(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

Gregor with Simon … That's a picture that changes the background of Memory a great deal.



Exactly how Gregor Vorbarra had been given ten minutes where he didn't have to talk or look at anyone was something of a mystery, but he was never going to complain about it.

This ten minutes was taken up standing, pushing his desk chair in, and pacing in front of the window, contemplating his large and elaborate birdcage. The only thing he could think of was Haroche's report on Simon from this morning. Simon was hardly the only important news item of the day, of course, with Laisa and all that entailed, and then there was, of course, literally all the other goings-on on the three planets that were his.

Still. Summary was generous. Surely there was more. Surely Haroche could tell him more. Surely Haroche could say something, anything, that would make Simon better, that would bring Gregor some bare comfort, that would at least give him confidence they - someone - was trying to fix Simon, his Simon. Surely Haroche had some good news, other than Simon was demanding attacks on random planets, talking nonsense from decades ago and decking the ImpSec staff. He needed more. He needed to know that Simon wasn’t melting into some impossible pit of horror. There must have been more. How could he have reasonably gotten Haroche to give him more?!

His Simon, his eyes, his shadow. He felt oddly naked, like he was missing an excess limb. He was sure Haroche was doing his best, but he did not understand, and Gregor was not going to explain it to him. And Haroche was not going to be his extra set of eyes, his expanding set of arms, his many, many boots on the ground. Haroche should have been. Might be, in the future, he didn't know. If it wasn't Simon it would be someone else, and the thought of it being someone else...

Not that anyone would be -- well. Probably he wouldn't be, if Laisa was....

One hand didn't need to know what the other hand was doing. Simon said such things to him, the impression of the smile on his unassuming face. Solve problems in the order of importance: that was another. Aral had always said it too; which of them had said it first was anyone's guess.

He felt the shiver in his back. The ghost of Simon's hands - Simon's actual hands, the texture of them, his short fingers - stroked down his neck. The ghost of Simon's mouth pressed against his ear. His eyes and His hands and His mouth, yes, the great and powerful gears of Imperial Security, but also Simon was a man, and he was, sometimes, when he was allowed to be, and his eyes were a comfort on Gregor's bare flesh, and his hands were soft on Gregor's stomach, making Gregor shiver with a little scratch from his short-cut nails, and his mouth, wet and warm, on Gregor's jaw, on his mouth.

And now those hands -- and now those eyes -- and now that mouth---

And Lucas Haroche had left him with four sentences about it.

He looked down and saw the lines his fingernails had left in his palms about it.

What was he supposed to do? Simon would have known. Simon would have sat there, in the chair, watching him with his unique gaze - looking at him, not quite looking at him, seeing a hundred, a thousand - god, how many times had Simon ever looked at him, and to see all of them all at once? - versions of him. Gregor felt at home, seen, protected under that gaze. Others had confided in him how awkward, uncomfortable, and disorienting they found it. Gregor had, so far, resisted the urge to say: Really? It's the most comfortable thing in the world. Doesn't it bother you, how other people look at you?

He could demand anything in the world of ImpSec. He could go to impSec and demand..... what? To move faster? To do more research? And they would all just tell him what he wanted to hear, and what he wanted, what he needed, was Simon to be alright. He needed Simon to not be mad.

He was angry at the sunshine in the windows. It should be gloomy, pouring rain. He would have accepted oppressive, blazing heat. He would have accepted a windstorm that knocked out windows. Barrayar should reflect the feelings he was never allowed to feel.

From these windows he couldn't see the ImpSec Building. That was better. If he saw the building he might think of Simon and hear Simon's voice in his ear, his caustic humor that no one else felt safe using in the presence of the Emperor. And he would be allowed to be caustic back, cynical even. If he was lucky he could get a laugh out of Simon. And if he was really lucky Simon could get a laugh out of him. It felt like breaking the thick glass that separated him from everyone else. Glass that Simon could put his hand through without even a scratch.

"Sire," came Ansen's voice, through the comm. Had he spent his allotted 10 minutes moping? Surely.

"Are they here yet?" he asked, generically. He'd had the schedule on his desk and could look at it, but he was temporarily busy loathing the sunshine.

"No, but, ah, Lord Vorkosigan is here," Ansen said, and now that Gregor was listening he could hear Ansen's alarm about this matter, "He is wishing to see you as soon as possible."

Gregor winced. Simon had been right here, looking at Miles' fake report, that Miles had lied to him, lied to both of them, and surely Miles was back to, what, beg for his job? He had honestly been surprised it would take this long.

Better to get it over with. He sat and steadied himself. It would at least feel like something. It would certainly be better than - what did the schedule say? - scheduled updates on disputes on ecological and oceanic regulations.

"Sire," Ansen said, an octave higher. Oh god, Miles must have been his most deranged self out there to crack his secretary’s resolve.

"Yes, send him in, and reschedule the dispute mediation on the regulations for next week."

"Thank--" Ansen began, but the majordomo was already opening the door and Miles was already inside.

“Alright, Miles, what’s this all ab— good God,” Gregor sat up, startled. Miles was -- god, Miles had brought out the big guns, and big guns by Miles Vorkosigan standards too, clattering like an old groundcar owing to all his medals, his Vorkosigan house uniform nearly glowing, his eyes burning hot, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you become the Vor lord with intent." His mope scattered like the sun destroying clouds.

"At this point," Miles began, with all the deranged, no-holds-barred, no-brakes intensity that made him Miles, and Gregor had a surge of odd confidence that this was not about his job, “Intent should be steaming out of both my ears. I would bet --" a pause, which he barreled through, as if Gregor hadn't heard it, “---Anything you please that there is a bigger mess with Illyan than Haroche has reported to you."

Two giant, metaphorical hands came down and grabbed Gregor's ribs, threatening to pull them apart. His heart raced. Haroche had warned him about Miles. Haroche had been given an impossible job. It was obviously true and noticeable that Illyan had started to go downhill just after he had stripped Miles of his rank. On one hand, Miles was Miles, and if he had a feeling it was worth pursuing. On the other hand, Miles was Miles, and he did not like to be wronged, and Illyan had wronged him.

He inhaled. He could feel Simon’s hands, and in his mind Simon’s hands settled inside his chest and kept him in one piece.

He could not give in to Miles now. He needed Miles to tell him what he wanted, to lay out whatever insane new thing that was in his mind. Then he would decide.

It was his job, very much so, to be the straight man. He settled. "His reports are necessarily synopses," he said, letting Miles barge forward. Barging forward was the best place for Miles to go. If he was assured Miles was barging in the right direction, he could equip him with all the firepower in the world. And he would.

Comments

[beatrice_otter]

Great missing scene, love what's going on with Gregor in this moment.

Lovely!

[(Anonymous)]

This is beautiful