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

Miles's grin falters and shifts uncomfortably under that gaze, clearing his throat as he glances over at his desk with a jerky motion of his neck. The desk is half-covered in files, half of them personnel files and the others a pile of some request or another.

"You could say that," he hedges. "You've seen the roster of this ship more than double recently, Gregor, it's a lot of paperwork. And the bar -- " Oh, he should not mention the bar or the fact that he's running on its own. "Well, it's a lot of paperwork."

"Wait. Didn't the other Beverage Dissemination Officer leave the ship? Miles, are you doing all this yourself and running the bar?" Attempting to, anyway. Gregor's frown deepens and his voice is quieter, the way it always is on the rare occasions when he's deliberately taking off his Emperor hat and wearing his Gregor one instead.

"Why didn't you ask for help?" The 'why didn't you ask me for help?' is unnecessary and unspoken.

Miles croaks out a helpless laugh before he can stop himself. "I am the one you ask for help, Gregor," he says with a huff, rubbing his hands over his face. The inherently personal shift in Gregor's demeanor only makes him more nervous, somehow. Disappointing Gregor the foster-brother and cousin is, somehow, even worse than disappointing Gregor the Emperor. Perhaps because the Imperium hardly exists here.

"Look, I'm working on it. It is somewhere in my increasingly long to-do list. But before I can recommend another Beverage Dissemination Officer, I need to finish going through all the new personnel files, and -- I'm working on it. This is only a temporary solution."

Gregor controls the alarm threatening to bleed into his expression carefully, his eyes very still on Miles' face.

"Is there anything I can do in the meantime?" he asks, his voice drawn taut. He attempts a smile and trusts it doesn't look as ghastly as it feels. "I am quite adept at paperwork, as you can well attest."

"Gregor -- " Miles starts, mouth open to protest, but his voice dies off and he rubs at his face, a sudden sensation like whiplash. He scrubs at his face harder, finding it difficult to breathe -- a tight, contracting feeling in his chest that makes him dizzy. The room seems to swim around him, the sound of color warping in his ears.

"Ah," he starts, barely a breath, tight in his throat. His stomach hurts like a gaping wound. He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead and shakes his head, waving distractedly. His voice wavers strangely. "No, forget the paperwork, just -- just get a hold of Tung. I need him to take things from here."

Gregor goes utterly still, alarm flooding into his eyes before he controls his expression with an effort and straightens his spine.

"Commodore Tung, Miles?" he asks slowly and carefully. "Is that who you said?"

"He's gonna be Captain Tung if he tells me we've lost any more of those shuttles," Miles says tiredly, intensely dizzy. It's cruel that the room keeps throwing him every which way and Gregor gets to stay perfectly in place. Damned unfair, is what, and Miles has half a mind to accuse the room of preferential treatment. He's the Emperor, go figure. Miles rubs his chest, eyes disfocusing on the middle distance a foot to the left of Gregor and down as his accent wavers momentarily, then switches abruptly to Betan.

"I just need him for a few hours. Just for a breather." Miles's breath is shallow, his eyes gone out of his focus, his head nodding just slightly to the side. "He got to keep all his clothes on, he can at least cover my ass. I can't right now." His breath catches in his chest on that last one, painfully tight.

"He won't like being broken back to captain again, Miles," Gregor says mildly, moving very slowly and carefully closer, his fingertips just barely brushing Miles' sleeve. He doesn't try to hold onto him yet, not wanting to startle him, and he knows his face is slightly too still and his eyes slightly too wide with the alarm choking his throat, but he keeps it out of his voice and hopes Miles is too out of it to notice. Where does he even think they are? He reels for another sick moment before the bottom drops out of his stomach. Miles' clothes, and lost shuttles...

"He'll take care of it," he says, his voice worn thin. "He'll finish getting the refugees out, Miles. Don't worry. We've got you."

"But we didn't," Miles says heavily, his shoulders dropping with a weight he didn't know they could possess. His face drains of color, like the weight of guilt and sorrow is enough to suck him dry of it. His look at Gregor is entreating, almost desperate, an urgent need to make him understand. Miles's voice cracks. "We didn't get all of them. We lost some, and we're never getting them back."

A movement, out the corner of his eye -- Miles's gaze twitches and he thinks he sees Murka's face on the edge of his vision before it vanishes. Oh, hello. Oh, no. His breath hitches in his chest and quickens.

Edited 2016-04-05 02:45 (UTC)

"You got as many as you could, Miles." Gregor's voice is taut and he's moving, down on one knee in front of Miles now with his hands settling light on Miles' shoulders though he sounds suddenly fierce. "Oliver and Tris, and Suegar--the options were not 'you getting some of them out' and 'them living long, happy lives into retirement.' It was 'you getting some of them out' and 'them continuing to rot in that sorry circular Cetagandan excuse for a hell until they all dropped dead or murdered each other.' You did everything you could. Look at me." He watches Miles' eyes flick to the side and away and one palm cups against Miles' cheek, keeping his face turned towards Gregor's.

"Look at me. I'm so sorry, Miles, about everyone who was lost. I understand taking responsibility. I do. But it wasn't your fault." His gaze burns on Miles' face, every last iota of his attention on Miles now, willing him to be grounded by the taut thrum of Gregor's voice, the flensing focus in his eyes. "You did more than anybody ever dreamed and nearly broke yourself doing it and I am proud of you and those losses weren't your fault. Please."

Gregor's desperation only permeates on some lower level than conscious, but where it does, it scares the hell out of him. But it isn't enough, not enough to derail this train of thought and memory.

"You didn't see them." Miles's voice cracks, his gaze flicking to Gregor's face but it doesn't hold, slipping away to stare at phantom images. "You didn't see her. She was gone before I could catch her, just -- just like that." It had happened so fast. He'd hardly had time to react. If he'd just been a little faster -- if he could have reached a little farther --

"Yes I did. Miles, look at me."

Gregor shifts one hand to Miles' cheek, trying to refocus his attention.

"I saw. I saw the footage from Dagoola, from the Cetagandans and from the Dendarii combat helmets on the drop shuttles. I watched all of it. I know. And I'm sorry, Miles, I am. I'm sorry about Sergeant Beatrice, I'm sorry about all of them. But that doesn't make it your fault. You did more than anyone--you did more than I could have ever asked of you. Please."

This time, it sticks -- Miles's gaze shifts to Gregor's face, but nothing else seems to permeate, not deep enough to wrench him out of this awful feedback loop of despair. Gregor's pleading doesn't have the desired effect, it just makes him more alarmed to hear his foster-brother and Emperor sound so desperate. Hearing that he'd watched that footage only makes Miles's chest go tighter.

"You didn't see her face." Miles starts to cry, unable to help himself, and he hates himself for it a little bit. "I barely did, it was just -- she was just a blur -- oh, God..."

"Miles," Gregor says, his voice intent and low before he swallows and just gathers Miles in against him, pressing his face to the soft uniform fabric covering his shoulder. Miles feels frighteningly small against him, shaking all over as Gregor smooths a hand over his crooked back for a moment, his heart in his throat.

"It'll be all right," he says, more controlled now, low and steady. He maneuvers Miles back onto his cot for a moment and presses him there with a hand flat on his chest for a moment.

"Don't move," Gregor says, calm but unmistakably a command before he pushes up and walks briskly out of the room. He breaks into a run as soon as he's cleared the door, long legs eating the distance through the corridors of the ship to medical and back until he's standing in front of their door again, slightly flushed. He makes an effort to steady his breathing again before he keys the door open, praying that Miles is where Gregor left him for once in his life.

Miles, for once in his life, hasn't moved at all, except to curl on his side and find a blanket to press his face into. He doesn't cry anymore -- he tries not to, anyway -- he manages to get it down to just hyperventilating, but it offers him no relief, just keeps him conscious. He can't stop replaying that three-second loop of Beatrice, her face a white blur, whipping away from him over and over again. He tries whispering to himself instead, a steady mantra, but the words get tangled and he forgets what he's trying to say.

Gregor's stomach sinks when he gets back and finds Miles curled up, but at least he hasn't gone anywhere in this state. Gregor sits on the bed next to him but doesn't try to pull the blanket away--he just gathers both it and Miles up and pulls them into his chest. He's always been a little shocked at how small Miles is when pressed this close, his body small and crumpled and trembling against Gregor's front.

"Shhh," Gregor says quietly, rubbing a hand down Miles' crooked back and slipping the hypospray out of his sleeve. He touches it to the back of Miles' neck, letting a sigh half-cover the pneumatic hiss of the injector. "Go to sleep, Miles. I've got you."

There's only a fleeting moment that Miles has to stiffen in reaction, only briefly aware of what's happening -- but the sedative kicks in fast, and Miles is too tired and distraught to have put up much of a fight anyway. His eyelids flutter briefly before they droop shut, and he goes limp against Gregor.

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

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