[Hetalia, Vorkosigan] Triptych
Aug. 29th, 2010 11:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valmoraTitle: Triptych
Fandom: Hetalia-Vorkosigan Saga fusion
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gregor Vorbarra, Aral and Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan, Sergyar, Komarr, Barrayar
Disclaimer: not mine.
Notes: originally written at the kink meme for this request and kindexed here.
“You should get that looked at,” Cordelia says, over her sandwich.
Sergyar finishes her last mouthful and glances down at her empty plate. “I’m hungry.”
Cordelia passes the second plate of sandwiches. She ought to press the Barrayaran media a little harder. Sergyar’s worm scars aren’t fading as quickly as they probably should.
“You’re not going to starve to death,” she says instead.
“But I am growing!” Sergyar preens a little, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, and Cordelia has to smile. Sergyar isn’t old enough to really realize that she grows differently from other children.
“I know,” Cordelia says, and laces her fingers together on her lap as she watches Sergyar eat.
Komarr does not need to say he does not trust the Regent. It is understood, as it has been understood for all the years that Admiral Aral Vorkosigan has worn the name of Butcher.
He must speak to the Regent, because if he does not he will have no voice. But that does not mean he must like it.
In the silence of the conference room, he says, “The funding of the terraforming projects…”
“Is being funded at the agreed-upon percentage of your GDP,” murmurs the Minister for Finance. Komarr simmers. He can feel in his soil that it’s not enough, that soon he will outstrip his own land capacity. He needs – more domes, more atmosphere, more something. Certainly more money, but finding the space to make better facilities is impossible when there’s no money for the space to do the research to find a way to make the space –
“Is that percentage enough?” Vorkosigan asks him, from the other end of the table.
“No,” Komarr says.
“Then what will you sacrifice to raise it?” asks the Butcher, and Komarr wishes he could answer.
The first thing the Emperor was ever told by his Empire was that he was short. Runty, actually.
“So are you,” Emperor Gregor said. He was five. The Barrayaran Empire was older than him by a number of centuries, but he hadn’t realized it yet.
Barrayar is neither short nor tall, and he has dark dark hair and pale skin and a Greekie nose, and there is a blot of black near his spine from Vorkosigan Vashnoi. He likes to wear rust-red and scrawl in Cyrillic in the margins of his readers, and he very much enjoys drinking, like all Vor lords, and like many people who are not Vor at all.
He often fails to shave, and will appear in worn military fatigues to meetings of the Council of Counts, and laugh at inappropriate moments. Gregor enjoys this, because Barrayar laughs when he would, and sometimes when he would not, and the surprise of it keeps him wondering.
Barrayar sits in Gregor’s office, and does not pretend that he is not drinking wine from a bottle that once held maple mead, and answers his comm messages with all the aplomb of an Empire who is not sure he does not wish to stay wild.
Fandom: Hetalia-Vorkosigan Saga fusion
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gregor Vorbarra, Aral and Cordelia Naismith Vorkosigan, Sergyar, Komarr, Barrayar
Disclaimer: not mine.
Notes: originally written at the kink meme for this request and kindexed here.
“You should get that looked at,” Cordelia says, over her sandwich.
Sergyar finishes her last mouthful and glances down at her empty plate. “I’m hungry.”
Cordelia passes the second plate of sandwiches. She ought to press the Barrayaran media a little harder. Sergyar’s worm scars aren’t fading as quickly as they probably should.
“You’re not going to starve to death,” she says instead.
“But I am growing!” Sergyar preens a little, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, and Cordelia has to smile. Sergyar isn’t old enough to really realize that she grows differently from other children.
“I know,” Cordelia says, and laces her fingers together on her lap as she watches Sergyar eat.
Komarr does not need to say he does not trust the Regent. It is understood, as it has been understood for all the years that Admiral Aral Vorkosigan has worn the name of Butcher.
He must speak to the Regent, because if he does not he will have no voice. But that does not mean he must like it.
In the silence of the conference room, he says, “The funding of the terraforming projects…”
“Is being funded at the agreed-upon percentage of your GDP,” murmurs the Minister for Finance. Komarr simmers. He can feel in his soil that it’s not enough, that soon he will outstrip his own land capacity. He needs – more domes, more atmosphere, more something. Certainly more money, but finding the space to make better facilities is impossible when there’s no money for the space to do the research to find a way to make the space –
“Is that percentage enough?” Vorkosigan asks him, from the other end of the table.
“No,” Komarr says.
“Then what will you sacrifice to raise it?” asks the Butcher, and Komarr wishes he could answer.
The first thing the Emperor was ever told by his Empire was that he was short. Runty, actually.
“So are you,” Emperor Gregor said. He was five. The Barrayaran Empire was older than him by a number of centuries, but he hadn’t realized it yet.
Barrayar is neither short nor tall, and he has dark dark hair and pale skin and a Greekie nose, and there is a blot of black near his spine from Vorkosigan Vashnoi. He likes to wear rust-red and scrawl in Cyrillic in the margins of his readers, and he very much enjoys drinking, like all Vor lords, and like many people who are not Vor at all.
He often fails to shave, and will appear in worn military fatigues to meetings of the Council of Counts, and laugh at inappropriate moments. Gregor enjoys this, because Barrayar laughs when he would, and sometimes when he would not, and the surprise of it keeps him wondering.
Barrayar sits in Gregor’s office, and does not pretend that he is not drinking wine from a bottle that once held maple mead, and answers his comm messages with all the aplomb of an Empire who is not sure he does not wish to stay wild.
