Miles smiles bleakly at as Bel verbalizes that realization, spreading one hand slightly as if in demonstration of himself. Now you see me...
He feels a twinge of guilt rather than embarrassment, now, watching Bel's face, hearing that slight falter in their voice. Ah. So he's not the only one feeling self-conscious about the way this whole identity panic went down. You thought that I thought that I knew that you knew... Maybe he's got his head up his ass a little farther than he realized. Food for thought. His gaze follows Bel as they pour themself into a seat with their usual fluid grace -- composure regained, all frayed edges smoothed over. Bel makes even more of an impressive show of themself than Miles does, sometimes.
But then their hand reaches out, cool fingers brushing across his cheek, and Miles, too caught off guard to react as he should -- as Admiral Naismith should -- half-leans into it just fractionally before he flinches back, color rising to his cheeks. He's only got one foot in Admiral Naismith's shoes, the other still firmly stuck in one of Lord Vorkosigan's, and his reactions are even less polished, less ready. That little lean in had nothing to do with Bel and everything to do with the weariness of the last week and change, a little starved for comfort -- that's what he tells himself, at least, as he withdraws and straightens, swallowing. The ghost of Bel's touch lingers strangely on his skin, and unconsciously he touches a hand to his cheek.
"It...isn't really that simple," Miles says with a short breath of a laugh. His accent wavers slightly in that post-stun moment, but on Bel's offhand comment he cements it firmly into Betan territory again. He coughs. "But I appreciate it, Bel. You won't have to stay out of my path -- it's just as you said. No need to pretend like we're strangers. We just have to...edit our history a little."
Can't exactly go around telling people Bel is a captain under his command when he's only supposed to be a lieutenant.
WOW YOU!!
He feels a twinge of guilt rather than embarrassment, now, watching Bel's face, hearing that slight falter in their voice. Ah. So he's not the only one feeling self-conscious about the way this whole identity panic went down. You thought that I thought that I knew that you knew... Maybe he's got his head up his ass a little farther than he realized. Food for thought. His gaze follows Bel as they pour themself into a seat with their usual fluid grace -- composure regained, all frayed edges smoothed over. Bel makes even more of an impressive show of themself than Miles does, sometimes.
But then their hand reaches out, cool fingers brushing across his cheek, and Miles, too caught off guard to react as he should -- as Admiral Naismith should -- half-leans into it just fractionally before he flinches back, color rising to his cheeks. He's only got one foot in Admiral Naismith's shoes, the other still firmly stuck in one of Lord Vorkosigan's, and his reactions are even less polished, less ready. That little lean in had nothing to do with Bel and everything to do with the weariness of the last week and change, a little starved for comfort -- that's what he tells himself, at least, as he withdraws and straightens, swallowing. The ghost of Bel's touch lingers strangely on his skin, and unconsciously he touches a hand to his cheek.
"It...isn't really that simple," Miles says with a short breath of a laugh. His accent wavers slightly in that post-stun moment, but on Bel's offhand comment he cements it firmly into Betan territory again. He coughs. "But I appreciate it, Bel. You won't have to stay out of my path -- it's just as you said. No need to pretend like we're strangers. We just have to...edit our history a little."
Can't exactly go around telling people Bel is a captain under his command when he's only supposed to be a lieutenant.