Work Text:
No harm in looking, Prime Minister Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan tells himself, contemplating his aide-de-camp's recruiting poster features over the stack of flimsies he, Aral, is supposed to be reading. It's the third time in half an hour he's allowed his eyes to stray up to Lieutenant Oliver Jole's face. His sharp blue eyes. Those damned cheekbones.
Okay, some harm in looking, then, he thinks wryly, dragging his attention back to the report in front of him.
Much nicer to touch anyway, Countess Cordelia's voice echoes in his imagination, thwarting his attempt to concentrate.
Hush you! he chides faux-Cordelia. He's literally young enough to be my son!
But he's so damned gorgeous! puts in that imaginary voice again. An organ much farther down twitches agreement.
Down, boy! the executive function steps in.
Aral puts his eyes very firmly back on his reports. The most recent Sergyar financials are not riveting, however.
Is he even interested in men? another, quieter voice, one of his own, interrupts his reading, again. How does one go about finding out, in this context?
Sexual coercion is a topic the retired Admiral spends considerable time on during his How to Resist an Illegal Order lecture series at the Academy. There is no way he can honorably approach the young man; even if he isn't technically Jole's chain of command, the lieutenant is still his liegeman, seconded to him with the approval of Imperial Security Chief Simon Illyan by the Emperor himself. Jole is trained, among other things, to be the last man standing between Prime Minister Vorkosigan and anything that slips through the multiple barriers of ImpSec and his own Vorkosigan Armsmen. It’s largely symbolic; if things ever came to that, one man is unlikely to make a difference, however competent and willing.
And beautiful, don't forget beautiful!
Merde!
Aral sighs inwardly.
The clicking of keys stops abruptly and the Lieutenant looks up at him. The sigh hadn't been so inward then.
"Sir?" the young man inquires, probably thinking the Prime Minister needs some minutiae of the finance report explained. Again.
"Nothing, Lieutenant," he rumbles, trying and failing not to meet those blue, blue eyes. "Just... unnecessary contemplations intruding. Nothing to concern yourself with. I assure you I am following your excellent explanations."
Aral forces his own eyes down again.
The Lieutenant nods, though Aral can feel his gaze linger for just a few moments longer on Aral's face. Making sure I really mean it? Aral wonders.
Jole has been attached to his office for just over two months now. It has been only two weeks since the departure of the Prime Minister's former aide, to ship duty, of course. The Prime Minster's military liaison posting - which really should be called the Prime Minister's service dog's body - is considered a huge stepping stone to command. He and Jole are just getting used to each other's ways. It's far too soon for Aral to develop a secret, mad crush on this one.
Too late! says the quiet voice.
Aral manages to keep his wince to a slight tightening of his eyes.
Cordelia has never made any secret to him that she would be perfectly happy for Aral to act on his attraction to any one of the parade of handsome soldiers that surround him. Some of whom have, themselves, made it pretty plain that Prime Minister Admiral Count Vorkosigan's attentions would be welcomed. But those passes are at his exalted rank, Aral calculates, and not at himself in his own person.
So he's never taken advantage of any of the invitations. It's not a door he wants to open for anything so casual as a fling with a junior officer. And the older he gets, the more junior they seem. Lovely beings to be admired from a distance in an aesthetic way. Maybe as an occasional, virtual star in a night's fantasy. But nothing to be taken seriously. Lieutenant Oliver Jole, while not a trifling man, is only a few years older than the Emperor. Nevermind Miles. Best if he remains in that ‘look but don’t touch’ category.
Yes, well, he's too young for you, perhaps, but only 25 years younger than Cordelia, a very deep part of his brain registers. Just about right really, given Betan life expectancy. And she's certainly... remarked on the line of Lieutenant Jole's uniform a time or two.
She's never expressed any real interest in extra curriculars, counters another thought. Impure comments don't count. And she won't let you play baba to her with any young man, however handsome.
Not while Aral lives.
He's always known she's going to outlive him, even if he survives every assassination plot that comes his way. His ImpMil physicians can probably give him a detailed list of the damage his years in service, not to mention all the drinking, have done to his body. Cordelia being ten years younger than him, and Betan to boot, her widowhood is practically guaranteed. And likely to be of long duration. He's yet to extract her promise to find someone… after. He wants more for her life than a Queen Victoria redux, when he goes. Could I do something to prepare against that eventuality?
You're 63, stop being morbid, faux Cordelia tells him.
A firmer voice kicks in: Anyway, he's your secretary. Every thought you have of him outside of, Look, how competent! is completely improper.
An image of kissing Jole pops up entirely unbidden. Thoughts of touching that hair, his face. Being caressed in turn. And if he continues on like this, he's not going to be able to leave this armchair safely for a while.
Aral puts the flimsies aside.
"Let's break a little early, Lieutenant," he says brusquely. An hour is only a little early, right? "If anyone asks, I am in conference with the Countess."
He stands and Jole leaps to his feet as well. Aral is breathless for a second, but shakes off the idiocy and heads toward the library doors. "I'll be back at the usual time. Make sure you get down to the kitchens to get some lunch yourself."
"Yes, sir!"
Aral forces himself not to look back as he leaves the library.
********
He finds her in her office in their suite of rooms. She must be enjoying a slow morning because the comconsole displays only an image of them sailing on the Long Lake and no faces appear above the vid plate. She's idly shuffling through some flimsies - resumés it appears, probably for one of her medical scholarship programs. She immediately looks up, smiling, when he taps at the open door.
"Well, this is a surprise," she says with unabashed delight. "To what do I owe the honor of being early on the Prime Minister's agenda?"
He comes in, not quite meeting her eyes, moves some of the flimsies about on her desk. Yes, pre-med student dossiers. "I needed a moment of your time, thought I'd take a chance that you were free."
They normally exchange schedules at breakfast but Aral is damned if he remembers what she’d said that particular morning, his thoughts already... elsewhere.
"You got lucky, but what isn't new there," she says, narrowing her eyes in speculation at him and trying to get him to look at rather than past her. "Something on your mind?"
"My secretary, as a matter of fact," Aral blurts, then winces and turns away. "Oh, God."
Cordelia's smile widens. "Well, well, this may be a record. Quick work, even for you. But he is exceptional, isn't he? Beauty, brains, competence, not to mention a decorated hero."
Aral grabs the visitor's chair, turns it around and sits astride it, banging his forehead lightly on the back. "Also twenty-seven and my secretary," he finishes, miserably.
Cordelia looks thoughtful. "Yes, the age and rank disparity are a tad alarming, though I trust your honor in this, as always." She gives him a speculative look. "Are you seriously contemplating this, Aral? Because if so, we can find a way to make it work. Do you want me to...?"
"No!" He sits up in alarm. "I don't want you to.... " he waves his hand vaguely. "Go be Betan at your own staff and leave mine to me!"
"I thought that was precisely the problem," Cordelia replies archly.
He groans. Crossing his arms along the chair back, he lays his head on them. "Why do I keep doing this to myself?" he laments.
Cordelia grins. "Do you want me to tell you?"
"I do not," he mutters into his tunic sleeves.
She rises and comes to his side, running her hand gently across his shoulders. His unrequited crushes really are cute and mostly harmless, barring a few sleepless nights. She's pretty certain he allows them for her sake, because it amuses and arouses her to observe, as much as anything. Oh, he's genuinely smitten with the handsome men he fixes on, but even his honest attractions are turned to serve some other, if indulgently personal, purpose. She adores him.
This one, she thinks, this one may be different. Aral has not come to her so soon before.
So she says, testing the waters: "Would it be easier for you if I withdrew my consent? That way you're absolutely honor bound to ignore whatever is going on here."
Aral sighs heavily but does not look up. "It would make things easier, no doubt, but...." He can't finish the sentence.
Cordelia chuckles. "But you don't want me to, is what I am hearing."
Aral shakes his head though it's not quite the clear signal Cordelia would prefer. Still, she's sure she knows what he wants.
"Seems to me the first thing you need is intelligence," she says brightly. "Couldn't you ask Simon...?"
Aral's head comes up in deep alarm. "Absolutely not! What the hell kind of idea is that, Cordelia?"
She rubs his neck placatingly. "But how else are you going to find out if he even likes boys? If anyone knows, it's Simon, right?"
Aral allows his head to drop back down. "This is a bad idea," not precisely sure himself what he means by it.
"Alright, alright, no Simon. I suggest basic observation, then," she assays. "Or drop a few subtle hints. See what he reacts to?"
Aral raises his head once more to give her an extremely disapproving glare.
She smirks. "I know you don't do subtle well, my love, but you could exert yourself. Or just get used to taking a lot of cold showers. Again."
Aral stands and takes her in his arms. "That's hardly necessary, yet, dear Captain," he growls then kisses her with intent.
"Okay, that works, too," she murmurs, heat in her voice. "Go lock the door."
He smiles and does as commanded.
********
Aral needs a shower and a change of uniform by the end of his 'lunch' break, but makes it to the doors of the library at 12:59. Jole, naturally, is already back at work. The lieutenant gives him a startled expression when he sees Aral's brown and silver Count's garb.
"Did I miss a District event?" he asks anxiously, hastily launching the scheduling module. Aral reserves - well tries to reserve, inasmuch as it is possible - one work day out of ten for them both to catch up with paperwork. Today is supposed to be one of those days, hence the library at Vorkosigan House and undress greens as the uniform of the day.
"No, no," Aral assures him, trying to cover his own embarrassment - thankful it's not Koudelka here as he would never have missed the signs of his 'conference' with Cordelia - and thinks he probably should start wearing his House garb more regularly. Somehow the old service uniforms still feel most comfortable to him, however long he's been retired. "I had a mishap over lunch, is all," he finishes weakly.
He also makes a note to ask Esterhazy to run Jole through the various District uniforms so that the Lieutenant will recognize the casual dress next time.
Then he sinks back into his own chair and picks up where he’d left off.
Unsurprisingly, touching base with Cordelia - his confidant and conscience, as well as lover - has had a salutary effect on his attention span. At least for a few hours, Aral is able to concentrate on the actual work he's scheduled to be doing. He tears through a large number of reports, pushing all other thoughts to the background, hyper focusing if he's honest. It never lasts. But he has put a large dent in the stack by the time fifteen other concerns begin to intrude on the ones in his reports.
After a few more pages he lets his mind take up a few of those threads. Some of them are probably urgent and important.
The latest Viceroy of Sergyar's sounding whiny again. May be time to recommend Gregor recall him and send someone else.
Need to take time for that rents and revenues report from Tsipis this week. Surprised he isn't beating down my door yet.
It's been quiet around here. A thought which leads to: Need to message Miles.
Okay not all of them are that urgent or important. Aral turns another page over. He gets three paragraphs in before reminding himself he needs to give Jole some lessons in brevity. The lieutenant is still using five words where one will do.
Don't think about Jole, Aral tells himself.
Too late!
He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, tries to make notes and corrections to the report to shoot back to his secretary. If he can just get another hour or two in, the backlog will be down to mere double digits.
He looks up at Jole, a mistake. The younger man meets his eyes inquiringly, and it takes Aral several uncomfortable seconds to give him a negative head shake and look away.
How do you hit on someone subtly?
Subtle, as Cordelia had been quick to point out, is not something he's ever had to do, not in this arena. Cordelia practically required a brick at first and thereafter she'd taught him how to be direct enough even for her. Subtlety was also not a skill required in picking up the few men he'd been with, after Ges, before Cordelia, discretion not being quite the same thing. Ges, well, subtle was not a word anyone would connect with Ges.
Really, really don't think about Ges!
Aral decides it's perhaps better to give up the idea of Jole as a lost cause. He and Cordelia are a long established old Vor couple. What business does he have thinking of bringing someone else into that, anyway?
Isn't three sides traditionally Barrayaran though?
Not in this context.
Cordelia wouldn't mind.
Cordelia would like it actually, he's increasingly sure. Not for herself, of course. Not now. Someday? It would be a delicate balance. Not to mention risky, for Jole more than anyone. And this young man is bright, talented, ambitious; Aral would not constrain him for worlds. But carefully managed, might he have the career he deserves and still be there... someday?
Good gods, stop making plans off of fantasies.
Okay, so, Cordelia's suggestion of observing might do. The boy has to drop some hints somewhere, sometime, about his preferences, right? Aral tries to think if he has noted Jole watching anyone in particular. Any of the staff or Armsmen, for instance?
Then he sighs. No of course not. Not only is Jole too disciplined for that, he's been head down in learning his new role. Unlike the Prime Minister, he can't have had time to develop schoolboy crushes on anyone.
Give it up, old man, he tells himself. Exert yourself to professionalism, not campaigns on another person's affections.
Yes, best decision. This too shall pass. Just as the others had. He and Cordelia hardly lack for ways of making their sex lives interesting. No need to actually draw some poor sod into their chaos. And whatever odd notions he has for her 'someday' are just as much flights of fancy anyway. He cannot control her now, much less after death.
Aral calls an early halt - 1900 hours is early for some values of the word - a little lighter at heart if no less distracted.
********
"Last chance to stop me!" Cordelia announces some weeks later as she is closing the last clasps on her luggage. “The ground car leaves in ten.”
Aral gives her a winsome smile. "Whatever will I do without you for four months, my Captain?"
"Work yourself into a stupor, collapse on whatever surface you find yourself nearest, then get up and do it all again the next day, belike," Cordelia replies. She doesn't have to look up at him to know what expression Aral is giving her at that pronouncement.
"I might throw some drinking in there, for old times' sake," he laughs eventually, pulling her into his arms for a goodbye kiss.
Cordelia gives him a quelling look. "I swear if I have to come back early because you've perf'ed that ulcer again, Aral...."
Aral throws his hands up in mock-surrender. "You know none of the staff or Armsmen, or Jole, will let me do anything as dangerous as all that anymore, even when you're gone. Especially when you're gone. They're all more afraid of your displeasure than mine."
Cordelia just smiles. "Well, if you should change your mind about that beautiful lieutenant of yours, you'll send me salacious details, yes?"
Aral smiles indulgently, though the thought of Jole tugs at his heart, and other parts of his anatomy. He's allowed himself just to be relaxed and... normal, whatever that means, around the young man. It's made things simpler. As does cutting out any chance Cordelia might try to sort them out, for their own good, if he keeps desperately panting after the lad.
"I told you I'm letting that lie."
Cordelia sighs. "More's the pity. But whatever makes you most comfortable, my love."
“Cold showers and mad pining for you is hardly comfortable,” he teases.
”Oh, Aral, that’s what all the sex toys are for!” She laughs as he blushes. “That and your right hand.”
He kisses her just to stop the flow of her “humor” in that direction.
“Go before I decide I won’t let you leave," he says at last.
She kisses him again, long and deep.
He hugs her fiercely when they break and whispers into her hair: “'Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take tedious leave.'”
“I love you, too, Aral,” she whispers.
He walks her down to the foyer, stands under the porte cochère and watches as the groundcar carries her through the gates and out of sight.
********
The first two weeks drag by. Keeping busy helps but the evenings and nights are too long without her, or even Miles, for decompression. He drops in on Kou and Drou a time or two, but their world is filled up with their blond brigade and talking to Kou is, inevitably, shop-talk. It's not what he is looking for.
He decides to carve out a week to go down to the District, checking in on the initiatives his admiral's half pay still fund and the more extensive programs that come out of the Count's coffers. Cheering himself with the notion that his Breaking Things' days are well and truly over, replaced by the longer, harder slog of Fixing Things.
The change in routine while in Hassadar makes a few changes in his ever present ImpSec and Armsmen details, and one material change in the position Jole occupies, at his left shoulder, two steps behind him wherever he goes. Aral is not sure it's actually an improvement, having the boy behind him most of the day rather than in front of his eyes, but it is - mostly - less distracting at least.
Unfortunately, the crush isn't actually fading the way he'd hoped. And Cordelia's absence is a mixed blessing. At least she isn't dissecting his feelings every night. Or threatening to lock them in a closet until they actually talk to each other. Gah! But he is also lacking the anchor of her good sense and simple presence.
But damnit he's not some spotty teenager unable to control his libido. And nothing has changed in the calculations of what is possible, and what isn't, with this young man. He's just going to have to suck it up and hope he forgets these mad ideas eventually.
So it is a shock, a not unpleasant one but a shock nonetheless, when it is Jole who breaks the stalemate.
It's really much too cold for the visit to Vorkosigan Surleau, but he thinks maybe a further break from routine will help. Here he is allowed an even smaller force of ImpSec agents and he can send Jole off to explore alone, get him out from underfoot, so maybe Aral can catch his breath. He knows it's a mistake the second they land. This is far too remote and intimate a place to bring the young man he most certainly is not - no not at all - trying to sleep with anymore.
One night, he decides. Then back to Vorbarr Sultana. The whinging from the ministers and deputy ministers who cannot find the lav on their own is already growing and he cannot absent himself from the capital much longer.
At least sitting alone in the den during the day, nursing a whiskey by a fire, is as relaxing as he'd hoped. His thoughts drift away from anything pressing and he indulges himself in thoughts of what he will do with Cordelia when she finally comes home. He manages not to even think of that bright blond boy hiking about the woods despite the cold.
Jole comes back pink cheeked and gushing about the snow covered hills and the rest of the evening is much more awkward. After dinner, Aral tries to excuse himself to bed but the lieutenant talks him into taking him to view the lake by the light of the full moons.
He must needs go that the devil drives, Aral thinks, despondently, and leads the way down the path to the Long Lake.
Aral keeps up a running commentary on all things Vorkosigan Surleau, patently ignoring the romantic nature of the walk and the double moons shining off the ice. Gods, he never should have come here... with Jole.
The little jetty comes into view, blocked off for the winter, though Aral can cross the barrier if he chooses, even if his outer perimeter will have actual strokes over it. He's waxing lyrical about the rebuilding of that very structure, when a hand snakes around him, grabs the front of his jacket and spins him around.
Aral's adrenaline spikes and he almost, almost puts Jole on the ground before he realizes that the younger man has pulled him into an embrace, looking down at him with such fear and hope and naked desire, that Aral momentarily forgets how to breathe. Well, that was unexpected.
"Please, sir," Jole says in a shaky voice, "just shut up and kiss me!"
The world has come to a halt all around them. Aral's thoughts fly in twenty different directions at once as he weighs all his options, all the repercussions, just how hard the fall is going to be if they step over that metaphorical cliff.
But there is nothing else for it. He chooses his consequences and remarks with a small smile: "Certainly, lieutenant. First taste is free."
Oliver covers his mouth to shut him up at last. And all thoughts stop for many blissful, aching moments. After a short eternity, Aral leads the young man eagerly back up the path to the house, finds a room he and Cordelia have never shared, and shuts the door on no one else's business but their own.
Cordelia is going to laugh, is the only coherent thought he has for the rest of the night.
********
Several months later, when the first sturm and drang of the start of their relationship has faded and Cordelia's first all too Betan reactions to it are in the past, Aral asks as casually as he can whether Oliver also likes girls.
"Oh, I've had a few girlfriends in the past," he confesses. "Even one I really thought I might propose to, but, well, the service interfered. I figured I was married to my career and it's easier with other men, under those circumstances. So I guess you could say I'm bisexual, too. Also, more interested in men." He kisses Aral with intent. "Or at least you, for the time we have."
"Ah," is Aral's only response.
"Why do you ask?" Oliver asks a few minutes later. "Cordelia's not fishing for a threesome is she?" he jokes. Aral ponders if that is meant as a straight line. Decides not to take the bait if it is.
"No, no," he demurs, "nothing like that. Just... curious."
It's not impossible then.
Oliver shrugs and does something very distracting with his tongue and Aral tucks the thought away for much, much later.