Disclaimer: Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold.

Theme: T is for Torrid

Characters: Delia Koudelka/Duv Galeni

Summary: They don't understand what she sees in him. She doesn't understand how they can't see there will never be any other man for her.

Music: 'Lo echamos a suerte' by Ella Baila Sola.

Eyes of the beholder

They will never understand.

She knows her friends shake their heads, unable to see how she could ever set her eyes and hopes on him. She knows her sisters mock her endlessly on his formal and somewhat stiff ways that belong to another time, another place. She knows that her father, even in all his benevolence, worries over her.

'It's not that I don't like him,' she hears him whisper to Ma one night. 'He's a very nice, decent young fellow – well, perhaps not that young – and he has an impressive career and everything but … I don't know. He seems so… So formal, and correct and – cold. We were so different, remember? Sometimes I wonder – are we doing the right thing, letting her go through with this? What if in a few years she regrets it? What if…?'

His wife hastens to reassure him, saying that heir daughter is not foolish and that they must trust her judgement… but sometimes, she can see the flickering doubt in the eyes of her mother as well.

She knows this, and she wishes she could make them understand but how could she explain it to them? How could she explain that even though he doesn't embrace her fiercely, even though they don't share passionate kisses or moonlight strolls, that even though he doesn't pronounce incensed words of love she can still see it in his eyes?

They would never understand. They cannot understand, because they haven't felt his soft, warm touch when his fingers intertwine with hers. They haven't been gently wrapped in his jacket like she has when she forgets to bring a shawl on a chilly night. They haven't seen his lips curving in a smile, a smile she knows it's meant only for her, and even though it's usually a small, rare smile, it makes her heart jump and her knees weaken.

They cannot understand, because they don't know him. They don't know he always asks for her opinions on matters as diverse and complex as politics, economics and diplomacy, even though she barely has a decree on Social Studies and nobody's ever cared about what she could think about anything more serious than a ball. They don't know he listens to her intently even when she chatters on, they don't know he likes to twirl strands of her hair between his fingers, they don't know he enjoys to hear her sing even though she can't carry a tune. They don't know he goes out of his way to please her, to get her favourite flowers and to plan visits to places she'll like.

They don't see the way his eyes lit up when she smiles at him, they don't hear his soft voice telling her about his childhood, sharing with her memories no one else has ever known about. They don't see, and therefore, none of them can understand.

Because he doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve they assume he doesn't have one. Because he doesn't show passion they assume he doesn't feel it, because he is not fond of public displays of affection they assume he doesn't care about her. But she knows better.

She knows his heart beats faster when she places her hand on his chest, she knows his breath catches when she takes his arm, she knows that when he places in her hand a locket that once belonged to his mother he is giving his heart away for her to keep.

There is no poetry, no displays of wild, fervent passion between them. He doesn't serenade her like the heroes in the fairy tales she loved as a child, he doesn't make promises of eternal love for everyone to hear. She doesn't need them. She knows, with the same certainty she knows the sun will rise in the morning, that he loves her with all his heart. And she knows as well there will never be any other man for her.

They will never understand.