Work Text:
One thing you learned fast, ruling three planets: the best intelligence was firsthand, and the best way to get it was to eavesdrop.
Gregor paused in the doorway, not exactly hiding, but not exactly announcing his presence, either. Not like they would have noticed him, anyway.
"Right," Miles was saying. "So you have to take into account variable wind speeds, right?"
"We're indoors," said Aral.
Miles sailed right on through this. "Also, at high altitudes, you get a variable density effect--the air pressure differential disperses the spray pattern." He tapped the small, wicked looking gas delivery canister between them on the rug. "So really, in all cases, the closer you can get to your target, the better."
"Okay," said Aral, with commendable patience.
"So," said Miles. "Your target has assumed the geographic advantage of higher ground. Remember, when assaulting from below, you have to be careful not to target yourself on the backspray."
He placed the canister in Aral's pliant hands, then bodily turned and aimed him at the sofa. "There," he said triumphantly. "See what you can do with that."
Aral looked from Miles to the canister to the sofa. "But da," he said plaintively. "I like Negri."
"Excuse me," said Gregor, making himself known. "Am I interrupting?"
"No," said Miles, trying unsuccessfully to retrieve the canister.
"Da was teaching me to shoot the cat," said Aral, helpfully.
"Don't you have homework?" said Miles, snatching the canister away.
"No," said Aral placidly. "I did it."
"Miles," said Gregor, approaching. "Please tell me that isn't full of--" He let out a startled yip, leaping back as Miles stood up and shot him full in the face. ". . . knockout gas," he finished, dripping.
"Water," said Miles, sweetly.
Aral looked up from the floor. "Da is trying to teach me to be a domestic terrorist," he said solemnly.
Negri opened one unconcerned eye, yawned, licked a paw, and went back to sleep.