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"Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of the test and don’t ask why
It’s not a question but a lesson learned in time.
It’s something unpredictable but in the end it’s right
I hope you had the time of your life."
"Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)"
Green Day
"It might be a good idea to reassure the new man that sex with the boss is not among those ‘other duties’," Cordelia muses, peering over Oliver's shoulder at the document he is preparing, the revised official designation for Imperial Service Aide-de-Camp to the Prime Minister.
Aral, sitting in his usual armchair across from Oliver's comconsole station, pinches the bridge of his nose and vents a sigh. “Cordelia, please,” he manages to force out.
Oliver blushes - she does this sort of thing on purpose, he knows - but calmly shoots the completed document over to Aral’s brand-new reader for his approval. Oliver has been trying to break the Ministry staff of printing every damned thing. But some people (*cough* Vorkosigan *cough*) still prefer the feel of a flimsy - or worse actual paper! - in their hands.
Well, he thinks with a pang of grief, soon enough it will be the next guy’s problem.
Admiral Vorkosigan's rationale here is solid: Captain Jole is an ambitious man and he's reached the point of diminishing returns with this assignment as the Prime Minister's military secretary. If his career is to advance in the direction he's always desired, the time has come to move on. But never has an Imperial Service man faced the prospect of ship duty with such deeply conflicting emotions.
Oliver is no longer angry with his lover and mentor for putting his foot down and refusing to allow him to stay on for yet another year. “Time to run your race, Rabbit!” was his final word on the matter. And unlike previous years, he did not relent. Nor did she.
“To every thing there is a season, Oliver,” she said when he’d appealed to her, his last, desperate ploy to change Aral’s mind.
“He’ll come around,” he heard her whisper to Aral as he stalked from the room. As if he were a teenager and not a man of thirty-four. The same age, he realized with bitter irony, that Cordelia had been when she’d thrown over everything to come to Barrayar and marry Aral. How dare she not extend to him the right to make the same choice!
Several long, lonely nights later – foreshadowing the months and years to come – he thought better of spoiling the time they had left with pettiness. He and Aral picked up again as if nothing happened.
They don't apologize to each other. Aral knows he's not in the wrong. But neither is Oliver.
Because being sent from Aral's side, whatever the professional upside, feels like an exile. An abandonment.
Melodramatic much, Oliver? Cordelia's voice in his head.
Belike.
He chuckles inwardly at that mental exchange. Seven years with the Vorkosigans have wrought some changes, personally as well as professionally, oh yes.
"Seriously, though, you really should consider it," Cordelia persists.
Oliver turns in his chair to look at Aral, who rolls his eyes at his lover. Oliver keeps his face neutral, though Cordelia almost certainly knows exactly what her husband is doing behind her back. She folds her arms and waits. Oliver has seen her wait him out like that repeatedly.
“What should we consider, dear Captain?" Aral replies at last, voice resigned.
"Making the new man aware of your relationship, as part of his orientation."
This pronouncement is made in the same dry, analytical tone she uses when discussing everything from the weather to the inventory of sexual aids she keeps stocked for them all. Oliver long ago learned to discern the various emotions underlying this habit so he can read the deep concern.
Aral sighs. "This sounds like a permanent solution to a temporary situation."
“You won't be able to keep it a secret from him for long. Any man filling this position is going to be smart and observant enough to suss it out in short order. And you've been especially indiscreet of late.” She scrutinizes the library, a blend of wry amusement and mild irritation on her features. "I can smell the sex and testosterone in here." She wrinkles her nose as if to emphasize the point.
Oliver's mouth quirks in chagrin. She isn't wrong; lately he and Aral are at each other with nearly as much frequency and zeal as when they'd first started up, the looming end date driving their desperate need for each other. Part of their "lunch break" today had been spent with the library locked and sealed, and not due to business. And they are undoubtedly careless here at Vorkosigan House, though they exert themselves to greater professionalism at the Prime Minister's office in Vorhartung Castle.
Aral rolls his eyes unabashedly now. “You're exaggerating, dear Captain."
"That new department head of Illyan's figured it out at your first meeting."
Oliver twitches, wishing he hadn't shared that little tidbit with her.
"Unfair," Aral asserts, apparently unsurprised she knows that. "Simon hinted that there was something for him to know before he made the formal introductions. Besides, General Haroche is one of ImpSec's finest ferrets! It's how he rose to be Head of Domestic Affairs."
Cordelia sighs and her expression softens. "I understand, I do. This is a shitty time for both of you, made shittier by the fact you two still can't seem to talk about it."
Oliver's throat is suddenly quite tight. Aral stares into the fire.
Cordelia squeezes Oliver's hand gently, gives her husband a watery smile. It's a measure of how deep the sorrow goes for all three of them that it's hard for her to talk about, too. It's why she hasn't pressed the issue until today, when the new secretary is due to start soon, and the countdown is approaching the two-month mark.
What she really wants is for there to be some way that Oliver can have both his career and Aral. If this were Beta Colony, he could have, even if it still meant certain compromises. On Barrayar, it is just not possible. Aral knows it. And Oliver knows it.
"If you don't plan to tell him, gentlemen, then you have to be more circumspect while he is present," she tells them matter-of-factly, having gotten hold of herself. "You have every night between now and the day Oliver ships out. So, keep it in your pants during work hours."
This gets shaky laughter from both men.
"Alright, dear Captain," Aral rumbles good-naturedly. "We'll do our best."
********
That evening in the Blue Suite, Aral lets Oliver undress them both. Their activities are more limited than during that afternoon's session. He takes a justified measure of pride in his exceptional stamina, but he is seventy now – a fact that still causes him bewilderment – and certain aspects of an aging male's biology have caught up to him. There are pills for that, yes, but he is less than fond of them. He contents himself with helping Oliver get off and cuddling afterwards.
He and Oliver are relishing this unbroken series of nights sharing a bed – a luxury they have not enjoyed since their time together on the Prince Serg. Aral is in awe of Codelia’s generosity in ceding her nights for the balance of Oliver’s downside assignment. His lover’s initial reaction to her offer was slightly distressed refusal. She calmly pointed out that enduring a few weeks sleeping alone was not such a huge sacrifice when she would have him all the nights after the young man had gone. Oliver agreed with the stipulation that she could come and claim Aral if she needed him, whatever the hour or reason. Aral is pretty sure she has no intention of doing so, but it soothed Oliver’s scruples. The next day, he gave notice at his apartment, conscientiously kept for seven years, and moved full-time into the rooms in which the men have held their assignations since first consummating the newly negotiated relationship.
Simon made acerbic comments on the less-than-discreet arrangement but he was actually quite content to have one less location for his ImpSec teams to cover. He also half-jokingly announced his intention to get extremely drunk the day Captain Jole leaves for Tanery Base. In as much as it has been the source of innumerable security headaches, he cannot really blame the man for looking forward to the end of Aral and Oliver's "arrangement." And Aral knows his oldest and closest friend is not taking pleasure in his pain. The notion stings, nonetheless.
To drive such negative thoughts out of his head, Aral tightens his arms around his lover and cards a hand lovingly through the young man’s barely-regulation-length hair. Aral believes Oliver is asleep but at this movement, he stirs.
"Awake enough for an earnest conversation?" Aral queries softly after a few languid kisses. Oliver makes a vaguely affirmative noise. "Cordelia is right that we haven't really talked about... what's coming."
Oliver snorts derisively. "Why bother? It won't change anything."
Aral recoils slightly; regret instantly blooms on Oliver’s face. He takes Aral's hand and places a gentle kiss on the inside of his wrist in atonement.
"If you can look me in the eye and honestly tell me you don't want command anymore, Oliver," Aral murmurs into his hair, "that would change everything."
"You know I can't, Aral," he replies with clear reluctance.
"I thought as much."
"It doesn't make this hurt any less," Oliver whispers.
"I know," he replies, just as quietly. "You've always been the one who has sacrificed the most for this. More than I ever have."
"That's not true, love!"
Oliver closes his mouth on more protests when Aral makes a negating sound. They both know it is true; Aral even warned him it would be this way, in the beginning. If they cannot be honest about that now, seven years on....
"Alright, but it was always my choice,” he admits. Then more bitterly: “At least it was usually my choice.”
Aral, not sure how to respond, remains silent for long minutes. "I know you feel like I ran roughshod over you," he offers tentatively.
"You did run roughshod over me."
"Fair enough." Another long silence. "You know I'm not doing this to be rid of you, right? I made this decision because I wanted to protect your career. And because I thought I knew what you really wanted. But I should have talked to you about it."
"I do understand. And I love you for wanting to protect my career, even from me. You aren't wrong about what I want. But, yes, you should have talked to me." Oliver snuggles in closer, attempting to soften the blow.
"I am sorry. You'd think I'd have learned by now. Cordelia despairs of ever breaking me of all my bad Barrayaran habits."
With a boyish grin, Oliver rolls up on one elbow. He runs a finger down Aral's chest and across his belly. Then quests lower. His touch brings a gratifying response.
Oliver bends his head to lay fluttering kisses over Aral's throat. "I love your bad Barrayaran habits." His voice has gone deep with a different kind of emotion.
Aral hums ardently in his ear. "Then let me exhibit a few more of them for you."
********
Lieutenant Averill Tyson, the incoming Aide-de-camp, is decidedly Aral's type: clever, competent, and committed. Also blond-haired, blue-eyed, and tall, though not as tall as Oliver. Oliver knows he's only being replaced in his professional capacity, so he does not feel jealous, but there is a shade of professional angst at being faced with the end of their exceptional working relationship.
The personal grief, for the pending loss of the personal relationship is… a whole other thing he tries not to think about too hard during the day.
Oliver finds it fascinating to go through the training process from the other side. Not that he hasn’t taught a rather sizable number of subordinates over the years but breaking in his own replacement is a novel experience. He develops a new appreciation for Daniel Vorlambros’ graciousness during Oliver’s own probationary period.
The first two weeks rocket by in a haze. His days are impossibly full. By day there are seemingly endless information dumps, as well as his own studies for his coming assignment. And at night… well, he vastly prefers New Relationship Energy, but Ending Relationship Energy has some consolations. The times in between mind-blowing sex and the sleep of the righteous, however, are intensely emotional. It’s draining in a way he didn’t quite expect.
The start of Tyson’s third week on the job coincides with the regularly scheduled paperwork clearance day, always held at Vorkosigan House. Oliver rises earlier than usual so he can be downstairs to greet the Lieutenant in the foyer, give him the quarter-mark tour, and introduce him to a few more of the Vorkosigan Armsmen. Then they head to the library, where a temporary secured comconsole has been set up for Tyson. Even with Oliver needing to direct the trainee, the work goes faster than usual.
Aral takes a long lunch break with Cordelia. Oliver abstained willingly enough the night before and this morning for the sake of his metamour, though it’s more about the pair missing their day-to-day intimacy than the physical act of sex. Still, he’s not above grinning pointedly at Aral for being unable to last even three weeks without her.
Oliver takes Tyson downstairs to introduce him to the kitchen staff and get them good sized portions of the shepherd’s pie Cook is serving the staff and Armsmen for lunch. They take their plates out to the ground floor veranda that overlooks the central garden. The kitchen is cozy, but it is not in the least bit private. Besides, the early spring weather is too lovely not to take advantage of. They chat idly as they eat. Oliver tries not to let the talk veer too often into work; the new man needs to begin the habit of guarding his lunches as real downtime now or he will quickly find his schedule eating him alive.
But eventually, inevitably the conversation turns to business, to a superior officer checking in on a subordinate.
“So, head still above water?” he asks in encouraging tones.
Tyson blows out a breath. “Only by a dint of fierce kicking and arm waving,” he replies good naturedly. Well, Aral’s secretaries do tend to have a particular personality type, he thinks wryly. It takes a certain sense of humor couple with an evenness of temperament to do this job. “It’s… a lot.”
“That it is!” Oliver chuckles. “It gets better, I promise.”
“When does it?” Tyson asks, only half joking.
“On about year three.”
They both laugh out loud at that.
“So, impressions of the Great Man himself, so far?”
Tyson’s mouth turns down at that and his eyes go a little stony.
Oh, hell, what’s this?
In Oliver’s experience, the reactions of junior officers to Prime Minister Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan usually fall into one of two categories: 1) initial over-awed admiration that eventually deepens into a true respect or 2) initial feigned insouciance which eventually turns into true respect. There are the outliers, of course, people whose characters are so differently formed from Aral’s as to make them capable only of “respecting the office” at the end of the day. And not a few proles with such a chip on their shoulders about their non-Vor status that Oliver wonders what they’re doing in the Service in the first place. Well, and Komarrans.
But Tyson could not have made it this far if he was either overly conservative or abnormally class-conscious. And Simon Illyan will eat his own service weapon before allowing a Komarran – however carefully vetted – into Aral’s inner circle, much less to be last-man-standing between the Butcher and, well, his fellow Komarrans, potentially.
“You have a concern, Lieutenant?” Captain Jole asks in a brisk, authoritative voice, because this seems a professional matter.
The younger man hesitates, his frown deepening. “I… no, it’s nothing, sir.” He lowers his eyes and scrapes at the crumbs on his plate with his fork.
Jole sits still for a moment. He fingers the knife at his belt; it's not standard service issue, but a custom-made blade, personally issued to him by Emperor Gregor. He’s momentarily struck by the thought he may have to give up the little weapon when this assignment is done. He shakes off this distraction and he draws the knife. He lays it on the wooden bench between him and Tyson, startling the young man.
The captain fixes the lieutenant with a piercing look. “Show me yours, Tyson.” His voice is soft but there is no mistaking his words for anything other than an order.
The lieutenant immediately produces his own blade, lays it next to Captain Jole's
“That’s a true weapon, Lieutenant Tyson,” Jole says steadily. “One you may be called on to use some day. I was, once. And I will never forget that occasion. It is also a tangible symbol of the ultimate duty of your position, to stand between the Prime Minister and all comers. That requires a great deal of mutual trust. No one expects that to develop overnight, but if you’re forming doubts instead, well, that’s a problem.”
The younger man nods reluctantly and spits it out: “It’s just... I think he treats you unprofessionally, sir!”
Merde!
“Can you clarify that?” Jole asks, stalling for time to think; he certainly can guess what the man means.
“He… the way he acts with you, it’s very… familiar.”
Jole suppresses the curses that are trying to fight their way out of his throat. Obviously, they were not as restrained at work as he thought. And they used to be so good at keeping their professional and personal spheres separate. He’ll have to warn Aral.
For now, he feigns misunderstanding. “Well, the Prime Minister and I have known each other for a long time.”
“That’s… not what I mean, sir.”
Damn! Oliver is really not liking where this is going.
He gives an uncomprehending but not discouraging expression.
Tyson shakes his head. “It’s just… it’s the way he looks at you and how he t-touches you.” The young man takes a deep breath. “Like he owns you.”
Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Oh, shit!
Tyson’s eyes are steely now. He goes on determinedly: “He… I saw him put his hands on your shoulders a few days ago, when he thought I couldn’t see. And… and you flinched and said “Please, sir.” And he backed off but….”
Oliver rocks back, heart and mind racing.
Oh, God! Cordelia was right; they should have read the kid in immediately. He is just as astute as predicted. Except he seems to have taken what he observed and drawn a very different, if equally – horribly – obvious conclusion.
“In this case, Lieutenant, you seem to have gotten a hold of the wrong end of the stick,” he says guardedly.
"I know what I saw," Tyson persists, his mouth now set in a stubborn line. "And I know what it means when a superior lays his hands on a subordinate that way, sir!" Yes, the Lieutenant also graduated from the Imperial Academy; he attended Vorkosigan's Day like every senior class since the Regency. And the additional seminars on resisting illegal orders that included sexual coercion.
Oliver picks up the knife from the bench, slides it back in its pocket at his left thigh. He takes a deep breath, pauses for thought. He must get this right. Everything could be riding on it. He draws the boy in by eye, a trick he's seen both Cordelia and Aral do a thousand times, which he isn't always as capable at pulling off. But Tyson looks him plainly in the face as he says:
"Lieutenant, I'm not denying what you saw. Only your interpretation of it. You observed correctly that there is something between the Prime Minister and me. But it is not what you were thinking. On my honor as an officer and in my own breath and voice I swear to you there is no coercion here. And no one's oaths have been betrayed."
The young man regards him dubiously.
"If you wish verification, you can apply to the Countess for it. Or Simon Illyan. Or the Emperor himself."
Tyson gapes.
"The Emp...." He trails off then tries again. "I don't understand, sir."
"We, the Prime Minister and I, have an established, consensual intimate relationship of many years’ standing, with the full knowledge and consent of Countess Vorkosigan. The Emperor knows. The Chief of Imperial Security knows." Half of bloody Impsec know! "There are no laws or regulations against it. We've checked. So, I repeat there is no coercion here. And no broken oaths."
"But," Tyson whispers, his face turning a bright red. "But, he and the Countess...?" He waves a hand vaguely toward the upper floor. So, the observant lieutenant picked up on the true nature of Aral and Cordelia's "conference." "It was one thing I couldn't reconcile with... what I saw."
"Rumors of the felicity in their marriage are true, I assure you. What he and I have is separate and does not detract from what they are to each other." He smiles sympathetically at the younger man's wide-eyed stare. "It's okay if it takes a minute to get your head around it. Our society is relentlessly heterosexual and monogamous. Most people find it hard to believe that a man can love two people, one of them also a man, at the same time."
He holds his breath; Tyson might be one of Aral's rare failures in picking personnel. But after a minute, the lieutenant's face clears, and Oliver chides himself for doubting the young man's ability to assimilate new information. "Oh. I see. I think."
Oliver exhales relief, allows himself a moment for his heartrate to drop, then presses on. Best to get it out there.
“I apologize, Lieutenant. We should have told you from the beginning. The Prime Minister thought..." - no, he cannot throw Aral under this particular bus; he'd sat in the library and agreed to keep this secret, too - "We both thought there was no need for you to know. It was only a couple of months, and then I would be gone. It seemed simpler. Evidently, we were less... careful than we should have been. What you saw in the office that day was not a rejection, but a reminder."
Tyson blinks several times, as if trying to reset his brain. Then the lieutenant’s expression changes to consternation of a different sort.
"My God! What I accused him of! I'm terribly sorry...."
But Oliver cuts across him. "No! Do not apologize for that." He puts a hand cautiously on the younger man's shoulder, is relieved when the Lieutenant doesn’t avoid the contact. "You made an entirely logical conclusion based on astute observation. You just had incomplete information. And I know exactly how much courage it took for you to say all that to me. I promise you, the Prime Minister will both understand and appreciate it."
Tyson’s eyes go wide. "You're going to tell him?"
Oliver gives him a wry look.
"Alright, stupid question," the young man acknowledges. "Of course, you have to tell him." He turns even more red, mortification plain on his face.
“Right,” Oliver says, deliberately changing the subject. “We still have over an hour before we need to be back at our comconsoles. Do you want some time to yourself, or shall I show you the attics?”
Lieutenant Tyson smiles his relief at Captain Jole’s mercy. “Oh, the attics, sir, for sure!”
********
Oliver requests to join Cordelia and Aral for dinner. She is a little surprised because Oliver doesn’t like to impose on her time with Aral, especially now that he is taking up so much of it. Even before this new schedule, he seldom accepted her invitations to join them for a meal more than once in a week, and he dined with them just a few days ago. But she always says yes whenever he asks, and this time is no exception.
That evening in the little private dining parlor, the reason becomes clear as he reports – and it is very clearly a military-style report, to her amusement – the conversation he had that afternoon with the new secretary.
She doesn’t say ‘I told you so’ but then she doesn’t have to. They both know.
“We do need to be more mindful of our actions during work shifts, Aral,” Oliver asserts, slipping back into more familiar address to soften the harshness of the pronouncement. Cordelia privately thinks he should have held to the more formal tone but bites her tongue on any criticism. “And you need to reassure him that his position is safe.”
“I do? I thought you said you’d settled him.” Aral’s expression turns from slightly embarrassed to a touch reproachful.
“Aral.” Cordelia keeps her voice calm but fills it with the commander’s firmness that has never quite left her. She doesn’t use it on Aral very often, but it's always effective, and this moment seems to call for it. “Talk to Lieutenant Tyson. Do it tomorrow.”
“Yes, my Captain.” He says it steadily, his face bland, no sign of the mortification she knows he feels.
“See that he does,” she tells Oliver, which gets her an indignant frown from her husband, and an amused, indulgent smirk from her metamour.
“Yes, Cordelia.”
The two men exchange faux henpecked expressions, making her want to smack them. But the interaction is also achingly endearing, so she refrains.
“Right, then, Aral, what have we heard from our Miles?”
********
To Aral’s chagrin, Oliver schedules the three of them for an early AM meeting at Vorhartung Castle. Aral grumbles about it the from the moment their alarm goes off until his first steps into the door of his office. Then Lieutenant Tyson arrives and the Prime Minister turns all business.
“I believe that I owe you an apology, Lieutenant Tyson,” he says matter-of-factly as soon as the young man is seated next to Jole before the great wooden desk.
Tyson glances, wide-eyed, at Jole, who gives him only an encouraging nod. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t think it’s necessary, sir.”
Aral is momentarily taken aback but under Jole’s firm gaze, plunges on. “It is, Lieutenant. There are of course things you won’t be privy to, given our relative positions, but this” – he gestures vaguely between himself and Jole – “was not a secret I should have kept from you. You deserved the respect of being trusted with something you could not have helped observing. For not extending you that curtesy, I do apologize.”
Tyson takes a deep breath, nods grimly. “Alright then, accepted, sir.”
“Good.” He hesitates for a moment then presses on. “For my part, I am gratified to know that you are a man of strong character. And that you have internalized the training you’ve been given. I believe you will continue to be an asset to my staff.”
“I don’t know, sir.” Tyson purses his lips, looking down at his hands, obviously disconcerted. “I feel like maybe I’m not a good fit here. I leapt to a dangerously wrong conclusion, sir. And compounded the mistake by not saying anything until the Captain practically forced it out of me.”
“That’s not how I see things. Your assessment was incorrect but hardly unreasonable, given the facts in front of you. And you took advantage of the first opportunity to bring it to a superior officer’s attention.” Tyson starts to object but Aral holds up a hand to stop him temporarily. “I won’t downplay how much of an impact a mistake in this job can make, Lieutenant, but they’re as inevitable as the sunrise and this one, at least, is not lethal. Your record speaks to your potential and I trust you’ll do better in the future.”
Tyson, apparently a little pole-axed, glances at Oliver, who gives the young man what Aral can easily interpret as an I told you so smirk. His heart warms and pinches at the same time at the faith that his young lover has in him.
“That being said,” he continues determinedly. “If you feel that you cannot trust me after this… misstep, then we can arrange for a transfer for you. I happen to know the assistant to the Imperial Counselor is in need of a deputy, a position roughly equivalent to this one, and off-world experience to boot.”
Oliver and young Tyson fix him with equally shocked stares.
“Sir!” Oliver blurts but Tyson cuts across him with a: “No, sir!” He looks, if possible, even more appalled for a second then grabs hold of his emotions and gives Aral a bland expression. “No, sir, thank you. I’ll stay if it pleases you.”
“Good. That’s settled.”
Relieved, he stands, causing both Oliver and Tyson to pop to their feet as well. Aral holds out his hand to the young lieutenant who, after only a split second’s hesitation, takes it. Aral gives the young man a satisfied nod, then sits again.
“Right,” he says in a firm tone. “What’s next?”
********
Aral is hurt that Oliver won’t let them come to the base to see him off. He understands Oliver’s reasoning; having to keep his Prime Minister Vorkosigan mask up in the semi-public venue of the shuttle port while he’s dying inside really would be harder than this. Still, it takes all his self-control to stay where he is and watch as Oliver leaves their suite for the final time.
Cordelia gently guides him back to their rooms once the young man has disappeared down the stairs. Aral dreads the coming workday; he really should have managed the timing of Jole’s departure better so he would not have to deal with so many annoying people while he’s inevitably going to be short tempered.
“You can take the day, you know,” she reminds him as he puts on his uniform; dress greens because they are scheduled for the Vorhartung Castle office today.
He shakes his head mutely. "My car will be waiting."
He finishes closing the clasps on his collar, fixes his face into professional blankness and leaves her with a sad smile.
Lieutenant Tyson appears in the foyer as Aral makes his way down the main staircase. It is a full ten seconds before he realizes that Tyson is holding a crate of flimsies.
“It’s the oddest thing, sir,” the young man says in a voice so blatantly innocent Aral knows instantly that it’s a put on. “But your entire slate of meetings cancelled at the last moment. Even the Emperor has said he needs to postpone your daily report. So I thought we might make an impromptu paperwork day instead.”
Aral stands stunned for a moment. He can feel the tears trying to creep into his eyes and fights them down manfully. He turns away from his new secretary and hides his embarrassed gratitude in a cough.
“Ah, well, that’s….” his voice catches. He breathes. After a minute he turns back and says quietly. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Tyson.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir,” the boy says brightly. “Shall we?” He nods toward the library.
“Allons y!” Aral replies. And moves decisively down the hall.