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Who: Miles and Gregor
When: late 12/9
Where: the Vor boys' cabin/kvortira
What: Miles drags his thawing carcass back to his cabin and runs smack into Gregor. No one is having a good time.
Warnings: talk about dead people, i guess??

Miles feels like absolute hell, and in more ways than one. His recent death and cryorevival had been bad enough, but a few days locked in a corpse freezer with no food or water and Loki for company hasn't done much to improve him. Cúrre treated him comprehensively, of course, keeping him in the medbay until his body temperature improved and he'd had a good IV or two of fluids, but it had come with a stern, cool dressing down. There's something particularly uncomfortable and humiliating about being reprimanded by one's superior officer while you're trapped in a medbay cot.

But the extended stay in the morgue was almost worse than the loss of two ranks and his quasi-probation, reporting only to Cúrre from here on out, except where he reports to Thán in the capacity of Personnel Officer. It'd be impossible to forget what he'd seen, what he and Loki had found -- Captan Típota's body, damaged and discolored as it was, from something that looked like electrical damage...

And yet Captain Cúrre did not seem to suspect that they had seen her body. The cabinet was locked, after all. At any rate, she didn't question either of them about it -- the reprimand, of course, was merely for the violation of trespassing. Miles isn't looking forward to his next meeting with Thán. His MID was hit with a barrage of messages as soon as it regained reception, but he can barely bring himself to look at them yet.

As soon as he can escape the medbay, he does, limping back to Nomo Deck in the feverish hopes of sleeping on a real bed and possibly a shower. Three days in the morgue hadn't exactly left him smelling fresh -- and he looks even worse than he had fresh after cryo, somehow, gone from thin to damn near emaciated, his face tired and gaunt even after the nutrient drip Cúrre had forced him to sit through before she discharged him. He isn't hungry, anyway -- mostly, he just wants to sleep. Maybe he'll wake up and this will all have been a bad fever dream. Ha. Fat chance. Miles is praying the cabin will be empty when he presses his thumb to the pad lock to let himself in and hopefully launch himself directly into bed.

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Ah, good old reliable Gregor. Miles always could depend on him. He shivers against Gregor and instinctively curls up closer, blessedly unselfconscious for the moment. "Don't worry, I wasn't dead," he chirps, chattering slightly, as though that is some great reassurance. Well, it is a little bit. He stalls on providing a real answer by taking a much-needed few moments to warm up against Gregor, panting slightly despite his near-total exhaustion. This is worse than after he'd died, by a landslide. He came out of that one weak and shaky, still slowly rebounding, but he'd come out whole and relatively well. They wouldn't have let him out of cryo if he wasn't ready. But this -- three days' worth of hypothermia, dehydration and involuntary fasting -- he doesn't remember the last time he felt this utterly like shit. Dagoola, maybe. Had to be. Finally he manages a weary smile at Gregor that's much more post-adrenal than cheerful.

"Reconnaissance."

Edited 2015-12-21 15:57 (UTC)

"I see." Gregor's voice isn't unsteady at all anymore--it's gone cold and solid as permafrost, his body still against Miles' though he makes no move at all to disentangle them or push Miles away, no matter how angry he is. His face is still smoothly bland--only his eyes are sharp as he looks out over Miles' shoulder, settling his back against the wall as he speaks in a cool, academic tone.

"And is there a particular reason you were doing 'reconnaissance' in the morgue for several days?" Gregor waits a beat, but not long enough for Miles to try to weasel in an answer. "Without informing me first?"

Ah. There he goes. Yes, Miles knew this was coming, somewhere in his half-feverish state of mind. God, is he catching a cold? He'd better not be.

"I didn't mean to be gone for days," Miles protests, slightly muffled against Gregor's shoulder. It's probably for the best that he isn't looking Gregor in the face right now but -- somehow, that just makes it worse. "It was only supposed to be a quick look -- just a peek. I didn't mean to get trapped in there. And our MIDs were in a complete dead zone, or else you know I'd have contacted you."

But none of that actually answers Gregor's question. Questions. Miles' voice quiets a little. "After I came out of cryo, I went to see Captain Thán. To ask him about the morgue. Because -- Gregor, if we all come back from the dead, if there are no bodies, when what's in the morgue? Why is it locked? He gave me the usual cagey bullshit, so..."

"I understand," Gregor says. "I also understand your concern regarding the morgue, and cryo, and people coming back from the dead on this ship." His voice doesn't shift but his grip does, tightening slowly and slightly around Miles as he bites the next words out.

"Particularly considering that I just spent the last several days wondering if you had been killed yourself. Again. And wondering how long it would be until you came back." He swallows. "If you did at all."

Miles cringes against Gregor at that. It's astonishing how Gregor has acquired his mother's talent for making one want to shrivel up and die with a word; Miles is rarely on the wrong end of it, but it certainly is working on him today. Beyond that, he just feels bad. Whatever initiative he intended to take, he hadn't intended at all to give Ivan and Gregor cause to worry. In and out, that was just supposed to be it. And this is why you never send interim reports...

"Gregor," Miles tries, but his voice trails off into a hoarse croak, and he exhales sharply. "That wasn't the plan. I was just going to -- " He cuts himself off again, squeezing his eyes shut in agitation against Gregor's shoulder. Every time he opens his damn mouth he manages to make it sound worse. "I didn't mean to make you and Ivan worry, but Gregor -- there was a body in there. In a locked cabinet." Miles swallows, drawing in a breath. "It was Captain Típota."

Gregor startles against Miles, looking down at the top of his head.

"Hell," he says softly, exhaling and tucking Miles a little closer. A hand comes up, hesitating briefly, then rests lightly at the back of Miles' skull, his lips crimping.

"I know you didn't plan to drop off literally everyone's radar for several days, Miles. And I'm not angry with you for doing something so recklessly ill-advised." Well, he is, but even he knows it's wasted emotional effort on his part by now. "I just wish you'd said something. Or left a note, at least. We would have known where to look for you."

He sighs, his chin touching the top of Miles' head as he tries not to slump, worry and cold sapping his energy, leaving him drained. "We need to keep each other in the loop if we're going to survive this place, I think." He nudges Miles a little. "I need you to communicate, dammit."

Miles feels an extra twinge of guilt for all he's heard from Thán that he hasn't reported to Gregor, but to betray Thán's trust would be to betray his own honor -- and it was either that or learn nothing more at all. Better he have information he can't share, but information he could use. Gregor would understand, he's sure.

"Sorry," he mutters against Gregor's shoulder, but it's sincere. Sorry I can't tell you everything, Gregor. Not yet. But if I work this right, I can bring all this to light workout breaking my word... He shifts against Gregor, curling up a little more. He's still shivering, sniffling slightly, and debates the merits of passing out right now and avoiding the rest of this conversation entirely.

"Alright," he sighs in concession, hands curling up to tuck into his sleeves. "From here on out, I'll let you know before I go off on recon. You'll be the first to know." He words it carefully so that, if Gregor should ask him for his word, he can give it without breaking his word to Thán or Elizabeth.

Gregor watches Miles curl up and reaches down to take Miles' freezing hands. He isn't concerned about Miles' core temperature anymore--being bundled up under blankets with another body would take care of that. He rubs first one, then the other between his much warmer palms and looks down at Miles' face with an unreadable expression, taking in the hesitant misery there, sullen and cagey and trying to push it all down to keep Gregor from worrying. His eyes are flensing for a moment, reading all this in a searing glance before he shifts his grip and presses Miles' hands carefully between his, his eyes sliding away to regard them thoughtfully instead of Miles' face.

"I see," he says carefully, his voice heavy with meaning. "You are forgiven. Thank you, Miles." He squeezes Miles' hands briefly, still tucked between Gregor's warm palms before his eyes lighten and he drags them up to press to the still warmer skin on his neck, Miles' hands sandwiched between Gregor's throat and his own hands as Gregor feels gooseflesh prickle straight up the length of his spine and he tries not to make a very un-Emperor-like face. God, those fingers are like ice cubes, no wonder Miles looks so bloody miserable.

"So," Gregor says in a much lighter tone, as his lighter tones go. "Stacked up against Kyril Island, how does this compare?"

Worse than Gregor's anger and frustration, somehow, is his trust. No one's trust had ever burned in him quite like Gregor's does. Gregor is -- Gregor is absolute and unmoving, more than he realizes, Miles thinks. He doesn't tether -- he grounds, reaches through them, and Miles has always been a willing vessel.

He flinches inwardly when Gregor takes his hands in between his own -- ostensibly, at first, to warm them, but the significance of that gesture is impossible to miss for any Barrayaran. He still remembers how his foster-brother's hands felt around his own smaller ones the day Miles had sworn himself to Gregor, still feels the weight of those ages-old words. They have never been a burden to him, not then and not now, but a grace that even at his most irreverent Miles has always held sacred. Barrayar is a part of him, he knows that -- and Gregor is as a part of Barrayar as anyone. I have given my word. My word is my breath. I must not betray it, not to anyone -- but above all, I cannot betray it to Gregor.

Miles swallows when Gregor presses his hands to his own throat in turn, a sign of trust much more personal than Emperor to Vor. He can feel Gregor's pulse against his cold fingers, and he shivers, drawing in a chattering breath and letting it out slowly.

He wheezes out a short laugh at that question, glad to inject a little levity into this conversation. "Oh, Camp Permafrost takes the cake, every time. The morgue stint gave it a run for the money to be sure, but at least I haven't nearly drowned under two meters of arctic mud."

Gregor watches Miles' expression with an odd, internally detached curiosity for a moment before he seems satisfied, his own lips curling up when Miles laughs. He releases Miles' hands and turtles his own head down into the blankets to re-warm his poor Imperial Neck, still keeping Miles tucked close.

"That is a low bar indeed, to hear your father tell it. Or anyone else who's so much as flown over it, quite honestly. I read a few reports in some idle and justly punished curiosity after the whole mess was concluded. I'm a little horrified we send anyone there."

And the levity continues. Thank god. The last few days have been tension-riddled enough that Miles is as tense as a tightly-wound spring, but with that moment passed so does some of the tension, Miles relaxing by degrees in the blankets against Gregor. He manages a pale smirk, retrieving his slightly-warmed hands and tucking them against his chest.

"Maybe you should pay it a visit yourself sometime and see why," Miles suggests irreverently, then snorts. "I suppose this works as a substitute experience. Far less in the way of freezing winds and nasty storms. And it isn't even too bad in here -- compared to the morgue, anyway." He gives Gregor a bleak grin. "I think I was warmer when I was in cryo."

Ah, yes. Cryo. Without even thinking about it -- without his even noticing it, Miles' hand goes to his throat for a moment, then tugs up the collar of his uniform, a strange new tic he seems to have developed.

Gregor watches that helpless spasm of Miles' fingertips to his throat, the tugging of his collar--he correctly interprets the gesture at a glance, if not quite why Miles is making it.

"There was no body to recover from the planet," he says, very quietly. "Nothing to prep. That's why you don't have any of the typical cryo-revival scarring."

So much for levity. Miles jerks his hand away from his throat in surprise before he realizes that Gregor is merely making a comment on it, that he doesn't know just why Miles keeps doing that, that he could not possibly know. Miles hasn't told a soul about what he saw in his reflection on Caducus Primary. Damn his body -- just another betrayal. He wishes he could forget the damn thing altogether.

"Just so," he sighs with a bleak smile, and then he lets out a hoarse laugh. "Strange that I keep forgetting that. It's just -- damned weird, Gregor, that this isn't the body I started out with."

Or is it? Miles now knows Thán is responsible for pulling them back from death, but he still doesn't understand how the Ingress works. If it's anything like Elizabeth's powers...

"That might be all of us," Gregor says softly, looking thoughtful now. "Depending on how we're pulled here. That isn't a particularly pleasant thought either, but still." He settles back and watches Miles, the gears still turning slowly in his head. Why would he bother pulling up his collar to hide scars he doesn't have when nobody is looking for them?

"...is something else bothering you, Miles?"

"Mm," Miles murmurs noncommittally. He won't pursue that subject; too easy to betray himself and risk betraying his word. His brain is sluggish from the cold, still, and he doesn't quite trust himself. When Gregor interrupts his slow thoughts with that question, Miles twitches slightly in response, at first thinking that Gregor must have figured there was something he wasn't saying about the Ingress or his recent revival, or...

"Other than the fact that I recently found the dead body of one of our commanding officers? The cold, maybe. How the hell has that not been fixed yet?"

"Hmmm," Gregor says, watching Miles hard for a moment before he exhales on a breath and drags the blankets closer.

"Have you spoken to anyone about your discovery yet? Besides me, I mean--the other captains? I'm not sure if going to them is wise or not, but I don't know why we would be able to come back and they wouldn't. Though, I don't understand how they can leave the damn heating broken in a spaceship either, for God's sake."

Miles barks out a hoarse laugh. "Oh, yes, I could have just wafted right into Thán's room. 'Excuse me, Captain, but have you heard? Típota's in the morgue.' I think they know, Gregor. How could they not?" He sags tiredly against the covers. God, he's exhausted and still freezing, despite Gregor slowly warming him up. "She didn't look like she'd been murdered, Gregor. It looked like an accident. And she'd been in there at least a few days. I think...I don't know what I think. I think they didn't want us to know."

"There could be several extremely good reasons for that," Gregor says, his voice slow and thoughtful. "Grief, not wanting to cause mass panic all over the ship, confusion over whether or not Típota will be coming back and why it might be taking so long." His lips thin.

"However, I don't trust any of those potentialities, and am inclined to assume the worst, as this has historically been the most likely option to be correct around here."

Miles shakes his head vaguely. He knows there would be no confusion among the captains as to Típota's return, not when Thán is the one who holds that power. Somehow that only makes it more troubling.

"Oh, I think I could think of a few ways things could have gone worse." Miles smiles in weak reassurance. "I don't know. I don't have nearly enough information to make a call either way. It's maddening, how little I learned in the last three days." He shivers a little, reflexively.

"Being locked in a morgue will do that to one's intelligence-gathering capabilities, naturally." Gregor tucks Miles in a little more firmly and exhales, rubbing absently along his crooked back.

"Is there anything you need right now, Miles?" His mouth twists, gentle and wry. "Besides a nice, fat book of every answer to all your questions, organized by urgency. Anything I can get you, I mean."

"How did you guess," Miles mutters, but a little of the tension eases out of him, Gregor's hand soothing. He's still shivering from the cold a little, but much diminished now, his frame starting to go slack against Gregor. He exhales a long breath, his voice going weary. "No. No, I don't think so. You about nailed it."

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