Chapter Text
Elinor wasn't speaking to him, Carswell was hiding from him, and he'd been told off by a sixteen year-old. Nothing was going as planned. Kingsley knocked back a gulp of coffee and slouched lower in the kitchen chair he'd claimed sometime during the pre-dawn hours, when—after hours of pointless tossing and turning—it had become painfully clear that sleep wasn't going to come. He'd never been sure what good parenting looked like, but he was certain that this wasn't it.
All of his plans for this reunion had crumbled around him the instant he'd flagged Carswell down at the airfield. And to some extent, he had expected it. He was a four-star general and four star generals did not earn said stars by being so blindly confident in their own schemes that they didn't expect things to work out differently in the field than they did on the drawing board. Complications were just a part of life, whether in the realm of military strategy or of family reunions. Kingsley had fully anticipated that there would be tension between them—maybe even a minor skirmish or two—but he had thought that the potential jobs he had found would be a suitable olive branch. After all, he had never known Carswell to be anything less than thrilled by the prospect of a new business venture.
And yet somehow…somehow it had all gone horribly wrong.
All he wanted to do was smooth things over, but all he had done was pull them further apart. Kingsley dropped another sugar cube into his mug and absently watched it dissolve. Perhaps if he had thought the plan through a little more before he launched it, it would've worked. Perhaps if he had worded the offer differently. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…He scowled irritably into his coffee and gave it a vicious stir, sloshing a wave of it onto the table and not bothering to wipe it away. No amount of perhaps-ing would change the fact that his son was just as lost to him as he had been before.
Perhaps more so.
A faint thump-thump noise echoed from the service stairwell that ran from kitchen to the upper levels. Footsteps, Kingsley decided, though he couldn't fathom why any of their young guests would be up this early. The house was still perfectly silent outside of the distant tick-tock of the antique clock in the foyer and the muted whispers from beyond the wall of the breakfast nook Elinor and Janette had settled into—Kingsley had originally planned on joining them, but then thought better of it when met with matching frosty glares—and the first glimmers of sunlight were only now breaking through the sickly, gray, pre-dawn light that filled the kitchen. Janette hadn't even started breakfast yet and given that the waffles were always steaming on the table at 7:30 sharp every morning, that was saying something. Kingsley squinted at the shadowy archway that housed the stairwell and waited.
A second later, Carswell crept out of the darkness, moving carefully, furtively, towards the back entrance. Kingsley's mouth went dry at the sight of him, a wave of panic crawling up the back of his throat. It would've been one thing if the boy had stumbled downstairs half-asleep in search of a glass of water or a pre-breakfast snack to make up for the dinner he'd abandoned the night before, but this…this was not stumbling. He wore his flight jacket, his access credentials shoved in the front pocket for easy entry at the airfield, his hair was still damp and tousled from a hurried shower, and he froze stock-still and wide-eyed when he spotted Kingsley staring at him. No, this wasn't stumbling…this was sneaking.
Neither of them moved or spoke for a full thirty seconds, an uneasy silence weighing down the air in the room as they regarded each other and waited.
"Good morning." Kingsley said, finally, because it was the only thing he could think of. The only other options that sprang to mind involved either pleading with Carswell to stay or worse, demanding it. Neither seemed appropriate.
"'Morning." Carswell replied, narrowing his eyes at the lack of response. "You're up early."
"So are you." That wasn't too accusatory, was it? Kingsley didn't think so. Even if he was a little tempted to twist it into an accusation. Though his son had always been good at defying his expectations in new and creative ways, tiptoeing out the back door at five a.m. wasn't the kind of response he'd expected from a man who'd survived a revolution. And when Kingsley consideredwhy Carswell would resort to something that drastic…well…he didn't like to consider that.
"Comm from the airfield." Carswell waved his portscreen. "They tripped one of Cress's security measures and they need a crew member to disable it before they can finish the repairs. I was awake anyway—"The boy's eyes went a little shifty at that admission. "—so I figured I might as well take care of it myself."
Oh.
Kingsley felt himself relax a little at that, the death grip he held on his mug going slack and his automatic frown smoothing away to pensive neutrality. That was better. At least Carswell wasn't running away in the dead of night to avoid him, as he had originally feared. He paused, the seed of an idea taking shape. Neither of them was fully in their element here, in the dim, drowsy hours where no one was quite themselves…Kingsley had taken one opportunity already and smashed it to dust.
Perhaps this could be his second chance.
It wasn't what he would've chosen had he had his pick of circumstances to make amends in, but military strategy wasn't everything. Last night's fiasco had proved that. This was looser, more casual, free of the social baggage that came with steak dinners and formal seating…this was real. And this was an opportunity that Kingsley did not intend to let go of.
"The airfields...how were you planning to get there?"
Kingsley lingered on the tarmac for a moment, uncertain about whether or not he should enter the Rampion's hold. He hadn't exactly been invited in. Given the fondness with which both Carswell and his crew talked about this ship, it felt like striding into the hold his son had disappeared into a moment earlier would be somehow...intrusive. Like barging into a private party without an Carswell had reluctantly agreed to let Kingsley drive him to the airfields—while trying and failing to mask an expression that looked more like he was agreeing to have his fingernails yanked out with rusty pliers—they hadn't exchanged more than three words on the drive over.
"Are you coming?" Carswell's voice echoed down the gangplank, loud and hollow and unnatural in the early morning stillness. Kingsley straightened and took one tentative step up the ramp. That was the invitation he had wanted…so why did he still feel like an interloper the instant his boot hit metal?
"Right behind you." He forced himself to trail Carswell's path into the ship, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Though he couldn't shake the knot of unease in his stomach, there some consolation in the knowledge that he was finally being allowed into some part of his son's new life. It wasn't the catharsis he had hoped for, but it was something. There were so many things he wanted to know, but so few questions he could ask without risking another flare of temper. Simply being here—in Carswell's ship, where he could see how the boy lived, what he did, what he had, if there was enough food in the pantry—would serve to satiate some of his curiosity.
The hold itself wasn't what Kingsley had been expecting. Bare metal walls obscured by stacks upon stacks of neatly secured crates—some marked as medical cargo and others as supplies—rose on all four sides, with the only unique characteristics being the rudimentary basketball hoop bolted to the far wall and the pull-up bar that spanned the space between two of the lower supports. Both appeared to be recent additions, if the shiny new bolts were any indication, but they were by no means the only soft touches amongst the stark décor. A tattered sofa that looked as it had been plucked from a seedy second-hand store hugged one wall and a pair of sturdy armchairs with mismatched legs sat across from it to form a makeshift living space. Kingsley skimmed a hand over the back of the sofa and smiled faintly. They weren't the most opulent living arrangements, but they weren't the cold, hollow, utilitarian quarters he had expected from a cargo ship. It was…cozy. And given the amount of character the Rampion possessed—from the bullet marks on the hull to the best interior comforts a pack of newly employed teens could afford—it felt right. The ship was scarred and threadbare and world-weary, inside and out, but it bore it all with a sense of cheerful defiance. With a sense of…hope. Kingsley wasn't surprised.
The hold fed into a tiny hall with several closed doors that Kingsley assumed were crew quarters and one open hatch leading into the galley before opening out into the cockpit at its furthest point. Carswell was already in the pilot's seat, muttering to himself as he hunched over the console. Kingsley moved to join him, but paused when a flash of movement caught his eye.
A collage of holopics of all shapes and sizes was plastered over the bulkhead, some obviously from grainy portscreen cameras and others grouped in the neat strips of an overpriced photo booth. Some featuring one or two members of the crew posed in front of a panoramic cityscape or a towering landmark and others with all four of them crowded into the frame, their smiles blocking out whatever the photo's backdrop may have been. Kingsley reached out and traced a hand over the shifting lines, his jaw tightening a little more with each glimpse of the life that Carswell had built for himself. Carswell standing in front of the Rampion, with the signed lease in hand, Carswell and Cress grinning at the camera from the grass that ran beneath the Eiffel Tower, Carswell and Wolf arm-wrestling in the Rampion's hold with a group of other youngsters that Kingsley didn't recognize with the exceptions of Emperor Kaito and Queen Selene clustered around them…The boy was smiling in every photo. He'd carved out a place in the world for himself. A good place, where he was successful and happy and loved…and where there was no space left for the family he'd left behind.
Kingsley couldn't blame him.
Eventually, he stepped into the more cramped quarters of the cockpit. Carswell didn't look up from the console he was poking at, his brow knitted in concentration as he keyed in one code sequence after the other. Kingsley sat down in the copilot's chair, propping his elbows on his knees and balancing stiffly on the edge of the seat.
"That's a very comprehensive security system."
"Yeah…Cress's work is the best in the universe." A hint of a proud smile flickered over Carswell's lips as he typed the final keystrokes with a flourish and sat back in his chair. He looked out the viewport for a long moment, his gaze scanning thoughtfully over the first stirrings of the airfield's morning shift as they trickled into the hangars and across the runways, and eventually let out a sigh. "But somehow I don't think you came all the way out here with me to talk about my ship's security system."
"No. No, I didn't." Kingsley paused and wished he'd invested a few more univs in parenting manuals. He doubted that many books on the market covered reconnecting with estranged, twenty-year-old war heroes, but he would've been happy for any help he could get. Conversational techniques, psychological insights…anything he could use to fix his mistakes. But no amount of scouring the net for advice or solutions during his sleepless night had brought him any closer to narrowing down his options. He sagged back into his chair, letting his shoulders slump and glancing away in hopes that the words would come more easily if they didn't have to look at each other.
Apologies were all well and good. Or at least, he supposed they were. His experience in doling them out was…limited. He'd had good luck with bribes in the past, but that had been years ago, when Carswell was easily placated by a bump in his allowance or a limited edition ship model, and Kingsley doubted that tactic would be well received now. He scowled. It shouldn't be this hard. He worked with diplomats and politicians every day, for star's sake. His job depended on him being able to say the right thing at the right time, but now, when it counted…
"Look, I'm obviously no good at this—at not least with you," He said, perhaps more gruffly than he should have. "But I feel that it should be said that I…that I am sorry. For my presumptions, for the argument last night…for everything."
The cockpit went silent and the quiet stretched on until Kingsley couldn't help sneaking a quick look over at his son. Carswell was frowning at nothing in particular, his brow furrowing and the muscles of his jaw flexing as he appeared to weigh the words against a lifetime of actions. Finally, the leather of the pilot's seat squeaked as Carswell shifted enough to lean back and prop his boots on the dash, folding his arms across his chest and glancing over to fix Kingsley with a steady stare.
"Do you just feel that it should be said or do you actually feel it? Because that's a pretty important distinction right there." He paused, his eyes going hard, like a forcefield coming up to shield a ship. "I don't want to hear it just because it's what Janette or anyone else wants you to say and—"
"I don't say anything I don't mean." Kingsley interrupted quietly. "Not to anyone else, but certainly not to you and certainly not about that."
"Really." The boy's tone was flat, as if he was trying too hard to mask what lay beneath it, but…it wasn't angry. At least, not as angry as Kingsley had expected it would be after the night before. If anything, it was cautious, perhaps even with the tiniest hint of hope. "Then if you meant it, explain why you waited until I had three royals and a collection of assorted war heroes to vouch for me and a legitimate 'Captain' before my name before you said it. Because from where I sit, that doesn't look good for you."
Kingsley winced visibly and huffed out a pained sigh. Even he had to admit that it didn't look good.
"That isn't what I was waiting for. Believe me, it isn't even remotely what I was waiting for."
Carswell arched a brow at him, making it clear that there would be no evading that line of questioning.
"It's nothing so ambitious as that…" Kingsley shrugged, the movement awkward for limbs more accustomed to parade rest and military posture than casual chats. His voice dropping to a vaguely embarrassed rumble. "It's merely that even old men take time to work up enough nerve to make amends. Before your…heroics…I admit that refusing to be the first one to make a move was a matter of pride. I assumed that sooner or later, you would come to your senses and come back to us in the process. But then suddenly the war was upon us and you were…gone." He swallowed once, twice, but the lump still rose in his throat. He could feel Carswell staring at him, but looking at his son—his perfectly alive and well son—now, with the memories of those awful months clouding his judgement, wouldn't do if he wanted to keep his composure. "When we finally got word that you were alive, I decided it was time for this nonsense to end, but it just…took some time to figure out how to do it. I do realize what it looks like and I know you haven't been given any reason to think so, but please believe that I wanted nothing more than to see that you were safe and sound. And to insure that you stay that way."
Silence fell again, the air in the cockpit simmering with unease despite the peaceful atmosphere of the empty Rampion and the soft morning light. Kingsley could catch occasional glimpses of the repair crew that was supposed to be preparing the Rampion for its departure milling around outside, casting curious looks up at the pair in the cockpit. He supposed they were holding up the very work they'd come to speed up, but he certainly wasn't about to shatter the fragile moment.
"I saw the holopics." Finally, finally Carswell piped up. Though…that wasn't anything Kingsley had expected to hear. What holopics? And what did that have to do with—"The ones on your desk. Janette insisted that I needed to see them before I left."
Oh. Kingsley blinked, then frowned. "If you saw them, then surely you must've known that it wasn't— "
"Yeah…I knew. At least sort of." Carswell murmured." But I couldn't believe it without hearing it from you instead of Janette." He glanced out the viewport at the tarmac below and the obviously impatient repair technicians, then hauled himself to his feet. "You know, we should probably get out of their way before they come in after us. I know from experience that cranky mechanics are not to be trifled with."
Kingsley harrumphed. The sheer nerve of that boy would never cease to amaze him. "Carswell?"
"What?" He stopped in the doorway, turning back around with an inquisitive look on his face as Kingsley rose to trail him out of the cockpit.
"Is that it, then?"
"It's…" Carswell paused for an instant before a faint smile appeared on his lips. It wasn't a smile Kingsley had seen often. It wasn't falsely innocent or sharply defiant. It wasn't dripping with charm or smooth with deceit. It was…real. "It's a start."
Kingsley smiled back, though smiling was certainly not among his default expressions, and a wave of relief washed through him as they sauntered out of the ship and towards the waiting hover. It was a start. It hadn't been easy—and he had the feeling that it wouldn't get any easier—but it was a start. And that was all that mattered.
Carswell had never felt more smothered in his life. And while, under normal circumstances, that wasn't a sensation he enjoyed, he couldn't quite bring himself to mind when his mother had insisted on sharing afternoon tea with him or when his father sat through nearly an hour's worth of rambling about the Rampion's remodeling potential without tossing out a single critique. Feeling this comfortable, this wanted in his own home was new. It was different, and all three of them found it a little unnerving, but it was a good start. And it was…nice.
It was almost a shame to leave.
"You're sure you can't put the deliveries off another day?" Elinor asked, frowning as the group piled out of the car onto the broiling tarmac of the airfield and wrinkling her nose at the smell of hot asphalt. Using a taxi had been suggested, but neither of the elder Thornes would hear of it and in the end, six people had squished into a hover built for four. Janette had wisely elected to say her goodbyes back at the estate, and sent them on their way with a tin of cookies and a faint smirk as she watched them try to settle themselves into such tight quarters. Kingsley just snorted, as if the very idea of holding back a military operation was absurd.
"No can do. We've got three more antidote stops to cram in before we have to make the jump to Luna for more supplies." Carswell said, because putting off deliveries for the people who held the lease on his Rampion just to hang with his parents for a few more hours was absurd. But…the sentiment was nice. "Leutemosis waits for no man."
"It was good to see you, even for such a short time." Kingsley said, clearly making a conscious—and difficult—effort to choose his words carefully. Carswell stifled a smirk. It made the words themselves come out stiff and unwieldy but nonetheless genuine and maybe even a little endearing. Kingsley hesitated. "I…I trust you'll be passing through Los Angeles again?"
Carswell hesitated, too, pausing look enough to look closely at his father. To size him up for any hint of ulterior motive. To be forewarned of any hidden agendas. But for once, every line of the older man's face seemed earnest. Clearly uncomfortable, but earnest. That was understandable. The whole situation felt surreal to him, too. Carswell smiled faintly.
"Yeah…Yeah, I think we will."
Kingsley's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, the lines around his eyes softening to something less hard and stern and stony. He nodded his approval, then reached tentatively over to briefly squeeze his son's shoulder. "Good man."
"We'll look forward to it." Elinor said, sliding forward to press a kiss to Carswell's cheek. Ever the perfectionist, she then frowned at the smudge of lipstick left behind and lifted a hand to scrub at it with the pad of her thumb. He chuckled, eventually ducking out of her reach with a grin when the Rampion's engines roared to life behind him. The others had already disappeared into the ship, leaving him a moment alone with his parents.
"So will I." Though the words tumbled out as a mere natural response, Carswell found that—for once—he meant them. It had been less than twenty-four hours since his father had appeared at his ship hunting for him, but it felt simultaneously as if it had been much longer and much shorter. So much had happened, yet they'd had so little time. It was a conundrum.
Still, Carswell mused as he jogged up the ramp just in time for the airlocks to hiss shut behind him, it was only the first visit. There would be more time during the next one, at least if his father had his way. A pang of unease turned his stomach at that thought purely out of habit, but he did his best to shake it off. The idea of willingly spending time with his family was...going to take some getting used to. He slipped into the cockpit and strapped into the copilot seat just as the Rampion jolted beneath him, rising gracefully into the sky. Scarlet guided the ship upwards, banking enough to catch a final glimpse of the couple still standing by the launchpad. Carswell smiled. Yes, it would take some getting used to…but he would give it a shot.