Because I feel Grego never got enough attention. An AU in which Grego is sent off in a starship in order to stop the Lusitania Fleet. But that doesn't have much to do with the actual story here.

I love the Enderverse. I love Orson Scott Card. He owns it all (except Aitana, who I created so Grego could love.)

"So I'm stranded."

"We knew we were going to be stranded somewhere. Sorrelledolce is as nice a place as any." But she knew her words held no comfort for Grego, because Grego, despite how many times he said he'd hated Lusitania, hated the trappings of his life on that doomed planet, Grego's heart and home were there, and now that Congress was shutting the ansibles down, Jane couldn't transport them faster than light from planet to planet anymore.

She noticed, though, that his first thought was of himself. Not even - we're stranded. And definitely not, Jane is dying. By shutting the ansibles down they're killing her, and that's awful, that's murder, how do we stop it. Not even that. I'm stranded.

"Sorrelledolce is just a backwater. A nice, tropical one with lots of cheerful people, most of them not intelligent enough to form an opinion on the Lusitania Fleet - and the ones that are, their opinions are just the opinions of Congress. Sorrelledolce vomits out what Congress wants it to, thinks the way it wants it to, and for some reason they have some power over the thinking of people on other planets, so we have to convince these idiots that they're idiots - but there's no point anymore, the order was sent, over and over again, but the -"

"The Fleet never got it, because Jane was blocking transmissions," she finished, irritated. "I know. I had her, too." She touched the jewel in her ear, where, until only moments ago, Jane's voice had spilled secrets and knowledge, and she saw Grego touch the jewel in his ear, too, so he must miss her some, whether he'd admit it or not.

"The point is," Grego said, frowning, "The Fleet can get the message now. Lusitania is …"

For once, Grego ran out of words. Well, no. But he couldn't say the words that came to mind, and that was a first, too. "So," she said. "We keep working."

Anger flashed in those eyes, because that was what he knew best. "Aren't you listening? There's no point. As soon as Congress gets those new, clean computers online, they'll send the launch order, and -"

Before he could say the words he didn't want to say, she interrupted, "But we have to continue working as if they can't send the order. Because the only other option is to give up, and let them win."

"They're going to win, anyway."

"If we give up, yes. But if we manage to sway opinion enough, even make them doubt themselves enough, we can delay the order, write more, get people involved, and the order will never be sent."

Grego remained silent, and she knew it was because giving up wasn't in his nature - he fought, instinctively, to the bitter end. He wanted her to convince him. The only reason he'd considered defeat was because his entire family was in danger of being killed, the planet he'd grown up on, everybody he'd ever known - about to be blown to bits. Enough to give any man pause.

"Come on," she said, giving him no time to argue with her. "Jane had time enough to get us accommodation and identities. Let's go eat. And sleep. I haven't slept in a bed in …"

"Three days," he finished. "You're so put upon. I weep for your suffering."

But he followed her out of the clearing where Jane had put their little starship, followed her into the nearby coastal village they'd landed near, and let her get them a ride to their lodgings. He didn't argue. He wouldn't give up.

Days later - weeks? - they were exhausted, and they'd gotten closer with a lot of the people they'd met with, but even more had either laughed them away or had them thrown out. She had been hard-pressed to keep Grego from coming to blows more than once. Having a nice place to stay and eating good food didn't change the fact that a planet was about to be destroyed, and they were supposed to stop it, and they couldn't.

This was a day off, not because they'd chosen it, but because without Jane making contact with people of importance was harder. And since they were strangers on this planet, in this city, they had no regular spots to hang out at, no escapes to relaxation and peace. They had only the small house Jane had 'bought' for them and each other's company.

"Would you stop!" Grego shouted, and she did, stopped walking, because all she had been doing was coming back from the washroom. "Just stop - living!"

"That's crude," she said, refusing to let him see that the insult actually hurt. "Stop living. You have more words than that at your disposal. So use them."

"That's not what I meant." He ground his teeth together. "I meant - when you have nothing to do, you just live. You read and watch the news and eat and - how can you stand it! Don't you have a heart!"

That's rich, she thought, coming from you. Aloud, she said, "If I do what you're doing, Grego, if I dwell on all of the impossible problems we need to solve, I'll go crazy."

"Going crazy would improve you, as far as I can see."

She just shook her head and left him in the living room, went back to her own room and slept, and ignored the tears that wet her pillow, because one of them had to maintain some semblance of normalcy if they wanted to survive this thing together.

When she heard his cry, and she saw the light of the terminal in her room go on, her heart leapt; and in her own joy - Jane must be alive! We can both go home, we can stop the Fleet! - it took her a moment to realize that Grego's cry had not been one of happiness, but of pain, and she leapt from her bed in sudden fear, because she'd never heard him make such a sound before.

He was in the middle of the hallway, on his knees, and he was shaking. She went to him.

"Grego! Grego, the terminal, what -"

"She didn't tell you," Grego breathed, and his voice broke.

And then the voice in her ear, the one that had been missing for so long - "I didn't think it was my place to tell." Soft. More human than ever before. Jane, alive. So her first assumption had been right, after all. But … what had happened to cause Grego so much pain?

She was approaching him from behind; her hand hovered over his shoulder, but she kept it away, stepped around him so he would see her. But he didn't even look up. And she didn't touch him. He'd hated it, the few times she'd deigned to even touch his arm, or lean on him in weariness. Brushed her off.

"Grego," she said softly, kneeling before him. "Grego, tell me."

When he looked up, when his eyes found hers and she saw the grief in his face, she reeled. His sadness had always been more anger than anything - anger at loss, not missing the thing that was lost. Now, though, that was all gone, it was just pain, unbearable, too big for him to contain. It poured out of him in tears and sobs and the shaking in his hands and shoulders and lips.

"Meu papai," he said, and it was frightening to hear how weak his voice was. "Morto."

She didn't know Portuguese. But those words were clear enough for her to understand - it took a moment, because her first thought was, Both of your fathers have been dead for decades. But no, this was the man that had raised Grego, the man who had come into his life when Grego was just a child and turned everything upside down and healed all the wounds he could; the man called Andrew Wiggin.

And to hear Grego call him Papa. Not Father. Not Dad. This was a side of Grego she didn't know, one she had no experience with, and so she continued not to touch him, or comfort him, because what word of hers could heal the wounds he bore?

He looked back down, hunched over, crying once more, and Jane's voice was in her ear again: "I don't have much experience with being human yet, but I think he could use a kind word right now."

"I can't," she mouthed, knowing the jewel would pick up the movement of her jaw, that somehow Jane would hear.

Jane was silent. Probably dealing with her own grief at Andrew's death.

Hesitantly, she reached out, touched just the tip of a finger to Grego's shoulder. And when he didn't scoff at it, when he didn't flinch away, she rested her hand there, brushed it up along his jaw.

Grego leaned into her hand, gripped it with his own, with all the strength of his suffering, and it hurt her. But she took his other hand, and gripped that one, too, and she thought she might have bruises on her hands after this, but she could bear it.

And then he lurched forward and threw his arms around her; it was awkward, in the position they were in, but she put her arms around his shoulders, and he cried into her shoulder. She felt his tears soak her shirt, and tears came to her eyes.

You come back to life, Jane, and the first thing you tell Grego is that his Father is dead. I'm glad you're alive. I'm glad. But what you've done here, I can never forgive you for it, because even though he had to know he's suffering more than he can bear and that will never change.

"I know, I know," she found herself whispering. "Grego, I know, I'm here, I'll be here." She couldn't say that it would be okay. She wouldn't lie. But she would be there, through his grief, if he wanted her there.

She was surprised when it was Grego who finally calmed enough to pull away; he was still crying, but it wasn't the great, heaving sobs of before. Now his tears were silent, and he was steady enough to say, "I think … I think I've been emulating the wrong father, Aitana." She shook her head, uncomprehending. "The one who worshiped his wife so intensely that he beat her when he knew she was unfaithful. The one who screamed at his children. He died before I could realize how hateful he was." He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, then brushed the tears from her face with his thumb. "And Libo was never my father. I have his genes, but there is none of him in me. My real father … he would never have brushed the woman he loved aside when she reached out to him. He wouldn't have lashed out just because he didn't understand her motives."

When he kissed her, it wasn't what she expected; it wasn't forceful, or angry, or dominating. It was insistent, and where before he'd held her hand so tightly and she'd felt his sadness, now he kissed her, and she felt his love - love he'd hidden well, these past months, and more tears spilled forth, because she hadn't known, and he hadn't let on before.

When they broke apart, she looked down, and there was a sense of loss; the moment ending. His next words confirmed her fear.

"We have so much to do," he started, and she nodded, making to get to her feet. But he stopped her, pulled her back down, and caught her gaze. "So before we do anything, marry me."

She gaped. Marry him? She hadn't even known he cared about her as anything more than a friend. And not even that, until just now. And she was barely into her twenties - and he was in his thirties, and -

"Don't tell me you're too young," he said. So he knew her arguments before she made them. "Or that we don't know each other well enough. All I know is, you - you're the one person who's been able to stand being near me for so long. Who actually enjoys it for some reason. And I enjoy your company. I crave it. I haven't needed anybody that way since my father - since Marcao died. I was barely a child. So why should the rest of my life be spent in service of others? Stopping the Fleet, that's important, and I'll do my best to accomplish that. But the rest of it - I mean, I'm a physicist. The Hundred Worlds don't need physicists much right now. My brother had it right, I think, much as it galls me to say so. He was as smart as any of us, could have been a xenologer or a xenobiologist or a physicist - or anything, really. But he's a brickmaker. His life is his family. It's not too late for me, is it? I can change the world and have a family, too."

"Change the world first," she said, smiling slightly. "Because once you have a family, the world will matter less."

He kissed her again. "I fully intend to change the world first. The worlds. But just …" He stopped.

"I told you," she said. "I'll be here." He nodded, and she laughed. "Will you be insulted if I change the world before you do?"

"Fat chance," he said, and they were the words she expected, but his tone wasn't as harsh as she was used to. Not at all condescending. He touched his forehead to hers. "Maybe together," he suggested. He was crying again - still - and he pressed his lips together. "He'd like that, I think."

"He was already proud of you."

"I was the worst," he said. "The worst of his children."

"No," she said sharply. "It's not just any man who can admit his mistakes. Who can correct them. Who can - literally - run into a burning forest to help those he endangered. The scars you bear are those of a good man."

He shook his head, refusing to believe her. That was okay. There was time enough, now, for her to convince him of how good he was. A lifetime.