Archive of Our Own

The privacy light was on above the door to Illyan's office. Aral paused, frowned, and put his palm to the lock anyway, engaging the override. It slid open. The outer office was empty, Illyan's secretary not yet back at his post after the past month of disruption. He went to the inner door and knocked briskly twice, then went in.

Illyan was at his desk. He did not immediately look up, but continued to frown at his comconsole, then seemed to notice the arrival and shook himself. "Sir," he said, standing up. "Did you need something?"

"Did I--no. I don't need anything right now." He crossed to the desk and unceremoniously perched on the side of it, waving Illyan back to his seat. "I saw your light. What are you doing here? I thought you'd want some time off, after this past month. In fact, I'm fairly sure I ordered you to take some." Aral narrowed his eyes at Illyan. "One of the disadvantages of that chip of yours, Simon: you can't 'forget' inconvenient orders."

"I'd rather be here." Illyan was holding himself stiffly, as if still aching from his month in that tiny cell. "There's a lot to catch up on."

"Nonetheless. I don't suppose your doctors told you to go straight back to work either."

"Since when did you pay attention to that sort of thing?" Illyan snapped back, and the edge in his voice made Aral turn his full attention on his ImpSec chief. Gregor's ImpSec chief, perhaps, but Gregor wasn't here. His guilt hadn't quite stretched that far, Aral noted. Perhaps it was as well: a more professional distance could serve them all better on modern Barrayar. But there were some bonds that modern Barrayar couldn't touch, even now.

"You were released from solitary confinement less than three hours ago," Aral said quietly. "And I know you were also interrogated repeatedly, and who did the interrogations. You're due some time to recover."

Illyan had shifted uncomfortably as he spoke, but now he made a sharp cutting-off gesture. "Negri would have laughed in their faces," he said. "The interrogations weren't a problem."

With this guidance, Aral made a cast in a different direction. "And the solitary confinement?"

Illyan actually bared his teeth at that, and Aral decided that Betan-style discussion wasn't going to get him any further here. He waited a moment for Illyan to subside, then said, "You look like hell and you know it, Simon. Come and have a drink with me or something, instead of bouncing off the walls here. Don't you want to get out of this building?"

His flash of anger gone, Illyan seemed to sink in on himself. "Very well, sir."

Aral opened the door and Illyan went through it first, habitually. He marched briskly through the ImpSec corridors with his head up, and Aral walked beside him, appreciating the need for Illyan to display himself as strong and in control again. They went out the side door to where Aral's car was waiting, and Illyan stopped so suddenly that Aral almost walked into him. He swerved to stand at Illyan's side.

Illyan took a slow deep breath, then another, then as suddenly as he'd stopped, he hurried down to Aral's groundcar, as if not wanting to be caught enjoying the fresh air. Aral smiled to himself and got into the rear of the groundcar with Illyan, letting himself relax as the vehicle pulled away. The tension of the past few months was still seeping slowly away, after the lancing effect of Miles's arrival yesterday, and he was starting to think about the possibility of rest.

But first, the mopping-up. It was always the longest, most frustrating, most difficult part of any battle, the urgent adrenalin rush that carried you through the fighting gone, but the work no less vital for that. He'd talked at length to Miles, consoled him over Bothari, talked at even greater length to Gregor, talked Lady Alys and Ivan into some kind of truce, dealt with Count Vorhalas's additional requirements in exchange for tolerating Miles's adventures, rooted out four of Vordrozda's stooges from the Prime Ministerial offices, then sprung Illyan from prison and thought he was reaching the end of today's mopping-up. Apparently not.

He could hear Father's voice in his head, with an increasingly familiar twist of pain that he would never hear him again in truth: what kind of officer rests while his men are still in the fray? He'd been fourteen then, given command of a small squad on behalf of his father during the assault on Vorbarr Sultana. They'd achieved their goals, and exhausted, he'd sat down on a heap of rubble while the men finished off the work. That was when his father showed up. He'd never made that particular mistake again.

He glanced at Illyan, but Illyan was staring out at the evening lights of Vorbarr Sultana through the window, his attention fixed on the view as if taking an inventory of what had changed over the past month. Perhaps he was. When the groundcar pulled up in the porte-cochere at Vorkosigan House, Illyan remained motionless, still gazing out the window. Aral waited for him to finish whatever train of thought he had embarked upon, but when Illyan hadn't moved after a good minute, he said, "Come on, Simon. Let's go in."

Illyan remained motionless. Aral could see his face reflected in the groundcar window; his eyes were open, he hadn't fallen asleep.

"Simon," Aral said again, a little more forcefully. "Captain Illyan. Let's go."

Sometimes if Aral interrupted Illyan while he was working out something complicated on his chip, Illyan would make impatient shut-up-and-wait gestures at him, with a sharpness that startled other more deferential servants of the erstwhile Lord Regent. This time he did nothing to show that he had so much as heard Aral.

Aral reached across Illyan to open the door. "Simon. We're here. Let's go in."

Illyan startled, moving to swipe at Aral before he seemed to realise where he was. "Shit," he whispered, and looked down, hands falling open.

The ImpSec driver was too well-trained to turn and stare around at them, but Aral could see the reflection of his curious eyes in the mirror, watching them both. Aral jerked his head to the door, and they got out. Experimentally, Aral caught Illyan's arm as they went up the steps, and Illyan did not shake him off at once, though once they were both through the door he broke away.

"Come sit out on the terrace," Aral said. "It's a fine evening."

Illyan followed him through the ground floor of Vorkosigan House and sat down on one of the wrought-iron chairs, saying nothing while Aral sent for a bottle of white from the cellar. Whatever it was, Illyan was going to make him work for it.

A servitor came with the wine and glasses, placed them on the table and bowed to Aral before withdrawing. It was a moment later that Aral realised what was unusual about this. Illyan had not looked around, had not reacted to a person arriving behind him. It wasn't as if he had a memory chip to check, but Aral didn't need one. Exhausted, sick, injured, furious--he'd never seen Illyan, in any circumstances, permit anyone to approach them both without some automatic protective reaction.

He knew his instinct was correct when he poured the wine into two glasses and Illyan made no move to take the first sip before he did. "Simon," Aral said at last, "talk to me. What's going on? What did they do to you in there?"

Illyan turned his head slowly, as if struggling out of some pit, and blinked at him. "What? Oh. Sorry." He sat up straighter, his hands closing around the metal arms of the chair. "I'm fine." He seemed to take in his surroundings properly for the first time. "Is Miles here?"

Aral frowned, but allowed himself to be diverted. "In bed already, I think. He crashed hard earlier today, after making the funeral arrangements."

"What funeral?" Illyan asked sharply. Aral rubbed his face. He'd avoided this topic within the walls of ImpSec, not wanting even the least recording of this conversation in any files other than the ones in Illyan's head.

"Sergeant Bothari's. He was killed during Miles's galactic adventures."

"How?"

Aral took a long drink from his glass. "He was shot. Needler at close range." He set the glass down on the table. "It was Elena Visconti."

Illyan sat bolt upright, lips opening in dismay. "And how--dammit, Aral, you should have told me this at once. I've always kept tabs on her, and the others, very quietly. Very high threat risk, even after what the surgeon did--but she was a banking tech halfway across the galaxy, she should never have even come into contact--" He stared around the garden. "What does Miles know?" Then, even more quietly, "And Elena? Where is she now?"

"Our Elena stayed with the mercenary fleet. She knows... something. Who her mother is. Not... not why. Miles--" Aral glanced up at the house, at the little bedroom window. "Miles knows more, but he said little. I didn't press him on that, and I don't think you should either. As for Visconti, it seems it was true chance. Halfway across the galaxy is where Miles wound up, and he recruited her. But once she had seen Bothari... Miles tells me he could have fought back, but he didn't."

"No," said Illyan lowly. "I wouldn't have, either. Dammit." He looked at Aral then, seeming more like his usual self. "And you?" He met Aral's eye for a moment, then went on, "What have you told Miles?"

"We haven't discussed it. I don't think he'll ask. He's grown, Simon, you'll see." He considered Illyan's deeper question, but held back. He wasn't sure he dared lean on Illyan right now. Something about his stiff upright posture, arms pressing into the arms of the chair, made him think Illyan might break under his weight, just now.

"Bothari. Damn," Illyan repeated, then took a sip of his wine, as if in toast. He set the glass down and gave Aral another questioning look, which Aral recognised: are you okay, are you going to break down over this, do I need to be worried? Aral returned him a slow nod, filling it with two decades of experience in command, and Illyan relaxed. It's safe for you to be hurt today, Simon, Aral thought. I've done my grieving for this.

Illyan's expression grew inward, and Aral supposed he was remembering Bothari, remembering Elena. Ensign Visconti. All too vividly, from the pain in his eyes. Aral leaned forwards and topped up both their glasses. "I'll let you chew Miles out about the rest of it to your heart's content in a few days," he said, seeking lightness against the dark old memories. "And Ivan, if you like. A bit of fun for you before we get back to work."

Illyan made no answer, still with that pain in his eyes, and he didn't seem to track Aral's movement. Aral looked away, not wanting to see those hideous days from twenty years ago so clear on Illyan's face.

"It's over and done with now, Simon. Let it rest."

Still no response. Aral reached out and put his hand on Illyan's shoulder, and Illyan jerked like a man being startled out of sleep. His left hand came up and gripped Aral's hard for a minute, then he let go. His eyes were wide.

"Oh. Yes. I--I'm just a little tired."

"I've seen you tired before," Aral observed, not moving his hand. "Seen you drunk too, and fevered. I haven't seen you like this before. What's happening?"

Illyan stood up, breaking away from Aral's hold. "I'm fine. I'll be fine--it's just--"

"Just what?"

"Nothing." Illyan gave him a look that Aral recognised all too well from the hundreds of times he'd tried to get Miles to sit quietly and take his medicine. "I think I'll take a stroll around the garden. I haven't been outside for a month."

"As you wish." Aral sat back in his chair with a glass of wine and watched Illyan walk slowly down the steps from the terrace and follow the path around the edge of the garden, his route perhaps unconsciously resembling a perimeter patrol. Or a retreat under cover.

The door from the house opened and familiar steps approached behind him. "Drinking alone, love?" Cordelia dragged the other chair over and sank down beside him. "Who's the other glass for, then?"

"Simon." Aral jerked his head at the figure half in shadow at the far end of the garden, now standing motionless under a lilac tree. "I thought I'd bring him back here for a drink after springing him from prison, but there's something not right there."

"I expect anyone would be a bit off-balance after a month in their own prison," Cordelia said, then turned more alertly as Aral began to shake his head. "More than that, you think?"

"He's not right, but he won't tell me why. I'm afraid something might have happened to him."

"Torture, you mean?" said Cordelia with her usual blunt uncovering of Barrayaran wounds. "I thought you and he had made sure ImpSec stopped that decades ago."

"Some old habits die hard," Aral muttered, then looked up sharply. Under the tree, Illyan was slumping to the ground, not falling, but sitting heavily as if all the strength had gone out of him, head bowed. Aral took the steps from the terrace two at a time, Cordelia following him.

Cautiously, Aral circled round to approach Illyan from the front, but he didn't look up. Close to, Aral heard him muttering something indistinct. He crouched down, trying to capture Illyan's attention, but Illyan didn't move. Aral reached out and took both of Illyan's hands in his. "Simon. Look at me."

"My lord," Illyan said in a gasp, looking up. "Aral. What--how--oh." He paused, took a shaky breath, and then said, "It's no good. I can't--it's no good. You need to replace me immediately."

"You are entirely irreplaceable, Simon. Now tell me what's happening."

"But not here, I think," put in Cordelia, copying Aral in circling up where Illyan could see her coming. "It's getting chilly. Would you like to go back inside, Simon?"

He looked up at Cordelia and Aral recognised his expression. Illyan knew he was going to be kindly, firmly and implacably steamrollered into doing what was in his own best interests. He nodded, the gesture closer to submission than assent. Aral helped him to his feet, and was startled when Illyan leaned against him, allowing the support. Cordelia flanked them, tucking her arm into Illyan's as well, and they walked him back to the house, across the terrace and inside to a large sofa in the private drawing-room.

Illyan more crashed than sat on it. Aral sat down close beside him, and Illyan began to speak at once, words tumbling out as if racing some deadline. "I've seen this happen before. Cyril. Andre. Not Jem, though, he killed himself when it started, after Andre. They thought I was going to go the same way, but then I didn't. But I am, it's just delayed. Twenty-two years."

Aral put the pieces together. "These are the other men who had the chip installed like you? Your chip is malfunctioning, Simon?"

"It's not malfunctioning," he said almost defensively. "It's working fine. It's me who isn't working." He closed his eyes and turned away from Aral. "It's me..."

"What do you mean by that?" Cordelia asked, pulling up a footstool and sitting opposite them.

Illyan didn't answer. Aral was starting to recognise this non-responsiveness, and learn the cure for it. He leaned in towards Illyan and draped an arm around his shoulders. "You keep drifting off," Aral observed when Illyan had blinked back into focus. "Is that what's going wrong with the chip?"

"It was that cell," said Illyan obliquely. "Just... nothing. White walls, one rat bar a day, and the chip. The interrogations were good, they helped, they took me out for them, there was external input. New data. The last two weeks, nobody spoke to me at all. Nobody even opened the door. Just my chip, talking to me all day, all night. I know it's not real, not now, but it's blotting out everything else and I can't--I can't turn it off. " His voice choked on those words, and Aral tightened his grip.

"Every time you've snapped out of it," Aral said, "it's been when I was touching you."

Illyan gave a nod. "Touch isn't on the chip." He turned his head, looking at Aral's arm as if confirming that he could see and feel the same thing. "Touch is always real, it helps me keep the two streams separate, I know it's real if I can feel it. Pain too, I could make it stop in the cell that way, but it's been harder and harder. I thought getting out would fix it, but it's worse now, there's so much new input and it's getting tangled up, and when I go to sleep..."

"When you go to sleep?" Cordelia prompted after a moment.

"It takes over completely. It processes new input in my sleep, normally, but with no new input, it's going round and round. Yesterday morning... it was four hours before I could make it stop. Four hours and twenty-two minutes. Didn't sleep last night, but now... when I go to sleep tonight, that's it. I'm sorry... my lord..."

Aral's grip around Illyan's shoulders became fierce. "You're paying my bill here, Simon. Don't you dare apologise to me for this." He leaned in, forcing Illyan to meet his eye. "Surrender is in the mind, Simon. We fight to the last ditch, the last door, the last man."

"I'm sorry," Illyan whispered. "I know what you need... but I can't do any more. I can't." There was a despair in his voice that Aral had never heard from him before, no matter how nightmarish the crisis. "It was always going to swallow me up in the end."

Aral drew breath to play his last card, to order Illyan in his full Breath and Voice to carry on wrestling with his own brain, but Cordelia kicked him in the shins, and not gently either. Illyan didn't notice. "Sleep," she said. "You're exhausted, dear, you're not going to be able to get your control back without it. But you're afraid to go to sleep, because at that point you lose control completely. Simon, do you think you could sleep if you weren't alone? If someone was with you, in physical contact with you?"

Aral wished he dared kick Cordelia in the shins in return. "You can't--" he whispered at her.

"Not me, you idiot. You. Or the two of us. Depends what works for Simon. You can't tell me you'd have a problem with it," she added with a look at his arm still tight around Illyan's shoulders.

Illyan processed this slowly. "I... don't know. Maybe. I don't know."

"Sounds a lot better than 'that's it'," said Cordelia. "Do you want to try?"

Illyan was silent, but Aral could tell he was thinking about it rather than drifting into a chip-induced reverie. Finally he nodded, the smallest movement of his head in assent to something that Aral knew he would never have asked for. They'd been lovers in the past, shared a bed, but always because of Aral, one way or another: in response to his need, his wish, his desires. Never for Simon. He hadn't questioned it before. He'd had no doubt that Simon had been willing, but Simon gave much more than he received.

But Cordelia was part of this now. She extended her hand, but drew back slightly short of touching Illyan. "One question," she said, waiting for him to focus on her. "Just Aral, or both of us? Truthfully, Simon."

Aral doubted Illyan was capable of anything but truth, right now. Illyan studied her, and Aral wished he knew what was going through Illyan's mind. Watching another man consider sharing a bed with his wife should have made him angry, as a proper Barrayaran husband, but he'd never been much good at being a proper Barrayaran husband.

Illyan reached out to her, fingertips brushing hers. "Both," he said, a little louder than a whisper.

Cordelia smiled, as if this was a normal conversation on a normal evening. "Good. Come on, then, before you fall asleep right there."

Her gaze crossed Aral's face, the considering look almost the same as Illyan's watching Cordelia, and Aral wanted to laugh at the unexpected rightness of it. But Illyan was pushing himself up and Aral got an arm wrapped around him. Cordelia went again to his other side and they set off towards the stairs. Illyan walked slowly, steps heavy and hampered with fatigue. On the stairs he paused once, his head turning left and right, as if they were some strange sum that added up to an impossible answer.

"Simon," Aral said. "Come on. It'll be fine."

They went into the big bedroom and Cordelia briskly kicked the door shut. Illyan had been in here before, many times, with late-night reports or middle-of-the-night emergencies or any number of other reasons. They'd strategised in here, all sitting on the sides of the big bed, with flimsies piled on the bedding and heaped on the floor. But Illyan had always been on-duty then, always on. Now--now Aral wasn't sure Illyan entirely knew where he was. It was a terrifying helplessness in such a self-possessed man.

"Do you really think this will work?" Illyan's words came slowly, the way Aral's did when he was particularly drunk.

It was Cordelia who answered, kicking off her shoes and sitting on the bed, pulling Illyan to sit alongside her. "It seems logical enough. And I haven't got anything else to try. Do you think there is anything else to try?"

Illyan began to unfasten his uniform with the completely unselfconsciousness of a man long inured to Barrayaran locker-rooms. "I tried everything else," he said, and abruptly Aral remembered his remark about pain, because Illyan had a long row of deep bruises along both forearms, too regular to be anything other than self-inflicted. He caught Illyan's wrist and drew a fingertip along them, very lightly, but Illyan hissed anyway, in a strange mixture of pain and satisfaction, and he seemed to come into better focus. Aral recalled when Illyan had seemed most himself earlier, how he'd been pressing his arms against the chair.

"This," he whispered, "is not the service I request from my men."

Cordelia looked over, and her lips went flat. "God, Simon. This has got to be better than that option. Has anyone treated those?"

"I told them not to," Illyan answered. "It was helping."

Cordelia grimaced. "I don't want to take away whatever coping techniques you've got unless I'm sure I've got something better to give you," she said. "But Aral's going to stay here with you while I get the quick-heal, so we'll have it if you want it, later on."

Aral nodded. Illyan had faltered in his undressing, and Aral took over, the gestures that were needed to part a man from his uniform ingrained deep. He dropped to the carpet and began to unlace Illyan's boots. There was a baffled look on Illyan's face as he gazed down at Aral: wrong way round. But tonight it was the right way round. Illyan hadn't worn his uniform long enough today for the fresh-from-an-institutional-laundry scent of it to fade much. Not like the prisoner's jumpsuit he'd worn earlier.

He pulled off the dress uniform trousers. Illyan had bruised his shins too, these less regular, more angry. More desperate. Aral tried to picture Illyan doing it, and swore under his breath.

There was a pair of pyjamas folded on the end of the bed. Illyan reached out for them, seemingly automatically, and Aral decided not to object that they were Cordelia's. She certainly wouldn't, and the sizes were about the same. Illyan did not make any attempt to shield his bruises from touch, in fact he seemed almost deliberate in his bumping his arms and legs against the side of the bed.

Cordelia returned, and Aral was glad she wouldn't see the rest of Illyan's bruises. They all bore scars from the past month: looking at Illyan, Aral felt as if the torments he'd been through had been given flesh in Illyan's body.

He shook himself. He was fine, all his disasters solved now. The only thing remaining was to make sure he still had a security chief in the morning. Still had a friend in the morning. Still had Simon.

Illyan was swaying with fatigue where he sat. Cordelia pulled back the sheets and pushed him down gently, then went to get a drink of water while Aral got ready to sleep. Illyan lay with eyes half-open, and Aral saw the moment he stopped tracking, the chip playback drowning out what was happening around him. Cordelia returned and climbed into bed beside him.

Illyan struck out with shocking speed, hitting Cordelia hard, first in the kidneys, then glancingly across her back as she twisted and rolled away from him. Aral lunged forwards, growling, "Enough, Captain," but Illyan seemed not to hear or understand, his fist making contact with Aral's cheekbone. Aral let himself fall bodily on top of Illyan, letting gravity fight for him, pinning him to the bed. "Simon!"

Cordelia had twisted clear and was crouched at the side of the bed. "It's not real, Simon," she said, her calm voice cutting through Aral's instinctive anger. "It's not real. You're safe."

"Stand down, Illyan," Aral said, and felt him go limp. Cautiously, he eased the pressure, and when Illyan made no attempt to move, rolled off him, between him and Cordelia, still restraining his arms. Illyan, already terribly pale, went white and completely still as he took this in.

"I'm fine," Cordelia said, more to him than to Illyan. She slid a hand around Aral's forearm. "It's fine, Aral."

Aral relaxed slowly. "If you say so, my captain."

"I--I--" Illyan seemed unable to speak. Aral let him go, but Illyan didn't move. There was moisture on his face. Aral swallowed his anger. Illyan was injured in his service, this anger belonged to Vordrozda, not for his liegeman. He reached out again, catching Illyan's hands in his.

"It's all right, Simon. It's all right."

"No," Illyan said faintly. "No. It's not. This--I cannot--this isn't safe. I must go." He didn't move, and Aral understood that he didn't dare. He forced himself to relax further. Cordelia climbed in on Illyan's other side and put a soothing hand on his back.

"And then what?" Aral asked. He moved closer to Illyan, and felt him trembling. "I won't keep you here against your will, Simon. But what then, if you go? I want to see this right again. You know it's always been my prerogative to ignore security concerns, when my honour is at stake. When my family is at stake."

Illyan's hands twitched in his. "I... I knew it could go like this. I saw it with the others. But I thought I wouldn't--my lady, please forgive--"

"There's nothing to forgive, Simon. You haven't done anything wrong." She spoke with a certainty that eased Aral, and as the adrenalin of his instant defensive action subsided, he felt Illyan start to ease too.

"I didn't think it would get this bad." Illyan was staring straight up now, very still. "If it's bad enough that I could lay a hand on either of you--my lord, if this gets worse, I must ask you to release me from my oaths. Release me from your service."

"If you want to retire," Cordelia said, "then I for one think you've more than earned it. But this really isn't a good time to be making major life decisions."

Aral gave an unfelt smile. "That's not what Simon means. Is it."

"I saw what happened to the others. If I am going that way--release me, my lord."

Aral heard Cordelia swear under her breath, felt her instinctively draw closer to Illyan. Aral reached out with his forefinger, felt the moisture on Illyan's face, and wiped it away. "You've guarded my back, my family, my Emperor, for twenty years without a break. What I owe you--no. Owing has nothing to do with it. If it comes to it, Simon, if it really comes to it, I will do as you ask. I give you my word. But I have very few older or dearer friends than you. Stay here, let us try to help. Please, Simon."

He felt Illyan flinch at that. It wasn't a fair request. But Cordelia said nothing, unusually, letting him lean on Illyan. So he leaned, and as ever, Illyan went where he was bidden. He turned very slowly towards Cordelia, reaching out to her, and Aral knew he needed to check for himself that he'd done her no harm. Cordelia embraced him, and whispered something Aral didn't try to overhear.

"Do you need anything else?" Cordelia asked after a while.

Aral felt Illyan shake his head, and in lieu of anything else, he draped an arm and a leg across Illyan, holding him. And restraining him, but he sensed that Illyan wouldn't object to that, might prefer it. Illyan seemed to relax when Aral had a firm grasp on him, more grounded in the present, as if Aral was holding his mind rather than his body.

Cordelia extinguished the lights. "You're going to be fine," she said. "We'll keep you here with us while you sleep, and you'll be better in the morning. You've managed the chip for twenty years. You know how to do this. Vordrozda's not taking that away from you."

"He'll hang for everything else he's done," Aral said in support of this, "but if not, this alone would be enough to condemn him, by my voice."

"What Aral means," Cordelia said as Illyan tensed at his tone, "is that nobody is allowed to drive you crazy except him."

That, wonderfully, drew a short laugh from Illyan. Aral ran a hand down his back, felt him relax a little more.

"Negri would have had me admit to everything," Illyan said unexpectedly, his voice little more than a breath. "Say whatever I needed, switch sides for expedience and fix it later, rather than risk this happening. He said the chip cost more than a fully crewed combat-drop shuttle and should be preserved at all costs."

The long-dead man's voice came from Illyan's mouth clearly. Aral pressed Illyan's arm, feeling almost a need to reassure himself that it was indeed his security chief and not a ghost. "He wouldn't have done that himself, though," Aral said. "Not in a similar situation."

"Disavow Ezar, get out, fix it later? He might have done. I might have done. They wouldn't have believed it, though. No point trying. I ran all the scenarios, and there was no way I could have convinced them I meant it."

"You regret your reputation for absolute loyalty?"

Illyan gave his head a little shake, which Aral more felt than saw. "They always offered me the same bribe, you know. The Cetas, the Betans, the Escos, anyone who thought they might be able to buy me." His hand moved, touching the base of his neck. "Getting rid of this. They all did the analysis, what did I want most that they could give me, and that's what they always came up with."

"We offered you that in the first year," Cordelia said. "I remember that distinctly. I spent half an hour trying to convince you to go ahead with it. I still think I should have persuaded Aral to make it an order. It's criminal, what they did to you."

"I didn't want--I couldn't--" Illyan sounded very tired suddenly. "Cordelia, I couldn't--"

Aral turned, sliding his own hand to cover Illyan's, firm and reassuring. "I'm not going to order you either way. But those foreign intelligence agencies aren't wrong. Their analysts only forgot one thing. They forgot just how hard it is to part a Barrayaran soldier from his weapon, even a weapon like this."

Illyan relaxed against him then, confident of being understood. "I don't know if I could even manage without it, now. I--it's part of me."

He yawned, and Cordelia said, "We're keeping you awake. Go to sleep, Simon. You're going to be fine."

"Captain Naismith," Illyan mumbled in response to this, and Aral smiled to himself.

Within a minute Illyan had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep, Cordelia slowly combing her fingers through his hair. Aral yawned too. "Is that it, do you think?" Then, more quietly, "Will it work?"

"Simon seems to think it might, and he should know. Get some rest, love. I'll stay awake for a little."

Aral reached his arm across Illyan to press Cordelia's arm too. "Thank you."

All was quiet for about an hour, Illyan in the deepest of sleeps, and Aral dozed, holding him. Then Illyan startled awake, trying to push them away, muttering incoherently. Aral held on. "Simon," he said firmly and clearly, "Simon, it's not real. You're fine."

Illyan struggled, but did not break Aral's grip, and a few moments later he woke fully, gasping. "Oh. Damn. I'm sorry--"

"It's all right. Ssh. Lie down. You're fine."

He fell silent, but Aral could hear him breathing fast, clearly awake and in distress.

"Do you want to tell us, Simon?" came Cordelia's voice, very gentle.

Illyan sighed then, and finally said, "I thought it was the execution. I've seen too many of them."

Cordelia snuggled closer to him. "Oh, Simon, darling."

"Yours," Illyan said after a minute. "Not mine. But they'd have done me first, I wouldn't have seen it."

Aral wrapped himself around Illyan fiercely, thinking much the same as Cordelia but unable to put it into words. "It's not going to happen. We're all fine now. It's over."

"I know."

Illyan dropped off to sleep again fairly quickly, as did Cordelia. Aral lay awake, listening to them both breathe slowly, their two separate rhythms blending together. Illyan mumbled in his sleep, inaudible words, then said in a clearer voice, "I am no traitor, gentlemen."

"Of course you aren't," Aral said softly, stroking Illyan's back. "Your loyalty is beyond question."

Illyan settled, but Aral lay awake. It seemed the battle against Vordrozda wasn't over yet, one last action taking place inside Illyan's head. His man was still fighting, he would not yet rest. Illyan slept fitfully, tossing and muttering to himself, and Aral found he could tell when the chip was starting to gain ground, when Illyan went still, no longer seeming asleep, but gone elsewhere. Then he drew Illyan closer to him, the strange battleground resting against his shoulder, and held him, whispering reassurances and encouragement until he sensed Illyan returning. Sometimes he woke, just long enough to recognise where he was and what was happening, other times he went straight back to sleep. As the night wore on the skirmishes were further apart, but Aral kept watch anyway.

He knew the reason Illyan had never given up the chip, despite all the opportunities. There had been at least half a dozen times when it had been the tiny details he'd spotted there, the connections he'd been able to make, that had enabled him to pinpoint threats against Barrayar, threats against Aral and his household. Yes, he used it to wrap an aura of infallibility around the entire of ImpSec and project that aura across Barrayar and across the wider galaxy, but after all these years Illyan had that reputation firmly fixed. But that little extra edge had meant life and death for Aral, more than once. And in the end, Gregor was right about Illyan. Vordrozda was right about Illyan. He belonged to Aral, and he would not give up that little extra edge. But Gregor and Vordrozda were wrong, because Aral served Barrayar and Gregor, and as long as he kept faith, Illyan would be a loyal servant of the Imperium.

By first light, Illyan had been sleeping peacefully for several hours, and Aral allowed himself to sleep too, his arm still draped across Illyan's back, holding on.

When Aral woke it was late morning, and Illyan was already awake, lying propped up on one elbow. Aral reached for him automatically, and Illyan smiled. "I'm all right," he said quietly. "Cordelia's already up, she'll be back shortly, she said." His smile thinned out, fading to the merest hint. "I remember it all, of course. Aral--"

Aral raised a hand to stop him, studying Illyan's face. "Yes," he said quietly, "you are back with us now, aren't you? That's all I wanted, Simon. There's nothing more to say."

Illyan's smile began to return. "There's plenty," he said, "but it can wait. I know exactly how much of last night you spent lying awake, Aral. Go back to sleep."

Aral lay back, watching Illyan through half-slitted eyes. There was still some strain in his face, a greater tension than Aral usually saw there, but he was fully present now, the chip his servant again and not his master.

"You're off duty for another fifty-five hours," Aral told him. "Minimum. Are you going to stay?"

"Cordelia said neither of us should get out of bed unless the place was on fire."

Aral smiled, hearing Cordelia's intonation on Illyan's lips. "And is it on fire?"

"No, my lord."

No, Aral thought in agreement, the fires of the past month were dying back now. There would be more mopping up later, but for now--for now he could permit them both this. Illyan lay back down, and not at all automatically, Aral reached for him, pulling him down alongside.

"Don't do that again, Simon. I thought I might lose you for a while there."

Illyan returned the gesture. "Serves you right," he said, smiling. "What do you think I spent the last month thinking about?"

"How am I supposed to know what goes in what you call your brain?" Aral retorted. His head touched Illyan's on the pillow.

"Oh, you know," whispered Illyan. He lay back, comfortably at Aral's side, still with his arm across Aral, but it was no longer the urgent grasp of a drowning man holding his spar, but something much warmer, and this close, Aral could hear his breathing quicken. His own hand on Illyan changed too, from reassurance to caress, allowing himself to take pleasure from the touch.

"Cordelia also said, if you woke up before she got back, I should feel free to start without her," Illyan said, his voice dropping at the end. He turned his head, eyes intent on Aral, then kissed him. Aral let himself sink back against the bed, pulling Illyan close to him, and returning the kiss with sleepy enthusiasm.

He felt Illyan's attention waver as the door opened. Back on form, he thought, and loosened his grip so that Illyan could feed his paranoia by looking up. It was Cordelia, and Aral heard her laugh as she saw them both.

"Oh good, you're awake." The side of the bed dipped as she got in. "Room for one more in there?" and both Illyan and Aral reached for her. She kissed them both, and Aral let both of his Captains take charge of the situation, which they did with satisfying decisiveness. He watched Illyan's face, saw the last strain fading from it, replaced by simple pleasure, and kissed him again, because he could. The battle was over, and now they could enjoy their victory.