He experiments to find a configuration where he can both use the comconsole and snuggle Linya. Then he starts composing his written report to Illyan.
She asks it in reasonably-accented Russian.
"Technically no," he says, also in reasonably-accented Barrayaran Russian; then continues in English, "But you were there for most of it and you know the rest, I'm not risking a meaningful security leak by writing it in front of you."
She looks up the translation for 'technically', guessing how to spell it on the first try, then also continues in English. "Should I pretend you didn't write it in front of me regardless?"
He begins putting actual substance in his report - a surprisingly bare recitation of facts, getting in all the relevant details but omitting editorial commentary. Once or twice he looks something up from notes he made at the time, but for the most part his memory suffices. The report does not, indeed, contain anything Linya doesn't already know.
Linya is now reading a simple children's book in Barrayaran Russian. Every now and then her pen circles a word and a translation pops up for her and her earbuds murmur.
She finishes her book. She finds some music with lyrics in the target language and the earbuds burble it as she clips her pen back to its necklace collar. She glances thoughtfully at the long box with the keyboard in it.
"I think I'm going to get out the keyboard, but if it'd bother you while you're writing your report I can have it send the sound to the earbuds."
"It won't bother me," he assures her. "It might distract me, but I have two whole weeks to finish this in, I don't need to get it all done by tomorrow."
She unsnuggles (with a kiss to the top of his head) and unboxes her keyboard, which, when turned on, hovers. She takes out the earbuds, rejiggers the keyboard settings until it's playing the song she likes from the beginning, and then - improvises, on top of that.
And sings along, harmonizing with the lyrics.
She falls silent when the song ends of its own accord.
"I can carry on for a bit if you like."
She plays, changing keys on whim, adding flourishes, generally sticking to waltz time but making liberal use of what would be represented as fermatas and gracenotes. While improvising with no template underneath she doesn't sing with words, just croons over what she's doing with the instrument, with flawless pitch.
Well, if he's going to gaze at her like that she'll just carry on for a while. She draws to a silence after about an hour.
Miles vents a happy sigh and abandons his seat to go hug her.
"It's prettier when there's a whole group, but - that's what it sounds like when I do that."