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"Happy birthday, Sire," Miles called out cheerfully on his way into Gregor's private office. He waved a sheaf of flimsies in Gregor's direction and dropped himself into a chair opposite the shifting mountain of work covering the desk between them. He pushed the flimsies across the desk, shoving everything else aside as if it were so much litter. Not far distant from the truth, Gregor reflected with a wry twist of his mouth; his eyes had started to glaze over mere moments after sitting down.
"Lord Auditor," Gregor said, tilting his head politely since it appeared they were being Miles's version of formal. "I think you may be confused as to the date."
"You do have a birthday coming up, don't you?"
"Eventually," Gregor acknowledged warily. He took in the manic glint in Miles's eyes and the slightly grey hue of his skin in one sweep and diagnosed overwork and undersleep, neither a rare condition in his most unpredictable subject. Neither an issue Miles would allow him to address on anything less than his deathbed, regardless of the danger they posed to both Miles and the Imperium. Gregor glanced critically at the flimsies in front of him. "I'm almost afraid to look."
"As hurtful as your suspicion is, I can't say it's historically unwarranted, so I forgive your lack of gratitude. Your lack of curiosity, though..." Miles leaned over and nudged the first page of the stack toward Gregor meaningfully. "Unconscionable."
"My apologies," Gregor said solemnly. "I allowed my sense of self-preservation to outstrip my courtesy."
A brief scan down the first page gave him a snapshot of a small, sparsely populated world near no place in particular, with a government as unstable as its orbit and rather an excess of seismic activity. It was called Kazian's Hope by its citizens and Kazian's Rock by almost everyone else; its main exports seemed to be a rare lime-like purple fruit with unproven aphrodesiac properties and disgruntled teenagers. Gregor flipped through the remaining pages slowly, noting reports on its technological level (low), gross planetary product (negligible) and strategic value (none). A small ache blossomed over his right eye; he rubbed at it idly as he tried to make sense of Miles's intentions. "Am I to understand," Gregor said when he was done reading, "that you're gifting me with a planet?"
"A very small one," Miles said with a modest smile. "Sorry it isn't wrapped. Even a tasteful bow would take more ribbon than Barrayar has ever produced for all the pretty Vor maidens in its history."
"Wherever shall I put it?" Gregor said faintly.
"Ah, there's the beauty in it!" Miles grinned and relaxed back into his chair. "It's coming to you. Or, rather, its Chief Meteorologist is; that's what they have instead of an emperor. The instability in Kazian's orbit results in severe earthquakes throughout the southern hemisphere, and in what the inhabitants refer to charitably as 'extreme weather' in the north. A large part of its financial resources are funneled directly into predicting what will fall down or get knocked over next. I was there for a rendezvous with a popular, yet very shy informant and happened to mention in mixed political company that our own weather satellites are the most advanced in the Nexus and can generally be had for a song; the next thing I knew, I'd been invited to serve as proxy for their formal surrender to you." Miles smirked. "It was quite a party. I'm still a bit hung over."
Many, many responses to this monologue presented themselves; Gregor found himself quite unable to choose between them. He settled for "I'm sorry I missed the festivities," and nearly flinched when Miles's smile became incandescent.
"That's why Chief Anareth is coming! There will have to be the usual ecstasies of protocol -- his oath to you, legal wrangling and tribute agreements, that sort of thing. The diplomats will handle the details, of course. But after that, you'll need to take formal possession of the planet and induct it into the Imperium. Getting there and back again will take you at least two weeks travel past the closest jump point, even in the fastest ship in the fleet." Miles dropped his head back and gazed blandly at the ceiling. "During which time..."
"Ah." Gregor inclined his head. "Clever."
"Yes, I thought so." Miles's bland expression took on a distinctly smug cast.
"I suppose you've already informed Allegre."
"And Aunt Alys. And Dad, of course; he's offered to stand in while you're away."
Gregor's eyes narrowed. "You're aware, I'm sure, that there's a certain way of viewing these arrangements that could result in you and your entire coven of conspirators being clapped in irons for treason."
"Do we even have irons anymore?"
"I'm sure I could locate some," Gregor said evenly.
Miles laughed. It changed him somehow; softened him, as the Mad Miles mask fell away and left only Gregor's dearest friend behind. "Never fear, Gregor," Miles said. "We've taken special care to refer to it as the 'find Gregor some vacation time' plan in all our communications. Not to be confused with the 'dethrone the Emperor if he won't get some damned rest of his own free will' plot we've hatched, which we're ready to unleash at a moment's notice should you fail to fall in line."
"Well." Gregor shook his head. A planet for a vacation; he felt a bit dazed by the sheer scope and audacity of Miles's plans, though not terribly surprised by the efficiency of their execution. "It seems you've thought of everything."
Miles spread his hands wide. "I do like to earn my rather substantial salary. And anyway, you know I don't like to do anything by halves."
Gregor raised an eyebrow.
"All right," Miles acknowledged. "This particular scheme was maybe overdone by halves; I've never been terribly good with fractions. But -- be fair. You've been fending us off for months, and you're getting more distracted and romantically pallid by the minute. You're in desperate need of a break, and we -- your family -- would prefer it not to be a mental one." He leaned forward, his eyes warm and implacably sincere in that way only Miles could ever manage. "It's a gift, Gregor. Take it."
Gregor leaned back in his chair and eyed Miles speculatively. He sensed a delicate hand at work here; far more delicate and ruthless than any Miles possessed, but perhaps not too distantly removed. Later, he would need to make a few pointed calls, but for now, he could see the role set out for him and he was perfectly willing -- happy, even -- to play it.
"All right," he said finally, and waited for Miles' face to settle into an expression of triumph before adding, "I will if you will."
The 'ecstasies of protocol,' as Miles had so accurately put it, took nearly a month to arrange and dispense with. As birthday gifts ran, this one was turning out to be a great deal of work. Chief Meteorologist Anareth was a decent enough sort, if a bit twitchy and prone to diving under furniture during thunderstorms, but the battalion of lawyers traveling with him seemed to have been trained on Jackson's Whole and possibly bred there as well -- of wolvish stock. Gregor made a point of greeting and guesting Anareth personally upon his arrival, then dumped the whole lot of it on his own legal staff and hid out in the Residence as much as possible.
It would have been nice to have someone to help shoulder the burden of their upcoming enforced relaxation, but Miles had removed himself from the entire affair with vague excuses about touring his district before vacation and preparing his staff to carry on in his absence, and was a depressingly rare visitor. Gregor found himself somewhat at loose ends as the machinery put in place to run things during his time off-world began to take on more and more of his day to day responsibilities. Count Vorkosigan would arrive soon enough to serve as a royal family presence and final arbiter during the period of Gregor's actual absence from the planet, but Gregor hoped to spare him most of the trouble and all of the paperwork that position generally entailed.
Watching his people take over so much of the busywork Gregor had personally overseen was an education. He'd known, somewhere in the back of his head, that the level of involvement his personal sense of duty demanded might be a tad excessive; what he hadn't realized was how much more smoothly things could run if he only kept his royal fingers out of them. His staff was handpicked for loyalty, intelligence and initiative; letting them do their jobs without his interference was resulting in an uptick in morale that left him feeling more than a little bit sheepish about his management style.
A week before his enforced vacation was scheduled to begin, and perhaps that long since his schedule had begun to open up, Gregor awoke in the dead of night to the novel sensation of someone sharing his bed with him. It had been well over a year since he'd last been motivated enough to smuggle a lover in, and far longer than that since he'd invited anyone to stay the night. Too long, he thought broodingly after the brief tussle that ensued, which ended abruptly when he recognized his visitor and gave up his own defense. He allowed himself to be pinned and called up the lights in the same moment, revealing a somewhat ruffled and panting attacker sitting on his legs and snarling like an angry cat.
Gregor propped himself up on his elbows and shook his head. "Miles," he said mildly, rubbing at his eyes. "Good, uh --" he checked his internal clock and the exact shade of dark outside his windows, "--morning?"
"Twenty minutes," Miles huffed out in a hoarse, annoyed voice. Gregor had spent a moment with his arm across Miles' throat before recognition set in. "That's how long it took me to get from your front steps to your bed without being stopped. I didn't even have to kill anybody, Gregor! I had to knock one of your personal Armsmen over the head because he wanted me to wait till daylight and hinted rather strongly that I should have called first, but the rest of them just let me right through. Most of them didn't even check my identification!"
Gregor frowned. "You -- why are you beating up my Armsmen?"
"Apparently, because I can." Miles levered himself off Gregor's body and threw himself onto his back, snaking half of Gregor's pillow in the process. "We're going to have to do something about your security. I could have assassinated you just now, you know. In your sleep."
Gregor diplomatically neglected to point out that he'd been holding his own quite well until he'd identified Miles as his assailant. After that, he hadn't seen the point in continuing to bat each other about. "You're aware, I hope," he said slowly, "that given our familial connection, not to mention our many years of friendship, I've instructed my security detail to allow you almost unprecedented access to me, day or night, should you require it. In fact, I should have a word with Lem; he knows to let you through if you ask. He just tends to be a bit protective of my rest."
"That doesn't make me feel any better," Miles growled, though his cheeks had pinked up a bit while Gregor spoke. "No one should be able to make it this far unannounced. What if I suddenly grew ambitions?"
"I admit to entertaining some new concerns regarding your loyalty," Gregor said pensively.
Miles sat up, glaring, offense written in every line of his face and posture. "What! Are you serious? I'm more loyal to you than any man on this planet. Any ten men!"
"Yes," Gregor said, grinning. "That's rather the nature of my concern. Are you planning any more unannounced midnight security tests? Perhaps an armed uprising to point out any weaknesses in the city's defenses? I'd rather not see you accidentally commit treason in your efforts to protect my Imperial person." An alarming thought crossed his mind. "You're not armed right now, are you?"
Miles snorted. "Of course not. I'm not an idiot. I wanted to see if I could get in, not see if I could get myself hanged."
"Small favors," Gregor murmured.
"You really gave them instructions to let me in anytime I wanted?"
Gregor glanced sharply at Miles. He was looking at the ceiling, his face intentionally bare of expression, and there was an odd note in his voice, a wistfulness Gregor was not sure he'd ever heard there before. It tugged at something in Gregor's chest to hear it now. "I told Allegre and his people that if you were ever stupid enough to attempt to steal the throne, they should let you have it, with my blessing."
Miles turned over and faced Gregor, a small smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "I'd make a terrible emperor. Too much of a fixer. Barrayar needs your ideals and your patience, not my plots and screwdrivers."
"What's wrong, Miles? You can't possibly doubt my trust in you. We've been through far too much, far too often, for that."
"I don't." Miles sighed, and plucked absently at Gregor's sheets. "I don't doubt your trust, Gregor. But I confess I sometimes miss our friendship. Adulthood, the Imperium, our work, it all conspires to displace family in favor of duty and honor. I spend more time with people who don't trust me, these days, than with people who do. It used to be exciting, you know? Now I seem to find it more wearing than anything else."
"Then you should test my security more often," Gregor said firmly. "You should... drop in, unannounced. I can assure you, no visit will be unwelcome."
"Not even this one?"
Gregor started to answer, and then stopped. His eyes narrowed. "It wasn't my security you were testing, was it," he said after a moment.
Miles face went pink again, all the answer Gregor really needed. He shook his head fondly, amazed all over again at the intricacy of this man's personality, need wrapped in insecurity wrapped in audacity, bound together with a depth of honor and breadth of intelligence that took his breath away.
"What?" Miles said, frowning into Gregor's silence.
"I was just thinking that you're my stupidest subject," Gregor said finally. "Lucky thing you're moderately useful."
"Hey!"
"And that you should stay for breakfast. There are extra blankets and pillows in the closet by the door." He liberated his own pillow from under Miles's head, and yawned at him across his bedsheets. "You can have the sofa."
"Thanks," Miles said; his expression was carefully serene, but his eyes were alive with a sweet, humbling gratitude. He hopped off the bed and rummaged in the closet for a moment before coming up with what he needed, then installed himself on the sofa across the room with a small, contented sigh. "You know, I think this is more comfortable than my bed back home," he said, wriggling down into the cushions. "This sofa may see a lot of me in future." He closed his eyes, and with a soldier's swiftness, fell promptly asleep.
"I hope so," Gregor said quietly as his companion's breathing evened out.
Miles didn't hear it, but Gregor would make sure he knew it from now on.
The Count and Countess Vorkosigan, with Ivan Vorpatril tagging behind, turned up unexpectedly on the steps of the Residence to see them off -- a circumstance Gregor felt certain had embedded migraines in ImpSec staff from General Allegre straight down to the most barefaced trainee. Hardly fair to throw so much high Vor history together even at planned events; this kind of impromptu gathering felt a bit like tacking up a "drop bomb here" sign and hoping no one noticed. It made the back of Gregor's neck itch, and not just from a political standpoint; these were the people he loved most in all the worlds.
"Stop it," Miles hissed from his place at Gregor's side as his parents and Ivan approached. "Twitching over routine security arrangements is a sure sign of an Emperor on the verge of mental collapse. Between the five of us we've got more trained guards in tow than the rest of the city combined. Worry about your good silver if you have to; the rest of us will be just fine."
"Easy as all that, is it?" Gregor murmured. "That must be why you're vibrating."
"Miles, Gregor." Countess Vorkosigan beat Ivan up the steps by a nose and took each of their hands in one of hers. "I'm so glad you've both decided to take some time for yourselves." Her grey eyes twinkled with a combination of mirth and satisfaction that Gregor found quite shameless.
He smiled, squeezed her hand, and bowed over it slightly. "Your wish is apparently my command, milady," he said, and then laughed out loud when she winked at him. "In all things," he finished, glancing significantly at Miles.
Miles narrowed his eyes and glanced from one of them to the other. After a moment, his eyes settled on Cordelia. "Mother," he said in a suppressive voice. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
"Your mother has been practicing Barrayaran politics." The Count stood proudly at his wife's elbow, smiling at her and his son with quiet amusement. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."
"Yes, but it sounds like she's been practicing on me," Miles complained.
"Once you get the hang of the twisty bits, it's mostly a matter of bloody-minded momentum," Cordelia said. "I've had shining examples of that in my household since it was formed."
Miles glowered at them both and shoved his hands into his pockets, completely ruining the line of his suit. Gregor felt wisdom demanded silence, and kept his mouth shut. Ivan took the opportunity to throw himself into the conversational breach, clapping Miles heartily on the shoulder and squeezing till his greeting produced a flinch.
"Hello, coz," he said, smiling brightly through a terrifying number of teeth. "Just stopped by wish you well on your journey. I'd have offered to accompany you, but apparently I've been seconded to your parents for the duration of your trip. I'm absolutely thrilled, of course," he finished, his voice going more grim by the word.
"As are we," Aral said dryly to no one in particular. Gregor shot him a swift grin; Miles actually laughed out loud.
"But enough with the pleasantries," Ivan said, clapping his hands together. "I've actually come to be of some service, difficult as that may be for all of us to believe. Realizing that this will be the first time for both of you, and that you're sure to be unbelievably bad at it, I took the liberty of preparing a set of instructions."
Miles made a strangled sound the likes of which Gregor had never heard before, and his cheeks turned a spectacular shade of pink.
"First time on vacation," Ivan clarified, his cheeks reddening further than the chilly weather warranted. Gregor stared fixedly at no one, and bit the inside of his lip. Miles rolled his eyes. Both of them pointedly refrained from looking at Miles's parents.
Ivan ignored them all and soldiered on, a talent he'd been perfecting since childhood. "Required activities," he continued, "include sleeping in, eating and drinking far more than you should, and spending at least three days in quarters without ever leaving your bathrobes. Pursuits such as overthrowing enemy governments, uncovering treasonous plots and starting interstellar wars are expressly forbidden."
"You don't want us to have any fun at all," Miles complained. "It's supposed to be a vacation. Most people go on vacation to inject a little excitement into their lives, don't they? Not to suck it all out."
"Your life would pop at the seams if you injected anything into it at all," Ivan replied heartlessly. "You're just lucky we're not locking you into a sensory deprivation tank instead of the jewel of Barrayar waiting for you in orbit."
"Am I meant to think that there's a difference?"
"I could stand seeing you lack excitement for a while," Cordelia said, stepping on Ivan's reply. Her grey eyes narrowed as she examined her son critically. "Your idea of a good time will be the death of your father and me. Some days, I could swear you look older than I am. Rest, heart; if you come back fat, bored, and lazy, I'll count this as time well spent. That goes for both of you," she added, her gaze warming as it grew to include Gregor as well. "I expect you to look after each other, and I expect neither of you to expire in the effort."
Gregor stepped forward into her offered embrace and breathed in the warm, familiar scent of her. Though not the mother of his birth, she'd been the best of all possible substitutes, more than he could have asked or even hoped for. Even now, he felt some of the weight of his responsibilities lessen as she stroked his hair. "You could have just asked," he murmured into her ear before he stepped back. "I would have been a willing conspirator."
Cordelia grinned. "What would be the fun in that?"
Together they turned to wait for Miles and Aral to conclude their private farewells. The love between father and son grew more obvious the harder they tried to conceal its intensity, rendering any public show of affection almost too personal to watch. Aral cupped his hand gently beneath Miles's jaw, then dropped it to clasp his shoulder warmly, murmuring something too low to be overheard; Miles dropped his eyes and bowed his head, but not before Gregor could catch the pleased blaze of his smile.
"Time to go," Miles said, glancing up again at Gregor, then gathering Pym and Roic with his eyes. Gregor's aides took their cue as well, and in the ensuing bustle of luggage-shuffling and leavetaking, Ivan ended up at Gregor's side.
"Something weird going on with him lately," Ivan said in a quick, low voice, jerking his head in Miles' direction.
Gregor nodded. "I know."
"Be careful," Ivan said, only half joking. "And fix it?"
"Oh, don't worry," Gregor said sincerely, eyeing Miles with absolute determination. "I have every intention."
Gregor arrived in his quarters aboard ship with the intention of settling himself in before dinner, only to discover that process had been carried out quickly and completely without any need for his participation. With even that small task denied him, he felt oddly adrift. It was one thing to acknowledge he was suffering slightly from overwork; it was another thing entirely to remove himself from work altogether. The span of relentless leisure to come yawned out ahead of him like a vast intellectual desert, and he was only mildly comforted by the certainty that however bad it might be for him, for Miles it would be orders of magnitude worse.
He took time to familiarize himself with his new surroundings -- far more posh and polished than his rather spare taste in decor had allowed for at home. His personal vessel was reserved for state visits, less a mode of transportation than a traveling manor, and its designers had seen fit to align its form with its function. With the exception of the sliding doors and viewports, his suite could have been stolen directly out of guest quarters in the Residence. Fine-grained dark woods gleamed from the floor and from every tabletop, and soft, expensive fabrics in shades of deep blue and green lent the furniture its own brand of opulence. It felt odd, Gregor found; uncomfortable in its extremities of comfort. He'd served long enough, even in the pampered and protected way that was all he'd been allowed, to want a ship to feel like a ship. He felt more a visiting dignitary here than he likely would downside at Kazian's Hope.
Unwilling to intrude on Miles so soon, Gregor killed some time with a long, hot shower -- unheard of on a ship of the line, just another of a hundred luxuries here -- and changed into the soft black sweater and casual trousers his Armsman had laid out for him. He'd have to remember to thank the man; forbidden suits for the duration, Gregor wasn't sure he'd have known how to dress himself. Habit dragged him to the small desk and comconsole in an alcove off the sitting room, where he found all messages of an Imperial nature had been removed. Remaining were a message from Miles, three weeks old, reminding him to pack for inclement weather, and a more recent missive from Ivan, copied to Miles, in re: Vacation How-to, with an ominously large file attached.
He left that for later, sure he'd be able to manage his own relaxation. It was Miles he was worried about. Miles, with his strangely pensive looks and extravagant gifts and midnight visits; Miles, who always had more needs than wants, more requirements than requests. Gregor had hoped an Auditor's chain would be enough to bind him to Barrayar, if family and friendship would not suffice; now he worried Miles was finding it too restrictive. He'd lose more than a friend if Miles found it necessary to flee into the night again in search of the excitement he hungered for, and the thought of what Aral and Cordelia stood to lose was too disturbing to contemplate. They'd spent their lives building a Barrayar that their damaged son could fit into -- could thrive in -- and nurturing his every desperate attempt to do so. To find, so late, that they had failed him would be devastating.
Gregor would own no small share in that failure himself; and so it was for his own sake, as well as for them, and for Miles, that he vowed not to let it come to pass. He might be cut off from the rest of his subjects, but he had this ship and its crew and his best Imperial Auditor at his command, even here. A tiny Empire, secure within the hull of this craft, and weeks to work his will upon it.
Thus resolved, he placed a call to Miles's quarters and invited him to dinner, then stretched out on his sofa for a nap. It would be interesting, he thought as he crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, to see what happened.
Miles pushed back from the table and groaned pitifully. "No more food," he said, then belched prodigiously. "Please. Take it away."
"I'll be sure to tell Ma Kosti you said that," Gregor said cheerfully, "right before I steal her away." He laid a hand over his own midsection with extreme satisfaction. Instead of the ship's fare he'd expected for dinner, Miles had arrived at his door with Pym in tow, burdened by an immense covered basket filled with wonders not even the Imperial kitchens could rival. Two hours later, they had each eaten a toddler's weight in savory pies, soft-centered crackle-crusted breads, and insanely rich desserts, but Gregor had more room to pack it all into. All that remained were several neglected rounds of cheese and a plateful of assorted cookies, and even Gregor was not sure he was their equal.
"You can't have her. I'll fight you to the death for her." Miles belched again, at a slightly more decorous volume. "Later."
Having successfully completed the "eat too much" phase of their preliminary instructions from Ivan, they retired to the couch for the drinking phase. The wine sent up by the ship's captain was extraordinary and potent; Gregor went softly with it, letting Miles take the lion's share. They passed a pleasant hour discussing nothing in particular -- the trip up, the meal just passed, a brief but illuminating detour into Roic's love life -- and then fell into more frequent and deeper spells of silence as the evening progressed.
It was comfortable, Gregor found; more so than he would have expected. The luxury of sitting in contemplative quiet, of having little to say and no need to invent more, without being alone -- it was something he thought he could get used to. He tried to think of someone else it might be possible with, but no names came to mind. Even those in his inner circle came to him most often with questions, suggestions, ideas that required consideration and response. This felt peaceful and undirected, restful in a way he hadn't often experienced.
He turned to Miles -- or rather, rolled his head against the back of the couch in that direction -- with the thought that he might see if Miles felt the same way. Maybe this was the kind of vacation everyone seemed to think they both needed, and if so, maybe when they were home it could be recreated. Gregor had grown used to valuing Miles's friendship in the abstract, but perhaps it would be good for them both to make it more concrete.
But when he turned his head, Miles was already looking at him. His eyes were calm and half-lidded, completely relaxed; and his mouth was still damp with wine, his lips slightly parted. Gregor felt a jolt in the pit of his stomach, and his cheeks flushed with unexpected heat. His eyes widened, before he could school his expression, before he really understood why he should. He watched Miles see it -- where his gaze had fallen, the reaction it had caused. He closed his eyes, too quickly and too late, another insidious tell Miles would translate instantly into nothing less than the truth: desire springing up without warning, too sudden to be hidden or denied.
Gregor waited without expectation in a quality of silence completely transmuted from the one they'd shared before. With his eyes closed, he could spend at least one moment alone with this new part of himself, this new piece of his inner puzzle he hadn't even known he was missing. He was both surprised and unsurprised; a flicker of interest, here and there, in men rather than maidens, was nothing entirely new. An interest in Miles was something else again, and far more dangerous because it couldn't exist in a vacuum; his interest in Miles was longstanding, a lifetime's worth, and yet altered now through the subtle alchemy of wine and want.
"I should go," Miles said briskly into the quiet. "I think I'm going to need to work up to this relaxation thing in stages, rather than diving in all at once. Some sort of training program might be in order. Tonight, dinner and wine; tomorrow, maybe a nap and a game of tacti-go."
Gregor opened his eyes in time to find a bizarrely mixed expression on Miles's face, equal parts manic determination and terror. It disturbed him a little that he found it rather charming. He nodded, fitting a slight smile onto his own lips, and rose from the couch slowly, careful to make no sudden moves. The caution was for his own benefit as well as for Miles; the ground was shifting under his feet, less certain every minute.
"Ivan described this sensation to me once," Gregor said gravely. "I believe he called it a food coma. If I remember correctly, we shouldn't require medication, but do let me know you've survived it in the morning; your mother would never forgive me if I let Ma Kosti kill you in your sleep the first night out."
The look Miles shot him was filled with gratitude neither of them felt compelled to mention or explain. He gathered up the basket, pausing after a moment's consideration to leave the cheese, and take the cookies. He paused again at the door, turning back at the last moment to say something either desperately brave or dishearteningly final -- neither anything Gregor wanted to hear.
"Go to bed," he said before Miles had a chance to start babbling. He yawned; tired and confused was still tired, after all, and the evening had run late. "Sleep off the wine, see how things look tomorrow. Vacations clearly take more adjustment time than we expected. If we get too bored, there's always Ivan's list," he concluded with a shudder.
"God help us both," Miles said.
In a rare episode of personal cowardice, Miles sent Roic in the morning to confirm his survival and cry off any serious vacationing for the day. Gregor spent the day in his bathrobe, feeling more than a little bit silly, but he did have to admit the outfit made the idea of actual work seem completely ridiculous. Not to Ivan, naturally, but in the privacy of his own mind.
Unlike the whirl of final arrangements, farewells, and travel of the day before, this one passed far too slowly. Gregor wasn't used to noticing the passage of time, except to regret that so much of it passed so quickly when he had so much to do; this was a torture of counted minutes. He read a book Cordelia had sent, listened to music for a while, and tried and failed to get a security update out of one of the ImpSec officers belowdecks. He hoped the bland look of utter incomprehension was something they were teaching these days, because if it were natural, Allegre's personnel selection process needed immediate work.
By noon he had a headache; by dinnertime it was blinding. He turned in early, lowering the lights with a grateful sigh hours before his normal time to retire. He tried not to think of Miles's face when he'd left the night before; tried not to think of that spare moment when he'd looked at Miles, truly looked, and had finally seen him. But Miles wouldn't be swept aside, and Gregor felt something taking root inside him; something older than he knew, and dangerous, and possibly stronger than he was.
He counted his first full day of vacation far less successful than the half day preceding. Maybe Miles was right; maybe they needed to work up to it.
Miles turned up the next day in his own bathrobe shortly after breakfast, armed with the promised tacti-go set and wearing a slightly embarrassed smile. Gregor had awakened refreshed but vaguely terrified of the empty hours stretching out ahead of him; he greeted Miles with unfeigned pleasure, determined to let him see they were still themselves, whatever else might have shifted.
Miles beat him three times before lunch, and once after. "Sorry," he said brightly as he set up for another round, not meaning it in the slightest.
"Not at all." Gregor waved vaguely at the board. "It's sort of tradition by now."
"It's not my fault. You're not good enough to beat me, but too good not to notice if I let you win."
"Thanks."
"It's a compliment! Nobody else has ever been able to tell when I've let them win, and the only person I've ever met who can beat me with any regularity is my father."
"It's the way you keep hurling your pieces into the breach, with no regard for whether you keep them or not. You have an unnatural lack of survival instinct."
"I only need one piece to win," Miles said reasonably. "And on the board at least, every piece is me."
"I had a teacher once who said he could diagnose virtually any personality disorder by the way a man played tacti-go. I wonder what he'd say about you."
Miles grinned. "I have no idea. But I can promise I'd be holding all his pieces while he said it."
"Tell me what I'm doing wrong," Gregor suggested the next day. "It'll be far more useful than all this unattractive gloating."
He went to bed with a headache that night, too.
"There's a crossball court two levels down," Miles offered comfortingly on the fifth day. "I'm sure you'll beat the pants off me."
"It won't help," Gregor said morosely, sinking further into the couch he'd come to associate with frustration and despair. "My ego has been dealt a mortal blow."
"Technically twenty-seven mortal blows, one right after the other," Miles said; and then, catching Gregor's glare, his eyes went very, very wide. "Not that anyone's counting?"
Gregor sighed. "Are you feeling relaxed yet? I don't feel particularly relaxed."
Miles shook his head. "Maybe a nice run around the ship would do us some good."
"Maybe another nap," Gregor said.
On the last day before planetfall, Miles forced Gregor out of bed with nothing but sheer will and foul language. It wasn't that he didn't know he should move; a week of idleness had simply sucked out all his ambition. Another week of doing nothing but lazing in bed watching random bad holovids seemed far more appealing than he'd ever thought possible; he'd even given some thought to calling in sick for the induction ceremonies. He wasn't sure an emperor could get away with that sort of thing, but he was more than slightly tempted to try.
Miles would have none of it. He knew words Gregor didn't. It only stood to reason; he'd seen more actual combat service with the Dendarii than most men his age would see in their entire lifetimes. But it wasn't the hissed profanities that convinced Gregor to move; it was the gentle brush of Miles's hand across his forehead as he checked for a fever.
"I'm not sick," Gregor said, shying away from the touch before it could unravel him. Not a solitary impulse, then, not a side effect of the wine, or a passing fancy; nothing he could pretend was not a part of him. It was a complicated thing, too delicate to press if Miles couldn't, or for some reason wouldn't. Too difficult to resist if Miles wouldn't for the love of God stand further away.
"Then you should get out of bed," Miles said relentlessly. "Up and at 'em, soldier."
"I'm being lazy. Your mother would approve."
"My mother has never truly approved of laziness in her life." Miles shifted his hand and tugged firmly at Gregor's arm. "Come on. This room is bad for us, we need a change of venue. Let's go over to mine."
Gregor stood up so quickly his head spun a little, and removed himself from Miles's reach. "Stop yanking at me," he said, horrified at the petulance in his voice but unable to contain it. "I'll go quietly."
Miles just laughed. "Wear comfortable shoes," he said.
It was a trick, of course; but by the fifth turn around the ship, Gregor found he didn't mind it. The personal trainers of emperors appeared to be more diligent and exacting than those of their auditors; he hit his second wind on the sixth go round, just as Miles collapsed, gasping, to the deck. Gregor made a seventh circuit, and an eighth, grinning as he passed Miles each time amid a rising pitch of insults. When he finally stopped -- bent over, hands on his knees, fighting for his own breath -- Miles reached up and gave his chest a solid shove. Gregor went down laughing.
"My God, you're a terrible loser," Gregor said, grinning.
"Why do you think I try so hard to avoid it?"
"If you don't get me some water right now, it's tantamount to treason."
"You'll have to get up if you want to hang me," Miles pointed out.
And that sounded reasonable enough; so Gregor did.
Gregor got up early the next morning as they slipped into orbit around Kazian's Hope. He was allowed his uniform for this day only, as per Cordelia's orders -- his usual ceremonial attire with the barest decoration, in deference to the solemnity of the occasion. He dressed quickly, ate a scant breakfast alone, and went to collect Miles in his quarters.
Miles was ready and waiting in his house uniform of brown and silver, his auditor's chain a stark contrast against it. He looked at Gregor quietly, his eyes full of something he didn't seem ready to say. Gregor took a long, slow breath, and looked away.
"We should go," he said finally, tugging at his sleeves. He swallowed down his own unwise speeches, cursed inwardly at his weakness, and stilled his hands. "They'll be waiting for us at the shuttle deck."
"Gregor."
"Are you ready? Have everything you need?"
"Not by a longshot." Miles laid a hand on Gregor's wrist. "Do you?"
Gregor raised his eyes to the question. "You're asking me now?"
Miles laughed. "I don't know. I think maybe I am. Not asking doesn't seem to have done me any good, unless we're counting my tacti-go ranking or my cardiovascular health. The longer we keep not talking about anything important, the less sense everything seems to make. I don't want to sit through God knows how many hours of pomp and circumstance without knowing for sure we're going to get past this."
"Your timing is terrible," Gregor said. He turned his hand over and watched as Miles slid his into it, and in the following silence Gregor found himself staring into wide grey eyes that seemed to possess their own gravity, unable to look away.
"Also, sometimes I'm not particularly bright," Miles said, a faint smile curling his lips. "You've been right about that all along."
"You do all right."
"I'm as mad as everyone says I am." Miles shook his head, looking down at their joined hands. "Arguably moreso."
Gregor watched Miles carefully, almost warily. The man was infuriatingly unpredictable, capable of astonishing bravery, or ruthless self-sacrifice, or sometimes both mixed up together. Holding his breath, Gregor waited to see which this would be.
"You were never supposed to want me back," Miles said finally, plaintively. "But you do now, and I know it, and I've been trying to pretend I don't, because this is honestly the most outrageously stupid thing either of us has ever considered. It's just that it's not working anymore. My willpower, I mean. You've broken it." Miles took Gregor's other hand as well, and held it just as tightly. "But it was always yours to break," he finished, his voice low and hoarse, his eyes downcast. "As my heart has been, and the rest of me as well."
Gregor's breath left him in a rush, left him gasping for air as if he'd been punched. Bravery, then -- of course it was always going to be bravery; it was Miles. His hands clenched around Miles's smaller ones convulsively. They were warm and strong, and they seemed to fit in his perfectly.
"I thought you were working up to leaving again," he said when he was able. He was slightly appalled to hear the tremor in his voice. "And then when you never said anything--"
"I thought about it." Miles shook his head. "It seemed like it would be easier. Even called Elli once, just to ... to sound things out. But I couldn't do it, not anymore. Too much of me is here."
"I'm glad," Gregor said simply. "We wouldn't have done well without you. I wouldn't have done well at all." His grip tightened. "I would've been lost, Miles."
"You didn't even know."
"I was coming around to it," Gregor said firmly. "In my own time."
"And you thought I wasn't very bright!" Miles flashed a quick, brilliant grin. "I think we're fairly well matched in that."
Gregor scowled, and used their joined hands to pull Miles close. "You got me a planet," he said. "You most likely had me with the Dendarii fleet, now that I think about it, but an entire planet -- that's a very large clue to miss."
"And yet you did."
Gregor leaned down and kissed the smugness from Miles's mouth; his hands slid up to hold him in place, to keep him there, close, just where Gregor needed him. But Miles, to be fair, did not seem inclined to move any time soon. His mouth opened against Gregor's, and his pulse fluttered under Gregor's fingers, and he made a sound like a growl that made Gregor far less interested in the planet beneath them and far more in what he might find beneath Miles's uniform.
They were extremely late to the induction ceremonies, but as luck would have it, they were able to blame the weather.