravity? Oh, do help me home, Miles, I don't think I have any more feet--" The helpless pretense collapses in a fit of giggles, Bel not quite following it to the ground as Miles tries to move. "'s okay, I really can." And Bel does manage to stand, albeit a little uncertainly. Wow, Miles is all the way down there now.

Edited 2016-01-10 20:46 (UTC)

They're being awfully cozy like this, but Miles supposes that after that night after the morgue, after Bel spent all night curled around Miles just to keep him warm when he'd spent three days starved of food, water, and warmth, those boundaries have been irrevocably changed for the both of them. Bel's breath is warm in his hair, and he shivers slightly, the skin at the back of his neck tingling, his chest warming.

"Of course I'm real," Miles says, and maybe it's just the maple mead but in that moment he hears himself speak in two voices, one Barrayaran, the other Betan. He grins a little lopsided. "Anything you can reach out and touch is real."

Is that, then, why he feels so off balance lately, so incomplete? He can't reach inside himself and touch, can't feel where one ends and the other begins, it's why he keeps them so separate. But the thought evaporates like so much steam when Bel half-collapses against him, giggling hysterically, and it pulls a laugh from Miles, too, before he can help himself. Miles helps Bel keep their balance as they get to their feet, one hand under Bel's arm, the other at the small of their back to brace them. He rises with them, managing not to stumble -- but then, he's not nearly as drunk as Bel is. He's still laughing as he straightens his back as much as he can, Bel's drunk but honest cheer highly infectious, and he throws an arm around Bel's back, too short to pull their arm over his shoulders. Wouldn't do much good, having to stoop down to lean on the person trying to give you a hand.

"You'll have feet again in the morning," Miles promises them with a grin, only a little wicked, deeply self-satisfied. This had started out as a friendly hazing ritual, just to see what'd happen -- it'd been worth it just for the look on Bel's face at their first taste of maple mead -- but by the end of it, he's no longer sure what he expected to get out of it. Just that he doesn't really regret it. He's a little drunk too, just enough for it to warm him from the inside and leave him more relaxed than he has been in weeks, but only a little. "You can pass out with great satisfaction once we get back to Nomo Deck, but until then, you'll just have to march, soldier."

"Damned good thing too." Bel sways a bit, leaning against Miles, managing well enough by gripping his shoulder; that's good, that's plenty of balance, with his arm about their waist like that. "Got you now. You're def'nitely real."

If only that had ever worked to hold Miles in place.

His laugh vibrates through Bel's side; the night's test has surely been passed. For whatever it's worth. Bel can't wait to look back on this with all faculties turned on again. "First m'boots, now m'feet. Sometimes you're th' only thing that makes sense on this ship. Ha, you 'n Greg. He'll always make sense." Feet are a bit more cooperative than mouth, fortunately; so far the one hasn't managed to end up inside the other, at least, and Bel's stride grows steadier, spine instinctively straighter, at the Admiral's word. March, soldier. Can do. Miles will give the word; until then, Bel can march forever.

Floating on that thought, it seems only moments before the door to Bel's cabin is opening. Didn't that only open to a fingerprint? Oh, apparently we have fingers, that explains it. There's a confused impression that Miles is still there, helping them into the room. Bel sways for a moment, looking up at their bunk. The top one, of course. That usually isn't a problem. Looks like it's the couch tonight, Miles. Sorry.

(Had they just said that out loud?)

That hand is warm on his shoulder, Bel's slender fingers curled around his shoulder as though there's no barrier of fabric between them. Distantly, Miles wonders when Bel's touch became something to lean into instead of flinch away from. He quickly snags a bottle of water from the back of the bar as he steers Bel back out of it, tucking it under his free arm.

"Gregor's the sensible sort," Miles agrees amiably, the smile hanging on his face with no effort at all. He lets Bel lean on him, guiding them at a gentle pace toward the lift. "It's why we keep him around."

When they reach Bel's cabin, Miles follows their gaze to the top bunk. Ah. No, that's the wrong route to take. A farcical image comes to mind of Miles attempting to help a considerably tanked Bel onto a top bunk with his meager height, ending in an undignified heap on the floor. "Couch it is," Miles says in response to Bel's unwittingly vocalized thought, steering Bel in that direction and seating them firmly on one side so they can lean against its arm. There. That way if Bel topples over, there's not very far for them to go. Miles climbs halfway up to Bel's bunk, surprisingly catlike even while tipsy, and snatches a pillow and the blanket before he climbs back down.

"Can you get your boots off?" he asks, very practically, as he tucks the pillow against the arm of the couch. The tone of his voice and the slight rise of his eyebrows implies he expects to get a no.

Yes, Miles's reflexes are coming along nicely. That's a good thing, right? It'll help his cover back home. Should've let me coach you back then, Miles. Nobody'll ever catch you out on your body language again.... "I like the top," says Bel distinctly, managing not to flop over sideways, "b'cause you have the best view. But down here's nice too." Yes, that certainly is a nice view of Miles climbing the ladder to Bel's bunk. And bringing down blankets and a pillow? They don't deserve him, they really don't.

A brief struggle with the Moira-issued boots confirm that no, that's not going to work. By the time Miles descends, though, Bel has shucked the Dendarii tunic and folded it over the back of the couch. The Moira uniform jacket is still distressingly tight up top, but there's the grey trousers and the black trousers too. Clothes. So complex. Words, too. Bel shrugs, waving a hand in a gesture that's supposed to mean something, probably. It's okay. Miles will help.

Well, at least the heat on the ship isn't malfunctioning in the other direction, everything swelteringly hot, so that Miles doesn't have to strip Bel down to briefs and bra -- not that he hasn't seen Bel in undress before. He gives Bel a placid raise of his eyebrows and shakes out the blanket, though his soft-focused eyes are amused. Tonight has been unexpectedly...what, exactly? Enjoyable? Honest? Comfortable? Miles huffs out a soft laugh, folding the blanket next to Bel.

"Down here's probably for the best," he says, dropping to a crouch to unfasten Bel's boots so they can kick them off. "I don't need to worry about you rolling out of bed and hitting the floor like a sack of bricks." Giving one boot a good tug, he looks back up at Bel with look of softer curiosity, tilting his head. He nods in the vague direction of Bel's torso. "You couldn't exchange that for a women's top? I mean -- it just seems like that'd be more comfortable."

Bel glances down at the top, as if surprised it's still there, and looks away as the question works through. "People assume." Body language changes when a crewperson is faced with a girlish bosom instead of an ambiguously fastened tunic. Responses change. Assumptions change. Bel's job on board is already almost a nullity. Too much of the galaxy reads "woman" as the same thing; it's only been for a few years that Bel's relaxed enough to read as feminine occasionally on shipboard, where they're well known, and the Dendarii uniform is specifically tailored for the effect they want; and this is a new ship. And honestly? Bel wants the questions. Questions mean someone cares about getting it right.

Shrugging, Bel looks back down at Miles in gentle appreciation for his help, leaving the issue for... whenever. This has been too good a night to let galactic gender prejudice mar it.

One of the boots hits the floor as Bel struggles with the neckline, finally unfastening it enough for a plain undertunic (along with the aforementioned bosom) to show underneath, arms working out of the sleeves. It's an awkward procedure, especially with warmth rising to their cheeks that has nothing to do with the mead. Miles is so good. Always caring, always helping, always looking out for them. Some Vor woman's going to be really lucky, someday. Maybe a certain Fleet woman already is, if there's anything to the rumors. Sorry, Quinnie. Wasn't my idea. I'll bring him back safe, I promise....

The Moira uniform finally slips over Bel's head, to be folded with somewhat less care and shoved toward the other end of the couch. The undershirt, riding up over the right hip, lets a smooth line of skin show, scored with an electrical pattern of thin black lines curving around from Bel's back and disappearing under their waistband, like an unfinished tattoo.

Edited (.....oops past tense in the wrong place!) 2016-01-11 02:10 (UTC)

Ah. Of course. Miles knows well the cost that comes with the assumptions of others -- how it can be when you know you can't control what they see, but only how they see it. He should have known that had something to do with it, that it couldn't possibly just be neglect or ignorance on Bel''s part. Bel's too smart for that, far too aware. Miles suddenly feels a flicker of shame for having asked.

He doesn't say anything in response to that except a hum of acknowledgment, one he thinks will speak louder than words to Bel. He tugs off Bel's other boot and sets it aside with the other, glancing back up at Bel as he braces one hand against the couch next to Bel to pull himself up -- just as the hem of Bel's undershirt hitches up, just enough to show the strange black scarring underneath.

Miles has seen it before, on Clark's arm, Hiro's face. He knows what it looks like. He goes still where he is, before he can haul himself up, and his hand goes to Bel's hip before he can stop himself, his stomach doing a little flip as his fingers close over it. Acting without thinking -- maple mead, surely. His hand seizes, but he doesn't withdraw it, even after he looks back up at Bel, the easy grin replaced with a look of open concern.

"Bel," Miles says slowly, "what happened?"

He knows what happened. He knows what must have happened. What he wants to know is why Bel didn't tell him, because he totally doesn't have double standards or anything.

Bel's just about done in, and that hum of quiet understanding, comforting and caring and nonjudgmental, is almost too much. Flopping over into the thoughtfully provided pillow, the mercenary stretches from spine to fingertips, wishing -- and then there's a hand right there, warm-cool-warm over the scarred skin--

Betan to the bone, Bel lays still and peaceful for a moment, no flinch or twitch in evidence: just a long sigh into the pillow. It would be so nice just to let the touch remain; only the knowledge that it's Miles's hand gets them to move at all. That the hand stays brings the heat back to Bel's cheeks as they hitch up on one elbow, hair mussed, a hand moving automatically to rest gently over his smaller one.

The look on his face almost prods them out of the sleepy alcoholic haze. There's something there that will have to be dealt with later, when they're both awake and sober. Bel's only coherent enough to motion vaguely in the direction of the corridor. Miles knew what had been out there; he'd helped lock it up. "Thing? Got me early on. Din' even see it." They'd seen it later, of course, stalking the halls in vain with other monster-hunters. Ugly beast. And to think it had once been someone like them.... But Miles looks so worried, and he needn't be -- Bel hadn't been the only victim; plenty of people bore the mark. They'd all woken up in the infirmary. Aside from the scar, there was no harm done.

Shifting, hoping irrationally that Miles's hand would just stay where it was for a while, Bel reached up to curl reassuring fingers around Miles's jaw. "'s okay. 's gone now. Miles...?" The association was muddled, but the question itself was simple enough, something Bel had wondered for a while but had never found the right time to ask. "You'n Elli, 'd you get together back 'n Earth?"

Maybe it'd be easier if Bel were embarrassed at that touch, if they'd react the way Miles would expect himself to. But that long sigh, some twist of want and resignation, sinks into him, and his gaze shifts back to his hand on Bel's hip. Suddenly their skin seems to burn into his fingers. But Bel's laconic answer draws a frown from him.

"So why didn't you tell -- " That sentence ends on a sharp inward breath as Bel's fingers curl around his jaw, that warm, sleepy look still on their face, and color rises in his face again, unbidden. Miles' hand hovers.

The question comes so out of left field that Miles is nearly coldcocked, tensing as his expression shifts into a look of utter bewilderment before the question really catches up to him. "What?" He blinks in slightly sluggish noncomprehension at Bel. "Why do you ask?"

....oh, Miles wants to be told things like this? After the whole thing with the morgue?

Drunk or not, Bel recognizes irony when it's standing right there with its hand on their hip, looking so very, very shellshocked. What happened to all that maple mead you had, Miles? No, Bel's not embarrassed at all.

Smiling sweetly, Bel asks, "'s it a secret?"

Edited 2016-01-11 04:37 (UTC)

Miles blinks again, flushes a little darker, looking something like some odd chimera of sheepish and deer in the headlights. It's the maple mead that's slowing him down, making him act without thinking, on -- not instinct. Something else. He can't seem to shake it. He hovers there still, mouth open, throat working, but still on a second's delay.

"I -- yes. Sort of. In theory," Miles finally admits lamely. There's a difference between keeping the professional and personal separate -- which they have, dammit -- and keeping a very good secret. Naismith had to get sloppy somewhere along the line eventually, he thinks glumly. After a beat of hesitation, he starts to pull his hand away, wincing. "How obvious?"

...good God, Admiral, stop being adorable.

And there it was. Elli'd finally made it -- honestly, after watching the two of them on the Triumph, Bel had been expecting this.

"Sorta~" Bel grins. "Good f'r you."

It's another thing to talk about after the hangover wears off. The Admiral's Betan, but Miles is not, but Elli's dating Naismith, unless they've decided otherwise....? Too many questions to answer tonight. But Bel's always Betan, so maybe it isn't a total surprise when they lean in against the other side of Miles's neck, lips at the edge of his jaw. Not quite a nuzzle, not quite a kiss.

"G'night, Miles." It's a husky murmur against his skin, and Bel's sinking back to the couch almost at once, sleepily reaching for the blanket; it's that or fall asleep on Miles's neck, which would be lovely but impractical. "Thanks.... f' all. This."

Edited 2016-01-11 17:53 (UTC)

Bel's lips graze over his skin, their breath warm, and Miles goes entirely red, flinching only slightly and largely out of surprise, this time. He watches Bel fall back against the couch and exhales slowly. Maple mead, right. That's what's responsible for the odd warmth in his chest and the strange prickling of his skin. Certainly it's responsible for the relatively calm response to all of it. Miles gently tugs the blanket along with Bel's grip to drape it a little more neatly over them.

"Don't mention it," Miles says softly, tucking the bottle of water next to them. "Just try to get some liquids in you and get yourself some sleep." He smiles crookedly. "Promise I won't com you too early."

He's inflicted enough friendly cruelty on Bel for a while. Pausing to make sure Bel's tucked warmly enough in, Miles hits the lights and escapes silently into the corridor.

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[ closed ] let me pour you the drink of my people

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