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Lieutenant Oliver Jole can remember the exact date his crush on Aral Vorkosigan began, because it is all on the official vid, for posterity. Oliver can view the footage of Prime Minister Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan pinning that medal on his chest any time, and recall the hero of Komarr and Escobar spending several minutes talking earnestly with him while the Imperial PR goons swarmed. At the time, Oliver was only aware of the immense charismatic presence of the man. Oh, and his eyes. Oliver could not look away from those grey eyes whenever they turned toward him. He was ridiculously despondent when the ceremony ended and the PM left, his military aide at his heels.
Oliver doesn't actually remember the events that put him in a hospital bed for weeks, followed by months of PT. Everyone from the Prime Minister himself on down assures him he was quite spectacularly heroic. He has nightmares of having to repeat the experience, without the hypoxia, and being unable to recreate whatever solution he'd enacted. He's read the reports and seen the recordings - all but one of them partial because the cameras cut out due to the hull breech. He knows intellectually what he did and that he saved a lot lives that day. But he cannot bring himself to feel like a hero.
Two weeks after the vid makes its way onto the planetary net, Oliver is released back to active duty. And his world changes again. Oliver is anticipating a desk job at Ops HQ for some months while he waits for another ship berth to open up. He had been as good as promised further ship duty was the next step for him. So it comes as an utter shock when he is instead ordered to report to the Chief of Imperial Security Simon Illyan himself.
Captain Illyan lives up to his reputation. Perhaps not as physically imposing as one might expect, there is otherwise nothing not intimidating about the man, from the uncanny emotional control to the ability to recite, complete with High Vor accent, the words of the Emperor on the personal commendation vid he'd received in hospital, when Oliver had barely regained consciousness. Knowing that it's the eidetic memory chip doing the heavy lifting in this does not make the trick any less impressive to the young lieutenant. Illyan also summarizes Oliver's entire military service record, not barring his Academy years, from memory, before getting down to the business of the audience.
"So, Lieutenant, you are being considered for a highly sensitive and prestigious position, the nature of which I cannot, at this moment, reveal to you. Does this surprise you?"
Oliver, still standing at attention in front of the Chief's desk, goes for pure honesty. "Yes, sir, it does."
Illyan does not give the slightest sign of a reaction to this answer. "You understand that this requires, among other invasive screening procedures, an interrogation under fast-penta? Most people find this to be... unpleasant."
"Sir," is Oliver's non-committal response. His heart is beginning to pound. Not that he has anything to hide, not really. Homosexual conduct is no longer illegal in the Imperium and Oliver has always been scrupulous about remaining within the bounds of the fraternization codes. He's not particularly promiscuous, has never slept with anyone in his command structure, and, by preference as well as practicality, all his partners have been of higher rank than him.
Still, it's not an experience any sane person would be eager for. It's also not an experience he can turn down. Refusal to voluntarily submit to fast-penta interrogation upon request is, under military regulation, sufficient cause for involuntary interrogation. With far-reaching consequences which Oliver does not care to consider just this moment. Therefore it is not hard for him to answer in the affirmative when Illyan asks for his consent to the procedure.
Captain Illyan waves Oliver into a chair and calls for a specialist to be sent up.
Oliver's brain finally starts to kick in. Illyan's personal involvement in the placement of a lowly lieutenant means the "highly sensitive and prestigious position" is extremely sensitive and of the most prestigious kind. He's far too young and inexperienced for one of the Vorbarra Armsmen, that much he is certain of. The Emperor's own military secretary is fairly new in his position and unlikely to be in search of a replacement. He can't think of any other berth an Imperial Lieutenant would qualify for at that level. So, likely not on the actual Imperial staff. This leaves the Imperial Counselor of Komarr, whose staff roster is currently full, the Viceroy of Sergyar, who prefers to recruit from the local fleet, and the Prime Minister.
His mind races at that thought. That could be... challenging. Not exactly where he thought his career was going next but the typical rotation is just two years - or at least it had been when Vorkosigan was Regent and Oliver sees no reason why now Prime Minister Vorkosigan would change that tradition - and is considered to be a major boost to command track.
Oliver's attention is brought back to the present by the entrance of the interrogator, who has a familiar face. The man, at the time in civvies, had picked Oliver up in a discreet bar in a certain part of Vorbarr Sultana about a week and a half ago. Aside from first names, the only thing they each ascertained about the other was that their careers were running on very different tracks. The liaison had been satisfactory on both sides, neither thinking to see the other again except as they occasionally drifted into the same watering hole at the same time. Oliver had thought it a safe liaison.
Well, this should be interesting.
"Ah, Major Laurent," Illyan is saying as the two younger officers exchange wide-eyed expressions. Oliver shrugs very, very slightly but says nothing. The Major's mouth tightens and he attends to his superior, who continues as if unaware of the silent interaction: "You've brought your kit, good. This is your subject, Lt. Oliver Jole. You should have his dossier already. You'll need the enhanced set of questions...."
"Sir," Laurent interjects before Illyan can go further, standing to an ImpSec species of attention. "I must ask leave to recuse myself. The Lieutenant is personally known to me."
Illyan's eyes narrow. "In what capacity?" he asks sharply.
Without so much as an eye twitch toward Oliver, the Major replies: "We had a sexual encounter nine days ago."
Illyan's face remains blank. "Thank you, Major. You are relieved. Please send up the next man on the rota."
The Major gives an ImpSec salute, a wave in the general direction of his temple, and goes to fetch one of his comrades.
Oliver watches Illyan's face very, very carefully as the Captain returns the salute-like gesture. Does he see satisfaction there? Oliver cannot keep the look of enlightenment from his face.
"You have something to say, Lieutenant?" Damn! He doesn't miss a thing.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
Which isn't actually an affirmative, but Oliver braves it anyway. "You did that on purpose."
Illyan rocks back in his chair, steeples his fingers and lays the first two fingertips against his mouth. "Did what, Lieutenant? Be precise."
"You knew we'd... had sex." He can't think how the ImpSec chief knows except... well, ImpSec. "It was a test, to see what he'd do when he saw me."
"Astute observation, Lieutenant," Illyan replied, still expressionless.
"It seems cruel." To whom, Oliver is not sure. Probably both him and Laurent.
"There won't be any negative repercussions for his revelation, Lieutenant Jole," Illyan replies evenly. "Quite the opposite, in fact. He's been observed to be scrupulously honest. Under these conditions, a positive characteristic, especially for someone on the fast track as Denis is."
"Still..." Oliver daringly presses.
"’Still’ nothing," Illyan says, a slight sharpness in his voice now. "If his proclivities are a handle on him, then he doesn't deserve the position he currently holds, much less further responsibility. Your discretion was also noted, I might add."
"So this was a test for us both."
"Of course. If I cannot make one action work in many directions, I am not worthy of the position I hold. And I think that is quite enough candor from you." Oliver briefly wonders if that was meant to be a joke, considering that perfect candor is the aim of the coming interrogation. Oliver decides it's the better part of valor to keep any further observations on the matter to himself unless asked for them under the drug.
The new man comes in. After testing him for allergic reactions and finding none, he asks Oliver again for his consent, which is given.
The experience is just as horrifying as Oliver expected. Thankfully he's not one of those who gets overly emotive - crying or raging - but the draining of all inhibitions, the complete inability to censor any answer, it feels like a deep violation. He hates it. He says so, calmly but in no uncertain terms, in two different languages, before the interrogator can make him stop.
When the antagonist is administered and Oliver is back in control, all he can feel is a seething anger, making it a struggle to remain properly subordinate for the rest of the interview. The interrogator gives him a short lecture on how to manage any follow-on effects then leaves him alone with Illyan again.
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Illyan says quietly, almost gently. "You will hear from... certain parties very soon, I suspect. You're to consider yourself held on one hour's notice to report until then. "
"So I pass muster then, sir?" Oliver fights to keep the tone of the question flat.
"Pending the interrogator's full report, yes," Illyan replies. "I can only say, I believe you will find this was worth it, in the end."
"Sir." A non-responsive response lest he start cursing.
"You are dismissed, Lieutenant."
Oliver snaps to attention, fires off his most correct salute, turns precisely on his heels and leaves without further niceties.
He goes to the gym and swims laps until he doesn't feel the need to punch someone out anymore.
********
The message to report to the office of the Prime Minister at Vorhartung Castle comes the next morning. Oliver is very glad he took the one hour readiness order seriously because that is exactly the amount of time he is given to report. He deduces the interview had to have been arranged in advance.
He reports as ordered and is greeted by a smiling blond-haired Captain who introduces himself as Daniel Vorlambros, outgoing military secretary to Prime Minister Count Aral Vorkosigan. The Captain gives Oliver a very long, very detailed description of the job, with heavy emphasis on the hours, the middle of the night call-outs, the utter exhaustion. Also the absolute thrill of working with the Great Man. The feeling of helping shape history. The fast track to command.
Oliver keeps thinking of Vorkosigan's eyes and his hands on Oliver's tunic as he pinned that ridiculous bit of ribbon and metal onto it.
"Best two years of my life," Vorlambros concludes in a bright voice, snapping Oliver back to the present. "To be honest, the only thing dragging me out of here is that my next berth is ship duty. Going out with the trade fleets. Incredible opportunity."
Vorlambros then proceeds to ask him a series of questions, nothing unexpected for such a high level position, and Oliver hopes he fields them satisfactorily.
"Got any questions for me?" the Captain asks at last.
So, so many, but Oliver struggles to frame one that doesn't sound like he's intimidated, stupid, or abnormally interested in Aral Vorkosigan's person. He manages a couple of general inquiries about working with the Prime Minister and other expectations of the job.
"It requires an ungodly amount of organization but that can be done by any monkey from HQ, really," the Captain explains further. "Discretion and initiative are the most important attributes for him. Initiative, I understand is not an issue for you." He pats a portfolio next to him on the desk which Oliver concludes contains his military record. "And discretion can be assumed, since Chief Illyan cleared you." Vorlambros pauses a moment before adding: "I've been authorized to inform you that the job also requires passing ImpSec’s Personal Security short course and induced fast-penta allergy treatments. Technically the position is on the administrative track but there is always the possibility of a catastrophic failure of security landing you in hot water."
Oliver falls back on a neutral "Sir" as he is not certain what response is expected here.
"What do you think, then, Lieutenant?" Vorlambros smiles wider than ever. "Ready to meet the Great Man?"
Oliver's heart speeds up, but he keeps his face straight as he replies, "Yes, sir!"
Vorlambros pushes away from the desk and gets up to show Oliver to an inner door toward the back of the secretary's small office. He raps four times on the door jamb, pauses for a moment then opens the door to the Prime Minister's official office. He waves Oliver inside ahead of him.
"Lieutenant Oliver Jole, sir," Vorlambros states before ducking back out the door and closing it behind him.
Oliver's eyes widen at the abrupt departure and he half turns to protest this abandonment. Then remembering where he is and who he is meeting, he comes to attention and salutes.
Prime Minister Vorkosigan is sitting with his feet propped up on his comconsole desk, his eyes on an actual paper letter in his hand. Oliver notes he is wearing Imperial service dress greens, just as he had at the award ceremony, although he has been retired for very nearly twenty years. He raises an index finger, requiring Oliver to hold himself at attention, his hand still at his temple, waiting. After a moment, Vorkosigan puts the paper down, drops his feet to the floor, does Oliver the curtesy of standing to return his salute, then sits back down.
"At ease, Lieutenant," he rumbles, meeting Oliver's gaze for the first time. "Have a seat, please."
Oliver's breath hitches, captivated once again by those grey eyes. Then he gives himself a mental shake, takes the proffered chair.
Get your head in the game, Jole! he tells himself. How stupid to allow this chance to be derailed by incipient puppy love.
"So, I am sure our Daniel has done his best to scare you off," Vorkosigan says with a grin. "I sincerely hope he hasn't managed it."
The sudden, unexpected humor surprises a smile out of Oliver. He remembers the man's unforced, amiable small-talk on the podium at the award presentation. Oliver relaxes a little. The Prime Minister bothering to put a junior officer at his ease makes Oliver like the Great Man all the more. He's heard Vorkosigan's reputation for extraordinary care for his subordinates. To see even this small evidence that it is true is heartening. It goes into the pro column of the mental pro/con list Oliver is keeping regarding the job Vorlambros described to him.
"Well, he made the position sound like an eye watering challenge, sir," Oliver ventures. "And an opportunity like none other in the service."
Vorkosigan rumbles a laugh. "Those are certainly words you can use for it, yes."
Oliver's smile fades. "It's not that I don't take it with seriousness, sir."
"My apologies, Lieutenant, I don't mean to cast aspersions on your enthusiasm."
"Not at all, sir," Oliver replies, not certain the answer makes any sense but it seems neutral enough.
"I do understand this is a bit of a diversion for your career, which has already been notable." Oliver just stops himself from making any fending gestures or demurrals. "But I believe you will find it is not a derailment. Five of my past aides are currently holding ship commands. My very first is currently Deputy Chief of the Imperial Military Finance and Accounting Services. And Daniel's off to an exec's duty after he finishes training up his replacement. Which brings us neatly to you..."
Oliver searches for an intelligent response to that. Gods, I'm stuck on stupid. He decides on honesty, if for no other reason than it is simplest. "Sir, this is... not what I was expecting to come next for me. I'm not sure I'm fitted for it."
Vorkosigan sits back in his chair, props his feet back up on the desk. "At the risk of sounding arrogant, Lieutenant, if I think you can do it, then you are most certainly fitted for it."
Oliver definitely has no intelligent answer for that.
"I've read your entire service record, son," Vorkosigan continues. "Including all your reviews. Your commanders describe you nearly unanimously as an intelligent, competent soldier of outstanding character. Surely you must be aware how rare those traits are in one officer."
Oliver feels the blush starting across his cheeks and tries to demur.
"No false modesty here, Jole," Vorkosigan cuts across whatever denial Oliver might have made if his brain hadn't decided to lock up. "I watched all the vids of that accident and your actions several times before I pinned that medal on you. Trust me when I say, you're the man for the job."
"I really don't know what to say, sir. Naturally, it would be my honor to serve. No flattery or false praise intended, sir."
Vorkosigan nods, clearly taking him at his word. "So, that's a yes then?"
Oliver stifles a laugh. I wasn't aware I could say no! Still: "Unequivocal, sir."
Vorkosigan stands and offers his hand. Oliver stands and takes it. His touch is electric. Oliver can feel the blush spreading but keeps his face straight, looking the Prime Minister in the eye.
"Welcome aboard, then," the Great Man says with a grin.
It's not quite as simple as that, naturally, although the transition happens with entirely unmilitary swiftness. All permissions below the level of Home Fleet itself are a rubber stamp, most of them already in place before he'd even accepted. Oliver is gobsmacked to discover that, in addition to the approval of his original chain of command and ImpSec, his assignment requires the personal approval of the Emperor. The end of his three week crash course in personal security sees Oliver at Vorhartung Castle again, this time at the office of the ruler of three worlds. There, in a small ceremony - in numbers if not importance - he is formally seconded to Prime Minister Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan by His Imperial Majesty Gregor Vorbarra, in person.
Oliver is pretty sure that no honor, no matter how high, he could ever earn or be granted afterwards could cap that moment. He begins to see why his predecessor is so evidently reluctant to leave, even though he's moving on to nominally better things. The altitude Oliver is suddenly flying at is quite tantalizing.
It's the fall that's gonna kill you, he thinks slightly hysterically as he receives a small, not entirely symbolic retractable knife from his Emperor. Vorlambros had warned him about this. It's not much of a weapon but he's been taught half a dozen ways to kill with it, since his most important duty, should the need arise, is to be the last man standing between the Prime Minister and anything that manages to slip through umpteen layers of ImpSec agents and the Count's own Armsmen.
He's also issued a sleek wristcom of exquisite manufacturing, with a screamer unit tied to the one that the Prime Minister wears. Because having backup is far more practical and sensible in the event of such a disaster.
And the next day, the real work begins.
********
The first few weeks are a blur of panicked scrambling as he tries valiantly to get on top of the demands of his new position. He has organized full scale war games scenarios of less complexity of scheduling than that of one man and the seemingly unending demands of state that come under the Prime Minister's purview. Vorlambos laughs at him every single time he says "I'll never get this all down!" Followed by clapping him on the back and assuring, "You're doing fine, boy! We all went through it. We all got it eventually."
Vorkosigan occasionally calls encouragement from the sidelines with the air of an old veteran who is himself safe from the rigors of field exercises. Oliver knows this is a slightly unfair thought - he's never seen a man carrying so much responsibility with such energy and aplomb. It's both intimidating and inspiring.
He sees the inside of Vorhartung Castle and Vorkosigan House far more than his own apartment. His comrades and friends stop exhorting him to meet them after work for a drink, though they are always gratifyingly welcoming whenever he can actually break away to join them.
By week five, Oliver is starting to be able to look up every so often and realize that his hero worship of the Great Man is becoming an alarming distraction. The intensity of Vorkosigan the man, his charm and humor, his authority and clear abiding devotion to the Empire, is immensely attractive. How anyone can possibly describe him as "not exactly a prize catch" as some wag in the officer corps once dismissed him, Oliver cannot fathom. They couldn't possibly have met the man!
Oliver berates himself for making his work more difficult than it has to be and vows to shake it off.
About week six, just as he is starting to feel he might not drown, Vorlambos reminds Oliver that their two month overlap is coming to a close soon. Panic sets in with a vengeance, and his predecessor is in the groundcar for Tanery Base by the time it settles again.
Then it's just the two of them. Well, and the myriad other staff, servants, and Armsmen, not to mention fifty-eight other Counts and a few hundred governmental officials from across the empire. Oh, and the Emperor. But, yes, just Oliver sitting mere meters from Vorkosigan, or following at his heels, all day. Nearly every day of the week. For hours.
It is the most exhilarating time of his young life.
It's also hell.
Because it is taking every ounce of his self control to keep his mind on the job before him and not the increasingly clear fact that he is falling for his boss. And unless he is very much mistaken, the Great Man is attracted to him, as well. Oliver is almost - almost - certain, at any rate. Oliver is experienced enough to know the signs. A gaze held too long. Random but too personal touches under guise of work. Slightly too much familiarity of address...
Oliver long ago gave up sleeping with married men. Far too much drama! And he really, really shouldn't start making exceptions again, no matter how tempting this particular man is. A man so lofty, Oliver is certain to get burned flying that close to his star. A man reputed, furthermore, to be happily, faithfully, almost obsessively, married to a woman with a formidable reputation in her own right, former Betan Astronomical Survey commander Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan - Countess Vorkosigan since the death of the great General Piotr Vorkosigan.
Not that those types of reputations haven't turned out to be wrong before. Many a man who supposedly loves his wife has taken a lover to bed. Except... salacious Vorbarr Sultana rumors aside, Oliver takes note when Vorkosigan returns from a "conference" with his lady wife smelling of sex, and uncannily focused afterwards. So Oliver tells himself he has to be wrong. Vorkosigan cannot be sending him any signals.
It's extremely disorienting.
And every. Single. Move. the Great Man makes obsesses his young aide. He knows it's going to negatively effect his work eventually. Though the Prime Minister has made no complaint and thus far Oliver has committed very few serious errors. Vorlambos himself had commented on just how quickly Oliver had caught onto the procedures.
Still, something has to give.
Maybe if he just gets laid....
Oliver calls up a former lover, another prole service man, very handsome and sweet. Their former, brief relationship had ended amicably when Jole had been assigned to a ship. As understanding as the other man is about it all, the encounter does not help. Oliver has to stop himself from calling his friend 'Aral' in bed. Repeatedly. He leaves far earlier than is strictly polite the next morning, twice as clouded in mind as he’d been the night before. He isn't going to screw his way out of this, then, at least not with someone else.
And then the Countess goes to Beta Colony for several months. And it all gets so much worse. Because hope raises her ugly head. Oliver starts to hate himself.
The first two weeks are torture. He fills up the work days as much as he is able and goes pub crawling with his friends at night, just so he doesn't have to go home alone to his empty apartment.
Then Vorkosigan decides to spend time away from the capital and Oliver, perforce, follows him.
Walking two paces behind him all day as he tours the length and breadth of the Vorkosigan District isn’t much of an improvement. If anything, it’s even more distracting. Vorkosigan is like a force of nature and Oliver can’t look away. Where does the man get all this energy?
When he almost slips up and calls Vorkosigan 'Aral' in public, he resolves to bring the whole damned situation to some kind of conclusion, even if it costs him his career. Because he just cannot handle the strain any longer.
Then by whatever turn of luck or unconscious desire, the Count decides to take him to Vorkosigan Surleau. And Oliver knows he has to find - or make - an opportunity now or resign his position tomorrow. Or something, anything but take one more day of this.
The Count nearly thwarts him by sending him away for the day. Hiking the snow covered hills of the Vorkosigan clan's most private retreat is refreshing. Exercising his body and emptying his mind for a whole day has a salutary effect for Oliver. He is almost able to stop thinking about that intense, dark-haired man sitting by the fire at the lake house.
Vorkosigan is awkward and hyperaware at dinner, in stark contrast to the easy-going way he's been around Oliver for the past few weeks. He tries to excuse himself to bed after dinner but Oliver practically begs him to take him down to view the frozen lake. Despite the fact night has fallen.
"I'd go by myself but I'm uncertain of the path," he explains, weakly. “Anyway, you should get a little exercise today.”
He hears himself and wonders how Vorkosigan can’t see this for the ploy it is. Can Oliver be any more obvious than inviting the man to go for a romantic nighttime stroll under the full moons? You know. For their health. Or is his obliviousness the Prime Minister's way of signaling Jole to keep it professional. Except, what uninterested man says yes to such an invitation? And he can’t be wrong about the way that Vorkosigan's been looking at him throughout dinner, when he thinks Oliver isn’t paying attention. Can he?
Vorkosigan keeps up a steady stream of talk as Oliver follows him down the winding path to the lake. Normally he could listen to the man read regulation manuals if only he does so for Oliver's benefit. But he finds himself becoming irked with Vorkosigan talking, talking, talking. Just give me a clear sign, will ya? And not these mixed yes/no/maybes, clear as mud.
At last they come to the lake. Vorkosigan is going on about something related to the boat launch. Oliver can hardly breathe, and not from the slight exertion of the walk. The view is, as expected, idyllic. Impossibly lovely. Perfect.
Oliver moves at last, snaking an arm around Vorkosigan's body to grab the front of his jacket. He pulls the older man around and toward his own body, trying for an embrace. He notes as he does so that the older man is actually a half a head shorter than Oliver is. A fact which hadn't entirely escaped his notice before this but is surprising nonetheless.
Then he feels the Prime Minister clutch at Oliver's jacket in what is clearly a judo grapple. Ooh, yeah, slight miscalculation there, Jole. He’s forgotten a rather salient point about this man - Admiral Vorkosigan was one of the most accomplished hand to hand fighters in the service in his day. Once a soldier, always a soldier. Oliver shifts his weight before Aral can complete his move, pulling him into his arms, hoping the clue will drop for Aral before Aral can drop him. He feels Aral go still.
“Please sir,” Oliver stammers out loud, “shut up and kiss me!”
An abyss seems to open up before him as he awaits his commander's response. He feels the cold slice through him as he contemplates the end of… everything. And suddenly a look of open delight and desire blossoms on the Great Man's face.
"Certainly, Lieutenant," he says with a heartbreaking smile. "First taste is free."
Oliver covers the Great Man's mouth with his own, cutting off further words. Oliver's heart is pounding so hard he's certain it has to be audible, especially given how silent the world around him has become. But he pushes other thoughts aside because all that matters is the man in his arms, the man kissing him, at long last. An eternity passes before they break apart. Wordlessly, Aral leads Oliver back up to the house, finds a room and closes the door on ImpSec, the Imperium, the Armsmen and all.
The night is a blur and a bliss.
The morning comes too soon.
And Oliver had no regrets.