forwardmomentum: ((three!))

[personal profile] forwardmomentum 2017-09-14 10:51 pm (UTC)(link)
Miles, tired and twitchy as he is, flinches at that despite himself. That strikes a bit more of a nerve than he was really prepared for. He turns the gesture into a jerky rub of his hand over the back of his neck.

"It's...not about fame." Barrayaran programming. The implication invokes a kneejerk indignation, but Miles bites the inside of his cheek. "It's not quite that simple. It's about..." He tries to pick the right word, can't seem to settle on just one. "Recognition, maybe. But not fame. For all that my father is, indeed, a political-military monolith -- " For all that I want to escape that shadow. " -- It's about service, too. It's about proving that I can serve Barrayar just as well as anyone else can."

That feels painfully honest, and it is, and Miles is fully expecting this confession to be met with further scorn and skepticism. But if he was anything less than honest -- that'd only blow up in his face too. The trust is what's important here.
jacksonian: (incredulous)

[personal profile] jacksonian 2017-09-15 02:19 am (UTC)(link)
It at least doesn't get laughter, or a scoff, or anything particularly aggressive. That sight of Miles' visible flinch calmed something in him just a little bit. So a little bit less scorn this time around. But skepticism - yes. Absolutely skepticism. The clone lifts his eyebrows at his progenitor, and raises his hand to gesture around them.

"Sure. And all of this - Admiral Naismith - is proving what? To whom?" He drops his hand. "How many Barrayarans even know this fleet exists?"
forwardmomentum: (so put on every winter coat)

[personal profile] forwardmomentum 2017-09-18 02:02 am (UTC)(link)
He's worn a little too thin right now. Too little sleep and too many blows to the head during his confinement, or else he might've been able to control the reaction Mark gets out of him. Not quite a flinch, or a wince -- but a kind of retreat, a brief show of weakness. How many indeed.

"It's a covert operation," Miles says -- not really an answer, he knows, and he shifts in his seat. Mark's questions are getting difficult to answer. Shouldn't he be ready for this? He rubs one eye gingerly, avoiding a contusion on his cheek. "And it's -- not about immediate payoff. I'm playing the long game here." He tries to inject a little levity into his tone, play it off.