Chapter Text
May you dream you are dreaming in a warm soft bed
And may the voices inside you that fill you with dread
Make the sounds of thousands of angels instead
Tonight where you might be laying your head
Nobody’s Crying
Patty Griffen
The Midsummer Ball had far exceeded Aral’s expectations, which was all due to his wife. Weeks ago, he’d made a passing comment, and in true Cordelia fashion, she had turned it into a full benign conspiracy to allow him to dance with his paramour at the Imperial Residence. Albeit only after everyone had been pushed out of the heavily guarded ballroom late in the night so they could do so unobserved – the Prime Minister of Barrayar couldn’t be seen dancing with his male lover, after all – but Aral would take what he could get.
Now, riding home in the official Vorkosigan groundcar, he smiled in deepest satisfaction at the memory. His eyes slid to his lady – his Countess, his Captain – sitting next to him, only to find her watching him with that damned knowing smirk of hers. Twenty years together and that expression still drove him crazy, in ways both good and bad, often at the same time. Provoked, he leaned over to kiss her.
Oliver, seated across the compartment from them both, put a hand to his mouth to cover his smile and pretended not to notice. If he was ever jealous of Aral and Cordelia's freedom to exchange displays of affection in public, or these semi-private spaces, he'd never shown it. Had in fact, always seemed, like now, to go a little soft-eyed with affectionate amusement at the sight. It was an odd echo of Cordelia's more exuberant delight on the rarer occasions when she observed the two men exchanging kisses in some more private venue.
Cordelia, eventually parting her lips from Aral’s with some reluctance, turned a bright Betan smile on the young blond lieutenant.
“So, did ImpSec pat you down before you got in the car, then?” she asked, her tone full of innocence and her eyes blazing with mischief.
It had become routine for Aral’s security detail to require Lieutenant Jole to turn out his pockets at the end of any social event he attended in the Prime Minister’s train. The junior officer’s vid-star good looks drew a great deal of attention, some of it quite peculiar. The most peculiar being “offerings” slipped into the receptacles of his dress uniform by various anonymous attendees. Usually, these consisted of comconsole codes scribbled on random scraps of paper, napkins and the like. Occasionally even more blatantly suggestive items such as room keys, and once a pair of lady’s underwear, were included in the haul.
Aral knew that ImpSec dutifully attempted to track down the originators of these strange messages, though he never asked for a report on anyone they were able to identify. Simon would have informed him had they turned up a convoluted treason plot that involved seducing the Prime Minister’s military aide.
Cordelia’s glee at this phenomenon, Aral thought, was completely inappropriate and disproportionate. On the other hand, he couldn’t really complain about the effect her teasing had on Oliver.
On cue, Aral’s lover blushed crimson. Self-consciously, he began sorting through his pockets.
Though his hands were still in the white gloves correct for Imperial dress red-and-blues, Oliver handled his findings between his thumb and forefinger, laying them gingerly on the empty seat between him and Armsman Pym. A sudden furrowing of Oliver's brows alerted Aral to something unusual. He watched with unabashed interest as a white envelope emerged from one jacket pocket.
Oliver held it up and unfolded it to reveal the words Count Aral Vorkosigan written in a neat hand on the front.
“Huh,” he huffed. “This one’s addressed to you, sir.”
Armsman Pym who had been carefully pretending not to watch these proceedings, looked over at the note in consternation and murmured something into his wristcom.
“Well, that’s a twist!” Cordelia quipped, though the ghost of apprehension played over her features.
Aral, curiosity piqued, held his hand out. “Let me see it.”
Pym and Oliver both favored him with identical pained expressions. Then Jole hastily retrieved the napkins, while the Armsman knocked on the divider between the front and rear compartments. A panel in the partition slid open and the lieutenant passed the items to the ImpSec agent sitting in the passenger seat. The agent took the stack in his own gloved fingers.
“Is that everything, Lieutenant?” the agent asked in a clipped, professional tone.
“Yes, sir,” Jole answered promptly.
“You’re wearing gloves?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take them off from the wrists, so they turn inside out and hand them to me, please.”
Oliver did as he was instructed. The agent then placed both pairs of gloves, the envelope and each of the napkins into individual plastic bags, before popping the whole lot into a larger opaque container. He gave the occupants of the rear compartment an ImpSec salute then closed the panel.
Cordelia, unsurprisingly, rolled her eyes at the whole paranoid process. “What, he’s not taking your jacket, too?” she asked Oliver sardonically. “Guess it's good there wasn’t anything in your pants pockets.”
“Basic precaution, milady.” Pym said slightly defensively; Aral’s newest liege man was retired ImpSec and clearly took Cordelia’s comment to be a slur on his former unit specifically, rather than the commentary on Barrayar in general that she’d meant it to be. “It’s a low probability threat or he’d have made us pull over and decom the vehicle.”
“That wasn’t actually my point, Pym,” she replied, dryly, but then gave him a contrite half-shrug. Thankfully she didn’t attempt anything as embarrassing – to the Armsman – as actually apologizing.
Pym seemed to catch it anyway. “Yes, milday,” he intoned evenly.
“So, any clue where it came from?” Cordelia addressed Oliver again.
The younger man shook his head, brow furrowed. “I don’t remember anyone getting close enough to slip me anything.”
Cordelia grinned. “You say that every time.” He blushed again but merely looked down at his now bare hands. “Did you see what it said at least?” she asked.
“It was addressed to A… the Prime Minister,” he asserted. All the explanation he felt necessary.
Aral, in a bid to rescue his wife and his lover from their looming culture clash, rumbled: “ImpSec will review the footage of the event and find out who it was from. Simon will come tell us all we need to know about it in the morning.”
Cordelia frowned at this but merely remarked cryptically:
“Curiouser and curiouser.”