Miles Vorkosigan Fic: 'Sleep tight' (Cavilo)
Title: Sleep tight
Fandom: Miles Vorkosigan
Theme: N is for Narcotic. Written for
alphabetasoup
Characters: Cavilo, Stanis Metzov
Summary: Many people count sheeps to fall asleep. She counts ways to kill the man lying beside her.
Disclaimer: Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold.
Theme: N is for Narcotic. Written for
alphabetasoup
Fandom: Miles Vorkosigan.
Summary: Many people count sheeps to fall asleep. She counts ways to kill the man lying beside her.
Sleep tight
Many people - for some inane reason she will never understand - count sheeps to fall asleep. Sheeps. She doesn’t think that she’s ever seen one in her entire life. Most people in the galaxy haven’t either, except for those poor bastards who live in backwater planets such as Auslund or Barrayar where they still make clothes out of wool.
Other people count ships and that makes a little more sense to her. Ships are tangible, useful things, they are a sign of power, a tool. But counting them doesn’t work for her, as neither does making lists, drinking a glass of hot milk or swallowing pills. Instead, she schemes.
In her mind she sees the lines of perfectly laid plans without a flaw, schemes and plots form behind her closed eyes, fantasies of victory and riches lulling her to sleep.
But sometimes not even planning to conquer the galaxy is enough to block out the snores.
Fuming, she turns around in the bed, putting her hands over her ears. She would kick him out of bed if she thought that would be of any help. She’s tried before, though, without success. For a military man who has spend thirty-five years serving in the army - as he reminds her every five damned minutes - he’s not exactly a light sleeper: she bets he could go on snoring through an attack. How he could ever fight in a war, where he would have had to be alert all the time, it’s a mystery to her. Perhaps it explains why his career was far from brilliant. Of course, that could also be easily explained by his ineptitude and sheer idiocy.
In times like this she needs to remind herself why she still keeps him around. Apart from the comic relief he involuntary offers, of course. She tries very hard to remember why she found him useful in the first place but is sadly unable to do so. Perhaps she’ll remember in the morning, when her senses are fully alert. If she can’t… then perhaps she should not keep him around anymore. Her best laid plans would not be thwarted by the Neanderthal snoring beside her, that’s for sure.
But now she must sleep, if she wants to keep up tomorrow with that elusive Victor Rotha and the thousand plots she has going on at the same time. She closes her eyes and starts to count.
Decapitation, plasma arc fire, grenades, poisoning, neural disruptor, a bad fall from somewhere thirty-feet high…
Many people count sheeps to fall asleep. Cavilo counts ways to kill the man lying beside her.
By the time she’s wondering whether it would look too suspicious if dear Stanis died just like Randall did, she drifts off to sleep, her muscles relaxing, a peaceful smile on her face.
Table
Fandom: Miles Vorkosigan
Theme: N is for Narcotic. Written for
alphabetasoup
Characters: Cavilo, Stanis Metzov
Summary: Many people count sheeps to fall asleep. She counts ways to kill the man lying beside her.
Disclaimer: Miles Vorkosigan belongs to Lois McMaster Bujold.
Theme: N is for Narcotic. Written for
alphabetasoup
Fandom: Miles Vorkosigan.
Summary: Many people count sheeps to fall asleep. She counts ways to kill the man lying beside her.
Sleep tight
Many people - for some inane reason she will never understand - count sheeps to fall asleep. Sheeps. She doesn’t think that she’s ever seen one in her entire life. Most people in the galaxy haven’t either, except for those poor bastards who live in backwater planets such as Auslund or Barrayar where they still make clothes out of wool.
Other people count ships and that makes a little more sense to her. Ships are tangible, useful things, they are a sign of power, a tool. But counting them doesn’t work for her, as neither does making lists, drinking a glass of hot milk or swallowing pills. Instead, she schemes.
In her mind she sees the lines of perfectly laid plans without a flaw, schemes and plots form behind her closed eyes, fantasies of victory and riches lulling her to sleep.
But sometimes not even planning to conquer the galaxy is enough to block out the snores.
Fuming, she turns around in the bed, putting her hands over her ears. She would kick him out of bed if she thought that would be of any help. She’s tried before, though, without success. For a military man who has spend thirty-five years serving in the army - as he reminds her every five damned minutes - he’s not exactly a light sleeper: she bets he could go on snoring through an attack. How he could ever fight in a war, where he would have had to be alert all the time, it’s a mystery to her. Perhaps it explains why his career was far from brilliant. Of course, that could also be easily explained by his ineptitude and sheer idiocy.
In times like this she needs to remind herself why she still keeps him around. Apart from the comic relief he involuntary offers, of course. She tries very hard to remember why she found him useful in the first place but is sadly unable to do so. Perhaps she’ll remember in the morning, when her senses are fully alert. If she can’t… then perhaps she should not keep him around anymore. Her best laid plans would not be thwarted by the Neanderthal snoring beside her, that’s for sure.
But now she must sleep, if she wants to keep up tomorrow with that elusive Victor Rotha and the thousand plots she has going on at the same time. She closes her eyes and starts to count.
Decapitation, plasma arc fire, grenades, poisoning, neural disruptor, a bad fall from somewhere thirty-feet high…
Many people count sheeps to fall asleep. Cavilo counts ways to kill the man lying beside her.
By the time she’s wondering whether it would look too suspicious if dear Stanis died just like Randall did, she drifts off to sleep, her muscles relaxing, a peaceful smile on her face.
Table