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thisavrou_log2015-12-03 09:45 pm
forwardmomentum) wrote in thisavrou_log2015-12-03 09:45 pm
[ closed ]
Who: Miles, Gregor, and Bel
When: 12/1
Where: the Vor cabin
What: Miles panics over the arrival of one of his mercenary captains on the ship; Gregor decides to make everything simpler.
Warnings: miles being a dumbass idk
God. This is a nightmare situation. Worse than London had been, in some ways -- having Lieutenant Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith trapped in the same city was bad enough, but on this ship? Damn it, and he wasn't even going to do Naismith here. He was pretty clear with himself on that one. Can't afford to mix and match, here, have to keep them straight, even if he's been increasingly tempted to reach for Naismith here. Worse still is that slipping back into Naismith, even if just for Bel, just for a moment, feels so damned good.
Miles tries to brush that thought away as he careens straight toward the cabin he shares with Ivan and Gregor, his mind still racing. He'd fed Bel some horseshit about a cover story that was a little too close to the truth for anyone's comfort, but it was a hasty fiction -- nearly as hasty as Admiral Naismith had been, to start with. Ha.
"Gregor," he starts as soon as he's inside, locating his foster brother and Emperor, and shutting the door as soon as he does. Just Gregor. Oh, thank god. Miles paces inside on nervous feet, his voice already wound into a manic chatter. "We need to talk. There's -- a problem."
When: 12/1
Where: the Vor cabin
What: Miles panics over the arrival of one of his mercenary captains on the ship; Gregor decides to make everything simpler.
Warnings: miles being a dumbass idk
God. This is a nightmare situation. Worse than London had been, in some ways -- having Lieutenant Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith trapped in the same city was bad enough, but on this ship? Damn it, and he wasn't even going to do Naismith here. He was pretty clear with himself on that one. Can't afford to mix and match, here, have to keep them straight, even if he's been increasingly tempted to reach for Naismith here. Worse still is that slipping back into Naismith, even if just for Bel, just for a moment, feels so damned good.
Miles tries to brush that thought away as he careens straight toward the cabin he shares with Ivan and Gregor, his mind still racing. He'd fed Bel some horseshit about a cover story that was a little too close to the truth for anyone's comfort, but it was a hasty fiction -- nearly as hasty as Admiral Naismith had been, to start with. Ha.
"Gregor," he starts as soon as he's inside, locating his foster brother and Emperor, and shutting the door as soon as he does. Just Gregor. Oh, thank god. Miles paces inside on nervous feet, his voice already wound into a manic chatter. "We need to talk. There's -- a problem."
YOU WRITE THE BEST NOVELS THOUGH ;;
Does he think Bel won't be on board with the plan? That they pushed for this somehow, pulled down the veil on purpose? That they can't wait longer, as long as it takes, if the situation demands it? But the struggle is still visible over Miles's face, along the tight lines of his small body, trying to explain in that anguished voice, and the catch isn't in the expected escape plan at all--
Oh shit.
You're the situation. Not all this. Not me -- but I set it off. Oh shit....
Of all possible reasons for Miles's secrecy, this one had never crossed Bel's mind. Miles is always so careful, always makes it seem so effortless; the one time Bel tried a direct hint, cautiously letting him know that his Betan persona was almost perfect, he had immediately backed away from any follow-up. Because he's shy of me -- or just wants no questions, or both -- so Bel had thought, back then, and had let it go. But if Miles himself needs so badly to keep his two lives separate--
And I forced it out of him, just by showing up. Bel swallows. It feels like a worse invasion, somehow, than just silently knowing the secret.
"Damn...." Swiping back an unruly lock of hair, Bel tries to keep the words steady. There's no room for both of them to pace in here. "I never knew. You had every reason to be exhausted when Galen was turning up the heat. You were all ready with an explanation when I -- prodded a little -- I thought...." ...you might tell me. When you wanted me to know. He hadn't. And that crisis had passed, and the next--
But it's all right now, isn't it? It's worked itself out.
Bel can't be still any longer; a still-knotted throat is surely only the day's exhaustion, and that can't be indulged yet. The couch, near-identical to the one in Cabin 5, is two fluid steps away, and perching on its arm rather than the cushions puts them at an even height. Much better than standing at attention; Naismith has always preferred eyes at a level, though it's only a guess that Vorkosigan might as well.
"At least we don't have to be strangers if no one knows either of us here. Simpler is better, yes?" Bel musters a grin; a slim hand brushes Miles's cheek. "I won't pretend I'd rather not have to stay out of your path, but... be who you have to be and we'll take it from there. I'll even get used to the funny accent."
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.
WHAT~~
--oh.
Admiral Naismith, as a proper Betan, should have leaned even farther. The body-shyness that had been an early clue of his real planet of origin hadn't faded much over the years, but this is... new. Bel, reacting instinctively, smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone before letting the hand fall gently to his shoulder (a routine and less-charged point of contact), reluctant to break away yet; it's over before the realization even sinks in, the flinch returning them to familiar territory.
"There's plenty of room for that." Thank goodness, since the thought of keeping a distance is suddenly unbearable; difficult, anyway, to stay out of sight when they live two doors apart. This is surely for the best. And Miles is, Miles is... Bel's own voice has quieted, a small breath of relief, fearing to spook him but not giving ground. Did he mean to -- what's happened to him out here? It's certainly past time Miles has polished that last edge, it'll serve him well when they get home -- but it's surely Barrayaran skittishness behind the old reaction, and if he can't be Naismith openly....
"We could have met on one of your courier missions." Bel's not swaying forward much; there's still a perfectly respectable distance in the equation. Anyway, this is important. They have to focus. "Courier meets... oh, pirates, or a breakdown; disaster thwarted by the Dendarii." A soft smile, warm with memory. "Daring rescues our specialty."
U HEARD ME
"Just so." Miles rocks on his heels and looks as though he's about to start pacing again, tapping a finger to his chin. Some of the manic momentum that's been driving him all day, fed by the initial panic of seeing Bel, is starting to ebb away, conceding to the general air of exhaustion that's hung around him since his cryorevival, what...less than a week, wasn't it? Miles mentally tallies up the days. Hardly enough time to make a full rebound from something so physically traumatic. Death really takes a tax on the body, Miles thinks with dark humor. Go figure.
"Better the rescuers," he says judiciously, tilting his head in thought. "Barrayaran soldiers don't exactly get on a first name basis with a pirate captain making a raid on them. A small group of of ImpSec agents get caught in some hostage situation with a bunch of other diplomats from a variety of other planets, the pirates demanding some grotesque ransom -- and then the planet with the biggest stake in things gets desperate and hires a mercenary company who just happens to be making orbit nearby." Miles' eyes glint slightly. "And perhaps some young upstart of an ImpSec courier made an assist with that daring rescue and won the respect of one awestruck mercenary captain."
Of course Miles can't resist granting himself the role of at least co-hero. Never mind that Bel hadn't made captain until they met. His face breaks into a grin for a moment before it sobers into something more serious, and he sweeps Bel a flourishing bow as his voice slides back into the warm gutturals of his Barrayaran accent. A little test -- not for Bel, but himself. See if he can pull all this off after all. "And Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan is forever in your debt, Captain Thorne."
Things might be simpler this way, with Bel in on all of it, but Miles is still doing mental gymnastics to get his head around the dissonance of it. He flashes a smile at Bel, but he teeters on his heels, the drain starting to catch up to him. It occurs to him that he's not sure when the last time he ate was. After a moment's consideration, Miles makes a tactical retreat from standing up and flings himself onto the short couch, though at a respectable distance from Bel. He pinches the bridge of his nose and blows out a slow breath, letting his voice slip back into that flat Betan accent. Why does that feel easier than going back to Barrayaran? "That's what I've got, anyway."
/THE MOST INNOCENT FACE~~~
It sounds good. Uncheckable, believable, accounting for everything. And the sequel wins a delighted laugh; of course Miles wouldn't cast himself as a helpless victim if he didn't have to. Bel doesn't mind an early captaincy at all, either.
Or leaving Auson out of the picture entirely. Of course, if not for that interminable blockade run, the real first meeting might never have happened...."The oldest story!" Bel snickers. "Dashing rescuee sweeps intrepid mercenary captain off their feet, and thanks to the brave courier's inside knowledge, there's no loss of life. It probably involved a heroic standoff. You made a big impression.~"
The voice again -- Bel listens in fascination. The name sounds different on Miles's tongue than in Ky's Earthly accent. What would his given name sound like? If they had really met like that... Bel has few illusions; Barrayar tries hard, but it's still a backward, barbaric world, rich in resources but largely lacking even basic systemic support for the bulk of its population. And it's a tossup whether they'd beat me to death as a mutant or as a perverted abomination.... no, Barrayaran courtliness holds no charms for a progressive, democratic Betan, but damned if Miles doesn't lend it enough of his own to make it count. That's always the way with you, isn't it?
Smiling in amusement and no little genuine appreciation, Bel reflects that they might as well do it right. In a way, one of them really is meeting the other for the first time.
"If they think we're embellishing, so much the better; makes it that much harder to check up on. 'Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan'--" a valiantly sincere try at the foreign syllables -- "the Ariel and her captain are at your service."
CLASPS THAT FACE!!
"I'll say I did at that," he says mildly, but he's still grinning, slinging one arm over the back of the couch in true Naismith style. It isn't as though Lord Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith are totally different personas, he reminds himself distantly -- what was it that Ivan had said once? That Admiral Naismith is just Miles with all restraints off? That isn't totally accurate, but it's not far off the mark, either. It was easier to keep in check when it was just him and Ivan and Gregor, but with Bel here... Well, it was starting to get a little harder as time went on, anyway. "Yes, very convenient, I should think. And it hardly relies on Ivan to keep a lie straight. That's a plus."
He leans back into the couch, sinking down into it a little more wearily than he permitted himself to show on his feet, and crosses one leg over the other. "Luckily, such formalities have long since been disposed of among friends, so you can just stick to calling me Miles. Or," he adds thoughtfully, eyes glinting, "Lord Miles, if you like."
^/////^ NO U~
That's enough teasing, probably. Miles's arm, lying comfortably across the back of the couch, doesn't quite reach to Bel's shoulder, and as nice as it would be to fix that, it's not why he put it there. "All right. We've got our story. Your identity's secure. And de-complicated." (I won't give you away." "I know....") "A full rundown aside, I don't suppose there's a chance of breaking out of here tonight?"
/)w(\
"Break out? And just where do you think we're going to go?" he snorts, shaking his head. He sounds bitter, but it isn't directed at his erstwhile captain. "This ship is it, Bel. Hate to admit it, but we're at the mercy of the Moira and her captains if we ever want to get back to where we came from. Getting off at the next planet wouldn't do us any good."
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You've probably heard worse from your mother.Even half expecting it, if only by way of preparation for the worst, it takes Bel a moment to work through that. "So it's all true." A flat tone, not covering a dismay directed the same way as the bitterness in Miles's words. "Completely outside of any known part of the galaxy, with a fairly thin reed to lean on even if the captains are being honest with us. And you've been here for months?"
That, more than anything else, presses in how serious this is. Months, and Miles hasn't even taken over the ship yet. Bel leans forward too, hands laced together between their knees.
No easy waking from this dream. The Ariel suddenly feels an impossible distance away.
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...not a challenge. It's a pointless, thankless slog. No orders, no endpoint, no consensus, no clear goal, no way out.
No leadership.
The pained brown eyes glance up at Miles. It would have been better if none of them were here... but they are, and it means a lot not to be facing this alone.
"As far as I'm concerned, my Dendarii oath and contract supersede the ones made here under duress. Since there are officially no other Dendarii on board--" Lord Miles -- not yet. Bel hesitates, then dodges the title. "I'm the ranking fleet officer here, and will have to proceed on my own judgment, as far as the rest of the ship is concerned." Bel smiles bleakly. "But between the two of us, this is a terrible undercover mission and I'd like to register a complaint."
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"It's a shit mission, I know, but we don't really have a choice. And if I can do it, so can you. Eh, Captain?" Miles grins, and nudges his elbow at Bel's arm.
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It's still frankly startling that Gregor -- perhaps the main reason for all the secrecy -- seems to share that opinion. If not for his intervention.....
...better not to think about it. A snort of rueful laughter at the elbow, and Bel leans over to grip Miles's shoulder for a moment. "Oh, yes." Always. "You look like it's been hard on you, though, in spite of having only one name to juggle. Is the food that bad here?"
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Miles smiles bleakly. Somehow it seems inadvisable to drop the news of his recent death on Bel on top of everything else -- his poor captain's been through enough shocks today, he thinks, and they look tired to boot. "The head chef around here is Loki. You decide." He sinks back into the couch a little more, but the look he gives Bel with his brows slightly raised is direct. "You're not looking so hot there yourself, Bel. When was the last time you slept, anyway?"
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Stall. Then reassess. "Might ask you the same question. The Ingress pulled me through at midnight, ship's time. I was about to sleep. Didn't happen."
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Ah, and Bel's trying to turn this one around on him, are they? "Last night," he says, eyebrows creeping a little higher. "And I got up at 0600 to get ready for my shift this morning. You've been awake at least twenty-four hours now, Bel. Go get some sleep."