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Gregor leaves Ivan on his bed--he'd piled Ivan into his own instead of making him climb to the top bunk after he was cut loose from the medbay--and slides the door open, his face drawn and still when he catches the expression on Clark's. He steps back, taking in the outfit and the stains as his lips compress into a thin line.

"Come in," he says, then shuts the door behind him. "Are you all right?"

Edited 2015-11-22 22:26 (UTC)

The list of things Ivan never wants to see in his life is admittedly, a long list. But Ivan prides himself on living a life that leaves 'individual covered in blood showing up at my doorstep' a rather rare chance. Or at least until now, and he's pretty sure that whatever follows isn't going to be pleasant. First things first, though:

"What's wrong? And what are you wearing?"

He's only spoken to Greg once before, briefly, but it's still enough to have formed something of an impression. The way Ivan is bundled up in the bed is most likely his doing, and the question he asks Clark is genuine - not usually the first one that comes to mind when people see him like this. He doesn't really have an answer to it. At least, not one he's willing to give.

Luckily, Ivan cuts in just then. Clark scans him with a glance, just to check the extent of his injuries.

"It doesn't matter," he says, giving Ivan a small, humorless smile.

He turns to Greg, then hesitates a moment. "You might want to sit down for this."

Gregor's eyes chill as Clark pauses and he shifts in place instead of sitting, his back straightening and his hands settling at the base of his spine as he comes to a species of attention, his chin lifting just slightly.

"I don't think I will, thank you," he says before something cold detonates in his stomach and runs through his veins in a rush, freezing him still.

"Clark," he says, slow and deliberate. "Where is Miles?"

"Probably out somewhere nearly getting himself killed, as usual," is Ivan's helpful input -- gently and unknowingly blowing up Miles' attempts at passing as an ImpSec courier to Clark, although he pulls himself to the edge of the bed to get a better look at Clark. It does matter because in Ivan's experience normal people do not wear skintight suits with capes. That just seems like a poor choice -- hell, no one on Barrayar wears capes anymore unless it's a half-cape that matches some town clown's suit.

Something very much akin to panic finally penetrates, and Ivan goes still, looking with wide eyes from Gregor to Clark and then back again. He doesn't-- no, this is a conversation he's very sure he doesn't want to have.

He sees the way Greg's back goes straight right there. Clark isn't an officer in any sense of the word, he has no experience delivering this kind of news.

He'd gathered that Miles wasn't someone who was easily put off by danger. If nothing else, their fight on the way down would have proved that, but Miles was also the kind of person who knew how to get himself out of a scrape, if even the lighthearted stories were true. He doesn't know which is worse: Greg braced to hear the news, or Ivan's slowly fading disbelief.

He swallows thickly, straightening his shoulders.

"Miles is dead," He says, flatly. He has to swallow again, but at least his voice comes out steady. He looks from one to the other, making sure the words have sunk in. "When I got to him, he had already lost too much blood. There was nothing I could do for him I just. Watched him die."

He takes a breath. Every word is difficult, his chest tight with barely restrained grief. "I'm sorry. I should have -- I'm sorry."

Edited 2015-11-27 06:00 (UTC)

Gregor stares at Clark as his face drains pale and still, his back to Ivan and an awful, naked pain in his eyes for a split second before he blinks and draws in a breath.

"I see," he says, through a rushing sound in his head like a waterfall, carrying the bottom of his stomach down and down and down. He sounds almost numb, but his eyes are burning. "Where is my brother's body, Clark?"

"What?" Is all Ivan can manage, surging to his feet and stumbling to Gregor's side. "Are you sure?" Which sounds like a stupid question to ask, Ivan knows, but it's Miles and if anyone can cheat or talk or otherwise scam their way out of death, it's his cousin.

He doesn't want to think about the alternative. That he's dead, he's not coming back -- if they have the body, maybe they could prep it for cryo-- they'd at least have something to take back home. No. He's not-- he can't be.

He turns to Ivan and gives him a small nod. There's a finality to it, a certainty he wishes he could doubt. The blood was one thing, but Clark knows death. He'd seen the pure terror in Miles' expression, and watched his heart go still in his chest.

He feels hollow, like the weight of the news has left nothing but emptiness in his chest.

"I couldn't bring him back," he says, to Greg. "I had to fight. There were still people who could be saved."

Edited 2015-11-27 20:36 (UTC)

Gregor's expression doesn't shift a single iota, his eyes flat and hard like chips of flint as he watches Clark's face.

"You were with him, then? Until the end?" There's the slightest hesitation before he continues, his voice even. "You watched him die?"

This is stupid and idiotic and pointless, Ivan wants to cry out, because there's no frigging way Miles would just up and die on them. Except he had, and Ivan doesn't know who he's more angry at - Miles for dying or Clark for letting him. "What about after," he protests, his good hand going to grip Gregor's arm.

He remembers what it was like after his father had died. Even though he'd watched it happen, he hadn't been allowed to see the body they recovered - he hadn't wanted to see it badly enough to argue much. It was weeks before it really sunk in that he was dead and Clark finally stopped trying to think of ways he could have survived, or find places to lay blame because he didn't.

It's not the same thing, but it gives him an idea of what to expect. He folds his arms across his chest. His expression isn't any harder than moments before. He's just collecting himself for the inevitable.

"I was with him," he says. "I wouldn't let him die alone. If there was any chance that he could have lived, I would have taken it."

"Ivan," Gregor says, his voice not quite sharp--and he turns around to catch Ivan by the shoulders and push him gently but firmly back to the bed.

"You're going to reopen something if you stay on your feet. I need you to lie down." There's steel in his voice, not quite an Order but firm nonetheless. "Now."

He straightens and turns back to Clark, his throat tightening helplessly but his eyes steady as they rake over Clark's face, taking in the pain there without flicking an eyelid. Clark isn't faking, and he has no reason to lie.

"I see," he says again, pausing for a moment on a knife's edge of emotion and control before he lets out a slow, shuddering breath. "Then thank you. For staying with him, and for allowing us to be sure, instead of us getting farther and farther away from that place and... not knowing. I appreciate it."

It's not an Order, but Ivan can tell when it's bordering, and does what he's told. He lies down reluctantly, face still unbelieving and almost angry. And Gregor's almost emoting, which is a bad sign, which is really what keeps Ivan from pushing his luck and getting up again.

"Yeah," he adds, reluctantly, but he doesn't know what else to say. Instead he just glowers at Clark, because it seems like the best option here.

He glances away briefly at the exchange, feeling a little like he's intruding on something private. There's a certain air of authority about Greg, but Clark supposes that shouldn't be unusual - he's a part of the same military caste as Ivan and Miles, and he behaves like an older brother towards them both.

If he were an ordinary person, he thinks it would be difficult not to stand at full attention under Greg's particular scrutiny. Clark lets it wash over him, unchanging. He has nothing to hide right now - his cards are on the table. Whatever Greg and Ivan choose to do or believe, Clark will accept it. It's the least he can do.

He nods at Greg's words at first, not trusting his voice. It surprises him a little that Greg manages to be magnanimous, though he can tell his composure is wearing. The pain just under the surface of the words is worse than Ivan's obvious anger in some ways.

"Greg..." He searches a moment for the words. There's one more thing he needs to tell them. "He went down there to help with the evacuation. He saved the lives of four civilians right before he died, and more before that. You should know, for what it's worth, he gave his life for something be believed in. Miles is a hero."

Clark glances away again, taking a measured breath. "But I'm sure you know that already."

He drops his arms to his sides. "I should go. If there's anything... You know how to find me."

"Miles," Gregor says, his voice very soft, and he has to pause to take a shuddering breath as he's swamped by an image from when he was very young of a child even younger than himself in traction, with pins in his limbs and blazing grey eyes and his lips peeling silently back from his teeth as they inflicted whatever fresh medical torture the doctors had concocted this week to try to get him on his feet without shattering the framework of his small body into jagged shards, that terrifying control in someone so young. He'd taken it to heart even then and he breathes it out now, his eyes refocusing on Clark with flensing sharpness.

"Miles has been a hero since before he could walk or speak. And I have never doubted for a single instant that he would give his life for something he believed in. It is worth a great deal." Still, Gregor nods, acceptance and dismissal both at once. "Please feel free to contact me if there's any other way we can render assistance in the cleanup. ...thank you."

Ivan doesn't say anything, crossing his remaining arm over his chest and sinking into himself -- gaze intent on Clark's back as he leaves. What else can he say? That there's no one in the universe that he's more proud of than his cousin? His dead cousin? Gregor's got that covered anyway, and in the sort of eloquence that comes with being trained in public speaking since the day someone realized he's the Emperor.

He's silent for a long moment, until he's sure Clark's gone, and then, in a burst that's more sob than anger, "Shit."

Gregor moves, looking numb, to sit on the edge of Ivan's bed and look down at him. His face is composed, but there's a horrible bleak emptiness in his eyes for a second before he looks away and takes a shaky breath, swallowing hard.

"Yeah," he says, his voice a little raw as he leans his elbows on his knees and looks down at his hands. "Shit."

The emptiness scares Ivan more than anything else, because Gregor is Gregor -- he's unshakable as the Emperor, but here he's just. Gregor Vorbarra, just like he's Ivan Vorpatril. And he lost a foster brother, and Ivan feels like he's lost a brother, and they're both so completely fucked Ivan can't begin to process it.

"What are we-- Gregor--" What are they supposed to do? He wants to say it but can't, tries not to look as helpless as he feels when he looks back at Gregor.

Gregor watches the desperate, miserable uncertainty on Ivan's face, turned helplessly up to his, and he feels his spine straighten slowly, control reasserting itself over his face.

"What are we going to do?" he asks gently, but he doesn't reach out and touch Ivan, just sits with his hands in his lap, his dark eyes a steady weight on Ivan's face. "We are going to mourn one of the best men I've ever had the privilege to know. We're going to burn an offering. And we're going to find a way out of this place and back home as soon as we can. We'll do those things because that's all we can do, Ivan. We are not gone. We are here, and alive, and still in no little danger, and I think the last thing Miles would want is for us to slow to a stop without his momentum to keep us going, no matter how hard that will be. All right?"

Good old Gregor. Always ready to be in charge when he needs to be, but even then Ivan feels -- selfish? For doing this for him. He knows that's what it is, at least in some way. So Ivan decides to hell with that, and pushes himself up into a sitting position so he can wrap one arm around Gregor in the best version of a hug he possibly can at the moment. God knows he needs it, and maybe Gregor needs it, too. At least the offer of it -- that's the best thing, okay, that's the only thing he can do at the moment. Or ever, since it's his cousins that do all the thinking in the family. But it's something.

"Alright," he says into Gregor's shoulder, eyes stinging even as he presses them shut. "Alright."

The best thing about Miles being dead, Ivan decides, is that he's left the entire bar unstaffed as far as he knows. Which is why, later that night once he's done his work and collected Elizabeth's hair and escorted her home properly, Ivan returns to it. The maple mead is tempting, as is the unconsciousness and killer hangover that follows it, but the last time he'd had some it had ended in him and Miles lying on the floor talking about their feelings and-- no. Ivan doesn't want to be reminded of that.

So instead he settles down with two bottles of wine behind the bar and doesn't even bother with a glass at the prospect of facing a life without Miles in it. His cousin's always been there, even when Ivan would swear up and down that he wants a life that's free of trouble, and therefore free of Miles. How's he supposed to return home knowing he'll be breaking his Uncle and his Aunt's hearts and he doesn't even have anything to show for it? This entire thing is stupid, Ivan decides, opening up the first bottle and starting in on it.

He might have wanted to outlive his cousin, but he never thought Miles would actually go and get himself killed. Somehow Miles always seemed like he could outrun the truth of their family -- that everyone dies, in painful and horrific ways. And he didn't even do it on Barrayar. They're not home, he thinks, it shouldn't apply. It wasn't fair. It isn't right.

"Fuck," he says later, halfway through the first bottle, the heel of his palm pressed against his face as he keeps wishing for the alcohol to do its damn job.

Clark isn't much of a drinker, even at a time like this, but he knows that plenty crew members will gravitate towards the alcohol, and Miles is no longer here to deal with any of it. He ducks in when he can - no one really thinks to argue. He knows his way around a bar, and it's no hardship getting unconscious crew members safely back to their quarters.

It gives him something useful to do, something moderately normal. If he keeps busy, he doesn't spend as much time thinking about Miles' wide-eyed panic, or the thousands of others he'd been unable to save. He remembers fighting the Hulk, and the planet fracturing under them, but the most terrible thing had been waking up when it was all over. It was Miles' death echoed a thousand times, all of those lives swallowed up in the still, empty silence of space. What do you mean, you can't? You can fly.

He's so caught up in his thoughts, he doesn't realize who's sitting behind the bar until he gets there. Clark thinks about leaving him to his trouble and coming back to collecting him when he's done - he's probably the last person Ivan wants to see now. Still... it doesn't sit right, leaving him alone to get drunk.

He comes up to the bar and leans his arms against it. "Do you have enough for two back there?"

His head snaps up at Clark's voice, eyes narrowing in suspicious distaste. But he doesn't tell Clark to get lost, hoping that he'll choose to do that himself if he doesn't actually acknowledge the other man's presence as much as possible. He was hoping to cry, damn it, and he can't do that with Clark Kent around. Or anyone.

"Yeah," a gesture at the bar, although he doesn't make a move to stand or otherwise help Clark. "Didn't take you for a drinking man," Ivan continues. No, Clark had seemed-- what? Not Vor, really -- but Ivan doesn't hold the rest of the universe up to the culture and the standards that he's expected to behave like. That Miles... that Miles fought tooth and nail to prove himself worthy of, even though the rest of the planet wouldn't let him. And now he's dead, even though Ivan could have sworn that maybe nothing could have killed him. He'd been... he'd been so proud of his cousin.

And now Miles wasn't going to be there anymore, not even to drag Ivan's ass into trouble.

Ivan looks about as happy to see him as he would have expected, but he doesn't say anything outright. At least, not yet. Clark doesn't expect it to last very long, all things considered, but he'll do what he can and maybe not make things any worse, if he's lucky.

He leans over far enough to snag Ivan's second bottle of wine and settles back onto a stool.

"Well," he says dryly. "Then I guess I'm full of surprises."

He twists the cork off the bottle and takes a long swallow directly from it. Alcohol doesn't do anything to him, so it hardly matters how much of it he drinks.

"Didn't take you for the type to drink alone."

"Yeah, well, turns out my drinking partner of choice is dead." So there, Clark. As for full of surprise, well, yes. The cape and the blue and the everything about Clark that Ivan doesn't know about and doesn't particularly want to know about in this very moment.

Ivan matches Clark's drink, and doesn't even cough when he finishes. Thank you wine and a long history of day drinking. You're serving him well now. He doesn't respond to that, still mulish and defiant in a way that Ivan normally isn't. He goes with the flow, he hates being angry with people and he hates feeling like this -- wrung out and worn down and so frigging sad.

Well he's not going to cry while Clark is there, that's for sure.

He drops his gaze briefly when Ivan mentions Miles, but that's all.

After everything that had happened, he wishes he could give Ivan something of his cousin that would make this easier, but whatever words they'd exchanged hadn't been for anyone's comfort after it was done. Miles had been desperate and dying, and all Clark had been able to do was ease his way, if that.

He doesn't drink again right away, he just sets the bottle down and wraps his hands around it while he watches Ivan. It's clear that Ivan does this enough to have an impressive tolerance. Clark wonders if it's been celebration or tragedy - he wouldn't be surprised by more of the latter. Miles had died with his secrets, but people kept those for a reason. Digging up information about Miles isn't why he's here.

He hesitates, thinking of how to broach the subject, but eventually he figures he might as well be direct. "Blaming yourself for what happened?"

Thanks for not dancing around the issue, Clark. Ivan scowls at the bottle before scowling at Clark's face, and then going back to the bottle. "You know what my Aunt says to me, every time Miles and I go somewhere?" He adopts an accent -- flat and far more like Clark's than his own: "'And do try and keep him out of trouble, Ivan.'"

He takes another long drink, and huffs an empty, joyless laugh. "So yeah, I am. And I blame you for not saving him even though you wear a tight costume and a frigging cape, whatever that means. And I almost want to blame Gregor, too, even though I know even he couldn't have gotten Miles to stay when it mattered."

Good God, this is so enormously stupid. Ivan rubs at his eyes for a moment and absolutely does not sniffle. "We practically grew up together. We're the only family we have, you know? And now he's dead because you couldn't-- you didn't--" Save him.

"I'm sorry that I let you both down," Clark says softly. "I know it hurts worse than anything to lose your family. I've been there. And I didn't... I don't think there's a way to take it well."

He gives Ivan a humorless smile and takes another drink out of the bottle, though notably more modest than the first. He's silent for a moment, organizing his thoughts.

"There's something you need to understand, Ivan... I failed to save a lot of people. I heard every one of them die." Another drink. "But Miles didn't die because of me. He made the choice to put the lives of others before his own, and it cost him. It's a choice I still respect by not pretending I could have gotten in his way. I do the best I can. So did he. And so did you. What happened to Miles is not your fault."

"I know that," Ivan snaps, because he does. And it's unfair to take it out on Clark, who could have saved so many and didn't. Ivan doesn't know what that's like and he's glad that he's never going to -- the weight of that rests on Gregor, on Uncle Aral, on Miles. But never on him. He doesn't think he could take it. "Hell, there's no other way the little git would go out, unless it was taking as many people with him as possible." Frigging Vorkosigans.

The best he can. Hah, very funny. Ivan does the best that he can by not doing a damn thing that will put him in the line of fire. Because he doesn't want to end up like his family, blown to bits for marrying the wrong person and daring to have children. To achieve something on a planet that has it out for people who stand out, who make a name for themselves. Ivan is middling, mediocre, because that's how he stays safe. That's how he survives.

He doesn't know what the best he can do actually is, and he's not particularly interested in finding out.

"I lost one fifth of my family when Miles died," he says instead, done trying to take it out on Clark for the moment. He can see that the other man is beating himself up about more than just Miles, which is fine. Let him. "There should be more. I should have siblings, cousins. Lots of 'em -- every High Vor family needs an heir and a spare plus a few daughters to marry off. But there's not. There's me, there's Gregor, and now just Uncle Aral." Aunt Cordelia and his mother don't have the blood of Dorca Vorbarra in them, they're not targets simply by existing. By existing and acting like they do, sure. But no one will look at them and fire a sonic grenade point blank into their stomach for something they didn't even do.

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sorry i wrote a novel

NO ITS A BEAUTIFUL NOVEL

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I'M PUTTING THIS HERE FOR LACK OF ANYWHERE ELSE shh don't tell

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