barrayar | Post MoM AU, general post

"What?" The hardness goes out of him; confusion comes in. That...That, he did not guess. (Though somewhere, deep in his mind, it just makes sense. With what he feels about her, it seems logical. Why does he feel anything about her at all?)

"Why? To - assess whether I'm a threat?"

"Ha!" The bark is actually surprised out of him. There's a certain dry humor following that.

"I believe that was delegated to me. No... perhaps your sources were weak on her. She does keep herself out of the spotlight." He rubs his chin, scratching at a scar absently. "No. She's Betan, you understand."

"So what?" He shrinks back a little, trying to hide nervous uncertainty under incredulous contempt. Meet me...why...She was Betan; he know that. It meant that she was a pervert who was willing to overlook Vorkosigan's perversions - that's what he was told. Though...only a few months out of the clone-creche, he's hard-pressed to understand exactly what perversion means. There's a lot he doesn't...really understand.

Uncomfortably, he admits, "I've never met Betans. I don't know what they're like."

"There's a number of adjectives, depending on who one asks and how deeply her brash nature has caused consternation." His voice is nothing but warm as he says it, though. A warmth that seeps back out as he becomes serious again. "Most specifically, Beta Colony has a deep set of laws and beliefs regarding cloning. Specifically, being half my genetic material and half hers, there was never a question as to whether you were our child or not, in her mind."

He considers him. "I don't need you to accept. I wont hold that as any sort of condition. What I want is for you simply to meet her."

Child? His eyes fix on Vorkosigan's, and go wide. Child? It - He feels dizzy with shock, and somehow also dizzy with inevitability. He knew, somehow, somehow, that it would get to this point. Child. He tries to tell himself that what Vorkosigan is referring to - What the Butcher is referring to is pure confusion, nothing more than that. There was never a question because she looked at you and got confused. Right? He can't possibly be saying -

"You - " His mouth is dry; he licks his lips. "She - has it in her head that I'm...?" Her son? A son? Not Miles. Another son... He crosses his arms across himself, a defensive gesture, and he huddles down. He doesn't blink. Tries to force a laugh into his voice. "That must be awkward for you."

Agree with me. Please agree with me. Yes, it's terrible, that my insane wife thinks this insane thing. You have to say that. You have to...

He folds his arms, expression completely serious. "Politically complicated, yes. Precarious socially? To a degree. A security nightmare? Beyond ImpSec's worst days. But awkward? No." There was no joke, no rise in tone. He merely watched.

Meaning - he agrees with her. Meaning he agrees with her. Mark's eyes remain fixed, unblinking, on that stern face, the face that looks so much like his own in the mirror. That looks so much like his own on the holovids he has to study and imitate. Is he joking? Is this some deadpan joke? No. He doesn't know enough about Aral Vorkosigan - he'd been sent out on that mission undereducated, underprepared, Galen made too eager by too ripe an opportunity, obviously a trap from the very first, why didn't they see that - thank God they didn't see that - but Aral Vorkosigan doesn't joke like that. Black, dire irony is Vorkosigan's humor of choice. Not pranks.

A confused, desperate laugh bubbles up from his throat and gets released into the air. It's followed in the next moment by a sudden, shocking swell of tears, filling his eyes; that finally prompts him to turn his head away, squeezing his eyes shut to try to hide them. Shit. Shit.

I'm no one's son. I don't have a family. I'm just a clone, damn it. My mother was a uterine replicator, not the Butcher's wife. My father was that massacre itself, the hatred it created, which echoed down to make me. I'm not a human, I'm a little monster, a deformed gnome, why would anyone want to claim me...

"She wouldn't - " His voice is shaking. He clears his throat, tries again. "She wouldn't be all soppy or anything, right?" He tries to sound tough and confident, contemptuous of women's weakness, maternal feeling. He does a piss-poor job of it. "I don't want her to end up crying at me or something."

The laugh had him think he'd lost it all, honestly. Being forthright had been its own risk, and one he decided to take, simply reviling all of the alternatives. He was no fine judge of character when it came to the emotions of men, or even his motives. There were moments where he could see the consequences spinning out. The dry, clinical ones, the chances of insurrection following the release of a very dangerous individual. The political backlash he would get for having done such a foolish move. To simply never capture would have been one thing, but to capture and release was something he could be easily brought to task for. Gregor couldn't merely dismiss those concerns and retain his even handed appearance. Not easily.

... And the more simple, less intelligible one. It had no words, no consequences, no fallout, political or economic.

It was a simple, leaden ache of loss.

The pools of tears that welled up in the boy's eyes washed away everything.

He was aware it could be a show. Mark was built... designed, and likely trained for this one very weakness. But he couldn't deny this one thing, no matter how much his life could depend on it. There was little strategic gain, at this point, and he rationalized it there.

"I can let her know you've an aversion," he promised, voice a little less level than it had been.

Cordelia would certainly know for certain in an instant.

He's quiet a moment, still looking away. His fists clench and unclench. He imagines...He imagines Cordelia, standing there, tall and red-haired, staring at him. He imagines her reaching out and taking him by the hand, leading him into the house. Mark, Aral said? That's what you call yourself? A cup of coffee before him, or tea, a few cookies on a plate. Her asking about him, listening solemnly but compassionately as he speaks. In his imagining, he has something to say, too, even though in reality there's nothing to talk about when it comes to him. He's uninteresting. But she'd sit and listen, and tell him things, too. Her life with Aral. Her love for Miles. Herself. And he'd be given a room, and he'd sleep there as long as he likes - sleeping late the next day, not waking up till late, eating his fill in the kitchen - and they'd talk more, and he'd talk with Aral, too. It'd be like that, every day idle. He'd be able to read, do nothing but classroom sims, and the ones he likes - he'd get to choose. Do anything he likes. They'd smile at him, and say he's smart, and say they love him.

It's bullshit, of course. Clones don't get family. And even if they did, he can never stay idle. He has to go and rescue them. He can't have that, won't have that...

Right?

"And I'll do that and then I'll get to go to Jackson's Whole. To save them. Right?" He risks dragging a sleeve across his eyes, wiping away the stupid soppy tears that had collected there.

"Correct." He folds his hands, looking at Mark over his knuckles. This is easier ground, stable. He knew the steps here, didn't feel quite so dizzied and uncertain. "Some of the infrastructure for a covert operation is in place, but most is not. There will be some maneuvering to make sure it can be done properly and safely. I don't relish sending you in unprepared, or making a shallow cut when we can inflict a more mortal wound."

He nods, shallowly, staring down at his hands. Then, abruptly, quietly, he says, "I don't care if I die there. If it has to be that sort of mission, that's okay." Just as added incentive, maybe. Or if Vorkosigan was thinking of sending him in to die, then this would be some assurance - he'll do the job, and then do what he's supposed to.

He swallows, then continues, his voice quiet and miserable and plaintive and completely unguarded, "Someone just...needs to help them. They're...my friends. I'll do whatever it takes. Even if it only means saving one of them, I'll give anything. I'll even give my life."

"No." It's simple, harsh. Somehow that low, near-whisper cut through the air with more force than a bellow could have. "Suicide missions are the necessity of terrorists, and none other. There are no heroics in death. You are not expendable." He looks Mark directly in the eyes, jaw set. "And you are not to conduct your mission in that manner."

He meets Vorkosigan's eyes. He can't not. That intensity transfixes him. He's...not lying, is he? He's being honest. He really means it. He really thinks that the clone matters...Not that Mark has ever been able to tell truth from lies. How long did it take him before he understood what was happening back at the clone-creche, after all? But those lies fed to him by the Bharaputra goons were always discreet, polished, practiced. Is it even possible to lie when you're crackling with that much emotion?

You are not expendable. Galen had said that to him, too. Sort of. You'll be a hero. You'll free our planet from tyranny. But that had been saying that...Mark had value because that there was a mission only he could do. Because of the way he'd been designed. A valued weapon, enormous in price, not wholly human. This is different. It's different -

He swallows.

"Yes, sir." His own voice is scarcely above a whisper. His eyes drop. He wants to scream. He wants to claw his own face off. He wants Lord Vorkosigan to pat him on the head and tell him he did well. An hour ago, he was thinking about how to kill this man...There's a wash of shame at how easily he's been suborned, but that barely even registers against the gratitude he feels towards this man who wants clones to live. All clones.

"You, um - " He runs his hand over his scalp in confusion and uncertainty. "Is it...allowed to...walk out of here, then?"

It pushed up the timetable. It required the trust that he wasn't going to go back and free Ser Galen before his sentencing.

So be it. He'd order heightened security. Frankly, Simon would have it placed before they even left the cell, but it would be good to back up his man's actions.

"I'll see to it." A hesitation, an awkward pause stretches as he cobbles together these words. "You... are welcome to stay at the Vorkosigan House." And then, "Though other accommodations can be arranged."

Mark draws back from that offer, less horrified or repulsed by the offer than simply confused. "I'm - " Welcome to stay at the Vorkosigan House?

"Count Vorkosigan - " The title is a little strange in his mouth. He's always just been the Butcher to Galen. But: so be it. If he's leaving Galen behind, he's abandoning those slurs, too, right? (And he pushes down the little swell of nausea at leaving Galen behind. Didn't Galen abandon the clones to their fates? Didn't he send in Mark, too, half-informed, mostly ignorant, to very likely die? It's not disloyalty if it's to a traitor. Right?)

"You do know that I was supposed to kill you, don't you?" Why are you telling him this... "You...want me under your roof? Where you sleep? And your...son, as well?" Your elder son. Because if that's how you think of me, then Vorkosigan House would be my family home... Ridiculous. Absurd.

"If I supposed you'd still carry it out, I wouldn't. But your last reasonable window went when you stopped the follow through on that throw. You could kill me," he allows, conversationally. "Miles would be difficult in other ways, but you'd have advantages of strength and speed there. Cordelia would be your end, though it would break her heart. If you've only a desire for death, or for revenge, it could be practical.

"But I don't think your death is something you wish for either."

He leans back. "Thus, it's an option. Not your only, but one available to you. Mind you, Miles may make you consider killing him." He quirks a dry smile here. "He has that effect at times. I would ask restraint."

"But - "

He finds himself flushing, just a little bit, out of sheer confusion. But I could still kill you, he wants to protest, you'd still be dead, and where will your trust have gotten you then -

But that's the point, isn't it? Count Vorkosigan is offering trust because he is offering trust. Because he does trust. Because he genuinely believes Mark won't hurt him or his family. It's a trick, he tries to convince himself, it must be a trick, somehow, some method of suborning him...But Vorkosigan wouldn't play with the safety of his son, the safety of his wife. He really expects that Mark won't hurt him.

And...I won't. He realizes that right then and there. He won't be able to hurt them. If Bothari were gone from this room, if Aral Vorkosigan pressed his throat into Mark's hands, Mark wouldn't be able to choke the breath from him. Because that would mean killing his clones, too. Because that would mean killing himself.

Because that would mean killing this man who trusts him. Who's looking at him with compassion and kindness. This man whom he was told was a monster, but who is anything but that.

He looks down, suddenly shy. "I know. I've read Miles' psych profiles." And then, after a hesitation, he says, "I guess that it would be...convenient. For mission-planning purposes."

"Quite so." The tone is warm... the same warm he's used talking about his family just moments ago. "Shall we go home, then?"

Not directly, there'd be paperwork, several chains of command to calm down, contingencies to arrange... and two Betans back home nearly out of their mind with worry to contact. But soon.

His eyes dart towards the door, and then towards Aral. Then back to the door, and then back to him. A sudden shiver of panic runs through him. Vorkosigan has the power to unlock and open that door. No - he has the power to let Mark unlock that door. He...doesn't know what to do with unlocked doors. He's never been able to open a door at will. Even the door to his small bedroom on Earth was locked or unlocked according to the will of his handlers, not his own. Once he's walked out of that door -

I can decide everything. His chest tightens with faint alarm. How? How can he...?

"Yeah," he said, his voice going faint, his breath quickening just a bit. It's okay. Calm down. "That'd be good. It's - damp down here." He winces at how inane that sounds, but at least it's a reason.

Vorkosigan nods and stands. He holds a hand up for a moment, a simple signal of one finger, then three. There were more subtle codes, a blanket stun of the room for one. Thankfully none of them had been needed. After a moment, the lock thunks back, the heavy bolts in the door retracting.

"Sergeant, please go ahead and make sure the gentlemen outside have holstered their weapons." He hardly wanted to be caught in an excess burst of loyalty. Bothari hesitates, staring at Aral for a moment, some silent conversation taking place between the two men. Eventually, the hatchet faced man scowls, takes a longer look at Mark and then tromps through the door. Bothari's voice was too low to hear the words, but he knew the conversation, the tempo of protests, the time to check on a monitor to make sure some hostage situation was not taking place... and a disarmament.

He nods to Mark, and without a second thought, walks through the door first.

This is it. Vorkosigan clears the door as Mark gets to his feet. He looks first back at the room, checking it for...something. For some sign that it's an illusion or a dream, he guesses. Then he looks back to the door. Go. This is it. You have to.

But a number of paranoid scenarios run through his head. Foremost: he'll exit that door, and on the other side will be Galen, standing and scowling, shock-stick in hand. You failed the test, Miles. It seems you're no use to us after all - But for all that it's the sort of thing he'd do, Galen simply doesn't have the resources to pull off something like this. Or the patience. He'd have come in the moment Mark started to waver...He'd have come in the moment Mark declared his name wasn't Miles. This is real or it's a dream. Or it's a cruel joke, in which case there'll be a nerve disruptor waiting for him on the other side anyway.

And really, there's no difference between dying heroically and dying in humiliation. You're dead either way.

So his knees almost give out a moment. He feels like vomiting. But in small unsteady steps, he follows to that door, behind Vorkosigan. He reaches the threshold. Extends his hand - there's no invisible barrier there, nothing to stop him. So another step. And he passes through, and when he does - there's no faking the looks of hard suspicion on the faces of the ImpSec guards. Nor on the faces of the armsmen. They hate this. They're afraid of him, afraid for Vorkosigan. And that, more than anything else, convinces Mark that this is real.

He shuffles silently along behind Vorkosigan. His eyes are wide with fear, unfeigned, unhidden, as he watches them for a sudden movement, a sign that one of them will pull a nerve disruptor or a needler or something to take care of him. But their obedience is absolute. He presses in close behind Vorkosigan, a small terrified pale shadow limping unsteadily behind him on uneven legs. Everything's so overwhelming, he doesn't even remember that Vorkosigan is the one he's supposed to fear.

Post MoM AU, general post

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