[ all my favorite people are broken ]

[forwardmomentum]

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! ]

Comments

Hope ur ready for some grade a cheese

[rraidergirl]

Lara has a habit of being a worrier to begin with. It's only gotten worse since Yamatai, particularly since there's quite a lot of people to worry about on the Moira. And not always anything in her power to do for them. It would be easier to cut herself off. You can't save everyone.

Well. She's not saving anyone now. She's walking through the darkened room, after offering a smile to whichever cousin had been keeping vigil, as it were, the face doesn't register. Lara's already moving to the bed, quiet and soft out of habit. She stands beside it, poised like she's stopped midmotion.

"How are you feeling?" The question is just as soft as her gestures in the quiet of the room.

[accidentaltruth]

[No-one actually remembers to tell him until the worst of it is over, and even then what he gets is terse and tells him hardly anything. Just... out of commission, which leaves him feeling oddly adrift. He doesn't like not-knowing what's going on, and it leaves him restless and a little more irritable than usual.

It takes a few more days to work up the courage to go along the corridor, down to Miles' room, picking a time he's fairly sure no-one else will be in. He paces outside for a little, but he can't hear anything, and after a moment he just risks pressing his thumb to the lock. Clones, after all. He doesn't even get his own thumbprint. The door beeps for him obligingly and opens, a reminder that even the computers can't tell them apart, and after a moment he sticks his head through the door.

No-one's there, at least not that he sees at first, until he sees Miles sat in one of the beds. He looks... smaller, and weak, and the unsettled feeling gets a little stronger, leaving him debating backing out again.]

What happened?

[It's not what he meant to say, but it sort of slips out.]

[tearmeanewone]

[Eventually, Elizabeth receives the go-ahead to visit Miles from Ivan. Until then, facing him had been something in the far-flung future, something that came after ensuring the salvage operation on Del Pascia was running smoothly and that repairs could be accomplished quickly and in order of importance. That, in addition to keeping the library running, was practically three jobs' worth of work, and Elizabeth had gotten into the habit of flopping into bed in her uniform once the day was over only to get up again a few hours later and continue on. But groggy as she was, when Ivan told her Miles was more or less up for visitors if she wanted to see him, that got her attention very quickly.]

[Despite Ivan's insistence that she'd done Miles a favor by shooting him full of tranquilizers, Miles' face when he realized what had happened wouldn't ever leave her. He'd looked so stunned, and betrayed, and maybe afraid-- to her, at least, from her position atop the shelf. No matter how many times she admitted that she could be projecting how she thinks he felt about it, adrenaline did funny things to memories and so on, at a very basic level she doesn't like that she resorted to shooting someone. Again.]

['Guess it runs in the family' she'd thought on more than one occasion.]

[Afraid as she is of how Miles would react to seeing her, she still has to see him. Not visiting would potentially be worse than just ripping off the bandaid (if there is a bandaid to rip off). So she goes to Miles' cabin around lunch time, a little card in hand, and knocks.]

Miles? It's Elizabeth. Can I come in?

[Maybe this way, if he didn't want to see her, he could just pretend he was asleep or something.]

/o/

[hellsbel]

Three days: four, counting the night it had set in. Not much time at all, now that it's over -- hardly any time, for the situation as Gregor had described it.

Bel had tried not to expect a quick resolution. Disabled Miles's code on their MID, not trusting reflex not to answer if he'd managed a virtual curfew break too soon; texted his relatives no more than once a day, leaving a standing offer of help or sympathy; hurled all available energy into the salvage operations. If Bel can do little else for them all than getting the damned ship to wherever it's going, at least it's better than thinking about what might or might not be.

And then Gregor had called again. And caught Bel flat-footed, unready for the sequel.

Assured, despite earlier concerns, that the Dendarii uniform wouldn't set the recovery back, Bel had pulled on the grey-and-white tunic instead of the Moira's undress whites, the captain's insignia in place where it belongs. There'd been no time for anything else. They're all chimeras here anyway, some just a little more deeply.

Three days. Had it proved not to be that bad after all, or is Miles breaking the mold again, as he always does? Breaking out, breaking free--

--the rest would normally have been outside of a mercenary shipmaster's purview. But Bel, stepping softly over to Miles's bedside (drawn and worried, pretending not to be shaking a little inside), isn't only here as the Admiral's captain.

He does look better. Tired, but not courting exhaustion; no longer vibrating apart. That, at least, lets a small smile tug at Bel's lips. If he's amenable, they'll take his hand.

"Welcome back?"

To whom, Bel's not sure. But he doesn't look like... not himself, anyway.

4/9; ivan & gregor

[forwardmomentum]

It's been a rough week. That goes without saying; in fact, Miles feels like saying it over and over again is starting to diminish its effect. What he'd like to do is just...put this all behind him.

It isn't that simple, though; none of this is cut and dry. It's been a slow, fumbling process, two steps forward, one step back, three steps sideways and sometimes he's felt like he's walking up and down the walls; a metamorphosis and reassembly all at once. It doesn't move in steps, or even a straight line; he doesn't know how he'd quantify his progress or if it can even be quantified as such. But a change, some new stage, has been achieved. Miles feels different, now. Better is a word, but different, that's more apt. Somehow over the last few days, he's managed to carefully rebuild his house of cards, a delicate procedure, and he's made a few additions. It needs stability, as much as one can give a house of cards.

Miles is still feeling shaky, construction still underway, but he's found his footing, mostly. He's half-dozing on his bunk under Gregor's quiet watch, idly paging through a book every so often, but he sits up when he hears the door open at Ivan's reentry. He waits a few minutes, absently smoothing his ruffled hair, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Yo," he says, to get their attention. He's been unnervingly quiet since the ice bath, and his voice cracks a little. He clears his throat. "I wanted to talk to you. Both of you, I mean."

[hostessing]

There had been something off about her nephew since they first met here, apart from the unusual figure he made. She hasn't had the years to get used to it, but he's up and moving, something they were unsure he would even be able to do when she had left Barrayar. It wasn't until Gregor had informed her of the unusual growth of the crew and increase in duties that both he and Miles faced that the pieces began sliding neatly into place.

Injured and overworked and not at all inclined to tell his aunt much about any of it. Which has her wondering about their relationship in the future, but that does little for her now. How long this has been going on for him, she isn't sure and she manages to hold off on her social well-visit until she hears some word from her son that Miles is up for visitors.

"Miles?" she asks as she knocks lightly on the door to his room.

4/16

[aminerproblem]

Megatron enters Miles' room, mass shifted to to his smaller (albeit still ten-foot-high) form. He wasn't entirely sure how to comfort over-exerted humans, so he'd waited until his co-worker was a little more cognizant before visiting to avoid making things awkward.

He's there mostly for business reasons, as the ship did not stop being eventful while his co-worker had been out for the count. But only mostly.

The Cybertronian comes forward bearing a gift: a decent sized can of compressed air with a banana-looking fruit from the mess hall taped to the side. The last part was thanks to Lara's counsel.

"I take it your recovery went well?"

4/10

[gainedlove]

Frisk had heard through the grapevine (well, really by overhearing a few things Bel said) about Miles's collapse and slow recovery. They're worried, for many reasons, but the biggest one is simply their natural concern for others.

Still, Frisk doesn't know Miles all that well, so rather than walk in as they might otherwise the child knocks twice and calls through the door with a small voice.

"Um...can I come in?"

[skelepun]

[No formal invitation was given, but Sans was never much for those in the first place. The gross lack of competence he showed in his actual job gave Sans infinite time to invent new little jobs for himself; one of which happened to be keeping tabs on Miles Vorkosigan.

Pretty easy, considering they had him locked up in one room. Of course, easy jobs were Sans' favorite. The schedule they have him on is pretty loose, chosen visitors coming and going. Sans tends to check in only late at night, once he knows Miles and his various watchers will be sleeping.

There's not much information to be gleaned, but, well. Sans likes Miles. Sort of. And knowing the guy is in one piece does a skeleton good.

... Also, he's been hiding snails under his bed. That's neither here nor there. Purely a feature of his concern.]

There ya go, little guy. [Sans whispers, letting the snail join the others. The head of lettuce he left was slowly being chipped away by the eight (now nine) little friends he'd left for Miles.] Lettuce not speak of this again.

[Chuckling to himself, Sans stood again, giving Miles a cursory glance. Pale, brow knit even in sleep, it's a wonder the guy didn't have this meltdown sooner. Apparently his people didn't believe in union-sanctioned breaks. Sans takes a step back, preparing to leave, when his foot lands on quite possibly the noisiest floorboard in existence.

Hopefully those soldier reflexes didn't apply when a guy was really tired.]