Miles' expression is grim. He'd hated the practice even before meeting Mark, but now that he has ... he's even more infuriated by it. Slavers and murderers all of them.
Though - he has to step in to defend his planet a little bit. He hadn't quite expected that reaction - nor how she moves towards him, good god. He has to swallow thickly, looking up at her with no small amount of pink dusting his cheeks. "Do not damn all the Vor Lords," he says hesitantly. "Just the one who commissioned me. The rest of Barrayar abhors the practice, by all accounts." He quiets after that, touched by her words. Hope, eh. He'll take that gladly. "I'll be more than just hope, if I have anything to say about it. We will finish this job successfully." Or die trying.
She watches him still, blinking owlishly as she does, that lightness to his fair face under her gaze. Strange. She knows how she speaks of those that had misused her, her people.
It wasn't kind. "Perhaps I have been fighting too long." young as she is, old as that makes her. "The man today, he would take the oldest who could not pay their taxes up against a wall and set starving dogs on them. When the fester in our desert heat became too much, he sent their widows to clean up the pieces. I let my rage blind me, its true, for every minute those widows wept at my floor for justice. I would have killed him, his men, every single person who served him, if you had not been present."
Those that made her, were as much the cruelty of the UIC as the love of her father, the steadiness of her husband. She did not have his apparently magnanimous nature it seemed, could think of no other way to say it more plainly. But to that she wondered.
"Do you love the Vor, even as they are?" because his words, his stories of them - she couldn't help but think of otherwise if not for the life he had told her.
A small flinch of guilt; he's still not certain he should have stepped in to save anyone. As she says, the whole lot of them likely deserved it. But. Dammit, he hates wasting life, even evil life. The commander and the casualties was enough. "Mercy is a heavy thing to grant," he says after a moment. "I find it best to provide when possible." Even when the cause is that just. God.
As for the Vor ... Another small wince. He should probably not speak of them in such loving terms, but. He just can't help it. "I admit to a certain fascination," he says with a soft sigh. "And I have met those who are not so bad as the stories make them out to be. The Vor lord's parents attempted to adopt me. As their second son."
"That is... Kind of them. To try and right the wrong done to you."
A quiet resolve, of course which doesn't bare mentioning, that if she finds the Vor Lord in question that had caused him such suffering she'd cut his tongue out.
But, a later concern.
"I admit, they're a story of hope to many of us. We heard of the General Vorkosigan, and how he fought off the Cetagandans. So much so that the UIC began to spread awful rumours that he walked with a stump leg, and had a hunch shoulder. That Vor Lords all kept their women in stables and gave their horses the beds instead." A shudder.
"We did not believe all of them, but I am glad to hear they are not all true. Perhaps I will consider the marriage alliance after all." Because the thought that even half of it might be true? Would be enough to put off anyone.
Um. Miles chokes hard on his wine when she mentions a marriage alliance.
Both dizzy with dreamy glee at the thought of being married to Lakshmi -
and horrified by the thought of her being forced into a marriage of
convenience with someone as deformed as he is. God. There’s no easy
resolution to that thought. Either he steers her away for her own good, or
he selfishly tries to set himself up. The first is heartbreaking; the
second, surely evil.
He coughs a little more before finding enough breath to speak. “Both are
quite wrong,” he says firmly. “That description belongs to Lord Vorkosigan,
as you can see by his clone,” he says, gesturing to himself. “And you may
find Vor women in stables, but only because they are thoroughly enjoying
themselves by preparing their steed for a ride.” So none of either of that
shit, good god. He. Hesitated a moment more. Piotr is such a conflicted
influence on him that he’s not even sure what to say of the man.
Best not to.
when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
"They ride?" !!!! He has her immediately sidetracked, quite easily so. Reaching for her wine and resuming her drinking. Though for the first time in hours it was cheerfully sipped, not the drowning of misery. "Do you ride as well?"
Wait - hang on. She catches up and this time, it's her turn to choke on the wine. Nearly dropping the cup as she coughed on it. "You're clone of the son of Lord Vorkosigan?"
Re: when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
Ah. Oops. He never did quite spell that out, did he? It would be better if
she did not know who his specific “progenitor” is... But perhaps it’s
better this way. The little Lord Vorkosigan cuts a unique figure after all.
“I have no horses here, nor anywhere to ride them,” he says with a real
twinge of longing. He misses the Vorkosigan stables deeply... “But the
Vorkosigans have massive stables, yes. They’re famous for being horse
lords.”
So - there. That’s all the help he can give himself. If she wants him for
his horses, then that seems a fair bargain. As for the other question,
well. He gives her an awkward little bow. “I am,” he says. “That is
something of a secret, though, so I would rather you keep it that way.”
She nods, utterly serious. He has her, after all. Hook, line and sinker. She would never dare betray him. Not now, especially not now - even if she ever would have.
"None will know of it. Not from my lips."
Lips that she purses, thinking. Breathing slowly but heavily for it - a lot. A lot all at once when she was already felt a strung out thread. Pressing - well, that was all dreadfully serious, wasn't it?
"It is... good that you have some notion of horses. We use them a great deal. I was worried... you, your men. When we go ground side. It is will be primarily how we move."
“Good. Thank you.” He believes it too, coming from her. It takes a weight
off his chest.
He breaks his own tension with another sip of wine, letting its warmth
slide over him. Not much more for him, alas; he’ll be asleep all too soon.
“I should be fine on a horse,” he says, waving a hand. “Genetic memory,
apparently.” Complete bullshit, more like, but he won’t be able to hide his
skill if he has to ride. Better she has an excuse ahead of time.
"Naturally." She laughs, more sedately, lighter. Letting her fingers press against her lips with it. Absent more than thought through.
"There is one matter though. You have assured me on all matters that come with the Vor, drinking, tradition, a woman and her knives." She says it very seriously, but there is mischief is in her eyes. "You still have not told me if there is dancing."
God. As if he weren’t already in love with her after watching her weave
through the enemy with her weapons. Watching her smiles like that, teasing
him... he might truly be lost already.
“Every time they drink, apparently,” he says, raising his glass. “Which is
often.”
And teasing him she is most happy to keep on doing, utterly oblivious to whatever else he might be thinking of. For the first time in weeks, she can be just herself. Her people are not watching them, nor his. That she can roll her eyes and swat at him in the air with a flick of her wrist.
"I struggle to call those circumstances fit for dancing, Admiral, no matter how you might protest."
And with no warning what so ever, she slides right off the side of the lounge onto the floor. Sat there and her hand lifts to crook her finger to beckon him down to join her. "You are going to subjected to it later on whether you like such things or not, so you best learn how we attend such things while no one was looking. My triumphant Admiral cannot be seen to embarrass himself at his own celebrations."
On the floor, apparently. Right now. Her eyes are bright, still, as she takes another sip of the wine, the glass was almost empty - that just wouldn't do. So instead she goes fishing for the bottle as she waits for him to join her on the floor. Pouring herself another glass - all interest in maintaining an air of position firmly gone for the moment.
Oh. That - takes him by surprise, for sure. He can't help but rest his own glass on the floor, rising to join her. So too rises the heat in his cheeks; he finds himself staring up at her with nothing short of awe, overwhelmed by how ferociously beautiful she is. God. The way she says my triumphant Admiral, as if he is some previous thing of hers ... He could listen to that forever, he thinks.
"I - am not so bad," he says, awkwardly. "But I am very short. Wouldn't you rather have a taller partner?"
But that gleam in his eye says he wants this so very badly. Lift him if you must, Lakshmi; he would love to dance.
She waves her fingers, shooing the notion off. It hardly mattered, and she is far more pleased that he is playing along. "As if something like that mattered to me, Admiral."
Instead - since she's here, being informal, for all the trust he had given her in telling her the truth of who he was, his past, what had happened to him, she repays it in turn, being herself without the trappings - she goes about clearing them some space on the floor. Twisting her body about to plant one bare foot against the lounge and giving it an almighty push out of the way. It goes with the shove and she settles back, smiling, trickling laughter in through her words. Though this time, she sits far more - decidedly. Her back goes straight, her chest lifts, her legs curl under her delicately so they lay in the say direction. Then she fishes for the material that was draped over her shoulder, bringing it up over her head, resting to drape around her, over her hair. Poised like she were a dancer as fine as the ones her husband once employed.
"But the performance will be for you. So it doesn't matter in any case." She's planning it, apparently. Already working through the motions of how it will be done in some fitfully daydream that winning will be as easy as that. It won't be, they both know that, but the doors are shut, her rebels drink with his crew and it is just them. So maybe, for a little while, as long as no one else knew, it might be forgiven. "We prize beauty, art, colour, all these things. Like you said, tradition." She smiles as she goes, reaching over to fill his glass up in turn.
"But some of it will be strange to you." Definitely, definitely still mischief in her gaze. Settling the bottle back down and sliding it back towards him. "We dance with our eyes, our limbs, each finger and our expression as all one movement, whether they are love songs, songs praising great battles or religious." Her body lowers with the movement, pointedly so, her eyes rising up under her lashes to look at him. Fixed on him exactly, smiling softly. Then rises herself up in one slow motion to demonstrate the control into the movement. "No doubt, for you, it will all be battle songs and love songs. They will touch your feet to bless you and then - "
Her head turns away, and sweeping palm up against her cheek, then peering back at him. Like a lover teasing her beloved her gaze, then drawing her fingers below her eyes as she looks at him. Trying her best to keep a straight face through it all. She knew she wasn't a particularly great dancer. But she enjoyed it, and that was enough. Besides, it only had to be enough for him to know when one of her ladies was flirting with him.
He's lost. He's so lost. The first moment she lifts that cloth over her head and begins to move, he can't help but watch every single movement like a man in the desert who's caught sight of a river. God. Just. All of her. Beautiful, wild, incredibly fierce - and flirting with him? He can't think it could possibly be flirting, could he? But she looks at him like a lover, he thinks, and all this talk of love and battle songs - it makes him utterly dizzy with the joy of it. Keep ahold of yourself, Vorkosigan, he reminds himself. When all this is done, she goes home to her people. And you will just be the odd Admiral who got her there.
A hero to her and her people, hopefully. But that is all he can hope for. He has to remember that, dammit, or he'll never make it back intact. There will be some piece of him left with her when they pat, lost in the gorgeous movements of her body ...
He takes another long sip of his own wine. His expression almost seems to glow in the dim light; he's drunk enough to be a little drunk, bringing rosiness to his cheeks as he watches her with nothing but awe. Maybe she's not a great dancer, but he surely can't tell the difference. She is beautiful. Too beautiful for him to dare besmirch.
"I would - take any dance from you, my lady," he says, his tones hushed. "Battle and love both."
How he looks at her - and it stills her. Like a statue in her movement, but mercifully hidden away in the movements of the dance. She's drunk, she knows that surely. Her fingers are numb, her mouth feels full, and her limbs sluggish. But that doesn't change how his look strikes her, how it soothes in her heart some impossible ache she had learned to call companion. I have been alone too long. He must have a half dozen men and women that fall at his feet, so maybe there wasn't anything to be read into it other than he is kind enough to make her feel beautiful. Perhaps he's just toying with her the same. But for all her lessons in grace, weapons, song, dance and reading and writing - she never had those in flirting, teasing, in knowing how to respond. There had only ever been her husband. He had as surely swept her off her feet and she never had eyes for anyone else but him.
But he was gone now, and she was left unsure for a moment, looking at her Admiral from behind her hands. With how he looks at her, and the sudden realisation that she likes how he looks at her. Not with the difference of a General to Ruler. But right now, she is herself, and he...
Lakshmi swallows. "Love then. I have had enough of battle, for today."
( When had she started thinking of him as hers? )
Her word sticks a moment, rapidly blinking the realisation out of her gaze as she body turns into the next gesture. "She - " I, and she realises, she isn't quite sure if she's playing anymore. " - will invite you to look." It sweeps down herself - unsure, but practised, her eyes lowering, her fingers splaying wide - alapadma, a flower opening - as they fan out and around her chest, above her heart. Then curve back around her stomach, pinching her waist in with the movement, her head rolling back as her legs move. Suddenly, sweeping the other way in the flurry of skirts. The chime of her anklet that was suddenly the loudest sound in the room above her own breathing. To lean forward, far more directly into his space this time.
Her hand hovers, letting him see as she moves near to him. "She will push you, just the once." A demonstration, a playful swat against his shoulder. " -- and then you catch her by the wrist, and tug her in." Her mouth closes with the gesture of her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Tipping her head just the once, go on then.
Tricky to keep down the fit of nervous giggles. Alone much, much too long. Maybe she ought to have taken up Jhalkari's offer years ago.
He follows her instructions in a dreamy trance. Looking as she invites him, watching the way her fingers splay against her chest (and wondering, with twinge of guilt, how they might look against her with skin bare, leaning over him--) And then around again, skirts whirling, anklet chiming. The moment she comes into his space he's paralyzed, staring up at her, his gray eyes fond and longing and -
Get ahold of yourself, Admiral, he admonishes himself. She is not yours and never will be. And what a cruel concept that would seem to her, probably. Being someone else's. Miles longs so desperately to be someone else's that he hurts but - he can't expect it of anyone else. And he can't expect anyone to desire it of him.
But god does he want it in this moment. Especially when she pauses at the end, gesturing for him to grab her. He gives her a questioning look - really, are you sure? - before he gently reaches forward, taking her hands. Pulling her down to him. And then - holding there, cheeks flushed, staring up at her.
"It's a lovely dance," he murmurs. "I'm very fond."
She goes with his pull, her hand bracing on the floor as she slid forward, down - into him. He had such very lovely eyes. A sky of clouds, all promising rain. Which is a perfectly ridiculous thought. But it is the one she has, so close to him. Her eyes flicking between his.
Her tongue wets her lips. She must be sensible. She must be kind. To him, to herself. "I am glad you like it." She must be selfish, greedy, snatching for balms to her own loneliness, the aches she had never tended simply because he is kind enough to indulge her own silliness. "You will have much of it, I am quite sure. Many men and women would - far better than a lonely widow who is quite drunk."
A forgivable offence, she hopes. He has indulged her so kindly, so far, because she is yet to pull away. A little further and she would be laying across him. Nothing about this is seemly, decent outside of this room. "I fear I make a fool out of myself." Her wrist is still in his hand.
Many men and women, eh? He's far less certain than her right now, it seems. But - he dares not take advantage of this lonely, drunk widow, as she calls herself. Surely doing so would be beyond low, beyond awful to do to someone he has already grown to cherish.
But - god, he can't help but long for her to lean a little closer, to settle down into his lap. Already his body betrays him, damn it all. He shifts slightly. Not letting go, but neither does he pull her in closer. Not yet. "I - daresay these other men and women would not do nearly so well as you." He permits himself one small gesture: to reach up to her cheek, resting his tiny, delicate fingers along the curve of her jaw.
Her head turns with it, her eyes closed - for that moment it hurts so utterly. No one has touched her, she has not let them, for years and years and years. A denial of herself because what is her body but something to be burned? It goes down, her spine like hot oil from a temple lamp, pooling low before she turns up and into it. Soothed and wounded all at once from so slight a thing from him.
Clouds, the monsoon, that he promised her. That he keeps promising her - it terrifies her utterly. He terrifies her. This terrifies her. She has given him so much of herself, some of it he knew, much of it, he didn't. They were bound now. To the end of this war, and maybe no further. But to that end -
A turn until her mouth brushes against the edge of his touch. Until her lips, and they part against his light movement on her skin and she bites the tip of his finger. Blunt, not hard, a soft ache of skin against skin. But purposeful, decided, when her eyes open that barely kept back thing is obvious, fills up her whole being. A hunger that sat flat behind her gaze. touch her again, please. She wants it so much she thinks she'll burn up the ground below them. "Are we still play, my Admiral? Or are you playing with me?"
Miles can't help but watch every small movement of hers, especially when she appears to turn away slightly before letting him place his fingers along her face. This ... is getting too serious, isn't it? He ought to stop, maybe, and not put her into this position in the first place.
But even that slight contact sends electricity down his spine as well. Especially when she turns, lips brushing up against his fingertips, nips just slightly at the tip of one - oh, god, he wants. He wants so badly that he aches, that he'd promise anything. Do anything. Anything that she might possibly ask of him. Which is so desperately dangerous that even he hesitates, but - she has started in him a fire that refuses to die back down once lit.
"No," he says, swallowing thickly. Looking up at her with those fierce gray eyes of his, softened by fondness. Affection. Love, perhaps? Yes, it's love, if only the sort that burns bright at the beginning of an adventure like this. "I am not playing. Not at all." A pause; a bit of a crooked smile. "God, I think I've been in love with you since you gutted that soldier who was about to kill me."
She blinks, at once taken by the words, so much more than she expected. Parting in a suck in of breath that takes her as suddenly as he says it. "You... " He, what, Lakshmi? She so desperately doesn't want him to stop touching her. For him to stop looking at her like that. She didn't think she could imagine him any other way, than how he looked now. Wants to take it in both her hands and put it to a painting that even when she must lose him, she could keep this.
"... You have had me, since the day we met." You will always have me. But it wasn't because of a misunderstood ceremony, the exchange he didn't know about. He had never turned away from her. Not shying from what she had asked. He brave, more profoundly brave than any man she had ever commanded. "My Admiral, my hope." Her hand rises to exchange her touch with his. To sweep down his face. Her strange little admiral, sharp, quick and clever. "I could never let anyone touch you. You are the first thought I might have a life beyond all this death. I never thought to have that again. Even if you must leave, after all is done. I would protect you with my life, until then." She let her hand hover, where it slips from his cheek.
Ah. That is a very gentle rejection, he thinks. To state that he has her, that she will protect him, that he is her hope - it's all tied to the role he is playing for her, for the service he is providing. And why not? That is what they started this relationship as. He's the one getting messy, taking advantage, trying to steer this elsewhere ... and he is not his seventeen-year-old self who might have sailed on anyway, determined to manipulate by guile what he can't gain by genuine affection.
He shivers as her hands find his face, shivering more as they drop. In return, he lifts one hand to hers, bracing it there. He closes those bright gray eyes of his. "Then I am glad," he murmurs. "To be whatever you need." Truly, he is. Kicking himself a bit for letting himself get so riled up, but truly willing. A slight pause. "You - need not think that I have any expectations of you. I know full well how --" his mouth twists a little, "-- slight I am." Hideous, he means.
"I do not need, I want..." She looks down him, concerned for a moment to what he's speaking of as her hand curls around his face. Realising what he means. How he means. She looked back up and there is really - only one response to that. To the impossible, impossible question that is what she wants. Because she is not good with words. She says what she means, as she means to say it. Much to her courtier's horror at times. It won her loyal servants from the highest to the lowest.
Less, the adoration of poets.
So she kisses him. Simple, like it was the easiest no more than to lean forward and down the rest of the way. Her head tilts into the angle. Her mouth parting against his with a thready sigh. Her eyes lowering with the contentment of touch. The wine on her tongue that makes this easy, that makes her spine curve. Her fingers slide around the curve of his cheek, into his hair. Adoring how it feels against her touch. Adoring the little thing that is a kiss where the world cannot see. He is slight, different, yes. But that makes him so easily her own in his mind. Not made a mess in memories. Not stained with blood. He could pull away and say that he had changed his mind, and that would be water to the desert.
When she pulls back, it is not to go far. "Only, I do not know how such a thing is meant to be. I have been a Queen alone, a very long time. Will you show me?"
Oh. Oh. He is so very bad at reading people when it comes to affection like this - but he is so very glad to be so wrong. The moment her lips find his, he kisses back, lips parting in turn, bracing one hand against her hip while he trails the fingers of the others along her spine. He keeps it simple for this first kiss, but there is the promise of tongue and teeth and anything else she might wish. He has a skilled tongue, both metaphorically and literally.
There is no chance he's changed his mind. When she pulls back a bit, he takes a moment to catch his breath, his cheeks flushed. If that was in any way meant to stave him off, or to give him a little so that he might not want more ... it definitely didn't work. He is more desperate than ever to give her everything he possibly can.
"I - I would. Very gladly." Worship at her feet if need be. Find other ways to make her feel all that he can. But - he must ask first. he must, he must, or forever live in worry and shame that he hadn't. "Are you sober enough? Is this truly what you want?"
He won't take advantage of her state, dammit. If she's too drunk to agree, then it's no agreement at all.
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Though - he has to step in to defend his planet a little bit. He hadn't quite expected that reaction - nor how she moves towards him, good god. He has to swallow thickly, looking up at her with no small amount of pink dusting his cheeks. "Do not damn all the Vor Lords," he says hesitantly. "Just the one who commissioned me. The rest of Barrayar abhors the practice, by all accounts." He quiets after that, touched by her words. Hope, eh. He'll take that gladly. "I'll be more than just hope, if I have anything to say about it. We will finish this job successfully." Or die trying.
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It wasn't kind. "Perhaps I have been fighting too long." young as she is, old as that makes her. "The man today, he would take the oldest who could not pay their taxes up against a wall and set starving dogs on them. When the fester in our desert heat became too much, he sent their widows to clean up the pieces. I let my rage blind me, its true, for every minute those widows wept at my floor for justice. I would have killed him, his men, every single person who served him, if you had not been present."
Those that made her, were as much the cruelty of the UIC as the love of her father, the steadiness of her husband. She did not have his apparently magnanimous nature it seemed, could think of no other way to say it more plainly. But to that she wondered.
"Do you love the Vor, even as they are?" because his words, his stories of them - she couldn't help but think of otherwise if not for the life he had told her.
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As for the Vor ... Another small wince. He should probably not speak of them in such loving terms, but. He just can't help it. "I admit to a certain fascination," he says with a soft sigh. "And I have met those who are not so bad as the stories make them out to be. The Vor lord's parents attempted to adopt me. As their second son."
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A quiet resolve, of course which doesn't bare mentioning, that if she finds the Vor Lord in question that had caused him such suffering she'd cut his tongue out.
But, a later concern.
"I admit, they're a story of hope to many of us. We heard of the General Vorkosigan, and how he fought off the Cetagandans. So much so that the UIC began to spread awful rumours that he walked with a stump leg, and had a hunch shoulder. That Vor Lords all kept their women in stables and gave their horses the beds instead." A shudder.
"We did not believe all of them, but I am glad to hear they are not all true. Perhaps I will consider the marriage alliance after all." Because the thought that even half of it might be true? Would be enough to put off anyone.
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Um. Miles chokes hard on his wine when she mentions a marriage alliance. Both dizzy with dreamy glee at the thought of being married to Lakshmi - and horrified by the thought of her being forced into a marriage of convenience with someone as deformed as he is. God. There’s no easy resolution to that thought. Either he steers her away for her own good, or he selfishly tries to set himself up. The first is heartbreaking; the second, surely evil.
He coughs a little more before finding enough breath to speak. “Both are quite wrong,” he says firmly. “That description belongs to Lord Vorkosigan, as you can see by his clone,” he says, gesturing to himself. “And you may find Vor women in stables, but only because they are thoroughly enjoying themselves by preparing their steed for a ride.” So none of either of that shit, good god. He. Hesitated a moment more. Piotr is such a conflicted influence on him that he’s not even sure what to say of the man. Best not to.
when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
!!!!He has her immediately sidetracked, quite easily so. Reaching for her wine and resuming her drinking. Though for the first time in hours it was cheerfully sipped, not the drowning of misery. "Do you ride as well?"Wait - hang on. She catches up and this time, it's her turn to choke on the wine. Nearly dropping the cup as she coughed on it. "You're clone of the son of Lord Vorkosigan?"
Re: when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
Ah. Oops. He never did quite spell that out, did he? It would be better if she did not know who his specific “progenitor” is... But perhaps it’s better this way. The little Lord Vorkosigan cuts a unique figure after all. “I have no horses here, nor anywhere to ride them,” he says with a real twinge of longing. He misses the Vorkosigan stables deeply... “But the Vorkosigans have massive stables, yes. They’re famous for being horse lords.”
So - there. That’s all the help he can give himself. If she wants him for his horses, then that seems a fair bargain. As for the other question, well. He gives her an awkward little bow. “I am,” he says. “That is something of a secret, though, so I would rather you keep it that way.”
(( LOL I have my autocorrect trained by now ))
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"None will know of it. Not from my lips."
Lips that she purses, thinking. Breathing slowly but heavily for it - a lot. A lot all at once when she was already felt a strung out thread. Pressing - well, that was all dreadfully serious, wasn't it?
"It is... good that you have some notion of horses. We use them a great deal. I was worried... you, your men. When we go ground side. It is will be primarily how we move."
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“Good. Thank you.” He believes it too, coming from her. It takes a weight off his chest.
He breaks his own tension with another sip of wine, letting its warmth slide over him. Not much more for him, alas; he’ll be asleep all too soon. “I should be fine on a horse,” he says, waving a hand. “Genetic memory, apparently.” Complete bullshit, more like, but he won’t be able to hide his skill if he has to ride. Better she has an excuse ahead of time.
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"There is one matter though. You have assured me on all matters that come with the Vor, drinking, tradition, a woman and her knives." She says it very seriously, but there is mischief is in her eyes. "You still have not told me if there is dancing."
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God. As if he weren’t already in love with her after watching her weave through the enemy with her weapons. Watching her smiles like that, teasing him... he might truly be lost already.
“Every time they drink, apparently,” he says, raising his glass. “Which is often.”
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"I struggle to call those circumstances fit for dancing, Admiral, no matter how you might protest."
And with no warning what so ever, she slides right off the side of the lounge onto the floor. Sat there and her hand lifts to crook her finger to beckon him down to join her. "You are going to subjected to it later on whether you like such things or not, so you best learn how we attend such things while no one was looking. My triumphant Admiral cannot be seen to embarrass himself at his own celebrations."
On the floor, apparently. Right now. Her eyes are bright, still, as she takes another sip of the wine, the glass was almost empty - that just wouldn't do. So instead she goes fishing for the bottle as she waits for him to join her on the floor. Pouring herself another glass - all interest in maintaining an air of position firmly gone for the moment.
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"I - am not so bad," he says, awkwardly. "But I am very short. Wouldn't you rather have a taller partner?"
But that gleam in his eye says he wants this so very badly. Lift him if you must, Lakshmi; he would love to dance.
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Instead - since she's here, being informal, for all the trust he had given her in telling her the truth of who he was, his past, what had happened to him, she repays it in turn, being herself without the trappings - she goes about clearing them some space on the floor. Twisting her body about to plant one bare foot against the lounge and giving it an almighty push out of the way. It goes with the shove and she settles back, smiling, trickling laughter in through her words. Though this time, she sits far more - decidedly. Her back goes straight, her chest lifts, her legs curl under her delicately so they lay in the say direction. Then she fishes for the material that was draped over her shoulder, bringing it up over her head, resting to drape around her, over her hair. Poised like she were a dancer as fine as the ones her husband once employed.
"But the performance will be for you. So it doesn't matter in any case." She's planning it, apparently. Already working through the motions of how it will be done in some fitfully daydream that winning will be as easy as that. It won't be, they both know that, but the doors are shut, her rebels drink with his crew and it is just them. So maybe, for a little while, as long as no one else knew, it might be forgiven. "We prize beauty, art, colour, all these things. Like you said, tradition." She smiles as she goes, reaching over to fill his glass up in turn.
"But some of it will be strange to you." Definitely, definitely still mischief in her gaze. Settling the bottle back down and sliding it back towards him. "We dance with our eyes, our limbs, each finger and our expression as all one movement, whether they are love songs, songs praising great battles or religious." Her body lowers with the movement, pointedly so, her eyes rising up under her lashes to look at him. Fixed on him exactly, smiling softly. Then rises herself up in one slow motion to demonstrate the control into the movement. "No doubt, for you, it will all be battle songs and love songs. They will touch your feet to bless you and then - "
Her head turns away, and sweeping palm up against her cheek, then peering back at him. Like a lover teasing her beloved her gaze, then drawing her fingers below her eyes as she looks at him. Trying her best to keep a straight face through it all. She knew she wasn't a particularly great dancer. But she enjoyed it, and that was enough. Besides, it only had to be enough for him to know when one of her ladies was flirting with him.
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A hero to her and her people, hopefully. But that is all he can hope for. He has to remember that, dammit, or he'll never make it back intact. There will be some piece of him left with her when they pat, lost in the gorgeous movements of her body ...
He takes another long sip of his own wine. His expression almost seems to glow in the dim light; he's drunk enough to be a little drunk, bringing rosiness to his cheeks as he watches her with nothing but awe. Maybe she's not a great dancer, but he surely can't tell the difference. She is beautiful. Too beautiful for him to dare besmirch.
"I would - take any dance from you, my lady," he says, his tones hushed. "Battle and love both."
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But he was gone now, and she was left unsure for a moment, looking at her Admiral from behind her hands. With how he looks at her, and the sudden realisation that she likes how he looks at her. Not with the difference of a General to Ruler. But right now, she is herself, and he...
Lakshmi swallows. "Love then. I have had enough of battle, for today."
( When had she started thinking of him as hers? )
Her word sticks a moment, rapidly blinking the realisation out of her gaze as she body turns into the next gesture. "She - " I, and she realises, she isn't quite sure if she's playing anymore. " - will invite you to look." It sweeps down herself - unsure, but practised, her eyes lowering, her fingers splaying wide - alapadma, a flower opening - as they fan out and around her chest, above her heart. Then curve back around her stomach, pinching her waist in with the movement, her head rolling back as her legs move. Suddenly, sweeping the other way in the flurry of skirts. The chime of her anklet that was suddenly the loudest sound in the room above her own breathing. To lean forward, far more directly into his space this time.
Her hand hovers, letting him see as she moves near to him. "She will push you, just the once." A demonstration, a playful swat against his shoulder. " -- and then you catch her by the wrist, and tug her in." Her mouth closes with the gesture of her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Tipping her head just the once, go on then.
Tricky to keep down the fit of nervous giggles. Alone much, much too long. Maybe she ought to have taken up Jhalkari's offer years ago.
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Get ahold of yourself, Admiral, he admonishes himself. She is not yours and never will be. And what a cruel concept that would seem to her, probably. Being someone else's. Miles longs so desperately to be someone else's that he hurts but - he can't expect it of anyone else. And he can't expect anyone to desire it of him.
But god does he want it in this moment. Especially when she pauses at the end, gesturing for him to grab her. He gives her a questioning look - really, are you sure? - before he gently reaches forward, taking her hands. Pulling her down to him. And then - holding there, cheeks flushed, staring up at her.
"It's a lovely dance," he murmurs. "I'm very fond."
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Her tongue wets her lips. She must be sensible. She must be kind. To him, to herself. "I am glad you like it." She must be selfish, greedy, snatching for balms to her own loneliness, the aches she had never tended simply because he is kind enough to indulge her own silliness. "You will have much of it, I am quite sure. Many men and women would - far better than a lonely widow who is quite drunk."
A forgivable offence, she hopes. He has indulged her so kindly, so far, because she is yet to pull away. A little further and she would be laying across him. Nothing about this is seemly, decent outside of this room. "I fear I make a fool out of myself." Her wrist is still in his hand.
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But - god, he can't help but long for her to lean a little closer, to settle down into his lap. Already his body betrays him, damn it all. He shifts slightly. Not letting go, but neither does he pull her in closer. Not yet. "I - daresay these other men and women would not do nearly so well as you." He permits himself one small gesture: to reach up to her cheek, resting his tiny, delicate fingers along the curve of her jaw.
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Clouds, the monsoon, that he promised her. That he keeps promising her - it terrifies her utterly. He terrifies her. This terrifies her. She has given him so much of herself, some of it he knew, much of it, he didn't. They were bound now. To the end of this war, and maybe no further. But to that end -
A turn until her mouth brushes against the edge of his touch. Until her lips, and they part against his light movement on her skin and she bites the tip of his finger. Blunt, not hard, a soft ache of skin against skin. But purposeful, decided, when her eyes open that barely kept back thing is obvious, fills up her whole being. A hunger that sat flat behind her gaze. touch her again, please. She wants it so much she thinks she'll burn up the ground below them. "Are we still play, my Admiral? Or are you playing with me?"
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But even that slight contact sends electricity down his spine as well. Especially when she turns, lips brushing up against his fingertips, nips just slightly at the tip of one - oh, god, he wants. He wants so badly that he aches, that he'd promise anything. Do anything. Anything that she might possibly ask of him. Which is so desperately dangerous that even he hesitates, but - she has started in him a fire that refuses to die back down once lit.
"No," he says, swallowing thickly. Looking up at her with those fierce gray eyes of his, softened by fondness. Affection. Love, perhaps? Yes, it's love, if only the sort that burns bright at the beginning of an adventure like this. "I am not playing. Not at all." A pause; a bit of a crooked smile. "God, I think I've been in love with you since you gutted that soldier who was about to kill me."
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"... You have had me, since the day we met." You will always have me. But it wasn't because of a misunderstood ceremony, the exchange he didn't know about. He had never turned away from her. Not shying from what she had asked. He brave, more profoundly brave than any man she had ever commanded. "My Admiral, my hope." Her hand rises to exchange her touch with his. To sweep down his face. Her strange little admiral, sharp, quick and clever. "I could never let anyone touch you. You are the first thought I might have a life beyond all this death. I never thought to have that again. Even if you must leave, after all is done. I would protect you with my life, until then." She let her hand hover, where it slips from his cheek.
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He shivers as her hands find his face, shivering more as they drop. In return, he lifts one hand to hers, bracing it there. He closes those bright gray eyes of his. "Then I am glad," he murmurs. "To be whatever you need." Truly, he is. Kicking himself a bit for letting himself get so riled up, but truly willing. A slight pause. "You - need not think that I have any expectations of you. I know full well how --" his mouth twists a little, "-- slight I am." Hideous, he means.
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Less, the adoration of poets.
So she kisses him. Simple, like it was the easiest no more than to lean forward and down the rest of the way. Her head tilts into the angle. Her mouth parting against his with a thready sigh. Her eyes lowering with the contentment of touch. The wine on her tongue that makes this easy, that makes her spine curve. Her fingers slide around the curve of his cheek, into his hair. Adoring how it feels against her touch. Adoring the little thing that is a kiss where the world cannot see. He is slight, different, yes. But that makes him so easily her own in his mind. Not made a mess in memories. Not stained with blood. He could pull away and say that he had changed his mind, and that would be water to the desert.
When she pulls back, it is not to go far. "Only, I do not know how such a thing is meant to be. I have been a Queen alone, a very long time. Will you show me?"
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There is no chance he's changed his mind. When she pulls back a bit, he takes a moment to catch his breath, his cheeks flushed. If that was in any way meant to stave him off, or to give him a little so that he might not want more ... it definitely didn't work. He is more desperate than ever to give her everything he possibly can.
"I - I would. Very gladly." Worship at her feet if need be. Find other ways to make her feel all that he can. But - he must ask first. he must, he must, or forever live in worry and shame that he hadn't. "Are you sober enough? Is this truly what you want?"
He won't take advantage of her state, dammit. If she's too drunk to agree, then it's no agreement at all.
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