unbuttonedinawood asked for a funny Vorkosigan thing. Here, have some Taura/Roic pillow talk, where they swap stories about guarding Miles. (About 1000 words. Rated T I guess.)
“I’d never been in a fight before--not a real one. I wonder if he realized that? I’ve never asked.” Taura frowned meditatively, took a swig, passed the bottle to Roic. “He just said, ‘Taura, attack!’ and all of a sudden there were stunner beams everywhere.” She grinned. “Probably the biggest high of my life.”
Considering what Roic and Taura had been doing before he’d gotten out the bottle of maple mead, he thought maybe he should take that as an insult. Or a challenge. But he couldn’t muster the energy for either. He took a sip--a sip, mind you, maple mead was definitely a sipping drink--and said, “Then what happened?”
“It was touch and go for a bit--someone pulled a knife on Miles, you know how it goes--” Roic winced in sympathy. “--but we won, of course.” She gestured expansively, making her hand into a combat shuttle. “Launched into space seconds ahead of the bad guys, before Baron Ryoval found out what had happened to his freezers. I still wonder sometimes . . . if that was a mistake. There was that awful mess with Mark afterwards.”
“I know.” Roic might be assigned to Lord Vorkosigan, but in theory the entire family was his responsibility; his briefing on Lord Mark after he took oath had been . . . probably more thorough than Lord Mark would have liked. Definitely more thorough than Roic had liked. “That wasn’t your fault, though, you couldn’t have known--”
“Obviously,” said Taura, snagging back the bottle. “But I can’t help wondering. You know? Anyway, it’s your turn.”
“Oh, right,” said Roic. “Well, picture to yourself not the dashing Galactic hero you see before you, but a younger, wet-behind-the-ears Roic, just a week into m’lord’s service . . .”
Taura laughed and ruffled his hair, but Roic manfully went on with his story.
“It was just a routine medical checkup, really. At ImpMil, it’s got damn near as much security as Vorhartung Castle, it’s supposed to be safe as houses--”
Taura pursed her lips thoughtfully. “What’s that mean, safe as houses? I mean, I lived in a house for a couple of years. Probably the least secure place I’ve ever lived.”
“M’lord once said--it’s an investment term. He also said, tell that to the people who owned houses in Vorkosigan Vashnoi.” Roic grunted. “‘Course, considering the source, you’ve got to give it even odds that he was pulling it out of his ass.”
“Such a proper retainer,” Taura murmurred.
“Anyway, there we were, coming out of the examining room, m’lord buttoning up his coat, and there was this guy. Middle-aged, skinny, totally harmless--but he had this look, you know. I shoved m’lord out of the way just as this guy pulls out--”
“A nerve disrupter?”
“A cream pie,” said Roic. “He was aiming for m’lord’s face. I took it right in the chest. My first, fanciest House uniform--”
“Not fair!” Taura howled. “It’s supposed to be stories about saving Miles’ life, not his suits.”
“But,” Roic concluded triumphantly, “it turned out the pie had tapioca in it.”
Taura’s shoulders shook with laughter, and Roic took back the bottle, admiring the way her hair fell forward and showed her neck. Taura was just as familiar with Lord Vorkosigan’s laundry list of allergies as he was.
“So,” she said, catching her breath. “You were at the best medical facility on Barrayar, even if it’d hit--was it an assassination attempt?”
“ImpSec decided . . . probably not. Eventually. My best House uniform . . . Anyway, it’s your turn.”
“Like I’m going to be able to top that.”
“There was the time with the pearls, at m’lord’s wedding,” Roic offered.
Taura giggled. “That doesn’t count, you were there. Besides, you were on duty that time, not me.” Roic waved a hand in a don’t-remind-me gesture, and Taura took the bottle and swirled its contents, the amber liquid reflecting her amber eyes. “What’s in this stuff? I’m not s’posed to be able to get drunk. Someone will have to have a stiff word with Dr. Canab--Caban--with Dr. Vaughn.” She tilted the bottle towards her lips, then seemed to think better of it. “There was Mahata Solaris. But that’s not really a funny story.”
Roic was reminded again of the gulf between his experience and hers. He had a Security background, sure--but she’d been watching friends die her whole life. “I’m listening,” he said. “If you want to tell it.”
“Well,” said Taura, uncharacteristically hesitant. “It was right after--” She stopped, came alert, an instant before Roic’s wrist-comm buzzed.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Jankowski? I’m off-duty, man, where’s Pym?”
“That’s what we’d all like to know,” a dry voice said from the comm. “Be in the stateroom five minutes ago.”
“Right,” Roic grumbled, thumbing the comm off. He pulled his uniform on and dry-swallowed a couple of instant-hangover pills. Taura watched him from the bed.
“Aren’t you a knight in shining armor,” she said. She rolled over, strapping on a thigh holster and sliding her stunner into it, then slinging her plasma rifle over her shoulder in one fluid motion. “Give me those pills; let’s see if they work as well as you’re vile concoction does.”
“But you’re not--” Roic took in her appearance--unbound frizzy hair, silk nightie, bristling with deadly weaponry--and handed over the pills without further comment. Her eyes glittered alarmingly bright after she took them, but if the accompanying headache had hit she gave no sign of it.
“Come on,” said Taura, “what do you want to bet that Prince Charming needs a rescue?”
