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ravenFor the most part today has been an unsuccessful day - I went in to work feeling like hell, Illya took one look and said, "Migraine, is it?" with his best deliberately-Russian-accented asperity, I went home and cleaned the kitchen and bathroom mostly out of feeling-like-hell guilt and general sub-optimal mental health.
But... I wrote something for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo? After several years of trying? Of course it's gen, because I can't do anything right, but hell.
NB. There are no warnings for non-con/dubcon on this story, because there is none in it - but nevertheless it is a story that deals peripherally about consent. Email me/send me a message if you'd like more info.
fic:: a clipped piece of silver
by Raven
2000w, Vorkosigan, gen, Cordelia, Aral and Simon Illyan. "I've commanded men." Cordelia nodded. "And women, and others. Not toys, or playthings. Human beings put to no one's use."
In retrospect it was probably a combination of several factors: Miles breaking a bone after going several months without having done so; the household's usual contortions trying to keep him amused after his surgery; Lady Alys Vorpatril, despite the relationship that passed in bad light for friendship between them these days, feeling the need to give the latest in a series of short lectures on appropriate dress for a Lady Regent; and then finding out, apparently several days after everyone else, that Count Vorfolse's daughter had been kidnapped by some sort of terrorist cell in the Vorfolse's District and then been whisked halfway across the galaxy, to be retrieved by Simon Illyan, who had brought her home along with his handpicked ImpSec retrieval squad only after himself spending almost a week in a Jacksonian prison.
Cordelia was already saying, half to herself and half to Aral, "I really do wish you'd inform me of things I need to know" – as they hurried down the stairs, and then Illyan slipped gently sideways on the leather-upholstered armchair in the drawing room at Vorkosigan House and something inside Cordelia's head switched to furious.
"Simon!" Aral broke into a run down the stairs and caught the man before he quite slid to the floor; without help from Cordelia or any of the Armsmen, he shifted Illyan to the chaise longue, pulling off his boots.
"Urgh," Cordelia said, involuntarily, as they hit the ground. They bore all the signs of having been in an enclosed space with their owner for several days somewhere very filthy indeed.
"Simon," Aral was saying. "Simon." And then in his best military bellow: "Captain Illyan!"
Illyan stirred a little at the last, but his eyes didn't open. Aral reached for his wristcom and gave a few orders; within a few moments, Cordelia gathered, he was speaking to the medtech on the picket ship from which Illyan had presumably just disembarked. "Right," Aral said after another minute, "thank you."
Cordelia looked up.
"Apparently he was sedated on board ship," Aral said, his smile twisting, "but insisted on coming to make his report in person anyway. A course of action that has, alas, backfired on him."
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "He needs medical attention."
"There's nothing wrong with him. Or, rather," Aral corrected himself, "what's wrong with him is that he's been in prison on Jackson's Whole. They're sending round something to give him that will wake him up, and then we can debrief."
Cordelia stared. "Please don't take this the wrong way, my love, but you're crazy."
"Cordelia?" Aral was staring at her in return.
"Aral, this man has just fallen asleep with sheer exhaustion in your damn armchair. Leave him be, for goodness' sake, deal with it all later. And what," Cordelia went on, the anger uncoiling suddenly within her, "is the Chief of ImpSec doing on a retrieval mission, anyway? It's a desk job, the last I heard!"
"I ordered him to go," Aral said, mildly. "Best way of ensuring the job got done. And besides, if he went, it would mean I had…"
Cordelia said, "Aral, if you say, 'an accurate record', I don't know what I'm going to do. Simon," she added, gently. "Simon, it's probably time to wake up now."
Illyan stirred again, eyes moving visibly underneath their lids, but he didn't wake.
"I need to know why the girl was taken," Aral said, a harshness coming into his voice, suddenly. "It's important, Cordelia! And Simon can tell me. You know he can."
"That's what Ezar used him for, too," Cordelia said flatly. "The Emperor's personal vid-recorder. He used to haul him in and have him recite everything he'd seen. It pleased him, to have such a toy at his disposal. Barrayar is supposed to be headed towards better things than this."
"Cordelia," Aral said, and stopped, and began again, more softly. "Simon is in Imperial service. He understands what that means, and so do you. You've been a soldier. You've commanded men."
"I've commanded men." Cordelia nodded. "And women, and others. Not toys, or playthings. Human beings put to no one's use."
Aral stared. "He's taken oath to me," he said, stiffly. Something about the look on his face, then – something about the confusion, the fundamental disconnect – punctured the rising balloon of Cordelia's anger. She sat down, suddenly, on the edge of the sofa next to Simon, still peaceful and still.
"I'm sorry," she said after a while, thinking it over. "And I understand the chain of command, of course I do. But even a soldier may step back and say – no. I don't want to do this. And before you say another word, I did it. And you never called me less of a soldier."
"Cordelia," Aral began, and stopped.
"I know you," she said quickly. "I know you trust him, I know that you, that you love him, that you have... and I will not pass judgement. But you..." She paused, hesitated. "You own him."
Aral carried on staring, and then started forwards. Cordelia recognised the decisiveness, the economy of his movements that characterised a decision made, then acted upon. "Help me with him."
She scarcely had to; Illyan, always slight in any case, had lost weight over the last few days and he folded into Aral's arms easily. Cordelia walked beside Aral up the broad stairs up to the first floor, trailing behind on the narrower steps up to the level she and Aral tended to think of as theirs. At first Cordelia thought they were heading for one of the smaller side-rooms, usually laid out for guests, but Aral laid his burden down on another long couch and said, "Wait here a moment."
Cordelia nodded as Aral disappeared through the door they had just come through. "Simon," she tried again, gently, and in the better light through the windows on this floor, regarded him appraisingly as though seeing him for the first time. Hollowed cheekbones, those were new, taking away something of the puppyish look to his features; long lashes, pale brown hair greyish with dirt and grown too long, although he'd apparently managed to shave on the short picket journey back. Barely over thirty, he looked younger when sleeping. Too young to see all he'd seen, and never to forget – but then, Cordelia thought, remembering their first meeting, they had that in common.
She heard the sound of water running as Aral returned. "Come on."
They carried him together, this time. Aral had set the water pouring into the tub to scalding hot, that being the only temperature other than icy available to the residents of Vorkosigan House. Expertly, Aral stripped Simon of his clothes, and there was such practised ease to those movements that Cordelia paused, and looked at him.
"Before you came," Aral said, "I drank a lot. This is my first time doing this for him."
Cordelia laughed a little, feeling most of her anger evaporate like the steam in the bathroom. Not for the first time, she was grateful for the general oversizedness of everything in this house; she could sit and lean against the wall, present but not immediately privy to the intimate ritual of this. Aral had got Simon into the water with minimal splashing; amazingly, he still wasn't quite awake, murmuring something under his breath as Aral carefully, meticulously washed the dirt out of his hair, teasing out the tangles with utmost care, avoided old scars cutting across his skin. Above the clean, honest smells of hot water and soap, Cordelia smelled something else familiar: the rank scent of sweat, pain, captivity. She watched the water turn black and then run clear with some satisfaction. Without meaning to, she'd edged closer, close enough to hear Aral murmur, "You're all right, you did well, I've got you", in soothing, loving repetition. The intensity of it might have scared her, once.
Simon's eyes opened properly only once. At once, the familiar intelligence settled across his face, and she was aware of the sense of his being somehow bigger. He'd teach that to Miles one day, Cordelia thought wryly, that ability to project himself across more than mere physical space. It lasted only a moment; his gaze lighted upon Aral and his eyes closed again, the questioning look disappearing into inanition and trust.
Cordelia nodded, almost to herself, watching Aral shake water out of his eyes and stroke Simon's hair. He had known where he was, even for just a few seconds; he hadn't fought it. What was strange here, she thought with a brief, controlled shiver, was that there was nothing strange here.
Simon woke to full lucidity only when dry and in bed, covered in fresh sheets in one of the many house guest rooms. Cordelia had just been going to find another blanket for him. "Milady," he said, his eyes widening with alarm, his hands going to his collar automatically, "I came to – I was going to… where…"
"Vorkosigan House," Aral said, stepping in before Cordelia could say anything. "Your silver eyes are on the bedside table. Sleep, and we'll debrief later."
He nodded, then a look of surprise crossed his features. "I'm not wearing any clothes."
"That analyst's mind at work." Aral grinned at him. "Sleep, Simon."
With a brief, thoughtful sigh, Simon obeyed, his eyes closing quickly. His breathing deepened and slowed as they stood there, waiting, and then Cordelia took Aral's hand and led him quietly out of the room.
"I know what you're thinking," Aral said, as they went downstairs.
She gave him a sidelong glance. "I can honestly say, my love, that this is one of those times when even I have no idea what I'm thinking."
"You're thinking," Aral said, "that this could be – it could just be me, taking good care of something that belongs to me because it belongs to me. And I…" He hesitated. "I'm not accustomed, even yet, to seeing the world in the light you cast."
"You've never taken good care of your toys, love," Cordelia said. And with some clarity, she added, "It's not the same thing, to be used by you, and to belong to you. Some might even find the latter freeing."
"Some," Aral repeated, his eyes wary. "I try" – he hesitated – "for one, and not the other."
"I know," Cordelia said, very quietly, and took hold of his hand again. "Do you think," she asked, "that his chip takes in data even when he's sleeping?"
Aral glanced at her. "I daren't ask." He brought a hand to his mouth for a moment, then took it away. "If it does I'm sure he makes reports. Do you mean, data on what's happening around him, or… on dreams?"
Cordelia shook her head. "I don't know."
"What does a man who remembers everything perfectly dream about?" Aral was looking troubled. "And how can he have…"
Faith, Cordelia finished for him. She'd followed Aral with scarcely any less knowledge of the fallibility of humanity. She followed him now, down the stairs in this house she was trying to call her own.
end.
For a square on mykink_bingo card, "washing/cleaning".
But... I wrote something for
kink_bingo? After several years of trying? Of course it's gen, because I can't do anything right, but hell.NB. There are no warnings for non-con/dubcon on this story, because there is none in it - but nevertheless it is a story that deals peripherally about consent. Email me/send me a message if you'd like more info.
fic:: a clipped piece of silver
by Raven
2000w, Vorkosigan, gen, Cordelia, Aral and Simon Illyan. "I've commanded men." Cordelia nodded. "And women, and others. Not toys, or playthings. Human beings put to no one's use."
In retrospect it was probably a combination of several factors: Miles breaking a bone after going several months without having done so; the household's usual contortions trying to keep him amused after his surgery; Lady Alys Vorpatril, despite the relationship that passed in bad light for friendship between them these days, feeling the need to give the latest in a series of short lectures on appropriate dress for a Lady Regent; and then finding out, apparently several days after everyone else, that Count Vorfolse's daughter had been kidnapped by some sort of terrorist cell in the Vorfolse's District and then been whisked halfway across the galaxy, to be retrieved by Simon Illyan, who had brought her home along with his handpicked ImpSec retrieval squad only after himself spending almost a week in a Jacksonian prison.
Cordelia was already saying, half to herself and half to Aral, "I really do wish you'd inform me of things I need to know" – as they hurried down the stairs, and then Illyan slipped gently sideways on the leather-upholstered armchair in the drawing room at Vorkosigan House and something inside Cordelia's head switched to furious.
"Simon!" Aral broke into a run down the stairs and caught the man before he quite slid to the floor; without help from Cordelia or any of the Armsmen, he shifted Illyan to the chaise longue, pulling off his boots.
"Urgh," Cordelia said, involuntarily, as they hit the ground. They bore all the signs of having been in an enclosed space with their owner for several days somewhere very filthy indeed.
"Simon," Aral was saying. "Simon." And then in his best military bellow: "Captain Illyan!"
Illyan stirred a little at the last, but his eyes didn't open. Aral reached for his wristcom and gave a few orders; within a few moments, Cordelia gathered, he was speaking to the medtech on the picket ship from which Illyan had presumably just disembarked. "Right," Aral said after another minute, "thank you."
Cordelia looked up.
"Apparently he was sedated on board ship," Aral said, his smile twisting, "but insisted on coming to make his report in person anyway. A course of action that has, alas, backfired on him."
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "He needs medical attention."
"There's nothing wrong with him. Or, rather," Aral corrected himself, "what's wrong with him is that he's been in prison on Jackson's Whole. They're sending round something to give him that will wake him up, and then we can debrief."
Cordelia stared. "Please don't take this the wrong way, my love, but you're crazy."
"Cordelia?" Aral was staring at her in return.
"Aral, this man has just fallen asleep with sheer exhaustion in your damn armchair. Leave him be, for goodness' sake, deal with it all later. And what," Cordelia went on, the anger uncoiling suddenly within her, "is the Chief of ImpSec doing on a retrieval mission, anyway? It's a desk job, the last I heard!"
"I ordered him to go," Aral said, mildly. "Best way of ensuring the job got done. And besides, if he went, it would mean I had…"
Cordelia said, "Aral, if you say, 'an accurate record', I don't know what I'm going to do. Simon," she added, gently. "Simon, it's probably time to wake up now."
Illyan stirred again, eyes moving visibly underneath their lids, but he didn't wake.
"I need to know why the girl was taken," Aral said, a harshness coming into his voice, suddenly. "It's important, Cordelia! And Simon can tell me. You know he can."
"That's what Ezar used him for, too," Cordelia said flatly. "The Emperor's personal vid-recorder. He used to haul him in and have him recite everything he'd seen. It pleased him, to have such a toy at his disposal. Barrayar is supposed to be headed towards better things than this."
"Cordelia," Aral said, and stopped, and began again, more softly. "Simon is in Imperial service. He understands what that means, and so do you. You've been a soldier. You've commanded men."
"I've commanded men." Cordelia nodded. "And women, and others. Not toys, or playthings. Human beings put to no one's use."
Aral stared. "He's taken oath to me," he said, stiffly. Something about the look on his face, then – something about the confusion, the fundamental disconnect – punctured the rising balloon of Cordelia's anger. She sat down, suddenly, on the edge of the sofa next to Simon, still peaceful and still.
"I'm sorry," she said after a while, thinking it over. "And I understand the chain of command, of course I do. But even a soldier may step back and say – no. I don't want to do this. And before you say another word, I did it. And you never called me less of a soldier."
"Cordelia," Aral began, and stopped.
"I know you," she said quickly. "I know you trust him, I know that you, that you love him, that you have... and I will not pass judgement. But you..." She paused, hesitated. "You own him."
Aral carried on staring, and then started forwards. Cordelia recognised the decisiveness, the economy of his movements that characterised a decision made, then acted upon. "Help me with him."
She scarcely had to; Illyan, always slight in any case, had lost weight over the last few days and he folded into Aral's arms easily. Cordelia walked beside Aral up the broad stairs up to the first floor, trailing behind on the narrower steps up to the level she and Aral tended to think of as theirs. At first Cordelia thought they were heading for one of the smaller side-rooms, usually laid out for guests, but Aral laid his burden down on another long couch and said, "Wait here a moment."
Cordelia nodded as Aral disappeared through the door they had just come through. "Simon," she tried again, gently, and in the better light through the windows on this floor, regarded him appraisingly as though seeing him for the first time. Hollowed cheekbones, those were new, taking away something of the puppyish look to his features; long lashes, pale brown hair greyish with dirt and grown too long, although he'd apparently managed to shave on the short picket journey back. Barely over thirty, he looked younger when sleeping. Too young to see all he'd seen, and never to forget – but then, Cordelia thought, remembering their first meeting, they had that in common.
She heard the sound of water running as Aral returned. "Come on."
They carried him together, this time. Aral had set the water pouring into the tub to scalding hot, that being the only temperature other than icy available to the residents of Vorkosigan House. Expertly, Aral stripped Simon of his clothes, and there was such practised ease to those movements that Cordelia paused, and looked at him.
"Before you came," Aral said, "I drank a lot. This is my first time doing this for him."
Cordelia laughed a little, feeling most of her anger evaporate like the steam in the bathroom. Not for the first time, she was grateful for the general oversizedness of everything in this house; she could sit and lean against the wall, present but not immediately privy to the intimate ritual of this. Aral had got Simon into the water with minimal splashing; amazingly, he still wasn't quite awake, murmuring something under his breath as Aral carefully, meticulously washed the dirt out of his hair, teasing out the tangles with utmost care, avoided old scars cutting across his skin. Above the clean, honest smells of hot water and soap, Cordelia smelled something else familiar: the rank scent of sweat, pain, captivity. She watched the water turn black and then run clear with some satisfaction. Without meaning to, she'd edged closer, close enough to hear Aral murmur, "You're all right, you did well, I've got you", in soothing, loving repetition. The intensity of it might have scared her, once.
Simon's eyes opened properly only once. At once, the familiar intelligence settled across his face, and she was aware of the sense of his being somehow bigger. He'd teach that to Miles one day, Cordelia thought wryly, that ability to project himself across more than mere physical space. It lasted only a moment; his gaze lighted upon Aral and his eyes closed again, the questioning look disappearing into inanition and trust.
Cordelia nodded, almost to herself, watching Aral shake water out of his eyes and stroke Simon's hair. He had known where he was, even for just a few seconds; he hadn't fought it. What was strange here, she thought with a brief, controlled shiver, was that there was nothing strange here.
Simon woke to full lucidity only when dry and in bed, covered in fresh sheets in one of the many house guest rooms. Cordelia had just been going to find another blanket for him. "Milady," he said, his eyes widening with alarm, his hands going to his collar automatically, "I came to – I was going to… where…"
"Vorkosigan House," Aral said, stepping in before Cordelia could say anything. "Your silver eyes are on the bedside table. Sleep, and we'll debrief later."
He nodded, then a look of surprise crossed his features. "I'm not wearing any clothes."
"That analyst's mind at work." Aral grinned at him. "Sleep, Simon."
With a brief, thoughtful sigh, Simon obeyed, his eyes closing quickly. His breathing deepened and slowed as they stood there, waiting, and then Cordelia took Aral's hand and led him quietly out of the room.
"I know what you're thinking," Aral said, as they went downstairs.
She gave him a sidelong glance. "I can honestly say, my love, that this is one of those times when even I have no idea what I'm thinking."
"You're thinking," Aral said, "that this could be – it could just be me, taking good care of something that belongs to me because it belongs to me. And I…" He hesitated. "I'm not accustomed, even yet, to seeing the world in the light you cast."
"You've never taken good care of your toys, love," Cordelia said. And with some clarity, she added, "It's not the same thing, to be used by you, and to belong to you. Some might even find the latter freeing."
"Some," Aral repeated, his eyes wary. "I try" – he hesitated – "for one, and not the other."
"I know," Cordelia said, very quietly, and took hold of his hand again. "Do you think," she asked, "that his chip takes in data even when he's sleeping?"
Aral glanced at her. "I daren't ask." He brought a hand to his mouth for a moment, then took it away. "If it does I'm sure he makes reports. Do you mean, data on what's happening around him, or… on dreams?"
Cordelia shook her head. "I don't know."
"What does a man who remembers everything perfectly dream about?" Aral was looking troubled. "And how can he have…"
Faith, Cordelia finished for him. She'd followed Aral with scarcely any less knowledge of the fallibility of humanity. She followed him now, down the stairs in this house she was trying to call her own.
end.
For a square on my
kink_bingo card, "washing/cleaning".