"Thank you, Pym." Nikolai Vorsoisson set down his duffel bags with a thump, and looked around the tiled entry hall. It looked exactly as it always did, except—

"Nikki!" there was a piercing shriek from somewhere above, and then a hubbub of thumping feet and shrill voices: "He's here! He's back! Mama, he's here!" A second or so later, there were children upon children clinging to his legs and trying to knock him over – and Pym, the rat, was just standing there looking … bland.

"Piotr, you can't do that!" Aral reproved his younger brother, who was already rummaging in the pockets of Nikolai's tunic. Nikolai, grinning, lifted Piotr away by the waistband of his trousers and held him at arm's length. "Aral's right," he said. "You need way more practice before you can get away with that kind of thing."

Then, setting his smallest half-sibling gently back on his feet, he hunkered down to hug his sisters. How had they all got so big? He'd only been away a year.

"Nikki?" He looked up again at the sound of his mother's voice, and saw her descending the stairs with a baby in her arms. Wait – another one? And nobody told me? But no – even Lord and Lady Vorkosigan had had sense enough to stop at five (six, counting himself); this one had to be someone else's. Uncle Mark and Tante Kareen's, maybe, or Martya's and Enrique's. Still, there was something right about Mama holding a baby; in Nikolai's his memories of the years he'd spent in Vorkosigan House, babies and small children featured prominently, with Mama always at the still, calm centre of the chaos.

This – the children bouncing around in noisy excitement; Mama greeting him quietly and calmly, but with her heart shining in her eyes – this was it, this was home. (Only, when he was younger Mama hadn't seemed so short …)In fact, the only thing missing—

"Oho! If it isn't Pilot Officer Vorsoisson!" There was Miles, short and manically beaming as ever, emerging from somewhere with a roll of flimsies under one arm and a kitten stalking his heels.

"Not quite yet, sir," Nikolai said, grinning to conceal his disquiet: Miles was limping, he thought, much more than last year. "But another year closer to it, anyway."

Miles put out his hand for a man-to-man handshake. Touched, Nikolai took it – half the size of his, now, but firm and strong, paternal. But the gesture felt wrong for the occasion, for the unexpected surge of conflicting feelings that attended on this homecoming, and he converted it on the fly to a familial hug, reaching with his other arm to draw his mother in.

"I missed you all," he said, a little gruff with trying not to cry. Mama's dark hair – and Miles's, too – had threads of grey in it that hadn't been there a year ago.

Nikolai cautiously pushed open the kitchen door, wary of possible kittens sleeping on its other side. There was no resistance, however, and he stepped into the kitchen and headed straight for the covered tray near the refrigeration unit where, of old, Ma Kosti had always used to set out a little something, just in case, before heading off to bed.

Sure enough, there was a plate of tiny jam tarts under the cover, and an insulated jug of hot spiced milk, and a bowl of perfect golden apricots. Humming to himself, Nikolai filled a plate and a mug, and turned to sit down at the table – only to nearly drop his midnight snack in surprise. There was someone already sitting at the table, an empty plate in front of him.

Correction: sleeping at the table.

Nikolai grinned.

"Miles," he said quietly, laying a hand on his stepfather's small, bony shoulder. It was astonishing how small he was, asleep, slightly-too-big head pillowed on lean, short pyjama-clad arms. And … not old, not that yet, but … older than before. "Miles, wake up."

Miles's head jerked up; he blinked confusedly at Nikolai, then rubbed his eyes, and finally smiled. "Couldn't resist the lure of Ma Kosti snacks, eh?" he said.

Nikolai, sitting at the table now with his mouth blissfully full of jam tart, nodded. "It's not that I'm not enjoying school," he said, when he'd swallowed his mouthful, "but the food was even worse this year."

Miles nodded sympathetically. "I can imagine," he said. He studied his stepson for a long moment. "Did I ever tell you how I came to hire Ma Kosti?"

Chewing again, Nikolai shook his head.

"Well, it started when Ivan – no." Miles sighed, gazing into the middle distance, and Nikolai understood that this wasn't going to be a funny story – or, anyway, not just a funny story. "It started with the damned seizures, which started with the cryo-revival, which started with the needle-grenade …"

All of which Nikolai knew about, in a general way, but had never heard the details of from Miles himself. He shivered a little, thinking of the twisted, tangled scars on his stepfather's chest, and listened, fascinated, as Miles went on: "There was this ImpSec courier, Lieutenant Vorberg …"

Bits of the equally tangled narrative that followed were probably deeply classified, Nikolai reflected; he wasn't at all sure Miles ought to be telling him some of this stuff. But then, the two of them had been keeping each other's secrets for a long time.

Otherwise, well, there would've been a lot more trouble over certain Vorsoisson ventures of the past decade – that incident with Aral and Helen and the horse-drawn rowboat up at the long lake, for example …

Miles had offered to formally adopt him at one point, he remembered – to give eleven-year-old Nikki his, Miles's, name (though not, thank God, any risk of inheriting the Countship). The three of them had sat down in the Yellow Parlor, site of so many Serious Talks before and since; Nikki had sat with Mama on the couch, and Mama had insisted on holding his hand, even though he was much too old for that kind of thing by then, and Miles had sat across from them looking nervous.

"It's entirely up to you, Nikki," he'd said, with that sort of intimidating Milesian sincerity that you couldn't question even if you'd wanted to. "I can't – I wouldn't – ask you to give up your name, or presume to take your Da's place, unless by your own choice. I wanted you to know, I – I love you, and I would be proud to call you my son. But whatever you decide, you are part of this family. Always."

He'd almost said yes. He loved his Da, of course he did, and honoured his memory, but Miles was … was Miles – ImpSec legend, rock of integrity, co-conspirator, sharer of midnight snacks. Miles had taught Nikki to ride a horse and fly a lightflyer; Miles had said he could grow into his dreams; Miles had taught him about honour, shown him you could stand up and fight for what you knew was right, even if you weren't quite five feet tall. How you kept your name's word.

Miles had made Nikki's mama happy.

So he'd thought about it, quietly, not looking at Mama or at Miles, and he'd very nearly said yes.

In a strange way, it was the "I love you" that stopped him. Da had never said that, or never that Nikki could remember; Mama had assured him that of course his Da loved him, just as she did, but what he mostly remembered was that they'd shouted at each other a lot. If Da loved me, Nikki had reasoned, thinking it carefully through, it was because I was his son. Miles … wants me to be his son because he loves me. Well, and maybe because he loved Mama – but that was all right with Nikki, who loved Mama too. And that means … that means Miles will still love me if I say 'no,' and so will Mama.

It did mean that, didn't it?

But it was also what Miles had said about giving up his name. Nikki's father had dishonoured that name, however secretly; no less a person than Emperor Gregor might consider Tien Vorsoisson's honour redeemed by his death, but if you bore that name yourself, thought Nikki, you couldn't help seeing things differently.

To become Nikolai Vorkosigan, appealing as the idea might be, would be to lose his chance to make Nikolai Vorsoisson a name of honour. He had given his name's word to the Emperor, not so long ago; it had meant something then, and it meant something still.

"I want," he'd said at last, and paused to choose his words carefully, as the occasion deserved. "I want to keep my name. Someone needs to … to make it mean something. So … thank you, sir, but my answer is no. And –" it was hard to say it, it made him feel five years old instead of a dignified nearly-twelve; but there was something to be said for being five years old, sometimes. He said it quickly, gruffly, looking at the floor, but say it he did: "I love you, too."

Mama squeezed his hand. He dared a look at her, hoping she wasn't mad at him, or, worse, disappointed. There were tears in her eyes, but she was smiling; and Miles, when Nikki managed to meet his eyes, was smiling too.

"Really? Uncle Ivan and Uncle Duv threw you into a bathtub full of ice cubes?"

"With all my clothes on," Miles said, grinning. "I was spitting mad when they pulled me out, you bet. Which was a pretty big improvement over catatonic, of course, though I can't say I particularly appreciated that at the time."

They hadn't even got to Ma Kosti yet, if in fact that was where this story was going, but Miles had already given him rather a lot to think about. Probably on purpose, knowing Miles. Had he talked too much about one particular person at dinner? Not that he hadn't planned to tell his parents, eventually … but he'd been planning on working up to it. As in, perhaps, trying it out on Gran'dame Cordelia first.

On the other hand, Miles was half-Betan …

"Um," he said. "It's not that I don't want to hear the rest of the story … but … now that it's finally sort of quiet around here, could I, could I talk to you about something?"

Miles opened his hand invitingly.

"Except," Nikolai went on, holding his stepfather's gaze, "you can't tell my mother. I want to tell her this myself, and … well, not yet."

"Nikki—Nikolai—"

"I'm not in trouble, or in debt, or anything," Nikolai assured him. "This is a good something, not a bad something. Just …"

"Difficult?" Miles suggested.

"You could put it like that, yeah."

He took a deep breath and let it out, and then another. Miles refilled his mug, and sipped, and waited.

"The thing is," said Nikolai, looking at his plate. "The thing is, I've … met somebody. At school. Another pilot trainee. Komarran."

He risked a glance up at Miles, who raised his eyebrows encouragingly. "That does sound like a good something."

Over the years Nikolai had learned quite a bit about the way Miles's mind worked – though the speed at which it sometimes worked could still make him a little dizzy. He thought he could imagine the possibilities now revolving behind that inviting half-smile: So, what's difficult? Not the Komarran part – we did let him go to school on Komarr, after all. Related to terrorists? But so's 'Uncle Duv', and Nikki knows it. Refuses to come live on Barrayar? Well, Nikki won't be home so much anyway, once he gets a ship … Criminal past? Illegitimate children? Drug addiction? Cetagandan?

When the silence had stretched out long enough to grow awkward, Miles – who ordinarily did not badger a person, Nikolai had found – said, "So … what's her name?"

Well. That's one way to start this conversation…

"His name." Nikolai brought up his chin defiantly. "His name is Anders. Anders Malo."

Miles, to his credit, looked … surprised. Not apoplectic, not disbelieving, not appalled, just surprised. "Oh," he said after a moment. And then, "You mentioned him at dinner, I remember now. This is the part you don't want me to tell your mother, I take it?"

Nikolai deflated a little as it became clear that there wasn't going to be any shouting. Come on, he's not that Barrayaran. You're thinking of your father. "You're not … angry about this?" he ventured. "Not, you know, disgusted and appalled?"

"If you really thought I was going to be, would you have told me?" Miles countered. God, he was getting to be as clairvoyant as Gran'dame Cordelia.

Nikolai snorted and, reluctantly, smiled. "I thought you might be, you know, Betan enough to handle it."

"Thank you," said Miles, rather startlingly. "Nikolai—"

He stopped, and Nikolai looked at him. "What?"

Miles sighed. "I'm not your father, and I've tried … not to, to push myself into that place. But I do feel responsible for you, and I—I—"

"I love you, too, Miles." Amazing how easy it was this time.

Amazing, too, to see tears gleaming in Miles's grey eyes. Oh. What have I gotten myself into, here?

"So," Miles went on, blinking, "I hope you don't mind if I ask a couple of paternal questions, here. I'm going to ask them in any case, by the way." He paused briefly, expectantly; when Nikolai failed to register any objection, he continued: "First thing: are you serious about this? And your … Anders, is he serious about it?"

Not a rhetorical question. Nor, fortunately, one they had failed to address back on Komarr. Nikolai lifted his chin – not defiant, now, just … firm. "Yes. And yes."

"All right." Miles nodded. "Second thing: does he, does this relationship, make you happy?"

Nikolai thought about Anders's parents and sisters waving them off at the downside shuttleport, about their last conversation, up on the transfer station. About the handwritten letter Anders had tucked into the pocket of his tunic just before they said goodbye, which he'd read a few times now – not too many times, maybe ten or twelve …

After a minute it registered that Miles was tilting back his chair with his arms folded across his chest and an expression of amused indulgence on his face, and then that he himself was wearing what must be a revoltingly soppy grin. "We'll call that a yes," said Miles.

Nikolai nodded.

"Third and last thing." Miles's tone grew slightly plaintive: "When, exactly, are you planning to tell your mother? I'd recommend very soon. She's already decided there's something you're not telling her, and if she suspects you've told me, well, let's just say I'm not as good at evading interrogation as I once was …"

This was a much harder question to answer. "I … um." Nikolai started, and stopped. What are you afraid of, anyway? Mama will want whatever makes you well and happy – she always has. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to tell her …"

"I'm sorry, but no. Your first instinct was the right one, in this case – it usually is, you know. This needs to come from you." A pause; a crooked smile. "But I suppose, if you absolutely can't face such a terrible ordeal alone …"

"Oh, sir, would you?" Nikolai grasped at the proffered lifeline. "It's not that I … it's just …" He sighed. "You know how much I love Mama. But the woman's mad for grandchildren – she doesn't say it, but you can sort of see it in her eyes …"

Miles laughed, the sound loud in the night-quiet kitchen. "I think you'll find your choice doesn't preclude that possibility," he said. "But even if it did – Nikki, what your mother wants is your health and happiness. I can't promise you she won't be … somewhat gobsmacked by this news, but I can promise that your happiness trumps, well, almost everything, in this game."

"Well … you know her better than I do …"

"Married people are like that."

He'd been going to say husbands and wives, Nikolai was almost sure. Distracted, he said without thinking, "My Da wasn't like that."

Miles went very still, and said a whole lot of nothing for what felt like several minutes. Finally he said, "We didn't realize you were aware of … that."

Nikolai snorted. "That my father was an ass, and a failure and an oath-breaker, and that he drove my mother almost out of her mind?"

Miles winced at his tone; he went on, with less bitterness, "I wasn't aware of it, then. Not while it was happening. I was a kid, I was … well, you think the world revolves around you, when you're six. Or even nine. I … started to clue in afterwards, when …"

"Do you remember what you said to me, that morning?"

"Oh, God." Nikolai's face warmed, remembering it. "'You will make my mama happy, won't you?' How I dared … !"

The front legs of Miles's chair came back down with a thump. "Horseshit!" he said. "You had every right, Nikki. And every reason, for that matter. What I said before – I've tried not to usurp your father's place, or, or tarnish his honour in your eyes; but I did hope – I did want – to set you a better example than he had …"

You weren't supposed to get teary-eyed from talking to your stepfather, dammit. Nikolai swiped one sleeve across his face while Miles politely pretended not to notice. "You did," he said. "Sir. Miles. You did. And, while we're at it," please, let's laugh, before both of us start to cry, "I might as well take this opportunity to apologize for being such an obnoxious little shit when Helen and Aral were little …"

Miles, who had been looking a little overwhelmed, grinned at him and waved a dismissive hand. "Believe me, you weren't any more obnoxious than I was at that age – or your Vorvayne uncles, for that matter. We knew you'd turn out all right in the end. And at least it made a change from changing diapers." Abruptly going serious again, he added, "Promise me you'll speak to your mother soon."

"I will."

"And, Nikki?"

"Sir?" he could still look up at Miles, just, when he was sitting (well, slouching) and Miles standing.

A small, strong hand gripped his shoulder. "Congratulations, son."