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

Miles actually throws back his head and lets out a laugh at that. "What, you think I've been I've been drinking coffee? At this hour?" He smirks at Sans, his eyes flashing, and he flicks his gaze briefly to his MID. "Why, I haven't had coffee in -- well, since breakfast, anyway."

Which...mainly consisted of coffee, because 'eating' isn't much in Miles's repertoire the last few days, either. That's right, Sans, this is pure, unadulterated, sleep-deprived Miles, running on some seriously strong fumes. It's forward momentum, that's all -- if he just refuses to stop, he can keep going on forever.

"Uh huh." Sans nods, leaning harder against his palm. There's something off here. Miles had a certain, ah, intensity to him even on an average day, but this tipped into something strange and vaguely unsettling.

Determination went a long way to hurting those that carried it, he knew that much looking at Frisk. Not to mention, loathe as he was to admit it, Chara.

"Take a breath, pal, I promise there aren't gonna be any sprints. You'd beat me, anyway." He cocks his head to the side, smile just a hair concerned. "Need me to call your cousin?"

Miles's eyes narrow, his grin sharpening to a point. "No, no sprinting. I'm already running a marathon." Can't you tell I'm running, or am I just going too fast? A haughty laugh of his own sounds in his mind. His mouth stretches a little wider, and he shakes his wrist out. "Does my MID look broken to you?

"Just a friendly offer." Sans shrugs, drumming his fingerbones on the bar. "So I guess since you're perfectly fine and all, how about pouring me some of that fine ketchup vintage you were talking about? I'm a little parched."

Not like Miles was going to tell him what's up directly.

Miles gives him a tight grin, eyes flashing wildly. "What, didn't you hear? The bar's self-service now."

But even as he says it he's turning around to pull a bottle of ketchup from behind the bar. It's almost true -- he'd be loath to admit it now, but Miles hasn't managed to show to every bar shift, because with Jacky gone he's the only one running the show and God knows he's bogged down with enough personnel files to drown a small army. The heavy clink of the glass bottle hitting the bartop rings in the strangely still quiet of the bar. Miles tosses the cap into the bin as soon as he's popped it off.

"So what hit you, that you're looking for a drink at this hour?" Miles's eyebrow arches, his tone casual -- or maybe it just sounds moreso than usual with the accent. But he's alert, a little too much so, watching Sans through his lashes. His fingers tap restlessly on the bartop. "Thought you'd be dead asleep by now, Sans."

"Thirst, mostly."

Two can play at the evasive fucker game, though Sans is motivated now by petulance more than privacy. He leans hard against his hand, offering a quick smile in response to the joke. Never heard that one before.

"Roommates are all snoring. It's insane. You've never heard anything like it. They'd put a jet engine to shame." His grin goes bigger when he takes the glass. "How 'bout you, pal? Too much work to do?"

In fact, the evasive fucker game has an excellent multiplayer mode, and Sans and Miles both have high scores. They're so good at this, guys.

"Ha. Try sleeping in a room with Ivan Vorpatril. Pretty sure the entire deck can hear him. At least he doesn't moan in his sleep." Some people get sex dreams. Miles only ever gets anxiety nightmares.

"Is there really such a thing?" Miles's grin stretches across his face like a rubber band. "Anyway, I wasn't looking for a drink. You called me, eh?"

The best. They'd take this tag team on the road, but that would require acknowledging it exists.

"Gross." Sans offers helpfully, raising his glass once more as a cheery punctuation on his assessment. "But you got me there. Heh, guess I'm not used to sleeping back in my own bunk yet. Had a little trouble."

Or rather, not used to sleeping apart from his brother yet again. Papyrus's time in the medbay was uncomfortable and Sans could feel his bones practically marinating in guilt, but at least he was close by.

"Nothing cures boredom like throwing a bunch of drinks on the floor and watching you mop it up, so here I am."

"Yeah, you sure know how to show a guy a good time," Miles snickers. But Sans reminds him of something he hadn't realized he'd forgotten -- something he'd kick himself for forgetting at all. Dammit, he doesn't forget these things. He doesn't forget about people he cares about. Starting to feel like he's only got a hundred seats for a hundred and ten people, lately. Miles's expression glazes over for a moment before he shakes it off, giving Sans a razor-sharp smile, but the tilt of his head and the considering expression are far from unsympathetic. He'd meant to check in earlier, he really had -- had it been so long ago, now? God, he doesn't even know what day it is, but he's not going to give that one away by looking down at his MID.

"So how is Papyrus doing?"

The mention of his brother's name is enough to throw Sans briefly off balance, searching for the greater distilled meaning behind that one. With Miles, it so often seemed he had another scheme working under the surface. Perhaps it was an incorrect assumption on Sans' part, to immediately assume something behind any sincere concern from the man.

But he's being silly. Shaking his head, Sans shrugs absently.

"He's keeping on. It's the broken heart that's getting to him more than the arm, but Pap's tough." Sans ran a finger around the rim of his tumbler, friction between bone and glass creating a high whine. "We missed you, up in the medbay."

For the first time, Miles actually falters a little, a flicker of stunned confusion flitting over his face, blink-and-you-miss-it.

"Ah...yes, well." He slaps that grin right back on his face where it's supposed to be, ruefully apologetic. "I meant to drop by as soon as I heard, but I've been running this joint and the Personnel Office full time since Jacky disappeared. Sorry." He rubs at the back of his neck. "I'll try to come by tomorrow -- but pass on my regards in case I don't make it, eh?"

For a second there he looks very, very tired, a momentary drop in his guard. Miles isn't a flake by nature, dammit. He's usually on top of this shit. But he picks himself back up, leaning an elbow on the bar. "So what happened, exactly? I seem to be out of the loop." He looks unhappy to admit it. He hates being out of the loop. He's usually right smack in the middle of the loop.

"Hey, I'm not judgin' you for it, pal." Sans grin seems to only widen, bordering on indulgent. "We all get busy. I'll let Pap know you were thinkin' of him, he'll probably faint from delight."

Sans doesn't miss the droop, not when he recognizes the pattern its born from so well. Somebody needs a lesson in the virtues of giving up, that much he knew the moment they met. Of course, now hardly seems the time, and Sans keeps his jaw shut.

"It's kind of a long story, so I'll give you the version I think you'll like best: you were right about that skeleton behind the door."

Something on Miles's face flickers. "I wish I hadn't been," he sighs. "Told-you-sos are hard to swallow, but this is a pretty bitter pill, too."

He rubs at his face and drums his fingers restlessly on the bartop, unclipped nails clicking. "It wasn't one of you, was it? A monster like you. You and Papyrus, you're a very different kind of monster. Ones specific to Underground, I suspect."

"Nope. But try telling Pap that, guy thought he was in love. Like, true-blue, head over heels into that creep." Sans shook his head, running a hand down the side of his temple. "He begged me to let him see him n', well. You know Papyrus. Those puppy dog eyes? Couldn't really say no, so..."

Sans took another drink, eyes losing some of their typical mirth. Guilt's a tough rap to shake.

"Anyway, enough about that. Pap's tough, he'll nurse the arm and the broken heart and come back swinging. You tell me about you n' yours. Has Ivan made you first-mate-in-law yet?"

"Poor kid," Miles sighs in glum agreement, and it's genuine sympathy. "Yeah, love can be a son of a bitch like that. Glad he wasn't hurt any worse, though."

He barks out a laugh at that. "You don't know Ivan Vorpatril very well. You say the word marriage within earshot of him and he goes into anaphylactic shock."

"Remind me to say it around him more often, then." Sans grins, putting any and all residual guilt blessedly behind him. Swirling his drink, he raises a brow bone in Miles' direction. "Same go for you?"

Something in Miles's expression stalls at the question -- not out of embarrassment or avoidance, but rather some disturbance of memory, a dissonant echo. The glazed look in his eyes clears away in just a moment, and a rueful smirk flickers onto his face in sudden reanimation.

"Me? Nope," he sighs with slight dramatic exaggeration, slumping back. His accent wavers, slipping back into Barrayaran as if he were shifting gears, or just receding into himself. He doesn't seem to notice, his gaze going slightly distant. "Just gotta find someone crazy enough to say yes."

To someone who made his livelihood observing minute changes, the transformation was a scepter and light show away from being one of Alphys' cartoons. About as subtle, to boot.

The act of observation inherently changes what is being observed. Of course, while that meant something far different in a laboratory than it did in a bar, Sans found the principle still carried. As such, he kept his expression schooled and easy. Noticing someone who didn't want to be noticed, well. Kinda a faux pas when you wanted answers.

"Psh, I can think of a few willing souls. You've got the rep as a bit of a tom cat, friend."

Miles is just too damn tired to notice. Admiral Naismith doesn't have to worry about getting married, but Lord Vorkosigan does. In fact he very much does, considering he's the last of his line right now.

"What?" That actually catches him off guard, eliciting a note of slightly embarrassed laughter. "Do I really?"

Not that he's made any effort to keep any of his relationships a secret, but somehow, it didn't occur to him that anyone would be paying attention to that particular aspect of his life. Just, you know. The rest of him. Miles recovers quickly enough and shakes his head, waving off the prospect like a cloud of smoke around his head.

"There's a wide gulf between courting and agreeing to a marriage proposal, believe me. Haven't managed to get a yes so far." He sighs. It's not exactly something he delights in admitting, but at least Elli didn't turn him inside out and dump him on the spot. He's still sort of hoping she'll change her mind eventually. "It's not just a marriage, that's the whole problem. Whoever marries me will eventually become the next Countess Vorkosigan, and that's practically a full-time job. And Barrayar comes with the package, too, and I haven't met a galactic yet who's crazy enough to want to settle there."

Trying not to let the weary exhaustion creep into his bones, Miles rocks from foot to foot. "Getting married to anyone here would be moot. None of them are going to come back to Barrayar with me." Not that he hasn't indulged his imagination once in a while. He's kind of a romantic sucker like that. "It's...complicated."

As he's wont to do, Sans listens. It's not a rich subject for mental notes, but there are a few fun kernels here and there. That Countess Vorkosigan bit in particular.

"I gotta ask, and I don't mean to sound rude or anything, but I was under the impression we were pretty far from wherever those titles matter." He leans against his fist, expression lazy and noncommittal. "Why do they still matter so much to you?"

"Because I'm only ever so far from Barrayar," Miles sighs. There's a tired creak in his voice. "I don't want to marry someone just for kicks, Sans. If I marry someone, it's because I want them to come home with me."

And none of them are, not to Barrayar, anyway. Bel will go back to the Dendarii -- they have to -- and Lara back to her home. And Clark to his, too, although Miles isn't sure taking Clark back to Barrayar with him would work out anyway.

"I'm not so separable from those titles as you think. They're a part of me, as much as Barrayar is. They represent my obligations, my duties. Those don't just...go away when I'm away from home."

"Yeah, but you didn't even choose 'em, did you?"

Unless Sans had a grave misunderstanding in how Barrayarian culture works, and it's always a possibility. All he's been able to glean are scattered in bits and pieces, pooling together into a whole he barely understands.

"Who's going to care?"

Miles actually looks offended for a second. "I care," he says, frowning, and crosses his arms. "I didn't choose them, no, but it doesn't make it any less my responsibility. Besides, the next in line of inheritance is Ivan, and no one wants him in charge of a district, including himself."

He permits that brief moment of humor before it slips away. "My father may be Count now, but someday that'll be me. It's not so much about being in charge as it is about being accountable. When our Emperor reached his majority, I swore an oath to him -- an oath of service. Not just in service to the Emperor, but the Imperium as a whole, and those within it I'm responsible for. I'm a man of honor. I'm Vor. My breath is my word, and to break it would be nothing short of dishonor." He tries to shrug it off. "I'd rather die."

"Damn."

Whether Sans is impressed or something else entirely isn't quite clear. Lack of understanding, though, that's clear. It's not that Sans doesn't understand duty. Asgore and his duty to the preservation of his people in the face of a terrible choice, Undyne and her duty to her king and fellow monsters through the Royal Guard, not to mention his brother.

Understanding something wasn't quite the same as getting it, though.

"Sounds pretty suffocating." He tips his drink in Miles' direction, winking. "Glad it makes you happy though, bro."

"It can be," Miles admits candidly. He rubs his palm on the leg of his uniform. "Fatally so. But it's worth it."

And he has to. He has to show them he can. Given how spectacularly Sans evades any and all responsibility, maybe it shouldn't come as a surprise that this is something the skeleton simply can't relate to. Maybe on not such a grand scale, anyway.

"Happy...mm." He wags his head from side to side in deliberation. "It's not really about happiness. It's about fulfillment."

Miles glances sidelong at Sans, considering. "Not so different with you and Papyrus, though, is it? The scale's all off, but still. Would you be content to abdicate all responsibility to your brother just because he was somewhere else?"

Then again, Sans seemed so eager to shove the responsibility off on Miles when they first met that maybe he's wrong on where Sans stands on the idea of responsibility altogether. It's always hard to say, with Sans.

Edited 2016-05-02 16:36 (UTC)

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

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sorry for the delay, busy weekend!

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