Ivan beats him to it - lets Linya in and lets himself out, murmuring something about visiting the embassy gym.

And Linya comes in and summarily scoops her husband up snugly. "I missed you. What was that about no Security heart attacks - they have to have dithered for fifteen minutes before they determined that you could possibly really have a Cetagandan wife."

"Ah, damn," he sighs, thunking his head against her shoulder. "I didn't think - short version, the ranking military officer at this embassy is Komarran and if I die on his watch the effect on both his career in particular and Barrayaran politics in general will be rather like the effect of firing a sonic grenade into a pile of hornets' nests. He is going to be the most exquisitely paranoid commanding officer I've ever had, even worse than Illyan, because Illyan lets me out of his sight when my job requires it."

"Ah. Well, I was able to produce our wedding dates in various calendars on the spot when quizzed and all the other trivia they wanted to cross-reference against in their file on you, and then someone remembered Ivan mentioning me and they decided I was not liable to assassinate you." Snuggle. "You look like you've had a hell of a half-year, you poor thing."

"I have. Utterly. Ivan signalled an intention to leave us alone for a few hours, and whatever Ivan thinks we might be inclined to do with that time, I think what I am actually going to do is hide in your lap and cry. Possibly under a blanket."

Linya grabs the nearest blanket and swooshes it over the both of them, not letting go of her tiny Barrayaran. She kisses his hair and holds him and refrains with considerable if silent effort from asking what the fuck Illyan sent him into this time.

Miles curls up in his wife's lap, under a blanket, and quietly weeps.

"I - I don't even know, God, what can we talk about?"

"Well, I have been up to perfectly unclassified things. I got bored loitering on Barrayar without you, so when my semester ended - I think I'm going to pick up more physics next time I sign up for classes - I went on a pen-sprinkling trip. I hired a very efficient lady on Escobar and she's going to do future pen-sprinkling for me; she's actually handling Earth almost entirely by herself, so what I'm doing is a combination of touristing and collaboration with Dr. Cheung, that one neuroscientist, I can't remember if I mentioned him to you before you left. I am trying very, very hard to convince him to move somewhere more typically accessible, because we're very productive together, but unfortunately he's got the worst case of jump-sickness I've ever heard of."

Miles says, "Mph," and snuggles her. After a moment he adds, "Go on."

Pet, pet. "To the point where he lives on Earth because his first jump trip was to here, when he was twelve, to visit his grandmother, and rather than haul just the short hop from here home to Orient, he convinced said grandmother to raise him the rest of the way. But I think I am successfully tempting him with the offer of whatever custom-built research software he wants and more funding than he sees from his university. I'd park him on Komarr; it's a short hop from home for me, and there's no need to make him suffer through the extra five steps."

"I love you," murmurs Miles.

"So that has slowed down progress on Little Aral - a combination of working on a little program Dr. Cheung wants and seeing, well, Earth, has been diverting my attention. But I did a little bit yesterday - little postural tweaks; the heirloom human spine has not had enough time to evolve the long way into something that doesn't torture its owner. I'm saving all the revisions you haven't looked at yet separately in case you don't like one."

"Oh, I know from torturous spines," he murmurs, smiling crookedly. "I love you. Hey, here's a totally non-classified subject we can both contribute to - what's Little Aral's middle name going to be?"

"Good question. If one departs from tradition there - by choice or in this case necessity - is it still customary to name them after someone?"

"Not especially. We don't even have to make it a Barrayaran name particularly, if something from some other planet catches your eye, although of course I can't pretend anyone will be happy if we name him something that sounds recognizably ghem - or recognizably haut to anyone who can recognize haut names."

"Which is how many people?" she wonders. "But no, I wasn't going to suggest, say, my constellation-selector's name or anything like that. I find it rather aesthetically displeasing even if not paired with 'Aral', which doesn't improve it. Hmm. It's a pity Gavril is named, well. Gavril."

"Yeah, 'Aral Gavril' doesn't have much to recommend it. Hmm... halfway decent-sounding Barrayaran names that I can't attach offhand to any ancestors or friends... Aral Casmir? Aral Radmir? Aral Emil? Aral Raoul? Aral Noel? Aral Michel? Aral Joslin? Aral Evard? Aral Renard? Aral Loren? Aral Sergi? Aral Milan? Aral Adri? Aral Valory? Aral Tybalt? Aral Vasily?"

"Hmm, of those I'm most tempted by Adri. And it alliterates."

Miles giggles. "That it does! I wouldn't mind a Valory or a Tybalt or a Loren or a Raoul or a Casmir, but I suppose the second son's first name is also an open slot, if we get around to having one... what do you think? Raoul Antoly? Loren Antoly? Tybalt Antoly doesn't sound great unless I switch pronunciations, Tibble instead of Tiball... are we having a second son, do you suppose? Well, maybe better not get ahead of ourselves before we've had the first one."

"I would like to see how the first goes before cooking up a sibling, yes. Loren is a nice name, but where are you getting Antoly?"

"Oh. Did I not mention that when I was talking about the naming custom...? Well, right, if my grandfather hadn't choked on it I'd be Piotr Miles after my father's father Piotr Pierre and my mother's father Miles Mark. But if I had a brother, he'd be Mark Pierre. The second son gets the leftover names in sort of a reverse order. My father's middle name is Antoly, so our first son is Aral Whatsisface - Aral Adri, if you like - but our second son is Whatsisface Antoly. Little Aral Adri can be the second example that founds a proud tradition of alliterative Vorkosigans."