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“Father?”
Count Vorkosigan looked up to see his son standing in the doorway to his study. Lord Vorkosigan’s too-expressive face radiated unmistakable guilt.
“Oh, God!” Piotr groaned, more to himself than to Aral. He tossed aside the report he’d been reading. “What have you done now, boy?” he asked aloud.
Surprise joined the guilt on Aral’s face, then both expressions fled as he mustered his reserve, schooling his feature to blankness. His practiced control was returning, the Count mused, now that he had been sober for nearly six weeks. But he’d given away enough for Piotr’s purposes.
“This have to do with where you got to last night.” It wasn’t a question. It was no mystery where Aral would be when he didn’t come home from his shift the previous evening. Unfortunately.
Aral nodded curtly. He silently reached up to loosen his collar, revealing finger-sized bruises around his throat.
“Dammit, Aral!” Piotr clamped his jaw on additional invective. Not that he needed to voice any; Aral could read the oft-repeated words in Piotr’s hot glare.
Intending to call an Armsman to fetch the medkit, Piotr reached for the comm. Aral waved a negating hand.
“There’s only these bruises, and some scratches,” he said, flat-voiced. “Nothing that needs treating before I take my punishment.”
Suppressing a sigh more of frustration than anger, Piotr regarded his son. Aral had done this as a child, too: immediately confessing his transgressions and accepting without complaint whatever consequence his parents saw fit to inflict. Olivia had too often used his contrition as an excuse to go easy on the boy. Piotr... not so much. Not that he had needed to resort to corporal punishments very often; a stern lecture generally sufficed to keep young Aral out of mischief, often for months at a time.
At least, it had until the advent of that twisted fairy, Ges Vorrutyer, in his son's life.
And now, Aral had broken his word as Vorkosigan, to his father, to his Count. A severe breach of honor, his own and Piotr’s. That required a severe penalty. And the Count had as much as sworn that a beating would be the penalty for doing so in this case.
To Piotr’s mind, the boy was far too eager for that consequence. Which meant, ironically, Piotr could not give it to him. The only reason he'd applied it after Aral's previous drug and alcohol fueled liaison with his toxic paramour was that he, Piotr, was desperate. Nothing else had worked these past two years to separate the pair permanently. And clearly it hadn't worked last time either.
Well, back to more tried and true methods, then. Aral was a soldier, after all.
“Come in and close the door,” he commanded, in the clipped, professional tones of General Vorkosigan.
Aral obeyed with alacrity, locking the door in anticipation of his father’s next order, then standing at a stiff parade rest, waiting.
“You are confined to the House until further notice.” Piotr addressed his son calmly and firmly, as he would have any other foolish young officer - though that was a redundant phrase in his long experience. “You are to report – on time – for your regular shifts and return directly home to report to me. I will set a schedule of regular study, physical training, nutrition, and sleep for you to follow in your off-duty hours. Outside of official events requiring your attendance, or any District-related tasks I assign, you are strictly forbidden to socialize with anyone. No comm calls or visitors. Not even a quick drink with your comrades. Understood?”
Aral blinked, surprise registering again. And something far too close to disappointment for Piotr’s comfort. “Y-yes, sir,” he stammered, before making his face blank again.
“What? Not enough for you?” Piotr allowed a hint of anger to leak into the questions. “I could throw in some manual labor. The gardener could use your strong back. He's developed a touch arthritis of late.”
“No, sir, it’s not that. I just thought… well, you said….” He trailed off but Piotr could almost hear the boy’s internalized whine: You promised to hurt me!
Damn that pervert Vorrutyer for fucking Aral’s head up so grievously. Was the damage irreparable? Pray not!
“Did you think to expiate your guilt with a quick and dirty punishment, boy?” Piotr asked, almost gently. “I will not let you off that easily.”
“Easy?!” Aral’s normal baritone rose an octave, the exclamation laced with the familiar belligerence. “You call that easy, sir? The bruises you inflicted took as long to heal as all the rest combined!”
Piotr choked on that. Aral's aim was, as ever, accurate, bulls-eying Piotr's own sore spot. But guilt was an emotion Piotr never acknowledged. Through iron will and ancient habit, he maintained his temper, and his resolve.
“Pain is easy for you,” he pressed on, coolly. “‘Pain’s as good as alcohol for forgetfulness.’” Aral flinched to have his own words thrown back at him; the obstreperousness that had begun to rear up subsided just as swiftly. “But I do not want you to forget your transgressions, Lord Vorkosigan. Because they are dangerous, dishonorable, and not to be repeated. Nothing I have done to date has awakened you to your duty, to me and to your House. Perhaps treating you like a first-year cadet again will be the magic bullet.”
Shame suffused the boy’s features. He stood silent, contemplative. Good! Piotr thought. Let the lesson sink in this time.
“I-I am sorry, Father,” Aral said eventually. And with a ring of true sincerity. “For whatever it is worth, I am as heartily sick of myself as you must be of me.”
“That remains to be seen,” Piotr said gruffly, not allowing the flash of hope those words inspired to move him even a millimeter. “Actions speaking louder than words, boy. Show me, don’t tell me.”
Aral straightened to attention, his chin tic'ing up determinedly, and replied crisply: “Sir, yes, sir!”
“Very good!” Piotr riffled through a stack of flimsies, selected a half dozen, then handed them over to his son. “Go over these reports thoroughly. Then write a summary and a recommended plan of action for each. Be ready to defend your positions to me after dinner. If you finish those before mealtime, see me. I will have something more for you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” Aral took the proffered flimsies, tucked them securely under his left arm, and snapped off a smart salute.
“Dismissed.”
Aral turned on his heel, but with no sign of his former tension or belligerence. Piotr watched impassively as his son unlocked and opened the study door and stepped into the hall.
“Behave, boy,” he whispered to his son’s retreating form.
It was very like a prayer.