[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

[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."

[skelepun]

Getting out, that was all well and good. Despite his love of apathetic resignation, if given the option, Sans would take outside the jail cell every time. Miles had every right to want to get moving on this plan.

But something about his eyes, it sat odd with Sans. With faint unease, Sans wondered if perhaps they'd been here before. Perhaps that dig about his brother was so effective because Miles knew for certain it would be. Maybe he knew the punchline to Sans' joke because he'd already heard it once before. Maybe countless times before.

Sans started to climb up Miles', huffing a breath. Nah. He was jumping to conclusions.

"You alright down there?"

[forwardmomentum]

"Just fine," Miles says, half through his teeth. Beads of sweat have broken out on his forehead, his face gone white around the lips, but his breathing is as tightly controlled as a man deep in meditation. It hurts, sure, but it's just a hairline fracture. Always the danger of making it worse, but if he gets out of this in one piece -- and it's just some city prison, hardly the most difficult escape he's managed -- all he'll need is a splint and a handful of painkillers. After a moment he adds, "Better if you finish up quickly."

[skelepun]

For a moment, Sans found himself caught up in watching him. There was a word for it, and it was a word Sans already applied to Miles' countless times. Sometimes joking, mostly not, never aloud.

Of course, it was never quite so blatant before, either. A few beads of sweat started at his forehead.

"--Right." He remembered himself, turning back to the grate. In the interest of not putting the guy through any undue pain, Sans made short work of the vent. All it took was a few bones and the grate fell from its perch cleanly severed . Not exactly a clean escape, but it was off. Sans brushed the loose bones back down onto the floor, letting them clatter next to the dented grate.

"That oughta do it."

[forwardmomentum]

Miles lets out an explosive breath of relief once Sans is back on the floor, taking the opportunity to cradle his broken arm and gently palpate it with his hand. He just barely winces. "Good one." Still half through his teeth, but the sentiment is genuine. Miles licks at dry lips and looks up at the now-open duct calculatingly.

"Alright, now you boost me," Miles says with a nod at Sans, and after a curious glance at the bones on the floor, he grabs a fistful of the uniform sleeve on his bad arm, and clamps it between his teeth in an attempt to keep it at least a little elevated.

[skelepun]

Oh. Right. The boosting part. Sans suddenly looked a little at a loss for how to proceed. Lifting him wasn't really an option -- Sans was many things, but strong was not among them. Of course, there was always blue magic, but Sans wasn't too keen on Miles finding out about that either.

A few beats longer and Sans realized there was no choice. Someone probably heard the grate clattering to the stone floor. Focusing his magic, he held up his hands towards Miles.

"Okay, this is gonna feel kinda weird." He offered, before jerking his hand upwards. The sensation of blue magic could take some getting used to, and to call it simply floating would be a misnomer. As gravity realigned itself on a person, the world would tug in several directions with varying intensity until the desired effect was reached. It took a great deal of magic and a greater deal of math to do well.

Not that the details were readily apparent, aside from how Miles began to float up towards the vent as if it had a magnetic pull on him.

[forwardmomentum]

Whoa, okay. Miles blinks in surprise, but he doesn't flail or kick at all, just lets it carry him. He's spent enough time in space, on ships and...not on ships for this to feel somewhat familiar.

"Huh. Kind of like freefall," he comments to Sans as he rises off the floor. "Less nausea-inducing, though." He grabs the inside of the vent with his good hand as soon as he's high enough, hauling himself in with only a wince for his poorly-accommodated broken arm. He crouches there, looking down at him.

"You need a boost, or will that magic do the trick?"

[skelepun]

"Hand'll help," Sans nodded, trying to elongate his body as much as possible. Blue magic accomplished quite a lot, but inflicting it on himself was never very feasible. Then again, that's what teleportation was for.

And that, Sans was hoping to keep from Miles as long as possible. It wasn't that he didn't trust him, necessarily, though definitely akin to the sensation. He wouldn't be able to keep it underwraps forever, not if Miles was another anomaly, but Sans could hold off as long as possible.

Also, it was just kinda funny.

[forwardmomentum]

Miles rests his weight against the wall of the duct so he can extend his arm down to grasp Sans' hand and pull him up. It suddenly occurs to Miles that this is the first time he's actually touched Sans, and he's struck with the intense cognitive dissonance of skin touching dry bone. There's no flinch, just a strange flicker on Miles' face, because his own bones have always been a central focus in one way or another, mostly by way of limitation. Miles wonders if he looks anything like that on the inside.

He's stronger than he looks, and Sans is pretty light, so it isn't difficult for Miles to pull Sans up and scoot back in the vent to give him the room. His arm still hurts like hell, but he's got himself under control now, and it hardly shows save for a slight tightening of the lips, the quiet labor to his breath. With a short breath, Miles nods over his shoulder at Sans and starts to turn himself around.

"C'mon. I think I know a way to the back of the building. Less likely to get spotted there."

1/2

[skelepun]

Lightness aside, Sans couldn't help feeling a little impressed by how easily Miles lifted him up into the vent. Small didn't necessarily mean weak, especially not for monsters, but it was odd to see the same tenet applied to a human.

Even the weakest human was unbelievably strong by monster standards, but Sans held the distinct feeling this one was different. Whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen.

"I'm right behind ya." Sans assured, crawling behind him. The vents were bigger than he would have thought, or maybe they were both just very small.

Probably the latter, in all honesty.

2/2

[skelepun]

Several minutes of crawling into their journey and Sans stopped short.

Sound echoed up and down the vents from all parts of the prison, mingling with the shuffling rattle of their slow journey out. Guards, other prisoners, ambient noise -- all of it filtered up through the vents and traveled past them like ghosts. Just more white noise.

That is, until one voice in particular broke through all the rest.

"My brother's here." Whether Sans was saying it to Miles or no one at all, it didn't matter. There was a new flare of something in his left eye, manifesting itself as a blue glow.

[forwardmomentum]

Miles pauses shortly after Sans does, secretly glad for the opportunity to catch his labored breath. Sweat's broken out over his forehead, because sure, he's run farther on worse, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. He doesn't move enough to look over his shoulder at Sans, just nods his head back at him in acknowledgment and stops to sort through all the noise bouncing through the vents, trying to pick out Papyrus' voice. Well, at least his argument to Sans has been validated, although he wasn't really hoping for it.

"Shit," Miles breathes, tilting his head to the side. "This way, I think -- we might be able to pull him up with us -- you think he'll fit in here?"

Fit in without making a right rattling racket, that is. The way the vents carry sound works both ways.

1/2 (2 in lower thread)

[skelepun]

The guy wasn't doing too good, that didn't take a genius to see. Honestly, from what Sans felt even from just a short healing session, it was a miracle the guy was managing at all. Talk about cruel to be kind.

His brother probably would fit just fine in these vents, but the noise? He was already paranoid enough about how his own kneecaps were rattling against the metal sheeting. Papyrus would make the entire place sound like a pack of lost xylophonists.

Welp. His attempts at secrecy had a pretty short shelf life, he knew that.

"Okay, there might be a bit of a drop." He answered, by way of vague preview to what was about to happen. "Take care of that arm."

And then, the vents were gone.