thisavrou_log | shut up and keep running [closed]

shut up and keep running [closed]

Who: Miles and Bel
When: 1/13
Where: Harashan
What: Miles and Bel use their "date" as an opportunity for recon, get in a bar brawl, and then Miles, being Miles, acts on impulse
Warnings: MAYHEM

Being around Bel is liberating in a way, opening a window back to Admiral Naismith that Miles had damn near tried painting shut. He misses it, more than he'd care to admit -- being no one but Lieutenant Miles Vorkosigan, ImpSec courier, no command experience under his belt, fairly unremarkable service record, is goddamn stifling. Especially here. Miles had denied it at the time, but Bel was right: this place needs Admiral Naismith. No, boy, it's that you need Admiral Naismith in this place...

It's impossible to deny that he feels strangely deficient without Naismith to lean on. He hadn't needed that before, on Barrayar -- but then, that had been on Barrayar. He'd had Barrayar to lean on. Was it just that Barrayar filled in all the cracks in Lieutenant Lord Miles Vorkosigan, where he failed to exist, because -- what? Admiral Naismith had eaten up those places where he was supposed to be whole? The Dendarii aren't here, either, but Bel is, at least. The whole thing's been giving Miles an increasingly bad headache, the recursive trains of thought carving up circular tracks in his mind, but more than anything, he knows he doesn't have his feet on steady ground right now, a little less every day. God forbid anyone knows it. He'll get it together, he tells himself. He's almost got the hang of it.

And 'getting the hang of it' totally means wearing his Barrayaran uniform on the way down to the planet and changing into his Dendarii dress grays once he's well away from the docks. Why not indulge that temptation when he's with Bel, of all people, and far away from the rest of the crew? He exits the public washroom he'd ducked into to change with a small bag slung over his shoulder -- looks touristy enough -- and tugs at the collar of his Dendarii uniform to straighten it a little. He wishes he could straighten the crooked admiral's insignia, too, but he'd probably have to take it to Harry for that, and that would likely require some kind of explanation... Miles chases that thought away and glances up at Bel with a grin.

"Shall we?"

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"Oh, yes."

While the Barrayaran uniform had its good points, Bel had had to sigh a little in appreciation at the first sight of Miles emerging from the changing area in all his Dendarii splendor. And on the tactical side, the grey-and-whites had no obvious connections to the Moira, and while two people wearing it might attract curiosity, one could easily be disregarded as an alien eccentric.

Using the time wisely, Bel had meanwihle purchased a glossy earth-red shoulder bag to hold their ship's clothes. The yellow-and-white sarong worn over skin-tight cerulean leggings, along with a fringed blue crop-top jacket, completed an ensemble that most of the crew probably wouldn't recognize them in back upstairs.

"What'll it be first?" The MID was another clear connection to the ship, but Bel had hidden their own under a decorative cloth wristlet. "Culture or the underworld?"

Oh, and what a good look for Bel that is. Miles is momentarily stunned, the briefest hesitation and widening of his eyes before it passes. He's never seen Bel dressed anything like this before. Varying states of undress, sure, uniforms and fatigues and combat armor, the occasional civilian outfit, but never like this. It's almost elegant in its relative simplicity on Bel's lithe frame, the colors bringing out the warm light of their eyes, and the word beautiful skitters frantically through his mind before it disappears around a corner.

His grin brightens then, raking a hand through his hair to comb it into place in one last check before they get on with the evening. Recon, right. They've got this. Miles adjusts his tunic, glancing down at the new leg braces Hiro had made him. A prototype, at least, something they were still refining. So far, not too bad, Miles has to say. Certainly a lot sleeker-looking than the utilitarian braces he'd grown up with, the matte black finish offsetting the velvet Dendarii grays nicely.

"Culture first," Miles says with a decisive nod. "Let's make our way down from the top. Less legwork to climb back up later, particularly if any alcohol is involved."

Not that he's planning on drinking anything -- much -- he knows how weak his tolerance is. The drinking's just for appearances, or so he intends, anyway.

Edited 2016-01-23 23:41 (UTC)

Not Bel's fault Miles would never agree to go on personal leave together back home.~

The reaction is brief, blink-and-you'll-miss-it territory. But Bel's made a career of knowing the Admiral's reactions, reading between and around the lines he so carefully draws. They've talked it over already: this isn't a real date, just a recon mission; even if the creepy mandatory dating quiz had put the two of them together, it couldn't possibly have meant anything. They've both agreed to pay it no mind. Even if the flicker of appreciation had been something Miles could tolerate in himself, his heart is on Barrayar, where Bel could never join him. Forever's never been an option. And even if Bel does love him, always has... well, even a stopped chronometer thinks it's right once a day.

It doesn't mean Bel doesn't intend to thoroughly enjoy their investigative foray into the planet's nightlife. It isn't real, but what that means is that Miles is free to enjoy it, and Bel's free to delight in that. With a cheeky grin, Bel tucks their hand under his arm, shading eyes from the low sun as they step out into the street.

"Sounds good. There's a jet-setting club in the nice part of town -- alien love-seekers or invitation only. Our IDs'll get us in. Good food, great music, all we have to do is listen to their sales pitch during dinner. We might turn up something interesting poking into the corners."

[[because my brain was fried yesterday, the sarong is yellow-*blue*, not yellow-white; oops. XD; All the blues go with each other!]]

Miles' eyes flick down to Bel's hand on his arm, but he only grins a little broader, straightening up and crooking his arm a little more squarely in an exaggerated posture of gentlemanliness. This is the first time he and Bel have ever forayed into anything like this kind of atmosphere together -- if he could remember Taura and Jackson's Whole, he'd remember that party where they'd met Nicol, but that's all lost to the ether and the Ingress, a hole burned away in his memory.

"Knew I could trust you to pick out the best spots," Miles says approvingly, gray eyes glinting. After only half a second's consideration, he shifts his voice from the warm gutturals of Barrayar into that flat Betan accent, his entire demeanor livening as he does. So he can't be Admiral Naismith on board the Moira -- why the hell can't he down here? He hates the whiplash, but he's felt so stifled, so incomplete lately, that it's a relief, a short-lived palliative to the near-constant existential headache that's been plaguing him lately. Besides, he tells himself, they're about as incognito as they can get for this. Why not take that extra step and be someone else entirely -- and someone with so much more savoir faire than Lord Vorkosigan?

"Lead on, Captain Thorne." Miles smirks. "It's been a while since we've had any real fun."

"What are friends for?" Bel murmurs, a wicked glint in their eye. They're going to tell him the whole story of that party, if they can find time during their investigations. The part about Taura had been the most important, but there are... other aspects of that mission that he should know about, preferably right from the source.

There's a delighted little flutter in Bel's stomach as Miles takes the cue with perfect savoir faire. Back on Jackson's Whole, they'd been two officers taking in an arms dealer's soiree; this is different, intelligence-gathering or not. It seldom feels safe to let this side show, but it always is with him.

"They haven't got a bad transit system either," Bel remarks, pressing a key-button on the roadside kiosk that calls up a car. Miles's braces could probably take him the whole way, but why not go in style and spare his bones? ~~Even if dancing isn't an option, later on.~~ "There's one of these at every corner, and they have some advanced algorithms for calculating how big their fleet needs to be and how many cabs are deployed -- look, here it comes; that was quick!"

"Well, damn," Miles says, a little astonished as the car pulls right up with a neat stop, its doors opening automatically. He waves Bel on in first, following suit with his arm still hooked under Bel's hand, and the doors close. "I'll admit, I was so distracted by this planet's bizarre fixation with genetic and romantic matchmaking that I hadn't really given any thought to what other technology they might be packing here. Caducus Primary was very differently civilized, but this place seems industrial enough that you'd think they'd focus on something more..." He waves a hand, wrinkling his nose. "Then again, I guess they do make a killing in this business."

Thán had about confirmed as much, and at any rate, it's obvious that the place is flourishing. The car moves at a swift speed as soon as they take off, the brief jolt unbalancing Miles for a moment. It isn't long before they've arrived at the lounge, and the car zips off just as soon as it's dropped them off, leaving them in front of the lounge and its surprisingly formidable-looking bouncers. Miles raises an eyebrow up at Bel and grins. "Let's go get a drink."

There's no driver, just a pleasantly sterile cockpit up front -- clearly for show, too small for a full-sized adult to fit behind the inactive steering panel. Always keen to compare advanced municipal facilities, Bel leans forward and watches the car's little digital map as they move from one end of Harashan to the other, glancing at Miles from time to time to get his reaction. They had this on Earth and Komarr, didn't they?

"Reminds me of a Tau Cetan ferris-plant." It's comfortable, tucked next to Miles like this. "Ingenious rotating petals and stamens, giving the flies a free ride to the nectar." A sardonic smirk. The aesthetic is timeless, even in benign civilizations: convenience you can trust implicitly, as long as you ignore the fact of being a commodity of the system rather than a consumer. Make the flies comfortable enough, and they never notice the walls closing in.....

As they flash their IDs at the bouncers, Bel almost forgets and meets their cool gaze, one professional to another. That's not what they'd expect from harmless civilians, though. Batting eyes sweetly, Bel looks back down at Miles. "I wonder if they have anything made out of sugars."

Miles glances up at Bel sharply, but he merely flashes a brilliant grin as they move past the security professionals guarding the entrance to the club to melt into the crowd of well-dressed, drink-holding elite mingling in the dusky light. As much as Miles ever blends in anywhere, although in a place like this, sticking out isn't the worst thing, either.

"In the mood for something sweet, Bel?" Miles inquires, eyes glittering as they shoulder their way toward the bar. He can barely see over it. Ah, damn. So much for savoir faire. Bel is more than making up for it, though, striking as it looks in that simple ensemble. It keeps catching Miles' attention, more than Bel usually does, the way they look in that sarong -- same as he's always seen them, and yet somehow in sharper relief. "I think that can be arranged."

"Always,~" Bel murmurs, leaning fluidly against the bar, eyes twinkling. "Might as well see what the trees on this planet can do. And how about yourself?" The sultry tone isn't just for show; there are too few chances to indulge in this kind of banter. It takes someone special to really reciprocate. "I don't see anyone we know in here. We'll just have to make some new friends, won't we?"

That near-purr in Bel's voice sends a warm flutter through Miles before even really registers it, and he grins at that look in their eyes. Alright, so things have been strange between them -- there's been tension, there's no doubt about that, and Miles still feels like he's wading through muddled territory, still sorting it all out in his head -- but that's no reason not to have fun. He enjoys Bel's company, he always has, and just because they're on a date for cover, they can still have a good time.

"You know me, Bel," Miles says with a smirk, "I love making new friends." He swings himself up onto a barstool to prop a jaunty elbow onto the bar, waving at the bartender. "Hey, how's about you get my lovely partner and I a drink, eh?"

God, he missed being Naismith.

It isn't long before another couple joins them at the bar to mingle, chat up some tourists -- they're locals, apparently, or at least have been for some time. Moved to the planet after they were matched by Link'd. They seem a little...too settled to Miles, who's just unnerved by the whole damn thing.

It's fun. That's the only word. They work the room together, never dropping the same story twice, drifting from couple to couple before it's time to sit down and listen to the sales pitch. Bel tries to keep a straight face through that, but three minutes of the gooey promises and flights of fancy have them shifting, nudging Miles under the table with their knee at the particularly fulsome parts in lieu of breaking into raucous laughter or asking pointed, awkward questions. Wouldn't it be nice to have Nicol's second set of hands right now....

They escape easily afterward, the light meal as good as promised and perfectly suited to get them through the next few hours of pub-crawling. A balcony club is next, pretty people and tourists mingling in the evening air, and then a rave, low lights and strobing music, a scene as diverse and uninhibited as any back on Beta. (Which fits right in with the advanced, sterile, docile municipality. They've found a great big nothing so far, fewer facts and more gulls than Bel's seen on any mission back home. Link's "unique service" can't possibly be as real as they all think it is. Where's the catch in all this shining splendor?)

With Miles's new-old bones, a hard night's dancing is out of the question, but it's fine to take a twirl through the crowd, just to get its measure. With Bel to steer and Miles to assess, they'll have what they needed by the time they reach the opposite wall.

And Miles.... he's blazing.

It's a revelation even to Bel, how much of himself he keeps under wraps as Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan, humble bartender and personnel-shuffler. They'd finally met the little lord under unusual circumstances, and it had made sense there would be some allowance for that, but it's clearer than ever that it's not just the situation. They're both still real, the same man where it counts, but Miles on shipboard is Miles holding back. Why would he have to, out here?

Edited 2016-01-25 12:35 (UTC)

And he doesn't have to. It was one thing to slip back into the familiar old mannerisms of Admiral Naismith in the privacy of moments between himself and Bel, but out here, in the endless sea of night and anonymous crowds, where the chances of into any of the Moira crew in this densely populated city are negligible, he doesn't have to hold back at all. It feels good to cut loose, to be no-holds-barred Miles, the Miles with all the savoir faire and swagger, who operates in crowds with a confidence so aggressive it borders on arrogance. Nothing but a manic grin on his face so electric it seems to bring a whole new light of life to his face entirely.

And it is fun. It might even be the most fun Miles has had since the Ingress pitched him out of his world and into the Moira. Certainly the most excitement that didn't land him in mortal peril, at least. It entails a certain kind of closeness with Bel he's never experienced before they came to the Moira, even since then, something that seems to pick up its trail from that night in the bar, Bel drunk and leaning on him, giggling in his ear, those lips on his jaw...

For the most part, he's not distracted by the memory; the pretense keeps him busy, this couples act he and Bel seem to be executing perfectly. They've always worked well together, and this is no different, the two of them in perfect sync, laughing and smiling at all the right points, the perfect level of eye contact, the casual touches to his leg or Bel's, Bel's arm around his shoulders, the affectionate jabs and jokes. It's easy, startlingly so, but they're no strangers to undercover work, so why shouldn't it be? The fact that every little touch from Bel still sends a small flutter through Miles' stomach, the way he can't stop himself from grinning every time Bel's face lights up with the prelude to some wickedly funny comment or another, it's all just tribute to their skill. It even does something to alleviate the growing frustration that despite their wild success with their cover, they've turned up absolutely jack shit.

The longer the night goes on, the less necessary it seems to disengage in the privacy of moments away from the crowds, the more comfortable Miles is with keeping an arm around Bel's waist as they saunter their way from bar to bar, from club to club. The light in Bel's eyes helps, magnetic in its glittering warmth, and that usual confident Naismith smile hardly slips from his face.

They've finally made their way down to the lower end of the nightlife eschelon, landing themselves in a low-lit dive bar on the other end of the city from where they'd started. As with everything else, Bel had picked a prime spot, the smoky atmosphere of the bar the perfect place for the sort of gossip they're hunting for. Or at least it should be, like all the others. Well, Miles reflects distantly as they slip inside, at least it looks entertaining and the music's alright. He cranes his neck to see around the place, taking stock of the crowd as they shoulder their way to the bar. "Sixth time's the charm, right?" he remarks to Bel with a sardonic twitch of his lips.

He shouldn't have to back up on the ship, either. Who'd know, other than Gregor and Ivan, who know already? But Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan has been cautious, wary, reserving himself, watching and waiting and enduring, and it's not as though Bel's never seen the Admiral take that tack -- but never for longer than a few hours at a time, until some kind of leverage could be obtained. Before that talk with Greg, Bel had had no reason to assume he wasn't just taking more care than usual because no backup could be expected from either side. But home is where you go to be yourself. How can they demand that he be other than this?

It's a question for when they're all back where they both belong, facing one another across their tea with hands kept punctiliously at a professional distance though theirs will always tingle now, fitted by memory to the planes and angles of his body. Or sooner, before this new, tenuous rapport folds itself into the past along with the paradoxical freedom of their distance from the fleet.

Not now, though. Later. Now is for the two of them.

There's no maple-mead glow tonight, no fuzzy did-that-just-happen; Miles's arm is warm and tight around them, everything so clear and real it's damn near painful, the barely-present buzz from the drinks they hadn't really taken adding vibrancy to colors, textures, tastes. Presenting so unabashedly feminine comes with its own set of social expectations and reactions, made even more difficult with the added layer of alien strangeness to the gender-role equation -- are these people of human stock, or something else entirely? -- but the two of them manage. And they've never synced so well, even on Jackson's Whole. Bel's not even slightly sorry for the gleaming polish the night has put on Miles's reflexes, but it's more than that: a thrilling synergy, a dance all its own without words or music, perfectly apportioned between them.

It's the best recon Bel's ever taken part in. Not a date, so it wouldn't be fair to Miles (everywhere at once, blending lies and truth with supernatural ease, to say outright how much they've been enjoying it, but they'd both have thrown themselves into almost any other cover story just as deeply. It isn't in either of them to do anything by halves.

"Or something," Bel murmurs, with a wicked smile. 'Charm' doesn't quite cover the noisome aura of the place. "There must be someone here in whom Cupid's outsourced arsenal misses its mark. What do you think -- should we be a jaded mismatch, each pretending we're not looking for broader skies, or--" leaning comfortably down, mouth at his hairline -- "just make 'em all jealous?"

"If only we could find a missed mark who actually knew anything," Miles murmurs, though the grin hasn't really slipped off his face, his eyes still alive with some electric energy. He shivers involuntarily at Bel's mouth so close to his skin, close enough to warm it with their breath, and he lets out a breathless laugh. "Oh, yes, let's -- " he starts with a manic grin, eyes flashing -- and then a chair goes sailing through the bar to smash against the wall just a scant couple of meters away from Bel and Miles, and all hell breaks loose.

Who caused the fight or what did is not the first question on Miles' mind as he shifts immediately into combat mode, although they rank highly enough. This isn't really a combat situation, not by Bel and Miles' usual standards, but it might as well be, given the sudden chaos erupting in the room. Miles' hand pulls back from Bel's waist as he swivels around, his back to Bel's, narrowly avoiding becoming collateral damage of a wild swing of someone's fist with a sharp duck. They seem to be standing in the most unfortunate place in the middle of the bar, caught right in the middle as half the bar scuttles away to the walls and corners. The cause of the fight isn't apparent, but it hardly matters -- Miles can single out two parties of conflict -- no, three. His eyes flick across the room, sizing things up. They'll be mistaken for associates of any one of them, none of them to their benefit.

"No stunners," Miles orders, shifting gears into Admiral Naismith more completely than he has in his entire time on the Moira. These are civilians, this barely qualifies as self-defense, and for all their distancing themselves from the Moira by way of their uniforms, the last thing they need is to get tangled up with the local authorities. "Head for the door. Let's not get swept up in this."

Except that a snarling tangle of three patrons all making desperate grabs for one another throw themselves in Miles and Bel's path, a little too close for comfort. A little too late, maybe.

The extra flush over Miles's sharp cheekbones looks so damn good. He'll get over it and it'll all be another great tool in his arsenal, but Bel gets to be here for this -- he's letting Bel be here for this, the shiver and that low breathless purr and the barely banked energy lighting him from within, restless and reckless as wind-chased sky. The word beautiful flickers in the back of Bel's mind, again, always, as it has for years upon years....

--and then something crashes nearby, LOUDLY and far too close for comfort, wood splintering and bodies exploding away from the wreckage, slamming into one another, voices shrill. Bel lets out a curse that wouldn't be out of place in any woman's mouth (if she happened to be a Betan and/or a career mercenary), automatically sweeping Miles behind them into a position at least defensive against the brawlers in front.

The bag of Moira uniforms, too soft to be weaponized, isn't a very effective shield for Miles either; Bel's alive to his every movement, pressed against their back. At least four really earnest knots of fighters are visible from their slightly taller vantage point, and at least half the other patrons seem delighted to take sides.

Bel drives a vicious elbow into the bicep of a red-eyed stranger lunging for their neck, the unprovoked attack as apparently earnest as it is random, and hooks the arm around the man's own neck to throw him into the path of another charging sot. Down they go, like bowling pins, and it takes a couple of kicks and some fancy stepping to avoid their clutching hands -- go down in a mess like this and the only recourse is to stay down. There's a stretch of wall nearby with no obstructive tables in the way, though they'll have to go through actual people to reach it. Helpful things, walls; they leave no room for an attack from behind.

But the shoulder Bel had twisted just weeks before doesn't even twinge. They can get through this. It's just a brawl. Bel's other arm is flung back to cover Miles, sweeping him away from the nearest tangle (Miles and his braces, and his fragile, friable bones -- anyone who touches him isn't getting that hand back....) and they throw him a heady grin at the order. "What stunners?" -- ignoring the one tucked into their bag for just this sort of purpose, which Miles knows all about, along with whatever arms he's doubtlessly contrived to stow about his person. Breaking cover is for real danger, not this. "Who goes armed on a date?"

(He would. So would they. And just about everyone they know. Sometimes Bel really loves their life.)

Miles laughs at that with a crackle to his voice like a live wire, a thrill he hasn't felt in a long time. He's been in plenty of dangerous situations during his tenure on the Moira, but kidnappings and rescue and evacs and monsters don't bring the same thrill as a good old fight. Miles knows he's not front liner, he's known that for ages -- that's not the Admiral's job, no matter how combat proficient he's come to be despite his brittle bones. The Admiral commands, directs, delegates.

The Admiral also really likes a little adrenaline rush.

Bel's right to put Miles in the most defensive position they can, although that isn't much. Miles deftly fends off a few blows, even judo flipping a man who insisted on some grappling attempt. He tumbles back into a few other guys -- not friends of his, Miles gathers, by the way they immediately begin pounding him to the floor. He bites his teeth together in a grunt as he just barely fails to avoid a glancing blow to his jaw -- not hard enough to break it, to Miles' enormous relief, but hard enough to hurt. It'll probably bruise, later, as will the half dozen other near-misses, scrapes and the occasional scratch, but given the utter chaos in the room, he isn't making out too badly. And fighting with Bel like this is a thrill. He doesn't need to see Bel, barely even needs to speak to them -- their solid warmth at his back is enough to sustain that dangerous light in Miles' eyes, that heady pump of adrenaline. He lets out a breathless laugh as they finally make it to the wall, still close, still incredibly in sync. Miles ducks his head away from the tumult enough to peer down along the wall, spotting the wooden back door intended for employee use only -- blocked by enough agitated patrons in a fight or looking for one to make for a challenge. But they could fight their way through, working together like this, a waltz of fists and elbows and breathless energy.

Miles jerks up his chin at Bel, his teeth bared in a wild grin. "May I have this dance?"

Thought you'd never ask. There's a shiver under Bel's breastbone, the words too flippant, too true, not enough. Time was that Miles would never have led with that kind of straight line, to spare them both his discomfort with all the obvious answers. You already have it. Been saving it just for you.... Only a fool would trade that exhilarated grin for a bit of flippant repartee. Bel grins down over one shoulder, fierce and eager, pressing back against Miles in wordless accord. "Let's go."

They've trained together, covered this situation before; Bel has complete faith in Miles's skill, but his durability is less reliable, enough to medically bar him from a good chunk of the fleet's catalogue of standard offensive moves. With the wall protecting them on one side, Bel can take point, knifing under incoming fists, distracting brawlers who won't think to look down until it's too late. And a dance it is, no matter which way they're facing, every shift and sway a flawlessly enacted signal.

Deflect everything, guard Miles, get him through. He can to handle anything that manages to slip under Bel's guard. This is going to work.

They reach their target in a whirl of motion, Bel's sarong pulled down to the waist (the flash of deep red bra-strap distracting the hapless attacker enough to get headbutted in the nose), the bruise on Miles's cheek already starting to show. Bel's fairly sure the Do Not Enter sign falls off the door when they slam it behind them. A wordless whoop of triumph gets them through the store-room and out into a back alley, where an increasingly-audible claxon, universal siren response to a public disturbance, sends them pelting down the nearest street, retreating onto a darkened riverside path several blocks over as a couple of security vehicles flash by.

Bel had managed to zip up the half-jacket as they'd run for it, the dark electric marks of the lightning-scar catching dim light just above the sarong. A brief silence, crouched beside Miles in the dark, panting and listening for pursuit -- one eye throbbing from that headbutt, probably starting to puff; ice might be a good idea when they get back up to the ship.

The sirens fade and stop. Bel can almost hear the bar's outraged clientele protesting this official interruption to their normal mode of business. And Miles -- close beside them, just as winded but sounding unhurt.... if they'd learned anything at all, this might be the perfect end to a perfect evening.

As it is, Bel sinks lower against an old expanse of brick wall bordering the path and dissolves into helpless laughter.

It's all run together in a blur of adrenaline and seamless action by the time they bust out the door, Miles' gait hardly faltering as they take a sharp turn into the alley, the pounding of his heart drowning out the hard thud of his boots on pavement. This is the adrenaline rush he's been denying his craving for, that refreshing taste of no-holds-barred Naismith and the Dendarii with only half the danger and hardly any of the consequences. It's almost a pity, that. The potential consequences, when evaded, always make it that much better.

And working with Bel -- when's the last time they did anything like that? Jackon's Whole, apparently, but Miles doesn't remember that. It reminds him of the very first time they'd met back in Tau Verde, all those years ago, that frantic chain of events inspired mainly by Miles' desire to cover his own ass and keep everyone intact but it had grown into something truly glorious, carried by that rush for weeks and weeks and weeks. They've come so far from the desperate, good-intentioned adolescent and that plucky lieutenant, both with something to prove, both still trying to prove it -- and succeeding, at least to one another. Miles remembers the way Bel's eyes had lit up back then, and he saw that same glow on Bel's face in the bar, face lit up like a live wire, breathless and stealing breath.

By the time they finally skid to a stop Miles' chest is burning with exhilaration, clasping at a stitch in his side both in pain and laughter. He doubles over in front of Bel, panting, trying to catch his breath but failing to succeed for all the adrenaline-edged giggles that keep escaping him. "Son of a bitch," Miles gasps, giddy, his face flushed and his eyes alive, gleaming. "I thought you were going to turn that entire bar inside out, Bel, you should've seen -- "

Should've seen indeed. Most of the rest is fading into a blur now, but Bel stands out bright and sharp, the way they looked every bit alive as Miles feels now, the way they'd moved, so close and fluid and unhesitating. They've still got that glow about them now, collapsed against the wall with their sarong pulled down to the hips, that black scar like a tattoo winding its way around Bel's side. Miles' gaze snags on it and the memory of that night a few weeks ago springs to his mind unbidden, the curve of Bel's hip under his fingers, their lips on his jaw, feather light. He shivers. His gaze shifts back to Bel's face and his eyes focus instead on the warm brown eyes, the sharp angle of their jaw, those lips, and he wonders if he's really only seeing Bel for the first time like this or if it's been willful ignorance all these years.

Whatever it is, it doesn't matter, because Miles' mind hasn't even caught up to him enough to raise any kind of hesitant objection before he finds himself leaning forward, still breathing hard. His fingers slide over Bel's cheek, curling around their jaw, and his breath hitches in his throat as he presses his mouth to theirs.

They'd evaded The Law, at least. The mental picture of Harashan security sweeping them both up with the drunken brawlers, mug-shots to reside in the planet's security network for decades, vidcalls back upstairs, would the captains come down to bail them out or would it be Gregor meeting their sheepish faces with one of his expressions -- that last is enough to send Bel off into fresh peals of laughter. They certainly have had a lucky escape.

"Oh, no." Bel looks up, eyes shining. "That would have taken at least another twenty minutes." Miles's face is shadowed, a halo of street-lit leaves and brickwork behind him; Bel can see the glint of light in his eyes, the harrowed lines around his mouth pulled into that delighted, proud grin. Breathtaking all by itself, to have that look from him -- "God, your face when they started throwing chairs, I can't believe this place -- was it you who threw that one in the back--?" Miles had enjoyed the ruckus as much as Bel had, the release of pent-up frustration and seething knowledge that there had to be something to find, so why couldn't they find it? But they will, Bel's certain, and it'll just be that much more satisfying. Nothing can escape the Admiral when this fey mood is on him.

There would have been no mission like this back home. No one else would have felt at ease with Bel in a skirt, or signed up for something like this intending to stay professionally hands-off or believing Bel capable of the same. (Mostly, anyway. Steadying Miles as he doubles over his aching ribs doesn't count, surely, or drawing him closer with the happy discovery that it's just a knot in his side.) Miles would have, even at seventeen, God, so long ago, building a command on nothing but spit and nerve and the will to make it work, make it right. He'd always expected the best, worried about his shipmaster's quality of life instead of fearing the theoretical horrors of unleashed Betan sexuality. So, Trainee Thorne, you think you're fit to command a warship, eh? -- I won't interfere unless you get in over your head....

His laughter is laced with that familiar mad delight, exhilarating in itself, eyes seeing so sharply it leaves Bel lightheaded just to be caught in that look. His fingers find Bel's face, probably to check the bruise. Sweet, caring Miles, understanding Bel's instinctive lean into his hand, the touch so gentle all the same.

And then he--

It's real, no accidental slip or observers to convince, no dream Bel's woken from too many times to count. Wide brown eyes slip closed, a small, shocked, euphoric sound muffled against Miles's lips, melting against him without a first thought. The little Admiral's had his captain's Betan instincts close to the surface anyway, despite years away from the old sandbox, and this blows right past all their scoffing at the ritualized matching algorithms and the care they'd both taken to remember what this downside trip was really for.

Neither of them have ever done things by halves.

Bel's hands slide up Miles's arms to his shoulders, barely managing to stay there instead of curling around to his back, leaving the initiative with him. His chin is rough, his mouth soft and scorching, heat blossoming in a rolling wave from every point of contact, and Bel has no thought but to take care with him, let him take his time, make this good. Bel's side of this door has been wide open for years, no knock required if Miles should choose to step through. He can pull away if he needs to, and for as long as he doesn't, Bel will gladly give him reasons otherwise.

Bel's mouth is warm against his, and that sound they make sends a shiver through Miles, eliciting one in return that's just as stunned, just as pleased, eyelids fluttering shut. He realizes only now that he's been wondering what Bel might taste like since that night with the maple mead and that odd moment of physical intimacy in Bel's room, and he can hardly be dissatisfied with the answer. He feels warm all over, his belly doing a neat flip at the adrenaline-inspired novelty of it, and his lips part against Bel's as his knuckles brush against their throat just below their jawline, fingers slipping into the short hair at the base of Bel's neck...

The realization doesn't settle in until he's already half pulled back for a breather, and it comes with a sharp gasp as Miles' eyes go wide and shellshocked, freezing in place there, his hand still at the back of Bel's neck, his face only a hand's width from theirs. Was that -- did he just -- oh, god. Oh, hell. Miles licks at his lips nervously, tastes Bel, and swallows hard. His lips part again, but he doesn't seem to manage any words, any sound at all. It figures that the only person to shock Miles Vorkosigan would be Miles Vorkosigan himself.

His throat works, and after a painful moment he finally gets his voice working into an uncharacteristic stammer, his accent wavering. "Sorry, I -- I-I didn't -- " He pulls away with a hesitant step back, but not so fast as to yank himself away from Bel, the gleam of panic in his eyes. He straightens as much as the stitch in his side will allow him, hands grasping at empty air. "That -- I -- sorry, I, uh -- let's, um, call it a -- I -- I'm sorry, I should -- I have to go -- "

It had all happened too fast. A helpless shiver at the brush of his knuckles, the fingers in Bel's hair, and oh, that sound, Bel's heard so many emotions in that voice over the years but this was something different, something beautiful -- another shuddering sound of encouragement, mingling awe and welcome as they meet each other open-mouthed, hands caressing his jawline, and it's so good, they could do this forever....

...except it had come out of nowhere, hadn't it, even more nowhere than is usual for Miles's bright ideas, and they'd both specifically planned not to take this seriously, hadn't they--?

The thought struggles into Bel's consciousness just as Miles pulls back for air. They should check, make sure -- but he freezes, everything going cold all at once. No ambiguity about that. Something still leaps in Bel's throat as he licks his lips, but -- he's upset, he didn't mean it, it was a mistake -- damn, damn, shouldn't have gone with it--

Bel's hands drop immediately, a shaky breath and wide eyes the only outward signs of the sudden, sick freefall. The sharp face sets, fingers twitching as though to reach for those unsteady hands again, but falling still, closing empty. Physical comfort is right out, however well-meant.

"I--" There's a momentary uncharacteristic stammer in Bel's low alto too. "Shouldn't have assumed--" A swallow, mouth still tingling, eyes drawn back to Miles's lips but lifting quickly to meet his gaze, how had that happened -- "I won't say I haven't wanted you to do that for years, but it's -- it doesn't have to be anything." Miles... "...Sir--" We're both just that good at our jobs. It's true, but it's not why this happened. If it needs to be swept under the carpet, they can do that honestly.

Shall I see you home--?

A bitter thought, but it's late, they're both on foot and visibly bruised in an unknown part of the city, Miles's bones can't be taking this well, and he's winded and distressed -- neither of them have been exactly thinking straight, but leaving him alone isn't an option. Even if Bel's the last person who should be with him right now.

Rising, pulling the loose upper half of the sarong back over one shoulder, Bel adjusts the strap of the red bag and glances around. The path seems to lead up to another street, where, perhaps, Miles can get transportation without being obviously connected to the recent incident.

"This way. Let's call it a night and get you back to the ship. I'll stay -- I meant to try out one of the hotels uptown."

Oh, god. The last thing Miles was interested in was to hurt Bel in any way -- maybe not hurt, but embarrass, certainly, and that might be just as bad -- but Bel's stunned stammering just as painful to watch as Miles' must be for them, and MIles' hands open and close around empty air as if fumbling for some way to repair the broken comfort between them. If he hadn't reacted that way -- if he hadn't panicked -- if you hadn't kissed Bel --

Damn. Damn it. He shouldn't have let the adrenaline get the better of him, shouldn't have let anything get the better of him before he'd figured all this out, what all this strange tension with Bel really meant for him. But in the moment, he'd kissed Bel. He's still reeling from it.

Shouldn't have assumed. "No, you didn't -- it's not -- " Miles' breath hitches in his throat and he swallows again, trying to untie the heavy knot forming in his stomach, but he can't think of anything to say to it doesn't have to mean anything that wouldn't make all of this worse. He recognizes the out for what it is and takes it. "Right," he breathes, dropping his shoulders, trying not to look guilty but not altogether succeeding. "Sorry. Right. Yes."

He's not sure if Bel's prior intent to stay the night planetside is a face-saving fiction, but in the end it doesn't really matter; it serves its purpose. The intervening time between the immediate aftermath of that kiss and Miles and Bel parting ways is damn near unbearable, Miles trapped in a roiling pit of confusion and shame and uncertain emotion. He bids Bel a hurried but entirely sincere goodnight the second they part ways and all but bolts, stopping only to throw his Barrayaran dress greens back on and shove Naismith back in the bag before he runs back to his cabin.

Embarrassment isn't even on the table; nothing has happened tonight that Bel wouldn't do over again, ideally at length in a nicer setting -- except responding too quickly not to take what had happened at face value. That... that'd be a takeback, if possible. Maybe a do-over. But no way comes to mind that would have eased how Miles is taking it.

Bel almost speaks again as Miles pauses, but he's still searching for words. Even now he's trying to make it easier on both of them; it's a visceral pain not to be able to take his hands and reassure him. And then he's agreeing, going with it: Bel's uncertain what the "yes" and "right" actually apply to, but -- there's no way close enough to the subject to really need to know.

One thing, though, can't be let by. A quick headshake at the meek words, the bowed back -- "Don't be sorry." It's the third time he'd said it, and he's done nothing wrong ~~even if he thinks he has, damned reflexes, damned backwards Barrayar...~~. "Especially not for something you're so good at--" A wince, realizing how that might have gone over -- damned reflexes. None of it had been a joke, but Bel would really like an acceptable reason to smile about it.

They reach the nearest kiosk in quick-time, Bel a pace or two behind, taking advantage of the position to readjust the sarong into a dress-wrap under the jacket without further distracting Miles. Everything's shipshape by the time the car turns the corner and pulls toward them; the nervous earnestness in Miles's farewell catches painfully at Bel's heart.

Bel's already remotely checked in to one of Harashan's less fancy hotels, one that probably won't have surveillance or mind its guests' comings and goings. A car from a different kiosk will further confuse their digital footprint. But parting like this, so uneasy after that incredibly synergy, feels so wrong..... Pulled an uncertain step forward, in the brief moment before the car whisks him away, Bel gestures briefly to the blooming colors around their eye, smile dry and rueful but just as earnest as he'd been.

"See you back on board. Miles -- I had a good time."

Wherever this goes, it's something he should know.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

shut up and keep running [closed]

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accidental novel again??

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SLAMS DOWN THIS NOVEL

RIGHT BACK ATCHA

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