[ catch-all for miles, post-death ]

[forwardmomentum]

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like meditating on, but the distraction of company is too overwhelming for the first couple of days, and so he stays withdrawn to his cabin, trying not to replay the last few hours of his life -- his last life -- over and over in his head.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. ]

Comments

[heliakal]

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."

[forwardmomentum]

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?"

[heliakal]

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."

[forwardmomentum]

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.

[heliakal]

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.