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He is not her first call – that's the coroner, naturally enough – but he is her second. He feels unbearably grateful; he’s never taken for granted the conscientious way she always treats him, as if he is in fact the equal partner that law and tradition prevent him from being. And there’s very little danger in her generosity. He’s the highest military authority on planet after all; no one will question his being informed immediately.
He’s glad he's off duty and at home when she calls. He can’t imagine how he’d have coped if this news had come while he was at the office. Or worse, topside.
She informs him she’s sending the car for him, after she breaks the news. She tells him to pack an overnight bag. It’s risky but:
“I can’t stand the thought of you being alone, tonight of all nights.”
And he accepts the risk because he can’t stand the thought of her being alone either.
While he waits, he makes a few necessary calls.
The base commander is appropriately dismayed and just as properly efficient. Commodore Bobrik, his second in command, is on the orbital transfer station, so the conversation is disjointed at best. He records a holovid for Admiral Desplains next. It’s an open question whether the Chief of Operations will get Admiral Jole’s account before being notified through more official channels, but the report must be made, nonetheless.
He sends his aide-de-camp a text message. It’s unfair to drop the news on Lieutenant Callens like that, but far more important people will be receiving it in far worse ways, so he cannot bring himself to feel too guilty. She does not officially know about his relationship with Aral. He suspects that she suspects though, which is why he neither answers her return call, nor listens to the message she leaves. She’ll only say all the expected things and he doesn’t want to hear the suppressed pity in her voice.
He is drained by the time he gets in the car at last, his brain reeling from the expanding number of action items that will need to be addressed in the days and weeks to come. The protocols for this event have been in place for years. He’d just hoped the day would never come.
I thought there’d be more time. The timeless lament.
********
The Viceroy’s Palace is silent and somber, befitting the loss of such magnitude. He is once again thankful it isn’t a workday – though the planet’s business doesn’t always happen on the clock – so it’s almost exclusively servants and the Armsmen present. And ImpSec. Always fucking ImpSec.
The Vicereine is holed up making her own announcement recordings, Rykoff apprises him. Gregor first, Oliver calculates. Then Miles and Ekaterin, Mark and Kareen, Simon and Alys. And on down the list of the ones who Need to Know as soon as the laws of physics allow. At loose ends, he waits outside her office. It’s an achingly familiar feeling, waiting on a Vorkosigan.
She emerges a quarter of an hour later, eyes dry, face set. She’ll have needed to keep it together for the holos. She lets him take her in his arms, but she doesn’t cry even then. So he doesn’t either. For all the times they wept on each other over Aral Vorkosigan, now they can’t. The thought makes him want to die, too.
“Do you want to see him?” she asks in a whisper.
“They didn’t take his... him away?”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t let them. The Armsmen cleaned him up and laid him out in one of the guest rooms. The undertaker is bringing a cryocasket.” She looks at her wristcom. “Soon.”
“Alright.”
The room is not one he’s shared with Aral, mercifully. The white-haired form on the bed is entirely too still. Oliver stops just inside the doorway, deciding it was a mistake to come here. Cordelia walks to the head of the bed, runs a hand over the face.
“Oh, Aral.” The words come out on a sob. And then he is crying, too. But he can’t move toward her. And she doesn’t turn to reach for him. They both stand, frozen, for a very long time. Only the sound of one of the Armsman admitting the undertaker and his crew break the tableau.
********
They retreat into the private living room while Aral’s body is transferred to the coffin. Frieda tries to feed them but neither of them has any appetite. She forces fizzy waters on them both, insisting they should at least stay hydrated. Then she leaves them to their silences.
He would have thought being in the presence of the one person in the universe who could understand the enormity of this loss would have brought them each more comfort. Instead, they cannot seem to speak to each other.
“I’m going to bed,” she announces after an interminable time. She stands and looks at him. “Are you coming?”
They’ve never spent a night together, just the two of them. There’s always been Aral for a buffer on the rare occasions when he slept with her at all. But well, tonight of all nights Aral would certainly have understood. Expected it, even.
“Yes, of course.”
For a short while he allows himself to be swept up in the mundane tasks of getting ready for sleep, trying hard not to think of the... absent man. At the bedside he hesitates.
“Where do you want me?” he asks her gently.
Her gaze goes to the bed, the bedclothes still in place from being made up this morning. She crosses to the left, Aral’s side, turns down the covers and crawls in. Wordlessly, he gets in on the right. He makes no move toward her.
They both lay awake into the night.
********
Eventually they give up trying to pretend to sleep. She makes them coffee from the drinks trolley in one corner of the room, and they sit at the small table and watch dawn break over Kayburg.
The sun is well and truly risen when Cordelia bursts into tears again. He silently hands her a handkerchief but cannot make himself move to comfort her. She runs down again, wipes her face, dries her eyes. With a rueful smile she stuffs the cloth square in the pocket of her dressing gown.
His answering expression is more of a grimace.
She sighs.
“To every thing there is a season,” he recites. He’s not a theist, but it’s something he’s heard from her before. She flinches and he knows it was the wrong thing to say.
“Sorry!”
She breathes another little sob. “No, no, I’m sorry. Is that what I sounded like saying that to you when we sent you off to ship duty? God, how fatuous of me!”
He bristles a little, then guiltily remembers how angry it had made him at the time. He wonders what the hell he was thinking, repeating that to her.
“Besides, the scriptures are wrong.” Her voice is hollow. He wants to reach for her now but thinks better of it; she doesn't seem to want or need it. He gives her an inquiring look instead.
“Weeping doesn’t always endure in the night.” He winces but she just shrugs. “And joy really does not come in the morning.”
“No,” he says, his tone as flat as hers. “At least, not this morning.”