crisis_control | (no subject)

"Request denied, Captain," Vorkosigan snarled. "Don't think that you're getting out of this any more than I am."

"I would have thought," Simon bit out, anger and bitterness wrapping around his words, "That you would prefer to have someone you don't despise as your Security Chief."

Vorkosigan turned to look at him, and Simon wished that he hadn't; the man's expression was fey, dark humour lending a glint to his eyes that Simon could almost describe as unholy. "Since when were personal preferences part of the job? It doesn't matter if I can't stand the very sight of you; at least I know you won't screw up." That all too keen gaze pierced him, a thousand needles through flesh. "After all, your oath to Ezar binds you, doesn't it?"

"My hands are between Emperor Gregor's, and therefore between yours," Simon growled. "My lord Regent."

Vorkosigan barked a laugh, short and humourless, and turned away. "Oh get out, Illyan, and go do your job."

A hundred and one responses raced through his mind, each inappropriate, some bordering on downright treasonous. He settled for the only one that wouldn't shatter his fractured dignity, and saluted Vorkosigan's back sharply, before turning on a heel to make his retreat.

He was just at the doorway when Vorkosigan's words - a thoughtful cadence spoken to him or to the air, he would never know, drifted to him: "After all, if I have to go through hell, you had damn well better go through it with me."

...This is going to be epic.