Entry tags:	bujold, fic post
Crossposts:	http://dsudis.livejournal.com/623805.html

For philomytha, who asked for Aral/Simon. This is a somewhat sideways approach.

Memory. Aral/Simon. Not explicit. 550 words.
It was just the same as always.


Asked and Answered

It was just the same as always; Aral took note of the way Simon was looking pensively toward him but not at him, and began keeping track of Simon's position in the room. When Simon slipped away, Aral waited the usual interval and then followed suit.

He was halfway to their usual meeting point, a closet of an office accessible from a service corridor off the ballroom, when it occurred to him that Simon wasn't Chief of ImpSec anymore, nor for that matter was Aral Prime Minister or Regent or anything else of more central importance than foster father of the freshly-betrothed Emperor. Whatever crisis was worrying Simon, it wasn't what it would have been, a few years ago.

Aral's steps didn't falter at the realization. He'd been assured by Cordelia, by Alys, and by Simon himself, that Simon was no longer getting confused about when and where he was; all the same, if there was any chance Simon had been signaling him out of confusion, Aral owed him prompt attention.

And if not.... They had known each other a long time, and spent nearly all of it sharing this language of discreet gestures. Simon wanted to talk about something privately; Aral wanted to hear it.

When Aral let himself in, Simon turned toward him with a slightly sheepish smile. Simon knew perfectly well, then, that they were only themselves now. Aral raised his eyebrows even as he smiled back.

Simon shook his head and turned away again, facing toward the still-dark secured comconsole. Aral couldn't quite see Simon's reflection in its screen well enough to read his expression.

"I shouldn't say it's driving me mad," Simon said lightly. "I have a high standard for that these days. But it's been itching at me. Ever since I saw you walk in."

Aral leaned back against the door and waited, wondering just what fractured memory or half-recalled insight Simon might be about to raise between them.

Simon straightened his shoulders and turned resolutely to face Aral again, but when he did he still had a half-smile on his face, and his gaze dipped from Aral's eyes to his mouth.

"I just can't tell if it's a true memory or a dream I once had; maybe it's only something I imagined."

"Ah," Aral said, too small a sound for the relief that welled up. It was only this, now, only something simple. He smiled easily, trying to remember it exactly as he straightened up and stepped toward Simon, putting a hand to his shoulder--no, the side of his throat, thumb at the corner of his jaw, just so.

Simon tilted his head, still smiling, and that was just the same, too, as far as Aral could recall. He leaned into the kiss gingerly, but Simon tugged him closer, making Aral's breath catch with the exactness of the fit. Their mouths opened to each other just as they had before, though it seemed much longer, this time, before Aral could make himself step back.

"Was that it?" Aral asked, a little breathless.

Simon offered him the same startlingly playful smile he'd given Aral thirty-plus years ago, refusing to say whether Negri had authorized or ordered, and nodded. "Thank you. Yes. I'll remember this time."

Aral grinned back. "Well, you can always ask."