forwardmomentum (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
forwardmomentum) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-04-10 12:56 pm
forwardmomentum) wrote in thisavrou_log2016-04-10 12:56 pm
Entry tags:
[ all my favorite people are broken ]
Who: Miles and company
When: the 9th through the 15th
Where: the Kvortira, Moro Deck #009
What: Now that Miles is a little more stable, Ivan and Gregor are permitting him visitors at their cabin.
Warnings: Mental illness/trauma, TBD
It's been...a long week. It's been a long month. A long -- Miles could go on, but there's no sense in counting backwards like that. The last several days have been spent adrift in a terrifying daze, not quite sure of himself or who he is -- the details he hadn't lost, mostly, but they'd been spilled free of their boundaries, a tangled mess. Who belonged to which life, which one of him had done what, kept this secret or another, what parts of him they filled in -- he'd almost lost it all, it'd almost slipped through his fingers. That peculiar sensation of being pulled slowly apart that he'd been feeling for months now had hit its peak. He'd never felt so raw and aching, ripped right open and stuffing torn out. He'd never felt so lost. The ice bath had shocked him right out of the whirlwind smashing everything up, but then he'd been left to carefully reassemble the pieces.
He's doing better now. It took a while, but somewhere in the dark, he fished out the pieces of himself and put them back together. His house of cards rebuilt, he's got both feet on the ground, whole again. It took him all this time and trauma to come to understand, finally, that as long as he's on this ship, he can't really be Lord Vorkosigan or Admiral Naismith, just one or the other. It left him feeling incomplete. He can't really be either of them at all here, really. Lord Vorkosigan is nothing without Barrayar, he's realized, and Admiral Naismith nothing without the Dendarii. It's all about context, he knows, and here, neither might as well exist. But the Moira does, and Miles has been here since the beginning of all this, and here, it's become an inextricable part of him, just the same as his anchors back home. He needs it, in a way. So when he finally emerged from that tumultuous sea, it wasn't as Lord Vorkosigan or Admiral Naismith, but Crewman Miles Naismith-Vorkosigan of the Moira.
He's still getting used to himself all over again, and he's still finding his footing, but it's a relief to have found himself again. He feels he can relax for the first time in...a long time. And for the first time in the last month, he's sleeping again, actually sleeping, and he's not totally free of nightmares, but it's been better. It's getting a little better every day. He looks a little thinner, more gaunt than usual, and far paler, but he still looks better than when he'd been so sleep deprived and unsteady. He's just still a little shaky, that's all, but he's feeling worlds better, aside from how stir crazy he's starting to feel. Ivan and Gregor still won't let him out of the cabin for now, and it's maddening, however good their intentions. He doesn't quite have the energy to fight them on it. A few visitors would do him good, though. He's starting to feel starved for human contact outside of his cousins.
[ feel free to write a starter or let me know if you want me to write one! ]
When: the 9th through the 15th
Where: the Kvortira, Moro Deck #009
What: Now that Miles is a little more stable, Ivan and Gregor are permitting him visitors at their cabin.
Warnings: Mental illness/trauma, TBD
It's been...a long week. It's been a long month. A long -- Miles could go on, but there's no sense in counting backwards like that. The last several days have been spent adrift in a terrifying daze, not quite sure of himself or who he is -- the details he hadn't lost, mostly, but they'd been spilled free of their boundaries, a tangled mess. Who belonged to which life, which one of him had done what, kept this secret or another, what parts of him they filled in -- he'd almost lost it all, it'd almost slipped through his fingers. That peculiar sensation of being pulled slowly apart that he'd been feeling for months now had hit its peak. He'd never felt so raw and aching, ripped right open and stuffing torn out. He'd never felt so lost. The ice bath had shocked him right out of the whirlwind smashing everything up, but then he'd been left to carefully reassemble the pieces.
He's doing better now. It took a while, but somewhere in the dark, he fished out the pieces of himself and put them back together. His house of cards rebuilt, he's got both feet on the ground, whole again. It took him all this time and trauma to come to understand, finally, that as long as he's on this ship, he can't really be Lord Vorkosigan or Admiral Naismith, just one or the other. It left him feeling incomplete. He can't really be either of them at all here, really. Lord Vorkosigan is nothing without Barrayar, he's realized, and Admiral Naismith nothing without the Dendarii. It's all about context, he knows, and here, neither might as well exist. But the Moira does, and Miles has been here since the beginning of all this, and here, it's become an inextricable part of him, just the same as his anchors back home. He needs it, in a way. So when he finally emerged from that tumultuous sea, it wasn't as Lord Vorkosigan or Admiral Naismith, but Crewman Miles Naismith-Vorkosigan of the Moira.
He's still getting used to himself all over again, and he's still finding his footing, but it's a relief to have found himself again. He feels he can relax for the first time in...a long time. And for the first time in the last month, he's sleeping again, actually sleeping, and he's not totally free of nightmares, but it's been better. It's getting a little better every day. He looks a little thinner, more gaunt than usual, and far paler, but he still looks better than when he'd been so sleep deprived and unsteady. He's just still a little shaky, that's all, but he's feeling worlds better, aside from how stir crazy he's starting to feel. Ivan and Gregor still won't let him out of the cabin for now, and it's maddening, however good their intentions. He doesn't quite have the energy to fight them on it. A few visitors would do him good, though. He's starting to feel starved for human contact outside of his cousins.
[ feel free to write a starter or let me know if you want me to write one! ]
no subject
"This was the size required to transform into my weapon form," he states flatly,"There was no need to push it further."
He presents the gift, more or less dropping it into Miles' lap and expecting him to be quick enough to catch it on his own.
"I am glad to hear you are doing well. We have a tradition on Cybertron to give well-wishes to those who are ill. I understand Earth has a similar custom, though I imagine it lacks energon."
So he'll just give Miles air instead. Same thing, more or less. It was required for his survival.
no subject
Megatron drops the gift and Miles has to fumble for it with one hand, but he manages to more or less catch it so that it doesn't land directly in his lap, and his brow wrinkles. A can of compressed air with...a banana taped to the side? "Energon? Is that what you sustain yourselves on?" He delicately peels the tape away to release the poor fruit from its bondage. "I'm not from Earth, but the sentiment is...noted."
After a moment he adds helpfully, "Liquor's a little more traditional on Barrayar."
Pretty much all Vor customs involve alcohol, so really, who's even surprised.
no subject
Megatron forgets humans don't tend to jump to different bodies. He's run the gauntlet through quite a few of those. The Autobot watches as he examines the canned air and fruit offering. Miles appears to be puzzled, but otherwise accepts it. Close enough.
"Liquor," his voice is flatter than ever. Apparently, chugging booze is a universal waste of time across species barriers, "I believe the air would be more useful to your recovery."
no subject
The question springs from Miles like a reflex, even as he turns his increasingly amused, if quizzical, stare at the unconventional gift. He sets the banana aside and turns the can of air over in his hands, one eyebrow cocked.
"I'd still rather go with the liquor. I'm pretty sure if I inhaled that it'd kill me. You know this isn't for breathing, right?"