[ there's a fleeting moment where maine is sure that lakshmi is going to argue with him. he braces for it, ready to tell her no, this is his job, she got them in so let him get them out, let him go ahead for his own peace of mind, goddamnit, don't be stubborn, please. but then her hard expression changes, and instead of refusing him, she nods, her hand on his hand in a touch so light and personal that maine almost flinches away from the unfamiliar shock of it.
he doesn't have time to say thank you. a man calls out from behind — stop turn around who are you? — and maybe maine doesn't know the voice of every freelancer by heart, but he sure as hell knows that voice: york. carolina's york. can't see shit on his left york. okay guys let's just play it by the book! york.
what the fuck is york doing on the cetagandan base?
instinct has him turning and pushing lakshmi behind him with the sweep of his arm. good call. york looks pissed. he has a sword in hand that maine is pretty sure belongs to vortala, wherever the hell he is now, and he's buckled down ( legs spread, shoulders bunched forward defensively, blade tip pointed directly at maine ) like he's expecting maine to greet him with a friendly right hook to the face.
maine hardly has a second to mouth what the fuck? at york before the second plot twist comes in the shape of an equally pissed off wash. his sword is wrenched from his hand as wash descends from the shadows; maine reels back, startled, reaching for lakshmi to push her further away from whatever the hell is going on. he doesn't get a chance to do that, either; wash yanks him closer until they're face-to-face, stolen sword at his throat in a scene not unlike maine's initial arrival to barrayar.
the blade digs into his jugular, just shy of piercing skin. one firm push, and maine's got another scar to add to the dozens already there. he breathes out hard, exasperated, eyes on wash's face. he's different, older, has somehow managed to age a decade in the month since maine last saw him aboard the mother of invention.
and apparently he's also grown some massive balls to complement the grey at his temples and crow's-feet around his eyes. maine doesn't pull away from wash or his brandished weapon. he leans into him, closing his free hand around the blade and pushing it sideways, toward his ear and onto a carotid artery.
he speaks, in a low rumble that only wash has ever been able to easily decipher, for the first time in weeks: ]
If you're gonna threaten me, Wash, you better be goddamned sure you're doing it right.
[ his grip tightens. blood rolls down the edge of the blade, sluicing over the hilt and dripping onto the snowy ground. back off. ]
/yakety sax playing in the bg
he doesn't have time to say thank you. a man calls out from behind — stop turn around who are you? — and maybe maine doesn't know the voice of every freelancer by heart, but he sure as hell knows that voice: york. carolina's york. can't see shit on his left york. okay guys let's just play it by the book! york.
what the fuck is york doing on the cetagandan base?
instinct has him turning and pushing lakshmi behind him with the sweep of his arm. good call. york looks pissed. he has a sword in hand that maine is pretty sure belongs to vortala, wherever the hell he is now, and he's buckled down ( legs spread, shoulders bunched forward defensively, blade tip pointed directly at maine ) like he's expecting maine to greet him with a friendly right hook to the face.
maine hardly has a second to mouth what the fuck? at york before the second plot twist comes in the shape of an equally pissed off wash. his sword is wrenched from his hand as wash descends from the shadows; maine reels back, startled, reaching for lakshmi to push her further away from whatever the hell is going on. he doesn't get a chance to do that, either; wash yanks him closer until they're face-to-face, stolen sword at his throat in a scene not unlike maine's initial arrival to barrayar.
the blade digs into his jugular, just shy of piercing skin. one firm push, and maine's got another scar to add to the dozens already there. he breathes out hard, exasperated, eyes on wash's face. he's different, older, has somehow managed to age a decade in the month since maine last saw him aboard the mother of invention.
and apparently he's also grown some massive balls to complement the grey at his temples and crow's-feet around his eyes. maine doesn't pull away from wash or his brandished weapon. he leans into him, closing his free hand around the blade and pushing it sideways, toward his ear and onto a carotid artery.
he speaks, in a low rumble that only wash has ever been able to easily decipher, for the first time in weeks: ]
If you're gonna threaten me, Wash, you better be goddamned sure you're doing it right.
[ his grip tightens. blood rolls down the edge of the blade, sluicing over the hilt and dripping onto the snowy ground. back off. ]