[closed]

[skelepun]

Who: Sans and Miles (and Steven + Papyrus!)
When: 21st
Where: Harashan, to start.
What: The first bimonthly meeting of the itty bitty brittle bones committee.
Warnings: An excess of determination.


Emiri was, in Sans' opinion, one of the last places he wanted to be. The travel ban was frustrating enough without the obvious unrest quite literally written on the walls of Harashan, warning all passersby of whatever vague threat Link'd Inc. posed. If Sans was sure of one thing, it's that they should have left long ago.

But hey! He was just the janitor, right? Who was he to meddle in the affairs of those much, much higher up the food chain. It sounded like a whole lot of effort. Better to leave it to the Miles Vorkosigans of the world and keep his nasal bone out of other people's business. It was a good, solid plan. For a little while, anyway.

"Sir?"

Sans looked up lazily from where he leaned against the wall, unsurprised to see the voice belonged to some sort of police officer. Beaming, Sans hoped he looked as unassuming as he felt.

"Morning, officers." He saluted, grateful he thought to wear his Moira uniform today. Whatever distance he could get from this local conflict, the better. "Just taking in some air."

They gestured to the wall directly behind him, diving immediately into a series of rapid fire questions. Sans filtered them out easily enough, turning to squint at the graffiti. Something about the children. After his run in with a little girl in St. Murtel, Sans couldn't really blame the city for getting antsy about protecting its kids. That said: still really, really not his problem.

Unfortunately, the police disagreed. Pretty forcefully, actually. Any attempts to explain that, no, Sans was not responsible for the cryptic message were met with disbelief at best and veiled threats at worst. Getting dusted on this hellhole, where his brother would never know what happened to him? That wasn't an option. Resisting in any way wasn't an option.

The holding cell was about as hospitable as you could imagine, but Sans thanked the guards with all the veiled contempt he could muster. None of them appreciated his crack about cell phones. Their loss. What Sans did know is that he would eventually be led out of the holding cell, into a much smaller room, and then questioned in regards to his involvement with the Komai.

The tone used wasn't very reassuring.

So, really, what better time to catch a nap?

Comments

[forwardmomentum]

Whatever he might do on the Moira, whatever physical limitations his ill-developed body presented him, Miles has never been much of a desk jockey. Anything but. Ordinarily he'd be pacing by now, but he hasn't quite worked himself up to pulling his weight away from the wall yet.

"Me? This is business as usual for me." His grin sharpens, and he draws in another long breath, exhaling slowly. His fingers dig into his uniform to ground himself. He's getting there. "What I want to know is what you did. You never struck me as the type to get mixed in with this kind of trouble. I figured you'd avoid something like this at all costs like you do with everything."

[skelepun]

"Wrong place, wrong time. It's almost like humans don't like monsters or something. Who knew that was universal, right?" The tone of Sans's voice suggested that he knew, but he wouldn't linger on that particular sore spot.

"But you pretty much got me pegged, Manganese. I'm just your average lazybones." His grin seemed to get wider, somehow. Self-deprecation wasn't the word so much as objective assessment. "Rocking other people's boats isn't exactly my style."

[forwardmomentum]

"You must find the Moira crew a refreshing bunch, then," Miles says mildly, taking note of that tone in Sans' voice. Even if Sans wasn't all that popular, it's for anyone on the crew to be too judgmental when they all live among aliens and dragons and gods. The monsters fit in just fine. Miles watches the shifts in Sans' expression, and then he blows out his breath and pulls himself away from the wall. He sways a little, then shakes it off, still cradling his broken arm.

"Consider your own boat rocked. And, if we don't get ourselves out of here soon, possibly capsized." His gaze settles on a vent on the wall behind Sans, well above them up by the ceiling. Then he glances down at his broken arm and frowns. That's going to be a real pain in the ass.

[skelepun]

"You're alright, I guess." He winked, cheerfully signaling his unwillingness to talk any further on the subject. A month on the Moira with a largely baffled (if kind) crew wasn't enough to erase those dusty human hands from his memory.

On the plus side, it meant a few dickish security guards barely blipped Sans' radar.

"N' hey, I don't mean to be pushy or anything, buddy." Angling his skull towards Miles' arm, Sans fixed him with a Look. "Do you want to sit down for a second? I'm getting tired just looking at you."

[forwardmomentum]

Miles smiles thinly at him, a little white at the lips. His eyes are sharp, but faintly amused. "Concerned for me, Sans? Really, I'm touched." He wrinkles his nose and sucks in a breath. The broken arm isn't seeming too bad. They could've cracked a rib, and he's having a blessedly easy time breathing. His mind clearing a little, his speech picking up its usual rapid pace. "If I sit down now, I'm not sure I'll be able to get up any time soon, and I'm not interested in sticking around for the interrogation. Forward momentum and all that. D'you think we could reach that?" He nods up at the grate above San's head. Worth a shot.

[skelepun]

"C'mon, I'm not that much of an ass." He rubbed his hands together, a faint green aura emanating from them. His healing was borderline at best, better suited to paper cuts than bone fractures (an irony not lost on him). Still, better some relief than none.

"That?" He moved closer, observing for where Miles' arm looked its most tender. "It's a little tall for us, don't you think? Not that it's not a grate thought. Hold still a sec."

Reaching out his hands, the green aura wrapped its way around Miles' arm. It did the job of a warm compress and not much more, but still. It was something.

[forwardmomentum]

Miles scoffs at that pun. "No, I think between the two of us and the bench, we -- hey!" It's a response of pure surprise, no protest, tinged with just a little bit of awe. He stifles a reflexive flinch of surprise, standing remarkably still by Miles Vorkosigan standards. He blinks down at the green aura enveloping his arm and then back at Sans, his agitation fading momentarily in favor of intense curiosity. His arm still hurts and it is most definitely still broken, but it hurts a little less. The difference is certainly palpable enough. "How'd you do that?"

[skelepun]

"Party trick."

Wink.

Sans stuffed his hands back into his jacket pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels as he observed the grate with fresh eye sockets.

"So what's the plan once we're up there. You got an idea of how this place is laid out?"

[forwardmomentum]

"So -- magic, then." Magic is something Miles never expected to be comfortable with accepting, but it'd be an enormous waste of effort and time to insist on skepticism after almost five months spent among the company of gods and aliens and god knows what else. He takes careful note of that we, mouth twitching up at one corner. He was expecting more resistance from Sans,

"I paid attention while they were bringing me in -- enough to not get too turned up around there. We should be able to find our way out, and at any rate, it looks like the local authorities have their hands full enough that they probably won't be paying enough attention to their HVAC systems." He smirks, then directs a thoughtful look up at the grate over the bench. "I think you'd better pry the grate open, though. I can't do it with just one hand, but I can give you a boost." A painful boost, granted, but he'll live.

[skelepun]

Sans listened dutifully, nodding in all the right places and making noises of understanding along the way. This is what people looked like when they were going along with something, right? He sure hoped so. Miles seemed to think he was.

"Ooh, I dunno, pal, you know me. I'm not much for prying." He took a step back, slouching back onto the cell bench with a yawn. "You have fun, though. I'll be cheering you on from right here."

[forwardmomentum]

Ah, there's the resistance he was expecting. Well, less resistance, more straight up laziness. Miles gives him a razor sharp grin.

"Oh, no," he says cheerfully, "you'll be cheering me on from right behind me, because you're following me up into those vents. That's happening. Right now. Up and at 'em." Miles nudges Sans' leg with his foot. "Or were you planning on napping through your investigation? I know you can sleep anywhere, Sans, but I doubt they're going to be very cuddly about it." His chiding tone is half-sarcastic, with an expectant raise of his eyebrows at his skeletal cellmate. He really doesn't want to stick around for the interrogation. He's already got one broken bone.

[skelepun]

"I can take care of myself," Sans offered, as affable as ever. If he took offense, it wasn't obvious. If anything, the skeleton looked positively gleeful at Miles' attempts. Like watching a very, very eager soul try earnestly to move a boulder twice their size.

It just wasn't gonna happen, but it was cute to watch him try.

"Hey, do you know why air ducts are always angry?"

[forwardmomentum]

"Because they're always venting?" Miles preempts, getting up on the bench next to Sans to crane his short neck up at the grate. He's just going to carry on as though he totally missed that implicit refusal, because as far as he's concerned he's not leaving here without Sans. "It looks like it's screwed on, but not too tightly. That shouldn't be a problem, as they neglected to confiscate anything on my person when they shoved me in here. I don't think us fitting will be a problem, though, it looks like the ducts are pretty big."

[skelepun]

"Ey!" Clapping his bony hands together with an impressive rattling noise, Sans looked positively delighted. "Got it in one! Guess there's more to you than meets the eye, man. Y'know, figuratively speaking."

To hear Miles go on with single minded determination was, well. Not entirely surprising, if he was being honest. The stuff practically radiated off him in waves. As if to prove some sort of point to himself (and perhaps Miles by proxy), Sans slouched even lower on the bench.

"Send me a postcard." With a yawn, Sans finally let his eye sockets fall shut. "I'll be here."

[forwardmomentum]

Miles scoffs out a laugh at that. He figured it was a coin toss on whether Sans would receive that positively or negatively, but he finds himself sort of delighted at Sans' ultimate reaction. Yeah, alright.

It's pretty clear to Miles by now that appealing to Sans' self-preservation instinct doesn't work, because Miles is pretty sure he doesn't have one. He tilts his head down at Sans, his face unreadable, although his eyes glint slightly.

"So you're not worried at all about what's going on while you sit here and gather dust in your cell," Miles comments, his voice deceptively mild. "I envy your composure, Sans."

[skelepun]

The mention of dust spurred an almost reflexive snort out of Sans, neither laughing nor dismissive but maybe something in between. It was hard to place exactly what it meant, and the skeleton didn't seem keen on explaining.

"Heh, many do. I'm very impressive."

[forwardmomentum]

"Certainly. It's the stuff of legend," Miles agrees blandly, his expression unchanging until he tips his head back to squint up at the grate, putting a hand on the wall and measuring by hand lengths, testing for any possible footholds, like he's gauging how to get up there and remove the grate all by himself. He probably could, if he really wanted to. But then he glances down at Sans as though a thought has just occurred to him. His air is entirely offhand, but there's just a faint edged grin on his face, razor-thin.

"Do you know where your brother is right now?"

[skelepun]

Ah.

There was a beat of silence, followed by a very low, very understated chuckle. Sans' eyes remained closed, but if they were to open Miles would find them darkened completely to empty sockets.

"Why, did you need him for something?"

[forwardmomentum]

Ah, there's the ticket. Miles' expression doesn't even flicker as he turns his attention back to the wall to survey any possible methods of escape.

"No," comes the laconic reply, and a shrug. "But I thought you might."

[skelepun]

Sans wasn't sure what was more irritating: that Miles was using Papyrus to further whatever goal his overabundance of determination cooked up or that it was working.

In the end, the ultimate verdict was fairly clear cut. Fuck Miles Vorkosigan.

"What're you playing at, man?"

It wasn't really a question.

[forwardmomentum]

"You know," Miles says in that mild tone, his attention still primarily focused on the wall, "for someone who obviously takes such a vested interest in his family's well being, you demonstrate a remarkable lack of initiative. Not that your overall lack of initiative surprises me, but I thought you'd make an exception for your brother. He obviously means very much to you. Or is shoving off all responsibility onto an unwitting third party before they can so much as blink and hoping for the best your idea of familial piety?"

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully at a few sunken points in the wall and raps experimentally on them with his good hand. "Now," he says, shifting a few inches away from Sans to follow the line he's tracing with his fingers, "if you got thrown into lockup just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, what do you think would happen to someone as inclined to well-intentioned heroics as Papyrus?"

Miles lets that dangle there for half a beat before he continues ruthlessly. "I'm not one to shirk my responsibilities, even those thrust upon me without warning or cause. Rest assured, I will make tracking your brother down and ensuring his safety a priority the second I'm out of here." It's clear from his voice that he's deadly serious about it, too. No bluff there. "Whether that ranks as a priority for yourself is up to you. I can't force you one way or another." He gives Sans another one-shouldered shrug. "But if you'd rather sit here and sleep it off till your interrogation, that's your prerogative, I suppose. Now, if you'll be so kind as to get up, I'm going to need to turn this bench on its side."

[skelepun]

To say that Miles' words stung wasn't the right word. For them to sting, Sans would need to possess the bare minimum of pride in his ability to protect his brother. That was gone long ago, replaced with a marrow-deep guilt every time Papyrus so much as offered him a hug back on the ship.

Ache. Now there was a word. An old wound, being slowly pressed on by someone who knew where to push, even if they didn't know why. On a different day in a different place, Sans might've reacted with a quick wink and his favorite vanishing act. He would take the bench, too. No benches for assholes, his own personal golden rule.

But they weren't on the ship, Miles' arm wasn't unbroken, and despite all of Sans' reluctance to go along with something so transparent, the guy wasn't wrong. His brother wouldn't lay low if he saw injustice and Sans really didn't know where he was.

With a grin that seemed to scrape at the inside of his skull, Sans' finally got up.

"You're a real piece of shit, aren't you?" As friendly as ever, he nodded up to the vent. "Lead the way, buddo."

[forwardmomentum]

Miles' impassive mask finally shatters with a wide, totally shit-eating grin, his eyes flashing. He looks entirely unapologetic.

"So I've been told." He glances back up at the grate, then at Sans, shaking his head. "You first. I need you to get that grate open. I'll give you a boost, though."

He braces himself mentally, because let's be real, this is probably gonna hurt.

[skelepun]

Differences in physical girth aside, Sans' distinct absence of flesh, fat, and organs probably did make him the lighter of the two. Still, it's with a moment of confused doubt that Sans does as he's told and hops up on the bench.

"Uh, you're sure you're gonna be alright? I can boost you, y'know."

[forwardmomentum]

"And how am I supposed to get that thing open with one hand?" Miles points out, jerking his chin up toward the grate. His grin sharpens with some new light of determination in his eyes, spurred on by the pain and the raw challenge of beating it out. He's done it before, and under much more unfavorable conditions.

"Oh, this is nothing," he breathes, almost laugh, a manic edge to his voice. He climbs onto the bench next to Sans and squares his shoulders as much as his crooked spine will allow. "Remind me to tell you later about my first dressage competition. You get that thing open, then you give me a boost and I'll go up first."