[ closed ] come over to the sweet ones, baby

[forwardmomentum]

Who: Bel & Miles
When: Friday the 5th
Where: Nomo Deck, Bel's cabin
What: Miles comes to apologize and...some other things.
Warnings: idk it's miles

Miles didn't text Bel first, worried that if he did he'd somehow lose his nerve before he made it to Bel's door, and if he did that, there would be no tactical retreat, no graceful exit. No, this he has to follow through on, because neither of them ever do anything by halves.

Certainly not this. Miles has spent the last few weeks thinking about this -- sometimes too hard, sometimes not nearly enough -- circular thoughts chasing one another endlessly in his mind, all threaded with panic. Not over the kiss -- the kiss had been fine, he had liked the kiss and he has, at least, sorted out that much -- but the implications, because somehow they never really settled in until now. The last couple of months with Bel, the strange evolution of tensions and what he realized when, it all blurs into one smooth plane of understanding when it finally clicks into place for him. Somehow it seems to happen both slowly and all at once, and then the implications come pouring in. What this means -- not just for him but for Bel, for the both of them, what this means for Admiral Naismith and Lord Vorkosigan and Miles --

Maybe it's the implications that Miles was hung up on all this time, but he doesn't know that it matters all that much. Not now that he's decided what to do. He never has wavered much when it comes to matters of the heart, not where he could help it. It only took him this long to realize it really is a matter of the heart. And really, in retrospect, he doesn't know how it took him so long to figure it out.

That doesn't make the conversation he's about to have any less intimidating, but the very least he owes Bel is an apology. And the rest...the rest will follow. Miles swallows, his chest a little tight as he walks down the hall toward the room Bel shares with Breq, but his shoulders are square. Drawing in a breath, he hits the chime on Bel's cabin. "Bel? It's Miles. Can I come in?"

Comments

[hellsbel]

Enough has happened in the past few weeks -- the dream-hijack and threats from the surface and the breaking of the Link'd plot, not to mention the influx of refugees crowding the ship -- that it's been easy to give Miles whatever space he's needed. Bel hasn't avoided him, checked in via MID during the various crises, waved or nodded across the hall when they encountered one another, retreating without disconcert if he seemed uncomfortable to be acknowledged. He's been trying too; it's clear as hell that neither of them want this to stand between them, but getting to the other side has been a sticking point.

It shouldn't have been hard. This had happened so many times back home, after all; Miles setting a limit, Bel stepping back, both setting the matter agreeably aside until next time--

...but it hadn't, really.

Miles had never started it, before. He hadn't known what Bel knew, before. They hadn't been captives in the same small space, living and working indefinitely in such close quarters. And there was Elli, who'd waited almost as long -- when had that started? Before they left Earth? The no-strings affair Bel had sought, the only game in town and no less desirable for that, is no longer an option. Bel's not sure what is, anymore.

That doesn't mean Bel's not at the door in the instant, thumbing it open, sharp features alert but welcoming. "Miles. Yes, do -- everyone's out at the moment. You caught me reading." The book face down on the couch, a lurid urban mystery, might not be everyone's idea of good taste, but at least it's not Vorkosigan on Komarr.

[forwardmomentum]

Miles steps in with a quick glance at the book on the couch. A month ago he'd been kneeling in front of that couch, helping Bel with their boots, his hand on their bare hip, their lips at his jaw. The sense memory makes his stomach flutter in a way much more plainly identifiable than ever before.

He considers sitting, but he's a barely contained bundle of nervous energy right now, and he'd probably just fidget his way back up to his feet. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, just barely restraining the urge to pace. Biting at the inside of his cheek, he looks up at Bel to meet their gaze.

"I...wanted to talk."

He draws in a breath, fingers tapping nervously on his trouser seam. In a fit of nerves he can't seem to choose which accent to use -- nerves, he tells himself, because he's gotten his memory fixed and that should have taken care of the problem neatly. But these things have always been muddled around Bel ever since their arrival here, even more so lately, as he tries with less and less success to resist the siren call of Admiral Naismith. His missing memories, he knows, had nothing to do with that desire. He feels like he's been missing a piece of himself for months, and that hole only seems to gape wider as time goes on instead of healing over like it ought. But the alternative -- Naismith and Vorkosigan trapped in a small space together, so much smaller than London, too small -- just makes things start to blur together. It gets hard to keep track of who did what, what happened to who, where he came from. His accent wavers without his realizing it, shifting back and forth like his feet.

"To set the record straight." The panic that had seized him that night in Harashan only lingers at the edges, the last traces as he smooths them away with newfound self-awareness. His face is painfully sincere. "I'm sorry about what happened last month, Bel. I shouldn't have handled it like that. You didn't... You deserve better from me."

[hellsbel]

The flick of his eyes brings that night right back, a shiver of velvet heat running under the off-duty tee where that hand had rested. Bel had very carefully not thought about it since... that other night. An occasional, unlooked-for vivid dream surely didn't count. Inviting him to sit is at once an entirely terrible and beautifully appealing idea, but it looks like he might vibrate apart without freedom to move.

Instead, Bel props one hip on the armrest, bringing them both to a more comfortable eye level, and watches the vibration pensively. In all the years since that first collision in the Ariel's corridors, through tense standoffs and battle-exhaustion and a hundred strains of regret, he's never wavered in himself; it's a reminder that being both men in one place was never as easy as he made it look. Especially now, with another, very specific Betan expatriate on board. But Bel can't look away from his drawn, anxious face, and leans in slightly without realizing it.

The hesitant words call up a very different shiver. Warmth after coolness. Relief that he had said it first, ended the suspense of whether to wait, how long to wait, where to start. Bel swallows, unsure of how glad to be about that -- why should Miles have to do all the work this time, too? Maybe -- but there hadn't been a way around that this time either.

"Maybe. It wasn't what either of us had expected, I think." The low alto tries for polite reserve, gives up. There's no place for that here. Not in answer to that tone. If coming earlier would have meant forcing himself through a dialogue he wasn't ready for, Bel can't but be comforted that it only took this long. "You know I'm only sorry for part of it."

He'd have known that already, he knows Bel, always has. And his eyes, his eyes..... Bel's hands, fingers laced to prevent wandering, turn upward on their bent knee, aching to repay his honesty.

"Miles..... thank you. Can I take that to mean I'll see more of you, from now on?"

They have plenty to talk about, wherever introspection has brought him -- it's brought him here, whatever he chooses to mean by that. All he has to do is laugh the familiar straight-line off, take it in its common sense rather than the uncommon one, and they'd be back to normal.

[forwardmomentum]

Except things aren't going to go back to normal -- or, at least, not back to the way they were before. They can try for a new kind of normal, a change in the status quo. Miles watches Bel with profound relief, but then, when has Bel ever been known to hold a grudge against him? Even in the moment of Miles' hot panic, Bel hadn't been angry, never had been. That had plagued him with guilt, knowing that he hardly deserved that benefit of the doubt, but it's alright. He's going to make it alright -- or make an ass of himself trying.

Evidently Bel thinks that's the end of the conversation, or at least the discussion about what happened that night, but Miles isn't quite done. The relief tempers his nervous fidgeting, because Bel's reaction to his apology was his primary concern; nerves about telling Bel what he came here to, about all of this, fade in comparison. He watches Bel on the armrest with this newfound clarity, on the way they clasp their hands over their knee, and he likes it. It's like a veil has been lifted -- a sheer veil, sure, but a veil all the same. He isn't quite done yet.

"Oh, I think so." The corner of Miles' mouth curves up. He steps in a little closer, eyes warm and oddly serene, at least relative to Miles' usual demeanor -- still low-level panicking, of course, his eyes still too-bright, but it's heady and exciting rather than inhibiting. It strikes Miles in a fleeting thought that this moment is significant for him, that there is some cosmic sense of things coming together. He's feeling strangely sure of himself, little by little, ever since he finally came around to this new self-awareness. Miles reaches to take Bel's hand, sighing slightly.

"Alright, so I lied. I hope you'll forgive me," he says ruefully, mouth twisting wryly. "I'm only sorry for part of it, too."

Miles pauses only long enough to take a breath, gray-eyed gaze fixed on Bel's face in the space of that moment, and then he leans in to kiss Bel without hesitation, both hands going to cup their jaw. Much more deliberate this time, and much more slowly, too, with great intent and great fondness. This, he hopes, will set things right.

everything is novels ^^

[hellsbel]

Grudges have never been Bel's way, though trust once broken might be difficult to repair and never return to what it had been. But Miles could have left his captain sickened or enraged or humiliated if he'd tried instead of off-balance and worried and needing a cold shower right now thank you; all it'd take would be utter absence of empathy -- spacetime would collapse on itself before he responded like that. And what do we know about the internal forces that gripped him so strongly? Damn all, nothing enough to judge -- enlightening revelations from Gregor aside. Not every liaison is about desire, nor every refusal about its lack.... And if Bel had wanted an LPST career, they could have stayed on Beta. If he couldn't explain, he couldn't explain, and it had been painfully obvious how much that had distressed him.

Making an ass of yourself is one thing, sir, but being an ass would have been something else altogether.

Neither conversation would have been over yet, but in the moment, Bel had needed that smile more than the follow-up interview. Even with the small chance, held carefully in reserve, that the other part wasn't over either. As much of a chance as in other days, other times, almosts giving way to irresolution and entropy.... The brown eyes gleam at his curled lips, at the tender grip of his hand, wry amusement mingled with a rush of relief; let the rest come if it will, but they're in tune again, set right again. And more than all right.

...Much more.

It clicks, where this might go -- where it is going -- almost the moment he moves. The deliberation, the light in his gaze, his own initiative in coming here (with this in mind from the start? yes--) damp all immediate questions. No time for more than a startled breath, leaning into his hands as they skate upward, the heat of his mouth -- oh. Oh, you picked the right part to not be sorry about....

They'll still have to talk about this with real words some time, at some point, later, much later. Bel's always wanted to do this right, take their time, treat and charm and savor him, but that he'd take his time, his bright-burning frenetic passion not gone but transmuted, deep and intense... it's dizzying, overwhelming, even as Bel answers it just as deeply, breath coming in tiny panting gasps when it comes at all. One hand runs up through the clipped hair behind his head, the other settling on his hip, inviting him closer; both bare feet are solidly on the deck by now, the Moira boots not worth wearing off duty. The taste of him leaves Bel weak-kneed, a hint of spice suggesting premeditation, heady and wonderful in its contrast to the impulsive spontaneity before.

If he was hoping for some kind of signal of forgiveness, acceptance, encouragement.... he's got it, right here, where it always has been.

The wavering accent still has to be addressed, but that takes words, and words take air, and murmuring his name against his lips just makes it that much harder to want anything else. They should do that more, they should do that a lot.... But Bel has to ask, and finally does, humor lurking in between pressing another slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, where the laugh lines are. Who are you, and what have you done with yourself...? "Miles, Miles -- you'd better tell me... how many of you I get to kiss -- and, and when, and how often--"

And where, in both senses of the word -- why couldn't this have happened before the new room assignments went up?

[forwardmomentum]

Miles lets Bel draw him in closer, dropping his hands to their shoulders, then one to their waist. This is a thrilling novelty, somehow more so for the fact that it's been eight years -- eight years -- and Miles doesn't it's that he's wanted Bel all that time, he couldn't have, but he's starting to suspect he's wanted Bel since long before he set foot on the Moira. It only took him this long to catch up with himself.

Bel's hand in his short hair sends an involuntary shiver through him -- he's felt Bel's touch before, but never like this. Oh, never anything like this. That kiss to the corner of his mouth teases a huff of a laugh out of him, his cheeks touched with color.

"All of me?" he suggests with a breathless grin, curling his hand loosely around the uniform at Bel's shoulder. "Any time you like, as often as you like? Although, ah, I do have to get work done at some point or another." He steaks a kiss at Bel's jaw, just below the ear, and echo of where Bel had brushed their lips against his skin that night after the bar. "But I'm sure there's always a little wiggle room in my schedule for you."

[hellsbel]

When had it gone this far -- from intrigue to want to love? Not quite at the beginning, but close. Long, long ago. Even after his first return to the fleet, it had taken years to catch a moment quiet enough to advance a suggestion. The palpably un-Betan reaction had sealed Bel's suspicion that anything more would need time and care, but hadn't damped the warmth that blossomed inside at every sight of him. Miles -- Bel leans into his touch, fingers tracing the planes of his back, sighing at the heat of his hands, with a soft eager hum at the shiver that runs through his body. It's a pure thrill to get to do this, now -- find the places where these tiny reactions are hiding, coax them out wherever he'll allow it.

His storm-gray eyes seem flecked with silver, this close, the seamed sculpture of his face glowing, lit from within simply because he inhabits it. Bel shivers in turn at the gentle, warm caress below their jaw, heart swelling at the unexpected thoroughness of the briefing -- far more than expected, than would ever have been possible back home.

"Ah," Bel breathes. "Good." And gathers him close to kiss him in earnest, as slow and sweet as he'd started it, as if they both have all the time in the world. Not quite dipping him... later, maybe? but always wanted to hold you like this and work can go hang and wiggle room, dammit, you had to say it like that -- this is for all those years, Miles. And also for right now.

[forwardmomentum]

That warm, bright look on Bel's face is worth every second of this -- as though every second of this doesn't make it worth it, Bel's hands on his back, his hand at their shoulder, thumb brushing at the crook of their neck, the air warming between them with a slow burn -- yes, this is what he wanted. For how long, he's not sure -- but there's no mistaking it now.

Miles only makes a warm sound of encouragement as Bel draws him in and kisses him. His arms go around their neck, fingers stroking through the hair at the back of their neck, and he sighs, deeply pleased. He's happy to take his time with this kiss, more than, leaning in against Bel just to feel the warmth of their body seep into his, suddenly greedy for it. He kisses them back in earnest, still taking his time just to savor Bel, the taste of them. It occurs to him distantly that they probably ought to sit if they're going to be doing this a while, that his feet are probably going to get tired, but right now he's sufficiently distracted by the heat of Bel's mouth, the warmth of their arms around him.

[hellsbel]

He's not shy anymore. When did that happen? Bel doesn't miss it, rocking into his arms, small pleased sounds escaping at every stroke of his fingers and slow drag of lips and tongue. He's enjoying this, enjoying Bel, and it's better than a hundred dreams, it's like sunlight after dark to bask in that pleasure and stoke it higher.

"See what you've been missing--" It's a roughened, teasing murmur, lost at the end in another kiss. This so much better than checks for wounds or fever in the field or even the customary embrace the little Admiral kindly allows after he's been away. This is the swell of his breath over his heartbeat, the delicious heat pressing in at every point of contact, the low hum in his throat, his scent and the curve of his spine under the uniform shirt, every small detail magnified a hundredfold. Does he sigh for Elli like this? Is he as giving, as yearning, with Taura? -- of course he is, she'd love that and he'd love to do it for her. There are no rumors about Miles and Taura, though Bel's sure they've been together since she took the Dendarii oath. She'd hate the rumor mill; they're right to be discreet.

For Bel, accustomed to the fleet's loose talk since the Oseran days, it's a wicked delight to finally make this set of jibes come true.

They're swaying together, and Bel could get to crave this easy exploration, pressing open-mouthed caresses against his jaw and temples when he needs to breathe. Somewhere in there, though, it registers that they're still upright for some reason, and Bel chuckles against his skin.

"Where are my manners? I shouldn't just make you stand here." Arms still wrapped around Miles, Bel slides sideways onto to the couch, taking the opportunity to kiss his neck so they don't bump heads on the way down. And his collarbone, as the new angle puts Bel at that level. It's not quite a recline -- they can sit side by side if that's better -- but it could be, very easily.