[ miles catch-all: one-way train to crazy town ]

[forwardmomentum]

Who: Miles & company
When: March...ish. all of March. there u go
Where: assorted locations, mostly on the Moira
What: Miles's no good very bad brains month
Warnings: general mental illness, trauma/PTSD, discussion of sexual assault



starters go below, post one if ya feel like it or let me know if I should write one

Comments

[gainedlove]

Usually, Frisk is as far away from being a troublesome child as one can get. Oh, sure, they get into mischief and go poking at things they shouldn't, but they never mean any harm and always do their best to clean up whatever mess might result. The only fights they've been in are ones that got picked for them, and they're so constantly cheerful you could almost wonder if there's anything that can upset them at all.

But then, if you give any kid a pair of rocket boots...

The excited hollering is the only thing that preceeds the small blur zipping through the Moria's halls, a shrill stream of delighted laughter that can only lead to something going wrong. Frisk is nimble and coordinated enough to have figured out most of how to steer, but that doesn't mean they're amazingly precise. They only have a few moments of warning, spotting Miles up ahead, before they yelp and careen off to the side into a wall, turning off the thrusters and trying their best to tumble with the momentum.

"Look out!!"

[forwardmomentum]

Miles just barely reacts in time, ducking down and to the side to get out of the line of fire -- Frisk just about grazes him with their rock boots as they tumble past, the soles still hot. Miles hisses at the heat -- more out of surprise than pain -- and claps a hand to his arm, but the fabric's still there, nothing burned through. He recognizes the kid, short brown hair, it must be Chara -- no, wait, someone else? Frisk's image flickers before him and he sees himself for a shadow of a second before it settles on a mostly unfamiliar face.

He's been in a hyper-alert daze for hours -- days? -- but that near-miss with Frisk sends his blood pumping into his ears, heart suddenly hammering in his chest as he goes tense, eyes sharp and too-bright. "Shit, kid," he breathes, gaze settling on Frisk even as the din of shuttle engines and the shouts of thousands roars in his ears, "are you alright?"

[gainedlove]

"Owwwww..."

Frisk pushes themself back up gingerly, rubbing at their head and wincing slightly. No stickiness, but it definitely hurts and it takes a moment for their vision to come back into focus. Once it does, though, they scramble to their feet and hurry over to Miles with a worried expression.

"I'm okay! I'm really sorry, did you get hurt?" Dressed in their civvies as they are, the colors at least help to set Frisk apart from Chara more distinctly, but it's still a striped sweater with that eerily-similar face. Though that honest concern is hard to imagine from the other child.

[shoppingtrip]

Cordelia and Miles had planned to get dinner together in the mess hall tonight - a sort of family bonding meets get-to-know-you. After ten minutes of sitting in the mess hall alone, she's starting to get worried. Was Miles usually late? Certainly, she and Aral would have emphasized punctuality and respect for others, but maybe he was naturally a little scattered?

After fifteen minutes, Cordelia fires off a quick text message on her comm.

Miles, were we on for dinner tonight? Let me know you're all right, please.

Five minutes after that, Cordelia can't wait anymore. She walks back the way Miles would have come to the mess hall, the most direct route from his dorm. As she rounds the corner to his section of the hallway she spots him, and picks up the pace.

"Miles, did you--"

And then her brain catches up with her mouth and she realizes something is very wrong. Cordelia stops in her tracks, giving Miles a generous personal bubble.

"Miles?"

[forwardmomentum]

At some point Miles had decided he needed a glass of water. At some point in the last -- few hours? Minutes? Either way, he finds himself thirsty in his office, and then he finds himself with a glass of water in his hand in the corridor, and then he finds himself asleep.

Sort of. More like a waking doze, his eyes still half-open but glazed over, feet planted to the ground but he's swaying gently. It's only for a moment -- he's pretty sure, anyway -- and then there's his mother, giving him that concerned look that somehow looks exactly the same on her face now as it does twenty-some-odd years into the future. Miles blearily blinks himself back awake and his gaze focuses slowly on Cordelia. He looks -- well, he looks gaunt, with a day or two's worth of beard growth stubbled over his jaw. He blinks at her again in greeting, squinting slightly.

"Oh -- hello, Mother -- sorry -- didn't see you," he says, words tumbling with just the slightest slur. It sounds convincingly like someone who's had just a drink and a half at dinner, although Miles hasn't touched a drop. He rubs at one cheek absently, at the circles under his eyes. "What's up?"

[rraidergirl]

Recently, Lara's days seem evenly split between the Cargo Bay, mucking about with her army of small, largely useless robot vacuums and the library. She does have to say that the library does not feature this: the glittery, garish vehicle parked at one end of the cargo bay. Normally just something that she glimpses and briefly wonders at, but not a strong source of curiosity. She chalks it up to the mail and leaves it as it is.

Today's a little different. Her eyes track over the increasingly familiar sparkly bulk then snap back at a much more familiar figure dangling from it. Miles?

"What on Earth are you doing?" The question is softened by the warmth in her voice. The last time they spoke had been... difficult, but still, she's pleased to see him.

[forwardmomentum]

Ah, now there's a voice he likes to hear. Miles is in the middle of mucking around with the undercarriage of the lightflyer, wearing a harness attached to a rig on to one wing of the flyer so that he can leverage himself vertically as needed, with no -- well, relatively little risk. The lightflyer isn't much bigger than your average two-person plane, but a fall from even that height would be bad news for Miles. He doesn't seem all that worried, though, with the way he's dangling at an angle just to get both hands in the undercarriage. But then he hears Lara and he swings away from the body of the plane with a neat little twist to face her, still dangling midair, but right-side up this time.

"Making improvements," Miles chirps, his face electric. It is obvious he has not had much sleep lately, but he's sharp and alert, grinning wildly. There is also something very...different about his voice. "Hello, Lara. Come here often?"

[tearmeanewone]

"Yes, that is definitely a good idea," Elizabeth mutters to herself, stretching her arms way above her head and then bringing her hands down to rub at her own shoulders. "Move all the encyclopedias today. In one afternoon. No, no breaks! None! God grants shelf space to those who move books to a different shelf."

This called for a lay down, obviously. Just for twenty minutes or so. That much physical labor called for a rest, at least. She heads straight for her comfy chair at the back of the library-- it has a pillow, and a blanket...

...and someone in it. Already asleep. And from the size of him, Elizabeth knows exactly who it is at a glance.

"Miles?"

[forwardmomentum]

When Elizabeth gets near enough, Miles jolts awake like a gun just went off right next to his head, looking wild-eyed. Was he asleep? Was he sleeping just now? His head feels like it's stuffed full of -- not cotton. Something else. He can't think of the word.

Miles blinks at her rapidly as if to clear his vision. Everything seems too bright, too sharp. Elena...? His look at her turns terribly confused, glancing around like he can't remember how he got here. He can't actually. Library, this is -- Vorkosigan House? It must be. But Elena Bothari hasn't set foot in Vorkosigan House in eight years.

His shoulders drop slightly, but none of the tension leaves his body, strung up like a wire stretched too taut. He looks at her in genuine bewilderment, a parade of emotions playing across his slightly-glazed face. "What are you doing here?"

[seeingscarlet]

The door to the kitchen opens and a motley assortment of pans and serving utensils floats in, all suspended by threads of red light. This isn't unusual; Wanda can make what should be several trips in one so this task normally falls to her.

What isn't normal is for someone to still be here so late. Everything floats to the counter and Wanda's about to start putting things into the dishwasher before she notices she's not alone.

"Miles? What are you doing here?"

[forwardmomentum]

Miles's kitchen shift ended over two hours ago -- he should've eaten by now, should've sat down in the mess or at least exited the damn kitchen, but time seems to have passed in a blink and Miles doesn't even remember the din of the evening rush. Wanda's voice jerks him out of some waking catatonia and he finds himself on the floor where he'd apparently jammed himself in between a tall cabinet and one of the industrial-sized sinks. He lurches to his feet before the question's even really registered, and he blinks at her in bewilderment -- when did kitchen get so empty? -- and then glances down at his hands. Empty, too.

"Wanda," he says in slightly surprised acknowledgment, his voice a little thin, a little strained. "I, uh -- just came to get a snack, that's all."

He must have, if his hands are empty and he's not even really sure when the last time he ate was. Actually, he's not sure what time it is, so that makes it a little difficult to calculate. He looks like he could use a snack -- he looks like hell, actually, gaunt and thin and wet around the eyes, red-rimmed and a little puffy despite the dark, bruised circles underneath them.

MARCH 3, text

[hellsbel]

Important security update: the whale museum gives me the creeps.

How's your room coming along?

[forwardmomentum]

Somehow I'm not surprised. Anything of particular morbid fascination? Don't tell me there's a gift shop at the end.

It's...coming. Mother and I were set to do it ourselves, but that idiot Ivan came and whisked the whole thing out of our hands. Something about no interior design sense. And here I thought I'd never see him take initiative on anything.

March 12, Bar

[whynotgoonmyown]

[Sometimes, when he drinks, Tyler has brief thoughts of whether or not he missed out on something by turning at such an young age. It's not regret, not by any means, but still. There's something weird about drinking alcohol anyway when all you get from it is the flavour.

This is one of those times, when he's sitting at the bar, well into a bottle of scotch, where he ponders. Really, he does wonder what being drunk's like. He only ever experienced being high, a feeling he quite likes, so it's only natural right?

... Ultimately, he just shrugs and has another drink.]

[forwardmomentum]

[ miles has been watching tyler idly while he tends the bar to the rest of the patrons, stopping by every so often for a murmured bout of conversation and another drink, but this time when miles pours tyler another round he raises an eyebrow, surveying the other man. werewolf. right, right, the whole werewolf thing. miles saw the network post back then and filed it away for later reflection. he assumes that must be relevant to tyler's current sobriety -- no drunk could be that good at passing for sober, and in the middle of the bar, why bother? it isn't hard for miles to deduce that tyler either can't get drunk, or it requires an inadvisable amount of liquor.

miles tops him off and reshelves the bottle, propping an elbow up on the bar with a wry look at tyler. he's got step-stools behind the bar to give him enough of a boost to be on eye-level with anyone on the other side, because miles enjoys his dignity. ]

So, do you like the taste of scotch in particular, or are you just experimenting? Because if you're going to just pour liquor down into whatever bottomless void of a metabolism you've got, I might as well pour you the cheap stuff.

March 15th

[skelepun]

After the turbulence of February, Sans held a naive hope that March might be more relaxed. Ceta, for all its dubious whaling policies, seemed peaceful and calm. Chara was settling down in their own unsettling way. Sans had every reason to make an attempt at genuine relaxation.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. So here he was, outside the bar. It's the first time in Sans' memory that the place has been closed up. Teleportation into locked rooms was something Sans had more than enough recent experience with -- experience that left him reticent to repeat that mistake again.

Instead, Sans pulls up his MID and shoots off a quick text.

To: Miles Vorkosigan
From: Sans

hey buddy, think you could unlock the bar for me? there are some high quality beer puns in it for ya. preview: rabbits and hops. eh?

[forwardmomentum]

"Oh, like you even drink beer," comes a voice behind Sans with an amused scoff. Miles's voice, for sure, but different -- gone are the warm gutturals of his Barrayaran accent, replaced instead with something flatter, more akin to the American accent half the ship is sporting. He's got a wild grin on his face, a little too hyper-alert for this hour, and who needs to reply to texts when you can just run down the hall like the fucking Energizer bunny, right??

Miles neatly maneuvers around Sans to the door the bar to punch open the lock, glancing back over his shoulder at him with a cocked eyebrow. More than ever, he looks like an overcharged particle vibrating just fast enough to give the illusion of standing still, his eyes lit like a live wire. "Why'd you need me for this anyway, huh? You could've just zapped yourself inside if you wanted. Or did ya just miss me that much?"

gregor

[forwardmomentum]

"You know, I have to give Ivan credit," says Miles, stepping out of the lift with Gregor. They'd headed out of the mess after dinner together, taking the lift not to Nomo Deck, but to the deck housing the custom designed rooms granted to some of the higher ranks. Miles is pleased to finally have a private space he can call his own that isn't his office. It's nice to have...options. "He's inherited a lot more from his parents than his good looks, apparently -- his mother's design sense, for instance. I'm actually impressed -- although I wouldn't have expected him to pry it out of my and Mother's hands like that."

[lets_see_what_happens]

"Contrary to carefully cultivated popular opinion," Gregor says, his voice the amused sort of mild, "Ivan is not actually allergic to initiative. And he does want what's best for you, especially if that involves saving you from your own lamentable taste."

for thán

[forwardmomentum]

It's been a while since Miles has really talked to Thán, outside of official business. He'd really intended to strike up some personal time sooner, but then, so much had happened on Emiri and after, and the massive influx of people onto the ship has kept everyone busy -- but they are most definiteyl overdue. And why not now, when Miles seems to be making more time for himself every day in lieu of sleep?

He should probably try getting more sleep, but he's prone to avoid it, lately, what with all the nightmares, and he's probably had a little too much coffee today, but he's actually feeling better tonight than he has most nights in the last few weeks. Which is why it seems like a good time to invite Thán for some off time with a few drinks -- Miles is sure the captain could use as much of a break from work as he can.

Being a patron at the bar for once is a little odd for Miles, who doesn't drink nearly as much as his cousin, but it's nice. Not soothing, no -- nothing's really soothing when you feel like you're jittering right out of your skin, but he's hoping the alcohol will help. He gives Thán a manicky grin from across the table, his eyes a little too bright, and cups his hands around his glass. "So -- how's it been, Thán? I haven't seen you much since the party."

[hohnkai]

Thán makes his rounds as much as any person trying to be a responsible captain would. He stops by the bar, but hardly ever to stay and mingle. He knows he's not well liked due to his role, and is aware that there are lines that can't be crossed, more aware now than he'd been before.

When Miles invites him down, however, he doesn't refuse, and he's on time with a few minutes to spare.

"I've been alright, Miles. Trying to get everything sorted out. How are you?"

He almost doesn't want to ask. The man is clearly unsettled, something off about him, but Thán doesn't know him well enough to know the reason for it.

"Have you met Benjamin yet?"

[heart_breaking]

The ship is too nested in sleep for there to be anyone else awake, and so far every room they've entered has been empty. They'd wished for otherwise. It's a plan that never ends well, but some base part of their mind drives them on as though finding another sentient being might possibly guide them to some kind of refuge. Considering that they've just died a dozen times over in their dreams, refuge is definitely on their mind: they ache from wounds that disappeared under their hands upon waking. If they tense or move just the right way, they can still just barely sense them. Phantom pain lingers.

A normal child could climb into a parent's lap and cry until the world was whole again, but that cure only rolls off of Chara at the best of times. Maybe throwing all the Rec Room's loose equipment into the pool will calm them more thoroughly. At the very least it'll kill time.

The doors to the room hiss open, and Chara strides straight towards the racks of exercise equipment closest to the door.

[forwardmomentum]

The rec room isn't as empty as Chara assumes when they first walk in. On the far end of the room where the exercise machines are lined up against the wall, Miles is working the treadmill -- at a surprisingly good clip despite the leg braces, but then, he'd worn the damn things until he was in his twenties, he's had plenty of practice. He watches Chara for a minute from the treadmill before he bothers to slow down to a walking pace. Unlike the uniform Chara's seen him in before, Miles is dressed in nothing but a pair of gray sweats and a plain black t-shirt, a thin sheen of sweat over his face, flushed with color from exertion. He's evidently been here a while, an hour, at least. Miles sucks in a refreshing breath of air through his nose and grabs his towel to wipe the sweat from his face before he jerks his chin up in Chara's general direction.

"Can't sleep, I take it." His voice is as deceptively mild as it had been the last time they spoke, but it's different. The accent, for one. Flat and not at all like his Barrayaran accent. And there's something else about him -- a kind of frenetic energy humming beneath his skin that might have always been there, but it's been keyed up to eleven. His gaze at Chara is as intense as ever, a light of intrigue to it and the faintest quirk of his lips.

J & bruce

[forwardmomentum]

Miles didn't actually make it to dinner -- something about losing track of time -- frankly, it's only his MID that keeps him aware of what time of the day cycle it is, it's hard enough to tell on a ship, and harder still when you're not sleeping regularly or much at all. But his body clock isn't so off that he doesn't know how long it's been since he ate, a number which can only be described as "too long". It's a few hours after dinner when he stumbles into the kitchen in a haze, looking for something to eat. Something simple. Groats...groats will have to do. He doesn't have much of an appetite anyway.

Luckily he's Barrayaran, and he could make groats in his sleep -- or deprivation thereof -- and he staggers out of the kitchen with a fresh, steaming bowl. He deposits himself at a table near the wall with a few uncleared dishes, presumably from fellow post-meal stragglers who didn't bother to clean up after themselves. With a vague frown, he pushes a few glasses aside, closer to the edge of the table, and props his elbows on its surface. He stares tiredly at his groats for a long while, thinking very, very hard about reaching for his spoon, and then he catches himself nodding off, jerking back upright. Phantom images dance across his vision. Miles rubs his face vigorously and grabs his spoon. Maybe if he can keep some food down, he'll be able to sleep. It's not like the nightmares are respecting the boundaries of sleep and waking.

[gentlemenpreferblondes]

Just as when Miles grabs the spoon a hand comes from behind him and pushes the bowl away, making a more room on the table. J, once again wearing a stylish dress instead of the uniform, sits down on the table in front of him, smiling at him friendly.

Ever since their little adventure with the elevator things had been okay with them. Sure, they weren't closest of the friends -- if you could even go as far as call them that even-- but there definitely was this mutual appreciation and even respect for each other.

When she had first spotted Miles walking across the Mess Hall, she had smiled and waved him as a greeting-- which had all gone ignored by him. Normally J would've shrugged it off and continued to mind her own business but this time she actually had something she wanted to talk to him about. Just a few days ago she had requested a job transfer to bar from the captains and while she was still waiting for their answer she still thought it'd be good to tell him about it-- which lead her to approach him.

"Evening Mr. Miles," she hums and crosses her legs as she leans backwards, making sure that he'll be able to see her whole upper body properly. But her posture was different to compared to her usual one, there was still the flirt in her body language but it was more casual instead of seductive. "It's been a while--" the rest of sentence dies on her lips when she sees the pale, absent minded expression on his face.