Post MoM AU, general post

[use_everything]

And then one day, it was over.

The memory of how it happened was hazy. Perhaps it was as simple as being ported out, perhaps there was a great experiment, bringing together physicists, chemists, alchemists and scientists to get something WORKING. But like the memories of that time, that other dimension, singular events come and go, like a dream, or an age past.

From the very start, however, there were changes.

Comments

The First Day

[use_everything]

[It was the next day for them. They had gone to sleep the day before, and the day after simply had what seemed to be an enormous, intricate dream if it were not for the fact it seemed to happen mid-day, over a furtive lunch stolen together amidst Aral's hectic post Pretendership schedule.

It announced itself in the most abrupt and inconvenient way possible. With all of the links opening. For a single, brief moment it reverberated through Aral and Cordelia's link... Wide and unthrottled, the enormity of a planet's worth of people, leige bound from man to man, district to count, count to regent could only be registered as pressure. It could have been moments, it could have been minutes, time had very little weight or meaning between that surprise and the memory that this could be closed and the final brief silence that follows all of those doors slammed shut.]

[vorbarra]

Gregor's memories of his first few days back are indistinct and hazy. Years later, he will recall it only as an indeterminate length of time washed over with pain. He had woken up gasping, already in tears and staring sightlessly at the wall as his mind tried to rationalize what was happening to him to no avail.

Several hundred million mental presences at once were impossible for a brain to handle.

His Armsmen found him this way when his main attendant came in to wake him up for his day as normal, and immediately, in a panicked frenzy, Gregor was swept to ImpMil. He has no memory of this either, and his subjects themselves can be forgiven for not realizing what's going on due to how very little transmits from the boy in the other direction: numbness, shock, dilute across so many links. Then he's drugged to the gills and it all, mercifully, fades away.

Gregor is young enough that with time his brain does start to adapt; with enough time, it will even adapt well, but for now is merely functional. After a few days of tense doctors and strained security agents checking everything he's touched in the past month for poison, then rechecking it, Gregor is aware enough to interact with. The saline drip is left but he wets his throat with water and endures a very quietly spoken, careful interrogation about what had caused this. But Gregor has no answers. His head still throbs and feels about to explode; he can't begin to sort out one link from another, has no clue that they are, in fact, burgeoning telepathy. All that keeps him functional is the drugs pushing it far enough below his consciousness that he can breathe past it.

He's not surprised when Aral comes in after Simon's questioning. Gregor is a small seemingly frail form curled with his knees pulled up on the hospital bed, an overabundance of guards posted from his room to the main entrance the whole way. Normally he would feel both ridiculous and frightened for the amount of protections, but now... Now he's exhausted, strung out, and disheartened. Guards won't do anything for this.

Simon had assured him he's not dying but Gregor isn't convinced he'd tell him if he was. He'll have to wait to speak to Cordelia for that. He swallows thickly and realizes someone-- likely Drou-- has left Steggie on his night stand, and resists the urge to reach out and clutch it. He'll have to wait until Aral leaves.

"How long have I been here?" he asks softly, voice hoarse. He has no sense of time passing at all.

[use_everything]

"A few days." Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan, Lord Regent of Barrayar was far more composed and kempt than that first alarming morning. He'd forgone a shave and any dress beyond his house slacks and the first shirt he could find in his rush to the hospital. It ended up being a useless gesture, as he spent more time waiting, pushing for information before Cordelia took pity on the staff.

An intractable migraine was what they'd come down to after scans had ruled out an aneurysm, and the antibiotics stopped when meningitis was cleared, and a number of little bugs and reactions so very specific to Barrayar's flora and fauna. It left a question that Aral had some creeping suspicion he knew the answer to.

Today he was impeccable, uniform pressed, back straight, his face that perfected, political mask. He took the seat that Simon Illyan had neglected.

Gregor had the certain wan look of one whose sleep was entirely chemical, not natural. It was waxy, sickly on the boy.

"How's your head?"

Bitty Miles, Various

[dendarii]

[ Miles, meanwhile, showed no sign of any changes at first. No blips of telepathy, no alarming changes in size or shape, no odd memories popping up at odd intervals. Even his own reactions to the changes in his life have hewed very closely to his original life. He's just as excitable, frantic, and prone to throwing himself off walls even with twin shadows tailing him rather than Bothari's lone figure. If anything, he's prone to bigger scrapes, but with two bodyguards with him most of the time and at least one (if not both) forewarned to the extent of his parents' ability ... Miles carries on much as he did the first time around.

It's not until he's eight (nearly nine) that something changes. First, a strange dream that rouses him in the night. (He'd almost gone to see Gregor right then and there, but the details blur too quickly for him to manage it.) Then ... his father keeping an oath that Miles hadn't even realized he'd sworn. Miles had been delighted by the sudden trip - increasingly and aggressively so towards the end, even as a low level headache and whispered voices in the back of his head threaten to crowd out his joy. Exhaustion only hits him after they're back at the Residence - and so do those voices, even stronger now ... ]

Telepathy I

[dendarii]

[ A few days after their vacation, the voices start up in earnest. Miles had wanted to go find Gregor immediately - had very much intended to find Gregor immediately - but on the morning he'd intended to do that he wakes up with a telepathy-induced headache so bad that he barely makes it out of his bed, much less anywhere close to where Gregor is. He curls up in a ball in one corner of the room, hands pressed to his ears and tears streaming silently down his face. Trying so very hard to be quiet so that he doesn't alert anyone else before he can calm down just enough to find Gregor. He can't just wander the halls like this unless he wants everyone asking what's wrong with him.

(The pressure is what's wrong with him, primarily. The near-constant stream of mutant hatred, mixed in like a black stream amongst the flood, is acidically painful too even when not directly concerned with him. And now he's convinced he must be one if he's hearing this many voices in his head...) ]

[vorbarra]

[ At first, Gregor had had a relatively easy introduction to his telepathy. Certainly a kinder one than Miles in these initial days: with only Miles in his head, he has no low spout of black-oil hatred dripping into his brain. But he can feel Miles's distress keenly, even if at first he doesn't know what it is. The previous day's confusion over the sudden appearance of a bright, lively, sharp-edged light in his mind has vanished into the clarity of understanding.

Somehow, at night with Miles's fear and pain seeping over, it seems perfectly obvious. Of course it's Miles. Hasn't it always been Miles? And Gregor-- is responsible for him, that seems even sharper than the fear/pain trickling down the link. Normally his responsibilities seem fairly abstract, manifest in boring tasks and tedious tutoring and not being allowed to live with the Vorkosigans any longer. 'Duty' is a monolithic, suffocating thing to Gregor at this age.

Out of nowhere, it has a shape and a face that pierces him through, and he's out of bed and padding down the hall to Miles's room before he realizes what he's doing or why. In the dark with everyone else asleep, impossible things seem so much more possible... And he doesn't question anything yet, not until this more immediate pressing problem is taken care of.

Gregor slips his lanky form into the room and goes unerringly toward the tiny compressed form in the corner. He kneels in front of him and reaches his hands out, speaking a low whisper. ] Miles, what's wrong?

[ And how did you call me here? ]

STAR TREK!!

[dendarii]

[ Sometime later, after Miles has had a chance to work through having telepathy and the memories that are starting to trickle back in here ... All his MoM memories are a mess, being filtered through not only what his eight-year-old self remembered them while on Earth but also his own somewhat limited capacity to deal with them now. Certain aspects of his relationships have obviously been cut. But he still remembers a certain Vulcan (and captain) rather well. So well that he thinks he knows enough Vulcan to maybe get their attention It's a plan only a kid thinks is a good idea, but dammit, Miles happens to be a kid right now so he's going to try it.

Step one: convince Uncle Simon to let him get close enough to some kind of deep space tightbeam messaging system. Step two: figure out how to send said message. And three, get his message into the system so that it can be sent to begin with. None are easy, and probably step one is going to be a lot less "letting" and more just "sneaking around swiping Simon's passwords do it anyway."

Either way, the Enterprise gets a really weird transmission from the other side of a wormhole in the middle of apparently nowhere. And it says only one sentence: "mashed kalo root." In Vulcan. ]

[use_everything]

[It had been years since their lives had changed. Almost a decade of it, so much so that it had permeated, become normal and just another facet of a complicated lifestyle. After years had passed so ... well. Quietly, at least in ONE single, sole aspect of Miles' life, Aral had become to optimistically hope - and then assume - that Miles and Gregor wouldn't be showing any signs until the ages that they had first found that strange alternate dimension... It left a nice, respectable 20s for either Miles or Gregor, easily ages that they could understand and deal with what was happening.

As the groundcar pulled into the Imperial Residence (things were better with Piotr, the old man had offered to ... forget, in his own backwards way, that he'd thrown his son out, stripped his revenue and all but his name. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't even to where it could be, but better. Aral decided for now that the Residence would be fine, much to Simon's great relief.) his mind had already turned to the needs of the small group of decorated men waiting by the entrance, flimies and clipboards at hand.

The words "worn out" may drift by Miles on their way to Cordelia (a spark of something- concern, fondness among the murmurs, warm then weary) before Aral straightens his uniform, puts on a stony face and pushes the car door out, striding with intent and purpose.

He might hear Cordelia sigh.. but certainly feels Bothari's enormous, gentle hands gather him up from the back of the groundcar. That axlike face watching his, dark eyes looking for injury or fever.]

Miles & Tex

[dendarii]

[ Before all that telepathy mess - perhaps a month or so - Miles is is running around the Residence with his usual anarchic fervor. A day with no lessons and no homework is just a bit dangerous for someone as frail as he is, and yet sending a bodyguard to tail him as closely as he probably needs is a lost cause. Better to propose that Miles play with one of them. Miles has picked Tex for today, and is intent on leading her all over the place.

Starting with this lovely, antique staircase in the Residence. Miles stands at the top of it, looking out over the room below with his wide gray eyes. They're bright with an impending bad idea... ]

How fast are you? Really.

Aral, Tex (Cordelia? Bothari?)

[use_everything]

[It was months after that first day. Enough for Aral to get back some of his equilibrium and his pace. The footing in politics was tenuous at best, and the early warnings of the Cetagandan ships beginning to muster by the Hegen Hub was more than a deadly distraction on several fronts.

The increase of tensions, the breakdown of negotions and a few attempts on his life is perhaps why when Tex appears suddenly in the Residence, no entry, no record, as if she'd merely been there all along, unnoticed, causes a great outcry. There's a great deal of shouting after one tech picks up the blip on vid feed, confirms with audio and a man on the ground...

For Tex, the hallway outside of her room begins to fill with a rather familiar cut of uniform, if different colors.]

[failureisntachoice]

[ Well. This isn't how she expected her afterlife to go. Her after-afterlife. Whatever. The amount of places she's wound up without much warning have been pretty damn high over the last year or so.

She's armored and armed, a fact that she's grateful for when she hears the marching of boots. Wherever she's at, she's certain she's not about to receive a friendly greeting and handshake. She's outnumbered by a great deal if her radar can be trusted and it's in a split second decision that she decides not to draw her rifle out. Great. She might have to try talking her way out of this.

She presses her weight against the door while scanning for other entry points. There's only so much she can do. ]

Did I interrupt something?

Miles and Aral, Post Vor Game

[use_everything]

[Ironically, it happens on the first wormhole jump back. Gregor was still holed up with advisors, counselors, representatives and speechwriters, getting his feet under him in a way he'd never had before. Aral had similarly vanished, practically pushed out of the tac room by Lieutenant Jole the moment the last Cetagandan War ship had been allowed to be towed back by their forces. He'd overseen the strategic negotiations, watched Gregor at work and then was forced to take his leave by worried staff who'd seen him here.

The pre-jump klaxon was newer, shriller than the old Barrayaran models. The Prince Serg had everything just a little more up to date, a little more slick and polished than anything else. There was that sick drop, the feeling of being stretched... and Miles' world changed.]

[dendarii]

[ Wormhole accidents, is the first coherent thought Miles manages upon his return. Bothari had said it to him such a long time ago, and he hadn't really understood - but now he does. With utter, complete clarity. He remembers everything...

It takes all his willpower to hold his links firmly closed for a moment. Physically, he leans hard against the bulkhead and gasps for air. Gregor - his father - he wants to talk to both of them so very desperately right now. Aral wins by default, if only because he knows that Gregor is tied up at the moment. And Miles' distraction would be very thorough if he interrupted. No, Aral first.

Limbs trembling a little, he makes his way down to his father's quarters. (Jole is emerging from Aral's room with an empty tray - Miles stares hard at him for a moment, a secondhand memory bubbling up for a moment - and then the moment is past.) Another moment to bolster himself before touching a finger to the doorchime. ]

Da? It's me.

[ And I know you, he thinks from behind his carefully warded link. I really know you this time... ]

Kitty Jones

[rathercommon]

[rathercommon]

[ A few weeks after their return, when things have started to settle down, there's the strangest occurrence in the Council of Counts. A bird comes and perches on a high lamp, too high for anyone to be able to shoo it down. And what's very strange about this is that it's a bird which does not, or should not, exist on Barrayar. The tiny, delicate hummingbird is not a creature that was ever introduced to the planet, and yet there one is, sitting high up in the Council chamber, too little to stun, too quick to catch.

And it is shamelessly disrupting a Council Session, with some of the Counts trying to carry on and ignore the creature while the more curious of them are far more interested in the bird than in tariffs levied on Polian heavy-industry imports. ]

Mark

[use_everything]

The months of planning on Earth were far less hard than the years of waiting. And even that paled against the fortification currently necessary to walk down the stairs to ImpSec's oft dreaded basement. He'd slowly been renovating it, removing first and foremost the grotesque signs of Yuri.. and occasionally, Ezar's reigns. The walls were repainted, astringent and sawdust was in the air in equal measures. But it kept its bones... it was cold, deep and ached of political disappearance.

The new cells weren't complete, and he wasn't going to risk anything less than perfect on this. His quarry was far, far too clever.

The plan had gone perfectly. Whatever changes had happened by the sheer weight of foreknowledge, it hadn't affected any of Ser Galen's movements. He was right where Mark said, time and place, down to the second. Down to the inch. The trap closed neatly, taking more than 2/3rds of the terrorist cell in one snatch. Data, men, plans. So much incriminating evidence that they'd have more trouble proving it wasn't a plant. It cleanly cut any chance of inquiries of misuse of power and funds with such an enormous, perfect ImpSec operation.

He wasn't going to visit the Komarran. The man would die without ever seeing his hated enemy's face in person, as much as Aral would dearly like to finish the execution himself. The closest he would ever be was this moment now, as he walked by the insurgent's cell.

He nodded to the guard at the end of the corridor. Two Imperial Guards and two of his own liveried men fanned out behind him as he was keyed in.

"Any commotion?" Aral asked the man on duty. The young ensign jerks upright, gaze twitching between the video monitor and the highly decorated men in front of him.

"No. He's quiet. Sir! Hasn't moved much at all."

"Ah." Aral nods, slightly to his guards. They tense, the lead two pulling stunners. "Put me through."

"Sir?"

"You heard correctly, Ensign."

"Sir." Audible from inside "Miles" cell, the lock clanks back.

[jacksonian]

And at once, a hand grabs onto Aral's and yanks him inside, hard.

He'd prepared himself the moment he'd heard that lock click. He'd known it would be someone coming to see him out of curiosity. He's been in the cell long enough to know that he's not going to be interrogated for information - someone else must have talked, the same mole who had sold them out, surely...So it's not going to be an ImpSec tech or torturer coming through that door. It's going to be a target. Someone with the clearance to deal with him. A Simon Illyan, or a -

Butcher.

His grab-and-yank isn't the ideal grapple-and-throw it should have been. If he were perfect, doing this perfectly, he'd have tossed him into the bed at an angle that it would have broken his skull. They'll kill him all the more painfully if he kills the Butcher - that's obvious. But he has to try, right? He has to try to complete Galen's revenge. Even if he doesn't have any chance of freeing Komarr, he still has to try to kill the Butcher...

Why? Why? Why, when he sees the figure of that monster before him - why does he feel something weird in place of hatred and terror? He's a monster, a killer, a torturer, a pervert, he should die - but as he watches the Butcher stumble, he feels weirdly breathless in a way that isn't fear. And he remembers the dreams he's had, the strange dreams, the lying dreams, where the Butcher sits across from him and speaks to him with gruff warmth, like a father...

He kicks the door outwards in a smooth motion. It smacks into both the guards with their stunners, giving him a few precious seconds. And then he looks to the form of Vorkosigan, and thinks about the angle at which to jump to have the right height to snap his neck. One shot, he has only a split second to do it, go now -

And he stays motionless. He doesn't. He can't. The split second passes, and then the guards recover, and come in with guns aimed at him (stunners? nerve disrupters? stunners, he's not lucky enough for the latter), grabbing him. And he stares at the Butcher with a look of betrayal. Because - Because - how? How did that man make him unable to act...?

[bothari]

[It's a crisp autumn evening. The first tendrils of a particularly bitter winter creeping in from the south sapped the color from the trees, green and red alike.

Sergeant Bothari had been sitting on a hill with the highest vantage near the Residence. He could see the ImpSec Men and Imperial Guard shuffle back and forth on the periphreals, but they were too far for him to care more than his usual black disdain for their polished boots and slicked hair.

At a cue only he seemed to catch, he stood up, pulls a talon-scarred, heavy leather glove from his belt and slips it on, adjusting the cuff at his elbow. He gives a sharp, piercing whistle and raises his protected arm.]

[dendarii]

[ There's a rustle in the trees below. Moments later, an absolutely tiny brown and silver falcon comes fluttering out of the foliage and beelines for Bothari's glove. He's rather clumsy at it still, wings flapping too hard and turning too sharply into the wind. But approaches quickly, soaring up into the air before diving down for Bothari's glove. A little too quickly. He doesn't so much as land on Bothari's hand as collide with it bodily.

I got it, I got it, hang on -- Miles practically chirrups over the link as he fumbles to latch on. ]

[bothari]

[Today, it had been a two person job. Miles had managed to break into the stables, into the kitchen, out of his room, into one of the guards' rooms, found an old powder keg and STILL managed to pour ink all over Lord Vorkosigan's paperwork. Somehow, it was more like herding an army of hummingbirds on speed than it was one fragile little preteen.

As the night went long, Miles' protests about the cruelty of bedtimes gave way to the restless silence of sleep. Bothari left the room with more silence than a man his size had any right to muster. The door closed without the faintest of sounds.

He nods to Tex.]

He's out. Finally.

[failureisntachoice]

[ It's a damn good thing she isn't human because if she were, she would be more than ready to go to bed herself. No wonder Aral had requested she help Bothari watch over the kid.

When the man comes out of the bedroom, she breathes a sigh of relief and motions with a tilt of her head for him to follow her. To the kitchens because she knows exactly what she needs right now and isn't going to risk talking too closely to Miles' door. ]

Let's hope he stays that way. I'm getting a drink.

Miles-- Post VG

[vorbarra]

[ Saying Gregor is busy with politics isn't the least of it. It's much more complicated for him now, managing to wrangle his job with telepathy on top of that, but it's easier in some respects. He can be sure of people at least, and he can't be duped, but it is particularly wearing. It's simpler to throw himself into the mad-dash chaos of after his disappearance rather than struggle to sort through the assortment of memories invading him.

Eventually he does come to a sort of equilibrium with them, a bit more deftly than he would have if not for a decade and change of dealing with his powers (the oath-binding is particularly tricky, given the circumstances). But one matter doesn't resolve. He hasn't seen Miles again yet. They're scheduled for a lunch in the gardens that Gregor had managed to weasel in a fit of grim-eyed determination to get this over with, but he's regretted and fluttered over that ten times since scheduling it. It would be all too easy for him to say something had come up, he couldn't make it...

There's no guarantee Miles remembers everything as well. Worse, there's no guarantee that if he does he'll still be interested in taking on this snake's nest. Hell, Gregor isn't even sure he's interested in doing it. He'd just started to work himself up to facing the monolith of Barrayaran disapproval, and that from a safe distance. It feels like a lifetime ago because it was a lifetime ago. It's very different from his up-close-and-personal vantage point now.

But, more than that, he's a besotted fool who knows that if for whatever reason he's left pining, it's not something that will go away easily or quickly. As soon get used to a stone he'd accidentally swallowed lodged in his gullet. Distinctly unpleasant, impossible to forget, necessary to live with. He won't say a whisper if Miles has forgotten forever and he won't mention it again either if he intimates that they should stay their separate ways. Hell, he knows Miles meets someone as Naismith in the future-- he knows he himself meets his wife eventually and that it hadn't been arranged. How selfish could he be to disrupt all that?

He manages to make it to the luncheon without canceling mostly by virtue of the fact that he's thoroughly lost track of his schedule by then. He has secretaries (plural) for that. They remind of his schedule each morning, and today Gregor swallows tightly, reminds himself it's no slight against him if Miles either doesn't remember or doesn't want to contend with the Imperium (it is, god, it is-- the Imperium is him and he hates that but he can't escape it, recent events have proven that thoroughly), braces himself and looks worn but collected as he walks unaccompanied to their set table.

Ostensibly this meeting is to debrief over matters at the Hegen Hub. He hasn't sorted through and picked out his link to Miles specifically, but it seems to illuminate itself in suggestion the closer he gets to him and the urge is a tight thrumming insistence under his skin ever since they came back. Containing himself has been difficult. No. He needs to ask him first. He won't just-- presume like that. They'd been close that way as children but that's not at all the same, and they'd gotten used to distance over the past several years.

If Gregor never feels Miles in his head again, that's Miles's right to make that choice. But God is he sick of wondering. At least after this he'll be able to either settle in to be miserable, or... not. What'll happen if none of his fears are founded he hasn't even begun to approach, for it's the more frightening option, to be given what you want and then have to live with it.

He offers a wan smile as he seats himself, still dressed a bit formally from his morning appointments. ] Sorry I don't have more than an hour and a half to squeeze in for you. It's been a madhouse.

[ Carefully-- carefully. He's fine, just tired, his whole bearing suggests. Just because his loneliness has taken on an exquisitely fine-edged acuity over the past couple weeks, in the midst of all his responsibilities, looming twice as heavily as before given his newfound desire to take them on himself without delegation... ]

[dendarii]

[ Miles hasn't breathed a word to Gregor since the Hegen Hub. Part of that is sheer lack of time - Gregor had been beyond busy, and Miles wrapped up in the imminent "diplomatic mission" to Komarr - and part of that is sheer trepidation. How the hell is he supposed to even bring this up? Walk up to Gregor and ask if he remembers being in love with Miles? It all seems laughable back in their world, no matter how bright the memories burn in his mind. After all there's no guarantee that Gregor wants to continue even if he does remember. Miles wouldn't blame him. It's one thing latching onto the twisted son of your regent when stranded on an alien world. Familiarity could surely make up at least half of that sentiment. Back on Barrayar, he has his pick of anyone he likes. Male, female, and all other combinations (or lack) thereof...

So he's a bit tense when he comes in the door himself. Not tired, not the way Gregor is tired. Miles is a live wire when he has something to do. And no matter what, the prospect of helping his father rescue Mark is a worthy distraction. One he'd been throwing himself at especially hard right up until the garden invitation had come. He'd very nearly tried to cancel it himself. God knows what's going to come of it. But ... damn it, he loves Gregor. That part hasn't changed one bit, despite his uncertainties. And the part of him that loves Gregor desperately is the same one that won't let him back out of this no matter what comes of it. He's going to be whatever Gregor needs him to be. End of story.

(It's easier said than done. Easier to think that than focus on the throb that starts up when he picture never getting to kiss Gregor again...)

He grins back at Gregor to hide the prickle of nervousness. And flops into the chair bodily, the very picture of casualness. He's totally just having a casual lunch with his old friend the Emperor. Whom he's shared a unique secret with all his life. ]

I'm surprised you managed that much. Between your schedule and mine ... [ He says, thinking again of the upcoming trip to Komarr. ]

How's the crowd today?

[ In other words: how bad of a telepathic headache does he have after coming back from Hegen Hub? ]

Mark, age 14, after the whole "attempted assassination" thing

[jacksonian]

[ Mark tries to assassinate Miles and Aral Vorkosigan, and ends up being brought into their home.

It's weird. To say the least.

There's paperwork, guarantees. New security. Of course. Illyan wouldn't let there be anything less than that. But even so, Mark is brought home - wide-eyed and pale and clearly overwhelmed, unable to work up even a bit of bravado or hostility. He comes in behind Aral, and stands awkwardly in the foyer of Vorkosigan House, looking like he wants to bolt, or like he's afraid the floor will drop out under him and send him plummeting into a pit of vipers at any moment. But it doesn't.

Can he really live in this place? Will they really be all right with that? Surely someone will come to their senses soon... ]

[dendarii]

[ Miles is practically vibrating off the walls by now. Has been, in fact, ever since that "diplomatic mission" to Komarr concluded and he'd been left to wait. Which - okay, from what he remembers of Mark, that's probably the best thing he can do right now. Still. He's ready to burst by the time his father finally, finally return with Mark in tow.

God. He looks so young. And too thin for his own good. Miles barely manages to keep himself from going straight to Mark - he'd probably just scare the poor guy - and stops in the foyer a good ten feet from the two of them. Still practically hovering. ]

You're here. [ Said a little breathlessly, directed at both of them but mostly at Mark. ] I - are you alright?

[ Don't call him Mark yet, he reminds himself. He has to support and accept whatever his brother decides to do. ]