thisavrou_log | [ catch-all for miles, post-death ]

[ catch-all for miles, post-death ]

Who: Miles Vorkosigan and YOU
When: 11/27 thru...whenever
Where: the Vor cabin, the bar, the Personnel Office, wherever
What: Miles has recently recovered from a nasty bout of being dead after a week. so that's fun.
Warnings: talk about death, probably some other heavy emotional shit

Recovering from death is sort of like recovering from a cold, Miles has found, aside from the more obvious gaping differences. It leaves one feeling at least as drained as a nasty virus, weak and shaky, and in both cases you come out of it with a hell of a case of the chills. Then there are the obvious psychological differences between death and a cold, which Miles does not particularly feel like meditating on, but the distraction of company is too overwhelming for the first couple of days, and so he stays withdrawn to his cabin, trying not to replay the last few hours of his life -- his last life -- over and over in his head.

Cryoamnesia is a fairly common occurrence with cryorevival patients; many of them never fully recover their memories, especially around their deaths, Miles has heard. Not enough time to store it in long-term memory, or something. He wishes he were so fortunate. No, he can remember every excruciating moment of it in perfect detail, to the curious numbness of his lower body to the thick taste of blood in his mouth and the chest-clouding panic that had overtaken him in the face of death. That's almost harder to stomach than any measure of physical pain. It was frigging humiliating, that's what.

The first couple of days after his return he keeps to the cabin he shares with Ivan and Gregor. He doesn't exactly know who knows he's back yet, or even who knew he died in the first place, and he's not keen to ask. His week-long absence had to have been missed by at least some, and Gregor and Ivan probably had something to do with that. Miles is still a little wan and sickly-looking from his recent revival, and aching, too; not where the glass had perforated along his stomach, he has suspiciously few scars from that, but curiously enough his legs, and -- the rest of him. It's that damned osteo-inflammatory horseshit again, he's sure. But at least, for the first time in two months, nothing's actually broken and he is somehow whole again.

By the 27th, he finally starts to emerge from his cabin and make his way back to his duties at the bar and in the Personnel Office, where he'll be taking interviews and reviewing submissions to the official ~~complaints~~ suggestions box on his office door.

[ feel free to tag in with whatever or hit me up if you want a particular starter. miles was dead/in cryo between 11/18 - 11/25, and is only really returning to work on 11/27. ]

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"Come in," comes the flat, muffled call from within the office. Miles is sitting at his desk on the far end of the room -- well, hunched over it, is more like, bundled up as he is. Miles appears to be wearing not only his thermals and his uniform, but two of the blankets from Nomo deck wrapped around him as well -- one from his bunk and the other from Ivan's, of course. If Ivan wants it back, he can come get it. Despite being so thoroughly swaddled, Miles is still cold, and he looks thoroughly unhappy about it, an unexpected mix of irritated and sullen. God, he hates the cold. It had never used to bother him in his youth, but ever since his first military assignment at Lakowski Base, more colloquially known as Camp Permafrost for its location in the Barrayaran arctic, he's found it absolutely intolerable. God, what a miserable time that had been. He tries not to think too hard about it.

He looks much better now than he did right after his cryorevival, over a week ago now. Most of the color has returned to his face, and he's not quite so gaunt and tired-looking as he had been when he first woke up, though he's still just a shade too pale, a hair too thin.

Clark steps inside, dressed as he normally is, in his crew uniform and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. Nothing much seems to phase him, and it's especially apparent at times like this. There are no extra layers for him - not so much as a shadow under his eyes to betray the late nights he's spent wandering the ship, avoiding sleep just as much as he's been looking for answers.

He hasn't really been inside the office yet, but he barely glances at it. His gaze immediately gravitates to Miles. He looks -- not bad for someone who died a couple of weeks ago, but not good either. Cold and miserable, mostly. Like he could use a hot lunch or five.

Clark nudges the door shut and locks it behind him. Regardless of the outcome, this isn't really a conversation he wants anyone wandering in on. That, and --

"So before we get started on the deep dark secrets... Is a hug entirely out of the question?" Clark smiles a little, but there's something more somber lurking in the expression. Miles had died in his hands. Maybe it's as simple as wanting something to mitigate the memory.

Sneaking a hand out of the protective bundling toward his coffee mug, Miles looks up to see -- Clark. Oh. Not...exactly the first person he wants to see, lately. Not because he dislikes Clark, or that he isn't grateful -- quite the opposite -- it's just that dying in front of him had been so thoroughly humiliating. Death is never pretty, Miles has seen enough to know. He's a soldier. But he's seen mercenary trainees die with more decorum than he had back there on Caducus Primary. Miles never thought his death would be pretty, but going out sobbing, desperately trying to plead his way out up to the very end, is...not exactly flattering to himself. Not what he'd expected at all.

His expression goes somewhat guarded when his gaze settles on Clark. Miles probably ought not to be surprised that Clark has no trouble with the cold, given his whole...everything else, but he can't help but feel a slight twinge of resentment, with him here bundled up in blankets like a swaddled child. Not very professional. He withdraws his hand back into the blankets. Deep dark secrets. Right. Maybe he can talk his way out of that one. He tries to smooth his features into a suitably bland expression, but his eyebrows twitch up at the request. Obviously it isn't what he was expecting Clark to say.

"A hug?" he repeats, that guarded expression creeping back into his face. He really hadn't pegged Clark as the hugging type. Then again, he supposes there is a certain kind of...intimacy between someone and the man who watched him die. There are really a lot of weird and unexpected social nuances that come into play when one comes back to life after a messy and dramatic death.

Clark raises an eyebrow. "What, you don't have hugs on Barrayar?"

He realizes that could very well be true, but he doubts it. Miles has been guarded from the moment he stepped inside, and while that doesn't surprise him, for once he doesn't think it's for the usual reasons. He knows fear, and Miles isn't scared. Just... weary. Irritated maybe.

He looks at Miles the way he sometimes does when he's scanning right through someone, a little too focused, like he's piecing through a puzzle in the shape of a person.

"They're painless, just so you know." From his tone, there's no doubt that he's needling Miles on purpose, but being told to get stuffed again is better than nothing. "Friends use them to express affection. Sometimes they have shady ulterior motives, like warming up the person who looks like he's completely miserable."

Miles gives Clark a slightly withering don't even look, jerking the blankets more tightly around him. Opening with snark, is he? God dammit, that's Miles' shtick. He's just...not up for it today. Not here, not with Clark. Miles bristles, biting back a half dozen potential comebacks to that, including a few particularly rude ones in Barrayaran Russian, and shifts a little uncomfortably in his station chair under that gaze. It just makes him draw in against himself a little more, not out of diffidence, but bracing himself in some kind of self-defense. It seems like an old, practiced motion. Almost reflexive.

"I hate the cold," he says flatly, by way of explanation, rather than answer. There is no doubt that it isn't true, going by how absolutely miserable he looks right now, his skin too pale against the dark comforter. Ever since Lakowski Base... Miles draws in a breath. "Can I help you with something?" He doesn't mean for it to come out as touchy as it does, he's just...defensive.

Clark, for his part, seems as impervious to the look as he is to everything else. He comes to stand by Miles' desk, leaning a hip against it, and folds his arms across his chest.

He could try to match Miles for stubbornness - for a moment, he looks like he's going to try - but he realizes they'd probably be here all night, and he didn't come to argue over this. He glances away, silent for a moment, but only because he needs to collect his thoughts. When he speaks again, it's abrupt, his expression shuttered but not unkind.

"I couldn't find you, after it was all over. How is any of this possible? How did they bring you back?"

Edited 2015-12-11 05:59 (UTC)

Miles' stomach clenches. God, he doesn't want to talk about this now, possibly not ever. Miles wouldn't generally describe himself as avoidant, he generally tackles things head on, but somehow he feels a man is entitled to be a little skittish about pondering his own recent death.

But he can't find a way to refuse Clark, either. Whatever answers he might have to such reasonable questions, Miles certainly owes him them. He blows out a long breath of steam, huddling closer against his chair. "Hell if I know."

The shift in Clark's tone signifies some other change here, a subtle shift of atmosphere. All right, if he wants to play it all businesslike, Miles can respond in kind. He stares up at Clark, his own expression smoothed into something deliberately bland.

"My...body was destroyed along with the planet, I know that. As far as I understand, the Ingress spat my body back out, alive -- but barely, I think. I spent the rest of that time in cryo." Without really thinking about it, Miles' hand sneaks out of the blanket and goes to his throat, where he'd seen those scars in his reflection back at Caducus Primary. The reflection he'd seen that night with Clark. Those thin white scars had been cryo scars, for sure -- but he doesn't have them now. Not yet, his mind echoes, and the thought chills him. And then, as if the final part of some tic, he pulls the collar of his uniform up, and his hand disappears back under the blanket. Miles shrugs, stiffly.

"That's all I can tell you. Sorry."

"It's more than I expected," Clark replies evenly. "Thank you."

He files the information away for later, but he's more concerned with the way that Miles touches his throat like that. He'd done the same thing on Caducus Primary, and Clark doesn't think it signifies anything good.

"I guess the other thing is... Are you alright?" He doesn't know if Miles will answer the question, but his concern is genuine, and in a way he's not just asking about the physical side of things. "Seriously Miles, what do you think is gonna happen if you let me in for three seconds?"

Miles' expression goes flat again, his lips thinning, but when he breathes out he slumps slightly, looking even more tired than before. "What do you want from me, Clark?" It's just a shade too tired to qualify as a snap. "I died. There. I've said it. Satisfied?" A hand sneaks out of the blankets again, this time to rub at his jaw. "It was a terrible experience. I don't recommend it. Who the hell would -- "

Talk about the way he died, crying and desperate, clinging to life for every miserable second he could manage? Miles bites at his lip, cutting himself off as soon as his voice starts to catch, his expression drawn. He wishes he could just retreat under these blankets. God, what kind of coward am I now? Caducus Primary, and now this? But he knows that part of the reason he's so guarded against any kind of vulnerability now is that he doesn't want Clark -- he's afraid will only see Miles as he did then, terrified and helpless and pitiful. Things he's spent his whole life trying to dismantle in other people's eyes. He doesn't like the strange vulnerability he now has to Clark, redoubling that feverish need to prove himself. Miles jerks his chin up and meets Clark's steady gaze, his face closing off.

"Look, I'm not dead anymore, so stop looking at me like I'm a walking corpse. Check my pulse, if you so feel the need."

Granted, he does kind of look like a walking corpse, or at least a swaddled one.

Clark is silent after Miles speaks, his steady gaze unwavering. If he's supposed to be impressed, irritated, or even just put-off... It's not going to happen.

When he does speak again, the words carry the same quiet conviction that they did when Miles was bleeding out in front of him. "I don't know how much you remember, but when I said that I believed you could do anything? I meant it. I still do."

He lifts a shoulder, a slight shrug. "Miles, being human isn't a weakness, or some kind of character flaw. It takes courage. You can keep beating yourself up about it if you want, but I don't really know what you're trying to prove - or who you're trying to prove it to."

It's god damn unnerving how Clark manages barely to react to all those things Miles could always count on a for a reaction. Not that he's tryng to provoke one, it's just a given. When an unstoppable force meets an immovable object...

And those words from Clark really did mean a lot to Miles, that unshakable, unquestioning faith in him -- it's what Miles has been fighting to earn from everyone around him his entire life, teach it to them. He'd like to say it doesn't matter, but it does.He believes it himself -- you can do anything, even this -- he has to, or else the whole thing doesn't work, and it's important to him that Clark does too. Human weakness is always a factor, he knows that.

"God, Clark," Miles mutters, his expression smoothed into something unreadable, or so he hopes. "This isn't about being human, it's about -- " You. Miles surprises himself, snaps his teeth down on that last word before it can get out. It's personal, he realizes. Very personal, more than he'd realized until now. Even when his own self-embarrassment and disappointment washes away, there's still some nervous fear left behind that when Clark looks at him, he'll only ever see Miles as he was in those moments just before death. He can't stand the thought of it.

"I remember all of it," Miles says, his gaze dropped to the desk, to the sparse belongings decorating it. "Alright? Every second of it, right up until -- " He sucks in a breath. "It isn't about about being comfortable with human limitation. I mean, god, have you even looked at me? Hell, I'm a frigging poster child." The bitterness there is deep and long-seeded, years upon years of growing up in a society that...well, as his mother is so fond of saying, Barrayar eats its children. Still, color rises in Miles' pale cheeks as he determinedly stares at the long-cooled cup of coffee on his desk.

"No one wants to die like that Clark. No one wants to go out crying and -- afraid. Panicked. It's a pretty shitty way to spend your final moments."

Clark frowns a little, more puzzled than anything. He isn't entirely sure of what Miles was going to say. He thinks he's relatively good at reading people, but still, he's not psychic.

If it isn't about what had happened, or how, then... He doesn't really know. Clark's carefully held control finally starts to fray, and he moves away from Miles' desk to pace.

"Alright, I guess, it's just -- you were dying. You could probably cut yourself some slack. And it's not like I'm going to tell anyone how it happened. You know I wouldn't." He cards his fingers through his hair. "The only ones who know are you and me. I don't see why you're being so..."

Clark trails off and makes a sound at the back of his throat. He's not really angry, just frustrated. He doesn't really know what he meant to say, but it's a split between impossible and a word that's slightly less polite.

"Just help me out here, Miles." He turns, the heel of his palm still digging into the side of his neck. "What do you want? How do I make things right between us?"

Miles' stomach floods with cold relief at Clark's assurance that he wouldn't tell anyone -- not that Miles even really thought he would, he knows Clark isn't that sort of person. But to hear it is something else; at the end of the day, Miles is Barrayaran at his core, and it's oral oaths that hold the most meaning with him. Something folds in his expression, his shoulders going slightly slack under those layers of blankets, and he swallows.

Make things right? Does he think I'm angry at him, and not myself? -- Yes, you ass, because you let him.

He knows he's being defensive for nothing. There's no attack. But he can't defend himself against...himself, nor paint a convenient target on Clark for him to fling his own self-shame at. Oh, yes, this is so very personal. Miles has Clark's faith -- he knows that by now -- but it isn't enough. It never is enough for you, is it, boy. Miles shifts uncomfortably in his station chair, no longer look defensive so much as...uncomfortably vulnerable. His throat works uselessly as he gropes for the right words, his fingers curling more tightly inside the blankets wrapped around him.

"When you look at me, I don't..." Miles draws in a breath. "I don't want you to see me like that. Like I was back there. I don't want that to be what you see of me." God, he's rambling, floundering, and he'd kind of like to crawl under his desk and die rather than continue this uncomfortable line of self-examination. Miles' gaze slips away from Clark's face, and he clears his throat. "I want your respect."

God, he feels like such an ass, saying it out loud. It sounds childish and -- inane, somehow. He has rarely craved respect from someone the way he does Clark, not on this personal a level. Because Clark has his, easily -- even under the sheen of embarrassment over the memory, Miles knows that most people wouldn't have been able to do what Clark did back there. Hell, he's not sure he could have. Miles coughs, uncomfortablye, and taps his foot against his desk in a nervous fidget.

Clark's eyebrows knit briefly, but he feels the tension drain out of his shoulders as Miles speaks. He hadn't really thought Miles cared much about anyone's opinion of him - at least, not in this way. It's impossible to deny the tense vulnerability in his expression, and this time it's not because he's dying. This isn't about everyone's opinion of Miles. It's Clark's in particular.

"I..." Clark swallows and stops, for once at a loss for words. With the exception of Lois, people don't look at him that way outside of his uniform - certainly not after they figure out that even Superman has limitations. They want to control him, they want to kill him, or they want his help. They tolerate him because there isn't an alternative. He doesn't have much in the way of people who care particularly. It's just - the way things are.

He walks back to Miles' desk. After a moment's hesitation, he crouches by his chair so they're closer to eye-level.

"Miles... You never lost my respect. Not then, and not now." He smiles a little. "Granted, if you did, you'd probably have an easier time getting me off your back about the cold. I'll try not to mother hen so much it's just -- I don't really have a lot of friends."

He inclines his head. "And I'd like to know who you are if you still want to trust me."

Miles watches Clark carefully, warily, chest tight as he watches Clark struggle with himself at least as much as Miles is. He has the distinct feeling he's long since lost control of this conversation. It's ventured way, way farther into nakedly honest territory than Miles would have predicted or preferred; but it's not as though any of this can be undone.

He lets out a slow breath, a draining of tension, and he swallows, almost hating himself for how relieved it makes him -- but then he reels that one back in firmly with another steadying breath. No, that's just a tad too self-indulgent, and Miles is coming out of his sullen mood at least partway. His shoulders square slightly under the layers of blankets and he meets Clark's gaze with a nod. "Thank you," he says, very sincerely, and then he cracks a slight grin to match Clark's, eyebrows raised wryly. "You? Have a hard time making friends? Wouldn't have guessed it, with that face." His eyes glint a little with dark humor. "Maybe you're just not enough of a prat. Ivan seems to have the social scene nailed, maybe take a few pages out of his book." Miles can't keep a straight face with bullshit like that, and he immediately lets out a snort at the thought.

Ah. And Miles was hoping Clark wouldn't come back around to this topic. Clark had told Miles the truth about himself, sure -- Kal-El, he'd said -- but Miles had been on the edge of death then, sure to take that secret to his grave. Would Clark still have told him, if he hadn't been in mortal peril, if he knew Miles would live to hold that secret? Miles almost wishes he hadn't. He can't really tell Clark what he wants to know -- it's different. It isn't about who he really is, it's about who else he is.

But Miles hardly skips a beat, his pale face breaking into that manic grin. "I am as you see me," he echoes, gesturing vaguely with his blanketed arms. "Miles Naismith Vorkosigan."

Clark drops his gaze briefly, a little color coming into his face. That kind of raw sincerity is rare coming from Miles. Of course, then he has to keep talking. Clark snorts softly, but it's a fond kind of exasperation.

"You know, surprisingly," he says, dryly. "People tend to feel less friendly after they find out you can pick up a train and shoot lasers out of your eyes."

He doesn't normally lay things out that way, but it's hard to be coy around Miles. There's just something about him that gets right under one's defenses and Clark can't decide if he wants to walk away or kiss him just to stun that self-satisfied grin off his face.

"And you can do anything except give me a straight answer, right? If keeping it a secret is that important to you, I won't twist your arm about it... I just figured you told me for a reason, whether you want to admit it or not."

Miles feels slightly vindicated to see Clark flush a little. It's about time he turned this conversation around. He sits back in his chair and thinks about kicking his feet up onto his desk, but it'd leave his legs colder and he decides the loss of heat isn't really worth the gesture. So instead he tucks his legs up under him, cross-legged, and leans back in his chair to emphasize that casual air as much as he can while wrapped in blankets.

"People tend to feel less friendly when they think you're a mutant, too," Miles observes blandly, raising his eyebrows at Clark. "I've long since decided to stop caring about what people think."

That's the theory, anyway. Fake it til you make it, right? Miles watches Clark carefully as he seems to struggle with how to respond to that. It's a look Miles has seen plenty of times before. It's a little satisfying to watch.

"For a reason?" Miles snorts. "I was on death's door and barely coherent at the time. Besides, my name really is Miles Naismith Vorkosigan -- not the name I was meant to inherit, perhaps, but mine all the same. I'm named for my mother's father, and for her maiden name." He spreads his hands under the blankets. Sort of. "It's not a fake name, I can assure you that. Just ask Ivan. He's too much of an idiot to keep a lie straight for long."

He tilts his head curiously at Clark. "What is it that you think I'm not telling you?"

Miles has a point there too, but Clark wants to explain that they're not really comparable. It's not personal prejudice he worries about. As far as the world knows now, he's an atom bomb with a brain - people have their reasons to be afraid. He even understands why they want to take him down. He doesn't want them to live in fear for his sake, or spend the rest of his life escalating a battle he doesn't want to fight.

Luckily, maybe, Miles' doesn't really give him the chance. Clark doesn't say anything as Miles goes on, but the change in the air is almost tangible, like ozone before a storm.

It's clear from Clark's expression alone that he's not buying a single word. And maybe if this was anyone else, he wouldn't be quite as angry, but the fact that it's Miles and that he expects Clark to swallow this is just enough to rub him the wrong way.

It occurs to him that Miles could be doing this to get him to drop the topic, but if so, Clark doesn't care that he's playing into it. He stands straight again. He really should just leave, but he glances at Miles' coffee cup. Clark's irises white out for a split second, and the liquid inside Miles' mug goes from cold to boiling. Part of the desk around the mug turns a little darker. The scorch marks aren't intentional, but he's not quite sorry for them either.

"I would give that a minute to cool down," he says, tersely. He pushes his glasses back up to their usual position. "Stay warm, Miles."

For a moment, Miles thinks he might get an actual answer out of Clark. He doesn't think it's very likely -- most likely, he'd get annoyed and brush Miles off, get tired of this line of conversation, and leave. Anger wasn't quite what he was counting on, but Miles meets Clark's gaze levelly, eyebrows raised, expression bland as he can make it. Throw a tantrum, Clark, he'll dance around this one as long as he wants.

Or maybe don't. Miles starts when he sees Clark's eyes white out -- his memory flashes, suddenly, to that building back on Caducus Primary, his belly full of glass and Clark's eyes blazing, warming his quickly failing body. Miles actually jumps in his chair a little, eyes flicking down to the suddenly boiling coffee on his desk. He doesn't dare reach out to touch it. He reels in his composure best he can, his eyes flicking back up to Clark, and his gaze flattens. "I'll try," Miles says dryly, and looks pointedly at the door.

Clark is already leaving. He shuts the door solidly behind him, but nothing breaks this time. He'll probably regret this later, all things considered, but at the moment he's pretty well done with Miles.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ catch-all for miles, post-death ]

i hope u brought enough to share

of course!!

good bc its fuckin cold in here BI

i got you bro. brought you a nice venti cup of hot sass

oh man how'd you know my starbucks order

a barista always knows

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writes u a fuckn novel

i'm so glad you used the unstoppable force/immovable object metaphor on them before i did

I HAD TO LBR

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