When Bad Days Go Worse

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A/N: Because damn. Ivan and Byerly are so much fun to write about. Hurrah for snark! Written in maybe a half-hour, and unedited.

Criticism?

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Saying it had been a bad day was an understatement. Saying it was a horrible day couldn't quite covering it. Saying that his day had, undoubtedly, been gift-wrapped and hand-delivered by…whatever lord of hell one believed in was perhaps getting a tad closer to the source, but it still wasn't quite adequate.

And Ivan Vorpatril vowed that the next Vor-whatshisface or Colonel Lickmyboots that called him, commed him, paged him or visited him in person was…was…

Damnit. He couldn't even think up a suitable method of punishment. He was just that bushed. Surely Miles would have been able to think of something. Miles could always think of something. Note to self: Ask the megalomaniacal dwarf to think up suitable methods of punishment for erstwhile commanders. And make sure it can be made to look like an accident.

Unless it was his mother. Then he'd just grovel appropriately and hope she'd leave him in peace after she'd ripped him into pieces.

Okay. So it was a bad, bad idea, to get involved with a set of twins. The worse idea came from confiding in one twin about her sister's over-large …well, that didn't matter. The end result was that he'd forgotten that identical twins were interchangeable. Whoops. The fact that they were in fact the daughters of a high-powered Komarran diplomat must have escaped his brain at some muzzy point between the half-dozen glasses of wine and that lovely, luscious bedroom suite. So what if some areas of her anatomy were over-large, she had the most marvelous set of breasts…

Ironically, as if it could have done so any other way, his door buzzed. No, not buzzed. Blared. Like a siren. One of warning. Imminent, destructive warning. The sort that prophesized Armageddon, Ragnarok…or any other number of world-ending overtures.

Ivan was starting to wonder if becoming a hermit was a good idea.

"Go away!" he groaned, muffling his face in one of his couch's pillows. It struck him that calling out probably wasn't the best of ideas, because now whoever it was knew that he was home, and home was not a smart place to be, no sir. He hunched down into the worn-out bachelors couch and hoped that he could avoid detection anyways. Blend in, yeah…

"That's undignified, Ivan." The sardonic eyebrow quirk could basically be heard in the words, no need to look and see for sure. Awww, hell…You see, Ivan had a List. There were a few people on this List. Most of them were old girlfriends. More of them were old girlfriend's husbands. More still were old girlfriend's enraged relations. Pot of basil indeed. But. Somewhere near the apex of this list, scrawled in neat, poncy letters much like the man to which the name belonged, was the title Byerly Vorrutyer.

It wasn't that Ivan disliked Byerly…it was just that Ivan disliked Byerly.

"No. That's undignified." A wave encompassed Byerly's outfit. How could the man degrade himself into wearing anything with ruffles? Ivan liked ruffles well and fine, but he liked them on women. A racy little undergarment, perhaps. The ladies were getting increasingly risqué with their choice of lingerie these days, and he drew the unwilling connection between increased galactic exposure. The fact that the lingerie came on women that weren't quite as unwilling as they used to be to stomp on a man's balls (not his heart, no sir, just his balls) was something he could have lived without, however.

Byerly's lips quirked with wry amusement. "This isn't undignified," he said, in a very dignifiable way. "This is fashion. That." He pointed to Ivan's rumpled uniform, the hastily-scrubbed-but-not-dispelled lipstick stain on the collar and the two-day growth of an annoying, itchy beard. "Is perhaps below dignified. Something that, of yet, has no word to describe it. Perhaps I shall have to invent one." Byerly perched on the edge of the couch. Ivan decided that 'perched' was an apt word simply because of the manner in which he did it.

"Go away, Byerly." He'd heard Uncle Aral once, saying…what was it, again? If one were repulsive enough, one could spontaneously avoid chickens? No, that wasn't it. Company? Castration? Hm, well. It was something to look in to, next time someone threatened him with that fate.

"Ah, but I've only just arrived. Do you have any coffee, Ivan?"

The fact that Ivan assumed that this was becoming a staple of their opening conversation was not a point he was inclined to applaud. "Yes."

"And…?" Byerly was giving him that coy little 'You're going to be a good host now, right?' look. It was really quite masterful. His Vor upbringing almost made him drag himself to his aching feet to fetch a cup for the annoying man.

"And you can't have any."

Gods above, immaturity felt good. In moderation. Otherwise it'd get him smacked, and he really didn't think he could handle more abuse, especially from the female populous of Barrayar. Or Cetaganda, or Komarr, or…

…Yeah.

"A pity. I suppose I'll have to settle for some of your alcohol, then. Was that one of the Vorkosigan bottles I saw on the counter…? I'm terribly fond of their wine."

Ivan winced at the mere thought of Byerly getting into his much-hoarded stash (stash really wasn't the right word, seeing as how he'd left it on the counter and all.) Instead, he flopped back on the couch, sprawled out inelegantly and held the pillow over his face. Death by asphyxiation. There were worse fates, surely. They probably involved some of that aforementioned castration. Or maybe just an extended visit from Byerly Vorrutyer.

"Aren't you even going to ask why I'm here?" Byerly asked, in a mock-plaintive tone.

Ivan growled into the pillow. It wasn't doing its job. He should have drifted off into the world of oblivion right about now. Maybe there were women in heaven. Maybe there were nice women in heaven, that didn't get mad when he insulted their…ahem. Or when he asked them if maybe-kinda-please-please-please their sisters could join in with a little bedroom reconnaissance. "No," he said pointedly. Quite pointedly. Marvelously pointedly, in fact. He prided himself on the authoritative snap to his voice, the conversation-stopping way he managed to say that one small little word…

"Mores the pity," Byerly said rather mournfully, around a dejected sigh. "I wouldn't be allowed to tell you, anyways."

"Eh?" Ivan lifted the pillow and eyed the Vorrutyer suspiciously. Oh, hell, was that his curiosity getting the better of him again…?

Byerly blinked, looked around, a 'who, me?' look briefly stealing across his face. He pressed one neatly splayed hand against his chest for emphasis.

Ivan hit him with the pillow.

It was probably an un-Vorish thing to do, but damn, it felt good.

Byerly gave him a dry, exasperated look. "Reverting under stress, are we?"

"To what?"

"What, indeed…? I was considering comparing you to some sort of Neanderthal, until I realized you might construe it as a compliment…" Thoughtfully, Byerly retrieved the pillow from the floor where it had fallen after Ivan's initial onslaught, dusted it off and handed it back. "I do believe you dropped this."

"Stuff it, Byerly. I do not want you here. Get out of my apartment or…"

"Or…?" Curiously, Byerly tilted his head.

"Or…I'll…call my mother." Hah. A safe defense. Her being his superior officer and all, Byerly would have to leave. Unless…in dawning horror, he considered the probability of her siding with Byerly.

"Ah. Interesting. Well, you see. That wouldn't do you any good at all, Ivan, because she's precisely the reason why I'm here."

Ivan growled again. "You're lying."

"And why would I do such a dreadful thing? Really, now."

"All right, I don't care even if you're lying. Out, By. Out."

"Really, Ivan. After all we've been through together…" the dark-haired man made a pitiful moue, stood and…what, waltzed? across Ivan's stodgy apartment and into the kitchen. He reached for the bottle of Vorkosigan wine and before Ivan could stop him, he'd popped the cork with an expert flick of one wrist and, after hunting for two suitably clean glasses, poured one for Ivan and himself. "You'd think," Byerly continued, returning to his perch on the couch to hand Ivan a glass. "That you'd have a little more…respect for me. Mm?"

"No, no, and no." But Ivan took the glass. Took a sip. Sighed in blissful delight. Wasn't getting utterly smashed Miles's way of drowning out a bad day? Time to adopt one of his short cousin's traits, definitely. Maybe he could blame it on his genetics. Then again, anesthesia-by-alcohol was a universally Vorish trait to begin with…

"I'm hurt, really," By informed him dryly, taking a coquettish sip of his own beverage. Ivan eyed him in distaste.

"Must you?" He asked of Byerly when the man licked his lips. Clearly being lascivious. Ivan knew all about that. It just wasn't supposed to be done around him. At least when it was done by men, eugh.

"Must I what?" Innocently, By fluttered his eyelashes. Ivan didn't even want to think of how many levels that was just so wrong on.

"All right, I'll bite," Ivan said after a moment, deciding to go with the flow. Maybe this was comparable to a fast-penta interrogation. Maybe if he just cooperated, it would be over quicker, and By would leave. And Ivan could be alone. Without Byerly. Ah, without Byerly. Such blissful words… "Why are you here?"

By regarded him with utmost amusement, traced a slender finger along the rim of his glass. Seeing as how it was good crystal, it emitted a low frequency hum noise with the gesture. "Well, Ivan, if you must know, I have been…assigned, if you will, to coordinate our dear Dono Vorrutyer's wedding. Some of Richars' pesky supporters are still hanging around, and I'm sure there's a great many old Vor," –His lips twisted wryly at that- "Around that wouldn't hesitate to…crash the party, if you will. Your mother gave me permission to choose an assistant. Surprise, Ivan."

Ivan gaped at him. Utterly, literally gaped. Mouth hanging open and everything. He almost forgot to swallow, but then he weighed the blissful forgetfulness against what would happen to his reputation if he were to drool in front of Byerly Vorrutyer. And then Aral's half-remembered advice echoed. Spontaneously repulsive...

It was almost-almost- worth a shot. Except Ivan had his pride. Occasionally. Or at least he had enough of it to know that drooling really wasn't the best way to be repulsive.

"…You're lying," he reiterated his earlier sentiment. Forcefully. Vehemently. Righteously. My arm is strong because my cause is just, and all that riot.

"Oh, I assure you I'm not," Byerly purred. "Feel free to call your mother and check…although I do hear that she is not pleased with you, in regards to your latest…escapades…"

Groan, whine and checkmate.

"Go kidnap Miles." He'd probably welcome the distraction from his screaming bundles of joy—er, children. Except maybe not. Because the last time Ivan had seen his cousin, elbow-deep in a combination of baby shit, vomit and other choice unsavory things, he'd had a grin a mile wide.

Cue shuddering.

"The problem therein," Byerly pointed out to him, "Is that that would be tantamount to treason. I quite like my head attached to my shoulders. I'm far more aesthetically pleasing in that respect, won't you agree?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Byerly, go away." Ivan was getting a headache. Could people die of headaches? Would it be a swift, merciful death…? Check, please.

"Gladly," Byerly stood, drained the dregs of his wine glass with one fell swoop and gave a little By-bow. Ivan eyed him suspiciously.

"I suppose, if this is to be your attitude, I'll have to ask your dear mother to issue the order in perso—"

"No!" Ivan cried in horror, leaping to his feet. Byerly merely blinked at him.

"So you're not…ah, bucking under my authority?" Word choice, word choice, damn you word choice…Byerly was practically synonymous with innuendo, in Ivan's truncated experience. This didn't please him. Not at all, no sir.

Ivan glared. Drank the rest of his own wine and perhaps glared a little less. Wonderful thing, alcohol. Mellowed him right out.

"…I hate you, Byerly." Except when it didn't.

"How nice to know. I'll be here tomorrow at…" Ivan assumed that Byerly edited out several untimely time-frames before finally settling on a healthy and sensible; "Noon. And we can go shopping."

Ivan was actually quite glad he'd already swallowed his wine, because he imagined spraying it into Byerly's face was probably tantamount to drooling in front of him. He choked on spit and tried to hack up a lung, instead.

Oh, god, no.

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TBC