"I don't care if you're the best on Earth! You're not joining the Alliance!"

It had been three years. Three years of exhaustion fed by fear, hard work, and not enough sleep. Three years of never knowing if today would be the last, the longest, the final battle against the Colterons.

But the Alliance had won, and its soldiers were spat out like the aftertaste of a night no one wanted to remember.

Awards were awarded and rights were righted; words like "honorable" and "dedication" and "commendation" were tossed back with heavy toasts. And after all was said and done, fighters and navigators alike were given their last order: Return to normal life, fit into society.

As Abel walked up the whitewashed steps to his parents' expensive condominium in Complex C, he wondered if that last order wasn't going to be the most difficult to follow.

"Dying in a Territory war is for lowlife colonists. You are my son… And I forbid any further discussion of this."

Abel could still hear those words like they were fresh in the air. They echoed in his mind as he raised a hand to knock on the door. He wondered, as he thought back on the 1,132 days he and Cain had teamed together – worked together, fought together, killed together –, if he would hear those words again within the hour.

"You sure about this?" Cain had asked when they were discharged, looking like he was torn between his usual scowl and faked indifference as they sat at an old sub shop outside of the Cleveland Alliance station.

Abel had nodded, feeling determined. He wondered now if the feeling had been misplaced, if ambition had made him naïve. But then the door to his childhood home opened, and his mother stood on the other side.

"Oh my God, Ethan! Ethan, you're really here!" she exclaimed, running forward to hug the veteran man who would always be her baby boy.

Abel smiled over his mother's shoulder, hugging her back like he could save the moment forever. "I'm home, Mom. I'm home."

Cheryl leaned back but didn't take her hands from his shoulders, and she laughed girlishly despite the tears forming in her blue eyes. "I'm so glad. It's such a relief to finally see you safe and sound. I worried every day but- You got my messages?"

"Yeah," Abel said with a quick, excited nod. "Things got spotty near the end, and I'm sorry I couldn't always write back, but they were a big encouragement."

"Well come in, come in!" she said, motioning him forward. "The maids are cooking your favorite dish, and we have your room all ready. Do you want a drink? Are you tired? You're probably exhausted!"

He held up his hands with a short laugh. "I'm good, though some tea with lunch would be nice. But, um, Mom, about my room, I have to tell you –"

Abel cut off when something moved in his peripheral. Descending the marble staircase, standing as tall and proud as he ever did, Abel's father met them in the foyer. He kept a few feet of distance, eyeing his son closely. There was a brief silence, and Cheryl patted Abel's arm reassuringly as the quiet stretched.

"You're home then," Thomas said at last, his tone hard to identify. Abel searched his father's face, trying to find something he could recognize, some indication as to how this reunion would go. Three years had given Thomas stern lines and more silver in his hair, but his shoulders were straight and his gaze was level.

"Hey, Dad," Abel said, tone somewhat guarded. "It's good to see you."

"You as well," Thomas replied smoothly. "It's been a while."

Abel nodded, forcing himself to not grip his travel bag tighter.

Cheryl looked from her husband to her son, lips drawn and red nails flicking anxiously. "Well, I'm going to see how they're doing in the kitchen. You must be starved, dear." She leaned in to give Abel another strong hug, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. "I just can't believe you're home. I'm so, so happy. I can't wait to hear all about your work." Before Abel could reply, she looked to the side. "Fedya," she called, motioning to a colonial servant, "go on and take Ethan's coat. And don't forget the windows, there's still so much pollen."

With one last smile, she kissed her son on the cheek and left for the kitchen.

Abel tried not to look awkward when he removed his coat, thanking Fedya quietly and politely his father went to the lounge. Leaving his bag by the door, Abel followed after Thomas. He watched as his father poured a glass of Crown from a nearby cabinet, the amber swirl of the liquid gleaming behind the crystal.

"Drink?" his father asked, proffering the glass curiously. When Abel nodded, Thomas handed him the drink and began to pour another for himself.

Abel took a sip and tried not to shift his weight under his father's measuring stare.

"You've lost weight," Thomas said, ignoring his own glass for now.

Abel gave a modest shrug. "I've been under a lot of stress. I didn't eat as much as I should have. Cain – my fighter – he used to throw stale rolls at me until I would eat more, but I was pretty busy."

His father frowned, but there wasn't any criticism in his voice when he said, "You'll be able to rest now. Much more, anyway. Should put on some weight easily."

"Yeah, I think so too. How have you and Mom been?"

Thomas sipped at his drink before answering. "Much the same as ever. We took a trip to the hot springs last fall, but beyond that I've just been working. Your mother has picked up this crafting habit. I'm sure you've noticed," he added dryly, motioning to the brightly stitched blanket on the "man chair" and the mosaic coasters lining the bar.

Abel made no effort to hide his smile. "It's certainly more colorful in here. I like it."

His father grunted but made no reply to that.

"How's your work going?"Abel asked.

"It's good, it's good. After the Aegir promotion, talk of a conservative repeal has started. It'll be interesting to see how things change now that the war is over. When the campaign picks up next month, I'm sure everyone will want to meet you."

Abel ran a hand through his hair self-consciously. "I'm not that special."

"Nonsense. You're a war hero," Thomas said quietly before taking another sip of Crown.

Abel watched his father with reserve, wondering at his tone. He wasn't sure what kind of reception he had been expecting at home, but he hoped his father wasn't going to hold his decision to commit to the Alliance in contempt.

"Do you still collect cars?" Abel asked, changing the subject in an effort to find pleasant ground.

Thomas nodded over his glass, eyes bright. "Of course. I have an Equulues 7 in the garage right now; finest car since the Pyxis. I'll introduce you, but I imagine you'll want to unpack first. Don't mess up your room, by the way; your mother's been a nag over the whole house ever since you were discharged."

Abel looking away, feeling anxiety like weight. "Actually, I meant to tell you and Mom… I'm going to stay for a few days – I've missed you both so much – but I'm going to find my own place soon."

His father gave him an appraising look. "Mature," he offered. "Life in the military taught you independence. That's good. You'll want to start your own life here on Earth."

"Yeah, I do," Abel answered guardedly, needing a moment to find his resolve. "I'm going to have a roommate."

Thomas' brows lowered in a curious frown. "Who?"

"My fighter, Cain."

"Your fighter. A colonial." Sharp, surprised.

Abel nodded tightly and did his best to keep his voice smooth, forcing himself to meet his father's steady gaze. "Yes. We've been together for three years."

His father snorted before the grip on his glass suddenly blanched white with realization. "Together? You- Are you saying you've been- sleeping with him?"

Abel braced himself, but dread and hurt and shame still threatened to roll his stomach. He told himself he had been prepared for this, that his father was his father and no matter what, he'd walk away from this calmly and head held high. But standing there, faced with his father's disgust, he found it hard to keep his shoulders straight; the fact that his travel bag remained unpacked by the front door didn't make this any easier.

"Yes," Abel said, relying on the neatness of honesty to get him through this. Relying on the fact that Cain was waiting in a coffee shop just a few miles away. "I know you don't approve. I know he's colonial born, and I know he's brash and poor, and he's got a rough past and a bit of an attitude, but I trust him, and I like him, and right now I need what's best for me, and that's Cain. We're both going to get jobs and work hard and make a living together. We're going to rake leaves and pay bills and burn dinner and just- live, like we both need. And I'm- I'm sorry if you can't accept that, and I'm sorry that I've disappointed you." His voice dropped to a murmur. "I never wanted to disappoint you, Dad. But this is what I've decided."

Thomas stared at his son in shocked silence, drink forgotten in hand. After a moment, he shook his head, lips moving without sound as he struggled for words. Then, placing his glass on the counter, he turned back. "Ethan…"

"Say what you want, but not around Mom. Let's just have lunch, and I'll leave afterward."

Thomas shook his head. "Foolish," he whispered.

Abel glared to the side, trying not to look as hurt as he felt. He squared his shoulders to muster some courage when Thomas suddenly closed the distance between them and pulled his son into a hug. "I don't give a shit about that right now," he said quietly, roughly, voice uneven for the first time Abel could ever recall. "I thought- I didn't think- You could have died, Ethan. You could have never come home." His grip tightened, and Abel struggled faintly for air, but he gripped his father back just as hard, throat growing tense and hands shaking.

When Thomas leaned away, he released a shaky breath and shook his head again, looking like a fifty-six year-old father rather than a cold politician. "You and that stupid war and your idiotic ideals. But it's over. It's over, and my son's a hero." His smile was tight, but pride creased his eyes. He paused before asking, "You're absolutely sure, though? About the colonial?"

Despite the small protest he felt, Abel couldn't help but laugh in relief, mind racing to keep up with the turn of the conversation. "It's Cain. And yes, I'm sure. I think it's the right decision."

His father didn't look convinced, and there was an edge of disdain in the acknowledging hum he gave, but he nodded. "You always were… daring. So," he said decisively, dissatisfied but curious, "just what kind of man is this Cain?"

"Well…"