Title: Ship Duty Fandom: Vorkosigan Series, between Brothers in Arms and Memory Rating: Gen Warnings: None apply so far, but unfinished. I'll note if it changes. Um, this is the first fanfic I’ve ever posted, so that’s the warning.
Ship Duty
Lieutenant Lord Ivan Vorpatril looked at Captain Duvalier and smiled thinly. “Ship duty?” he echoed, feeling hollow. Anything more coherent seemed beyond him.
Duvalier grinned. “You’ve been complaining for years about being stuck dirtside, and you deserve better. Never say I never did anything for you.”
“I would never say that, sir,” Ivan said automatically. He was sure his smile was sickly, but his superior didn’t seem to notice. He was too happy with himself -- and really, Ivan reminded himself, why shouldn’t he be? Ivan had complained about being stuck dirtside. Whined, even. He knew it. He even knew why. But somehow, telling Duvalier that he’d been lying for the past three years -- that all his moaning about working on nice, large planets with nice, wide horizons and nice, big rooms had been a put-on? Not going to happen. Not in this lifetime.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, because Duvalier had earned it. Saying Fuck you for putting me back in one of those goddamned tin coffins seemed pretty unfair, all things considered.
#
Ivan staggered back to his flat, only to find Byerly Vorrutyer sitting outside his door, legs stretched out to trip him. He managed not to fall. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, though it may not have come out quite right.
“Congratulating you,” By said cheerfully. “You’ve got what you always wanted, I heard.”
“Fuck you,” Ivan said, but without any heat, and leaned against the wall because the floor wasn’t level any more.
By looked him up and down. “Not in your condition. Come on, I’ll help you in.”
He fumbled the keycard, and didn’t object when By picked it up and opened the door. Then By put a very solid arm around him and dragged him in, to the couch, and set him down. “You’re used to this,” Ivan observed, meaning, manhandling drunks. “Why are you here?”
By had disappeared, though. Ivan waited, and he reappeared, this time with a glass of water. “Because they’re giving you ship duty, and you’re going to do something stupid about it. Drink.”
There was something in the water, though he couldn’t taste it. Suddenly, Ivan was stone cold sober. “What is that stuff?”
“Water. And a little something from Escobar. You’re a very trusting drunk, you know.”
“Yeah,” Ivan sighed. How could he have let Byerly Vorrutyer into his flat? Though he had to admit that Byerly hadn’t even said anything nasty yet. “Why are you here? I want an answer this time.”
By sighed back. “Look. It doesn’t serve anyone if you crash your damned car or something else like that at the moment.”
“I don’t know why it would bother you,” Ivan said suspiciously. “You don’t like me. You don’t do anything but flirt and buy clothes.”
By smiled sweetly and made an expansive gesture with his hands. “Ivan, Ivan, Ivan. Do you know how many men, discovering that you are so decidedly heterosexual, turn to the nearest Vor faggot for consolation? Believe me, dear boy, I would be heartbroken if you should damage your pretty face.”
It was almost believable. But there was something off with what By was saying -- though it was true that By slept with men, and very few Vor advertised such a thing, and yes Ivan had gently refused a number of uninteresting offers in that vein.... By was a very good actor, but for once Ivan had the sense that he was acting. “That makes no sense,” he said. “First of all, why do you think I’m due for an accident?”
“I think you’d cut out your eyes if it would get you out of ship duty,” By said frankly, dropping the pose. “You wouldn’t have to do anything deliberate. Everyone knows you drive like a maniac. Just think of being in that ship while driving....” He trailed off. Ivan felt a little green.
“I’d rather not, thank you,” he said stiffly. Conceding the point, he supposed. “Why would you notice? Why would you care?”
“Notice? I notice everything. The only enclosed space you’ll get into is your car, and no one thinks you’re exactly sane in that thing. Care?” By shrugged. “I told you why. Take it or leave it.”
“Huh. Well, I’m sober now and I’m hungry. Don’t expect me to feed you,” he said, and wandered into the kitchen. He heated up some of what his mother disdainfully called “bachelor chow” and considered a bottle of wine, but settled on some tea instead.
Sadly, By had taken over the couch when he returned. He sat in the chair, his dinner tray in his lap. “Still here? If you’re so hard up, why’d you turn me down? Not that I was offering.”
By blinked at the change in subject. “You were drunk, and I knew perfectly well you weren’t offering.”
“What does my sobriety have to do with it?” Ivan asked between bites. He did not recall anyone ever turning him down on the grounds of his drunkenness. Other reasons, sure, but not that.
“You may have heard of my wicked uncle,” he said dryly. “Everyone thinks I have, shall we say, similar sexual proclivities, but my only real fetish is for consent.”
Ivan considered that, and the implications. “Do you think women can give meaningful consent?” he asked slowly, feeling the click as certain pieces of history and knowledge fitted together finally.
By looked very satisfied at the question, as though it answered something for him. “In general? Of course. On Barrayar? Let’s just say that I need...evidence.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
By looked up to the ceiling. His expression was so patiently exasperated that he looked a little like Ivan’s mother. “I don’t know. Maybe so you’ll stop pretending and admit you’re claustrophobic as fuck?”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that. Ship duty, man. I have to protect my steady stream of disappointed Ivanophiles, remember? Focus.”
Ivan laughed, because he had been meant to, but then found he had nothing else to say. Because what did you say when someone you’ve despised for years, in a general way, finds out your darkest secret and says he wants to help you? He didn’t exactly believe the reason, but he did believe that, unlikely as it was, By wanted to help. Not for the disappointed Ivanophiles -- or at least, not solely because of them -- but he was somehow sure it was genuine.
“All right,” he said slowly. “I don’t like small spaces. Ever since Earth.... I couldn’t take the trip back. I was in sick bay for the physical stuff, I didn’t even have to do anything, and I just kept taking tranqs one after another.... They therapized me, y’know? By the end, I wasn’t taking anything at all. I could walk and talk just like a real boy.”
“But you still weren’t doing anything,” By said gently.
“If I’m on a ship with real duties, I’ll get someone killed.”
“Yes,” By agreed; when Ivan looked at him, he added, “I’ve seen you drive.”
“I’m not that unsafe,” he protested.
“No, of course not, not driving.” By was using that gentle voice again, which ought to have been annoying but wasn’t. “So the therapy didn’t take?”
He laughed and then stopped, because it didn’t sound like laughter. It sounded horribly bitter. “They stopped at Beta Colony on the way. It went very well, you know.”
By nodded. “The Betans have a very good opinion of their therapies. It might not occur to them that it wouldn’t work, if you were acting as though it were. You can be very convincing. I thought you were an idiot for almost two decades. Even your family....” he shook his head. “Do you know why I hate Vorkosigan?” he asked suddenly.
What could he say? You may have heard of my wicked uncle. Such a flippant way to refer to one of the more flagrant sadists and war criminals in Barrayar’s bloody history. “Yes.”
“I’m not going to stand by and do nothing.”
As Uncle Aral had, for years. Ivan had some suspicions about the wicked uncle’s death, but that had been a long time coming. “This is hardly similar,” Ivan protested.
By just stood up. “You should sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow about your little problem.” He let himself out.
#
Ivan finished his dinner and his tea and sat in the chair for a long time. Every time he drifted off, he heard the faint sound of water, dripping on metal.
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Beginning of commentfic: Ship Duty
Date: 2010-08-06 01:16 am (UTC)Fandom: Vorkosigan Series, between Brothers in Arms and Memory
Rating: Gen
Warnings: None apply so far, but unfinished. I'll note if it changes. Um, this is the first fanfic I’ve ever posted, so that’s the warning.
Ship Duty
Lieutenant Lord Ivan Vorpatril looked at Captain Duvalier and smiled thinly. “Ship duty?” he echoed, feeling hollow. Anything more coherent seemed beyond him.
Duvalier grinned. “You’ve been complaining for years about being stuck dirtside, and you deserve better. Never say I never did anything for you.”
“I would never say that, sir,” Ivan said automatically. He was sure his smile was sickly, but his superior didn’t seem to notice. He was too happy with himself -- and really, Ivan reminded himself, why shouldn’t he be? Ivan had complained about being stuck dirtside. Whined, even. He knew it. He even knew why. But somehow, telling Duvalier that he’d been lying for the past three years -- that all his moaning about working on nice, large planets with nice, wide horizons and nice, big rooms had been a put-on? Not going to happen. Not in this lifetime.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, because Duvalier had earned it. Saying Fuck you for putting me back in one of those goddamned tin coffins seemed pretty unfair, all things considered.
#
Ivan staggered back to his flat, only to find Byerly Vorrutyer sitting outside his door, legs stretched out to trip him. He managed not to fall. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, though it may not have come out quite right.
“Congratulating you,” By said cheerfully. “You’ve got what you always wanted, I heard.”
“Fuck you,” Ivan said, but without any heat, and leaned against the wall because the floor wasn’t level any more.
By looked him up and down. “Not in your condition. Come on, I’ll help you in.”
He fumbled the keycard, and didn’t object when By picked it up and opened the door. Then By put a very solid arm around him and dragged him in, to the couch, and set him down. “You’re used to this,” Ivan observed, meaning, manhandling drunks. “Why are you here?”
By had disappeared, though. Ivan waited, and he reappeared, this time with a glass of water. “Because they’re giving you ship duty, and you’re going to do something stupid about it. Drink.”
There was something in the water, though he couldn’t taste it. Suddenly, Ivan was stone cold sober. “What is that stuff?”
“Water. And a little something from Escobar. You’re a very trusting drunk, you know.”
“Yeah,” Ivan sighed. How could he have let Byerly Vorrutyer into his flat? Though he had to admit that Byerly hadn’t even said anything nasty yet. “Why are you here? I want an answer this time.”
By sighed back. “Look. It doesn’t serve anyone if you crash your damned car or something else like that at the moment.”
“I don’t know why it would bother you,” Ivan said suspiciously. “You don’t like me. You don’t do anything but flirt and buy clothes.”
By smiled sweetly and made an expansive gesture with his hands. “Ivan, Ivan, Ivan. Do you know how many men, discovering that you are so decidedly heterosexual, turn to the nearest Vor faggot for consolation? Believe me, dear boy, I would be heartbroken if you should damage your pretty face.”
It was almost believable. But there was something off with what By was saying -- though it was true that By slept with men, and very few Vor advertised such a thing, and yes Ivan had gently refused a number of uninteresting offers in that vein.... By was a very good actor, but for once Ivan had the sense that he was acting. “That makes no sense,” he said. “First of all, why do you think I’m due for an accident?”
“I think you’d cut out your eyes if it would get you out of ship duty,” By said frankly, dropping the pose. “You wouldn’t have to do anything deliberate. Everyone knows you drive like a maniac. Just think of being in that ship while driving....” He trailed off. Ivan felt a little green.
“I’d rather not, thank you,” he said stiffly. Conceding the point, he supposed. “Why would you notice? Why would you care?”
“Notice? I notice everything. The only enclosed space you’ll get into is your car, and no one thinks you’re exactly sane in that thing. Care?” By shrugged. “I told you why. Take it or leave it.”
“Huh. Well, I’m sober now and I’m hungry. Don’t expect me to feed you,” he said, and wandered into the kitchen. He heated up some of what his mother disdainfully called “bachelor chow” and considered a bottle of wine, but settled on some tea instead.
Sadly, By had taken over the couch when he returned. He sat in the chair, his dinner tray in his lap. “Still here? If you’re so hard up, why’d you turn me down? Not that I was offering.”
By blinked at the change in subject. “You were drunk, and I knew perfectly well you weren’t offering.”
“What does my sobriety have to do with it?” Ivan asked between bites. He did not recall anyone ever turning him down on the grounds of his drunkenness. Other reasons, sure, but not that.
“You may have heard of my wicked uncle,” he said dryly. “Everyone thinks I have, shall we say, similar sexual proclivities, but my only real fetish is for consent.”
Ivan considered that, and the implications. “Do you think women can give meaningful consent?” he asked slowly, feeling the click as certain pieces of history and knowledge fitted together finally.
By looked very satisfied at the question, as though it answered something for him. “In general? Of course. On Barrayar? Let’s just say that I need...evidence.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
By looked up to the ceiling. His expression was so patiently exasperated that he looked a little like Ivan’s mother. “I don’t know. Maybe so you’ll stop pretending and admit you’re claustrophobic as fuck?”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that. Ship duty, man. I have to protect my steady stream of disappointed Ivanophiles, remember? Focus.”
Ivan laughed, because he had been meant to, but then found he had nothing else to say. Because what did you say when someone you’ve despised for years, in a general way, finds out your darkest secret and says he wants to help you? He didn’t exactly believe the reason, but he did believe that, unlikely as it was, By wanted to help. Not for the disappointed Ivanophiles -- or at least, not solely because of them -- but he was somehow sure it was genuine.
“All right,” he said slowly. “I don’t like small spaces. Ever since Earth.... I couldn’t take the trip back. I was in sick bay for the physical stuff, I didn’t even have to do anything, and I just kept taking tranqs one after another.... They therapized me, y’know? By the end, I wasn’t taking anything at all. I could walk and talk just like a real boy.”
“But you still weren’t doing anything,” By said gently.
“If I’m on a ship with real duties, I’ll get someone killed.”
“Yes,” By agreed; when Ivan looked at him, he added, “I’ve seen you drive.”
“I’m not that unsafe,” he protested.
“No, of course not, not driving.” By was using that gentle voice again, which ought to have been annoying but wasn’t. “So the therapy didn’t take?”
He laughed and then stopped, because it didn’t sound like laughter. It sounded horribly bitter. “They stopped at Beta Colony on the way. It went very well, you know.”
By nodded. “The Betans have a very good opinion of their therapies. It might not occur to them that it wouldn’t work, if you were acting as though it were. You can be very convincing. I thought you were an idiot for almost two decades. Even your family....” he shook his head. “Do you know why I hate Vorkosigan?” he asked suddenly.
What could he say? You may have heard of my wicked uncle. Such a flippant way to refer to one of the more flagrant sadists and war criminals in Barrayar’s bloody history. “Yes.”
“I’m not going to stand by and do nothing.”
As Uncle Aral had, for years. Ivan had some suspicions about the wicked uncle’s death, but that had been a long time coming. “This is hardly similar,” Ivan protested.
By just stood up. “You should sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow about your little problem.” He let himself out.
#
Ivan finished his dinner and his tea and sat in the chair for a long time. Every time he drifted off, he heard the faint sound of water, dripping on metal.