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

[forwardmomentum]

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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[forwardmomentum]

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."

[hellsbel]

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.

[forwardmomentum]

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.

[hellsbel]

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?"

[forwardmomentum]

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?"

[hellsbel]

....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?"

[forwardmomentum]

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?"

[hellsbel]

...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."

[forwardmomentum]

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.