Funny, I never thought I'd be telling dad anything like this...
     He's dressed in prep modest-casual, which means a pair of dockers and a button-up shirt. The dockers are tan, as befits a lunchtime meeting; the shirt is white with very very pale green piping. His dock shoes have pennies jammed in behind the heel to help them hold their shape in time-honored tradition, and his hair, which had been getting a little long, has recently been trimmed to something a little more prep-appropriate. A pair of topaz-tinted sunglasses rest on the bridge of his nose, unfortunately completing the image of the prep asshole; but he couldn't think of a way around those.
     Most people would at most have to tell their fathers, 'dad, I'm gay'. This is just off the chain. Well... we'll see how dad reacts to the first bit, I guess, before we head into the rest.
     Pres has invited his father to lunch at the Manhattan Club, in NYC. Why not? According to his newly acquired talent, 'Two' has to be in New York for a seminar anyway; and it's the one place he can think of where mumsie not only won't crash in as a guest, she can't. Even wives of members are not allowed save on special occasions. Right now he waits in the lobby, settled into a leather chair and occasionally checking his watch. He knows you'll be there any moment; for your own reasons, you've chosen not to lose yourself in books and monographs and all the rest today. You've even chosen not to walk from your hotel to the club.
     He knows these things; but he doesn't know, can't see what he'll say to you. And he can't see, doesn't know how you will react to whatever he will end up saying. So for now, he sits, and he looks at his watch, and he turns his thoughts over and over in his head, his hair blonder than it used to be, pale gold washed out as if by far too much sun, even though he isn't particularly tanned; no cane in evidence, thoughts turned inwards.
     Well, at least they know I'll be gone a couple of days by their time...
     Pres had to get help in crossing, of course. But he hasn't told anyone what he intends to say, or why he's doing this. He knows his own whys. But he has no certainty of what, exactly, he will say...

     For all his supposed academic distraction, Preston Oliver West II is rarely late. He perversely knows just how many steps it will take to get to the Manhattan Club from both the main library and the hotel where the conference is taking place, he knows the taxi routes, and just how late the taxis will be, given the day of the week, the time of the year, and the morning's forecast. And when he steps out of his cab, he glances at his watch.
     A whole two minutes to spare...
     The door to the Manhattan Club opens, and in walks Two, dressed in his greys -- a grey suit with black shoes, a blue sweater vest and white shirt beneath that, looking at once both haphazardly fashionable (it is an accident) and a bit slapdash. He's in a suit for the conference and only because he's speaking. Otherwise, he would be in his cream Dockers with some random, mostly clean shirt.
     Oh, there you are. He smiles at you, a glance to his watch -- he is precisely on time -- and he sets his messenger bag (brown leather) and his arm full of folders on the table. Gauche? Yes, but studious. He reaches across the table to take your hand with a smile. "It's good to see you. This is a pleasant surprise..."

     "Hey, dad." Pres rises to his feet, grinning briefly and trying to look at ease. He mostly succeeds. He gives you his hand, squeezing yours before sitting back down. "Yeah, well, I figured we should catch up and this way nobody's gonna be around to interrupt."
     He knows this. Entirely aside from the no women allowed rules, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt. It makes him feel old before his time, but he says nothing to indicate this as he picks up a menu and glances at it again. "How much time have you got? I know you're probably swamped with new job offers right now. Inside tip says that the one from University of Tampa's strictly for the birds."
     He is more nervous than he thought he would be, and that surprises him. He looks over the menu, then sets it down to look at you. "What're you drinking? I'm buying, dad. I did good on - well, I have a little cash in my pocket right now."

     Your father looks astonished. What do you know about the job offers? "Talking to Gillian?" He smiles. "I am not seriously considering Tampa Bay. However, University of Miami and University of Texas at Galveston are possibilities. I do not know how I will feel about the weather. Oh, thank you, a scotch, please, neat."
     "You look good. You look like things are going well. How's your leg?" He asks these questions with only a hint of distraction as he begins to eye the menu upon sitting. He has a difficult time multi-tasking. And there are so many choices! It's distracting.
     Perhaps Madison comes by that naturally after all...
     "I have..." he pauses, distracted at the choices for another moment. He has to set the menu aside and he looks at you. "I have a couple of hours. The symposium cocktail hour isn't until five. And I do not have to be on time for that. You know how I feel about networking. Dolphins are far more equipped to handle it than I," it is a rueful smile that follows.
     Two looks down at the menu again, deciding on the tenderloin and potatoes. It is almost autumn! He's allowed! Besides, His Dearest is not here to criticize his choice as being too fatty...

     "Go with Miami if you're going to pick, but honestly, you should pick somewhere else," Pres answers you after a moment. There is a pause before he speaks; behind the glasses, his eyes change color before returning to a somewhat less silvery grey. He does his best to conceal it - from you, and from any other eyes that might be watching. "Both of them are going to get slammed pretty hard with hurricanes in the next five years. Global warming, y'know?"
     He looks to the waiter, and nods to himself. "Rum and Coke," he tells the man. He bites his tongue on saying more, returning to looking over the menu. "Gillian's been busy, so've I, so we haven't had much chance to talk lately. I know what's up with her, though, if that helps any."
     The menu's set aside. It doesn't matter to him what he orders; he won't be able to eat much anyway, with as tangled as his nerves are on the inside. Aloud, he says, "My leg's fine, dad. Listen, I ... there's some stuff I have to tell you. Some of it's gonna sound a little hard to believe. I can give some evidence to back it up, you raised us right. Scientific method and all that. But..." He glances around. "Let's order first. Get rid of the waiter, y'know?"

     "I've talked to Gillian recently." There is a pause. He's not particularly worried about Gilly-flower. There is a look of annoyance. "I am not sure about this...man she is seeing. There is something about him I don't like. I am probably being a father," a glance to you above his menu, "...and therefore a tad judgmental. But I trust Gillian's judgement. I'm a bit worried about Madison. She hasn't called. No email. I'm sure it really hasn't crossed her mind, as things tend not to. Have you heard what's happening there?"
     There is a moment's pause only as you bring up the-matter-at-hand and he looks at you. There is curiosity in his expression. He's not concerned yet, but your opening has him... piqued. "Certainly," he motions the waiter. "I would like the beef tenderloin with the mashed garlic mashed potatoes. A scotch, neat, as well as a water, no ice, but lemon." He hands the server the menu. How's that for decision making?

     "Yeah, I hear from Maddie all the time." That's said a little sourly. He doesn't mention that what he hears are cries and moans of passion. "She's fine, dad. Just - really caught up with her boyfriend, you know? I hear she's finally figured out what to study though, so that's good. I'll poke her to actually call home once in a while."
     He orders the roast chicken and vegetables - when in doubt, you can't go wrong with chicken, right? - and he sits back to study you, raking a hand back through his hair. "I know this is going to sound weird, but ... dad, have there ever been any ... I don't know, weird family stories? I don't mean like the time great-uncle George broke his leg while running liquor during Prohibition," Pres begins, "but ... really weird. We didn't have an ancestor who, like, I don't know, stole the sacred eye of Kali out of a statue in India during World War One or earlier, do we?"
     He frowns. He is not asking it well. He picks up his drink and takes a long pull. "Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way, but ... dad, what is the weirdest thing - weirdest unexplained thing, anyway - you've ever dealt with?"

     For him, there is nothing that cannot be explained by Science. Mathematics is the single greatest form of expression. It is perfect. It is universal. Preston Oliver West II could never be mistaken for a religious or even a spiritual man. He looks at you as his scotch arrives. He sips at it, wondering: now, what the devil is this boy on about?
     "I do not know that I have personally experienced anything that couldn't really be explained, or rather -- a great many things that I could not explain but that other, smarter men surely could and have..." His tone is leading. You are obviously going somewhere with this. It is important to you. "I've never been one for hyperbole, Preston. I have, I suppose, never been open to ah... well, anything that wasn't empirical in nature."
     He looks at you (studies you really). "I have had... well, I suppose my affinity for the sea. I suppose there's something mystical about it. It's always been a compulsion of mine. I have always felt called to it. Before I could do my first formula." He smiles a little to you, sympathy in his eyes. Perhaps you had a close-call, a near-death experience with the shark. He is open to listen to you. "And you?"

     He listens to you, and he doesn't smile. He doesn't frown, either; he listens, and he absorbs what you say, and tries to figure out the best possible response. "So if I had -" Pres begins, then shakes his head. "Okay. There's a lot I need to tell you, but it's out there. I think I'd better begin with the evidence. Do you want it now, or after lunch?"
     He picks up his drink. He's going to need it.

     "Everyone is different, son," your father says. "I am here... to listen. I am not here to judge you." Preston Oliver West II is quite, quietly, adamant about that. "I think there has been quite enough of that already. And I don't know how that ever started. So... I am here. We can examine....whatever it is... together. Yes?" He looks to you for confirmation.
     And he lifts his drink for a sip as well. We may both need a drink...

     Pres smiles faintly at that, and he shifts his chair back a little. Hiking one foot up onto a rung of the chair, he bends, and begins rolling his pant leg up from the ankle. You know all too well what that leg should look like; the mass of twisted, scarred flesh buckled in behind where a chunk of meat was ripped away from the bone, gone forever. But there is nothing in his face which suggests he is trying to frighten anyone, or to apply guilt.
     He rolls the fabric up, and he looks up at you. And the flesh underneath the fabric is smooth and unmarked and as whole as it was before. Pres gives you a moment, then lowers his leg and as if to make a point, the other foot is settled in the rung, and he rolls that leg up too. A matched set. "I never got around to seeing the doctor," your son remarks as he puts both feet up on an empty chair at the table. "Something ... else happened instead."

     Your father looks at you curiously, tilting his head to watch you. What is all this? But as your leg becomes visible, he loses the color in his face. He's not going to faint, but he is shocked. Surprised. Stunned. Quickly he looks back to you, his own emotional responses at the shine of his eyes and the surface of his skin...
     I have blamed myself. I have felt it was my fault. Is this some absolution of guilt? I shouldn't care about absolution. I'm an atheist.
     "I... that is..." He shakes his head, looking to you. "Maybe we should return to my hotel room." He looks around. "I"m not sure this is the sort of conversation that should take place in the Manhattan Club..."
     His mind is swimming against the undertow of your surprise. "That is ...remarkable. But...how is it possible?" he whispers.

     He shakes his legs a little, the fabric covering the whole flesh. Pres looks at you, still unsmiling, as serious as you've ever seen him. "Maybe not," he admits. "But if we go back to your room, mumsie will be calling, and if you don't answer she'll be pissed, and if you do answer it'll turn into a mess. Plus Tampa's going to be sending a rep to your room to try to persuade you. It'd be a major feather in their cap if they can get you - you presented that paper last week in Amsterdam, didn't you? The one which presents some possible solutions to the problems of hydrospheric fish farming. You're going to be in heavy demand everywhere for a while, dad."
     He picks up his drink and looks into it, then drinks it. It probably isn't doing his liver any favors, but damn it, he doesn't care. "If we talk about it here, as long as we act normal, nobody's going to care. And if anybody asks you, you can just tell them you got a shock because your son came out to you. Trust me. Nobody'll ask anything more if you tell them that."

     There is resignation at the mention of your mother. But then that quickly turns to a look of bewilderment. "How do you know all of this, Preston? I haven't spoken to Gillian or you about it, not in any detail. And believe me, sudden, miraculous healings are a great deal more shocking than a son coming out to a father." He puts a hand to his head, gawking at you. He looks like a fish out of water.
     Rolling his head back and forth, his fingers padding at his forehead and temple, Preston Oliver West II quietly boggles. It is enough to make him dizzy, what with the world turning over. "How did this happen? Was it a formula? An experimental, non-surgical treatment? I'm ... just so stunned. Happy for you, by the way. And relieved," he sighs for that, "...and also confused..."

     "You're taking it better than I did, dad." Pres almost grins at that, but he's not really relaxing just yet. He shakes his head. "You didn't have to tell me. I looked." He doesn't look happy as he says it. "...Okay, let me back up a little. I'll tell you, but it's not going to make a lot of sense, and - well, just bear with me, okay, dad? And - I'm sorry, but it wasn't a formula. I guess you could call it a non-surgical treatment, but ... okay, beginning."
     He motions to the waiter for refills on both drinks, waiting until the signal's acknowledged, then turns to look at you very seriously indeed. "First things first, dad. You remember Balthazar, right? Maddie's boyfriend. Well... I don't know if you knew this already, but ... he's Bran's nephew - Bran, the guy Gillian's involved with. Loki and I were at this house party held by Bran's parents - Balthazar's grandparents - when I met Balthazar's older brother, Gruffydd."
     There's a slight change in his tone when he says the name. He manages not to blush, but only barely; his voice softens, and he looks down at his drink. "Gruffydd's the one who fixed my leg." He looks up again, taking up his drink.
     "They're an interesting family, dad. And one of the ways in which things are interesting is that they have certain talents other people just - don't have. Except ... well, except that apparently our family has some talents other people don't have, too. Which is why I was asking about weird stuff. Because that's what it is. Weird. And not particularly in the common mold of science."

     "Well, I can't sit here and deny that your leg is healed when it quite clearly is," he grins back. "I don't know that I"m taking it well. I'm... dealing with the facts before me." As he always does. When you go on to speak of them each -- Balthazar, Bran -- there is a more fatherly look on his face. Not stern, but not exactly overjoyed.
     "How did he fix it?" your father wants to know. "And I will say, at the expense of perhaps the pleasantness of this lunch, I do not know about this Balthazar. I am reserving judgment. As long as Maddie remains in school, I will give him the benefit of the doubt. Bran," he starts to say. And then he looks puzzled. "Did I tell you he dropped in on us, your mother and I? To tell us that he and Gillian are engaged." He looks offended, sitting back and folding and unfolding his napkin.
     There is just too much stimulation. For a moment, for several moments, your father retreats into the sanctuary of silence. He withdraws. He looks to his scotch, he sips of it, and he says nothing.
     "This is all so much at once. One thing at a time," he quietly implores you with a weary smile. "I don't know whether to check out a book or start watching The X-files." Your father actually does have a sense of humor. "So... okay," his hands come out and he surveys they well-made table as if all of the pieces of your information were actually physically scattered there. "We have a healed leg... which you must tell me how that happened," his look is pure Gillian, looking at you as if he were wearing spectacles. "... we have all of my beloved children somehow tied up with this family who have extra abilities ...of some kind. I need you to quantify that," he says, looking back up to you, "...and my own children are gifted... which I already knew... but in an unexpected way. Am I keeping up...?"

     "You're keeping up," Pres agrees, picking up the fresh drink when it arrives. He looks into it again. Oh, fermented sugarcane juice, is there nothing you can't solve? "And believe me, The X-Files isn't even in it."
     He sighs lowly, tipping his head back to examine the ceiling tiles, then looks back to you. "Magic. I didn't think it was real before I met them, but this," he bends to slap his calf, "has a way of making a believer out of anybody. Not something you can do with smoke and mirrors, right? And since then I've seen more and more proof. And," he doesn't look entirely happy about it, "apparently it runs in our family, dad. At least, Maddie and Gillian and I all have some."
     He looks at you to see how you're taking it. It's hard to swallow, he knows. He wasn't crazy about the idea himself, to tell the truth. But he wants you to believe him. He wants to be able to tell you. He fidgets in his seat, picking up his drink and setting it down again. "There's ... more. There's a lot more, dad, but ... tell me what's on your mind so far, okay?"

     Magic? He's never considered it for a moment. You can see that in his confusion, his bewilderment, in the shock of his entire worldview coming up for grabs. He shakes his head. "I have never been a fan of deus ex machina," he says. "There has always been a series of reasonable assumptions and explanations for most phenomena in the world."
     Your father sighs. But. But there is clearly something going on that he cannot explain. He finishes his scotch. "I shouldn't have another. But I feel as though my head will explode if I don't," he smiles a little, exasperatedly, but it's a start. "I just... I need more information, Preston. I can't possibly form an opinion without more information. What makes you think it was magic? What sort of abilities are you talking about? Just what are Gillian and Maddie and now you are wrapped up in? Who is doing what? I have to follow a linear trail here. I need to know before I can even think..."
     "I need another scotch," he waves the server over. "Another scotch please. A double." The server looks at you both and nods before disappearing again. Family drama unfolding right here at the Manhattan Club...

     "Maddie's pretty much wrapped up in her boyfriend and studying dance. Nothing surprising there." Pres tells you it once the server's vanished again, folding his arms in over his chest and leaning back, shoulders tightly hunched. "She can set things on fire with the power of her mind. Think of her as having Baby's First Arson kit at her fingertips - or what was that movie? Firestarter or something like that? Anyway, when she gets excitable - and you know how she is - she starts dripping fire. So far, thank god, she hasn't started flinging it around. Balthazar's sister and mom are working on helping her get it under control."
     He hears things, and puts them together with what he sees, and ends up with a more complete pictures than if he relied upon one or the other. He looks at you to see how you're taking it. Thank god you don't have a heart condition so far. "Gillian's ... well, you know Gillian. She's more intense than Maddie, just under the surface. I probably shouldn't be telling you about it but let her tell you herself, but ... I'm here and she isn't, and it's a hell of a thing to try telling over the phone. Gillian's got electricity. Don't be surprised if she tells you she needs to get a new laptop because she fried the old one - and don't be surprised that she means it literally. She's got a better handle on it than Maddie has. She's still adjusting to the entire idea herself."
     "What it comes down to, dad," Pres sips his drink, "is there's an entire other world next door to ours that we didn't know about, that has periodic contact with ours, and which some people - a very few people - can move back and forth between this one and that at will. For the most part, it hasn't mattered because even if it's next door, it's been largely theoretical from our point of view. If we can't perceive it and we can't access it, then what difference does it make? Scientists've been talking about stuff like that for years and pretty much shoving it onto the philosophers. Priests have been talking about it for years and pretty much getting everybody's backs up because of the entire notion of life after death and what you have to do in order to get admission at the gate. So what if the scientists were right about it being there? When that's proven and verifiable, it only changes the game if there's a way to access it. And obviously, if not everybody can access it, then we have a problem; because those people aren't under any obligation to come forward, and in fact, shouldn't, since imagine if the governments of the world did find out, and because those people have, well, their own problems."
     He sighs. "I'm probably doing a bad job of explaining this stuff. Gillian's always been better at that side of things than me. Dad, just... I've been there. I can't go back and forth without help, but I've been there. I've seen people with wings. I've seen people change shape from a man into a bird and stranger stuff. I've seen people do things that they can't do here without CGI. They don't have electric lights and cable tv, but they might as well have. I hope you believe me."
     I hope you don't think I'm nuts. I know you might. And if you do, then I'm in a lot of trouble. I wonder how long it'd take for Gruffydd to decide I didn't just leave him or lose track of time and come looking for me?
     And then, a cold thought. I wonder if he would?
     Pres shakes it off and looks back at you. "I pretty much led with my strongest piece of evidence, dad. Anything else I try to give you, it's going to put me on thin ice with you. Please. I need you to believe me."

     He is quiet, but it is not the panicked sort of quiet, or the quiet that comes with sudden cardiac arrest or aneurysm. You begin to speak something he understands: multi-verses, or at least the theory of them. It is the hush of excitement and perhaps a little awe. "You are talking about a confirmation of quantum theories, never imagined possible. This is.... extraordinary."
     And at least you haven't said it was due to any religious mumbo-jumbo...
     He breathes suddenly. "For a minute there, I thought you might have been abducted into some sort of cult. I do have to say that, of all I have heard, my daughters having the power of fire and electricity is a bit disconcerting. So... they ... Bran and Balthazar and this Gruvuth," horrible pronunciation. Gruffydd might have winced, "... are not from here. They are from there. Well," he sits forward, ignoring the arrival of his double scotch. He pauses only so long for the waiter to go away. "... how do they do it? Have you seen it? Do you know how it works? Is that were Maddie is now, not London?"
     He pauses only as you plead with him. That stops him. "I believe you Preston. I know you are not crazy. I know your leg is healed. And I know you wouldn't lie to me, son. I know this. I don't know what to think of the multi-verse apart from... just it is proof of every physicist's dream. What does it look like? Who are they? What are they?"

     He relaxes cautiously. There is still room for things to go very badly for him, and he is altogether too conscious of the possibilities. He picks up his drink, closing his eyes as he takes a long swallow. "They're ... from both, in a way. I mean, their grandparents are from here, but ... okay, here's what I've pieced together. I've been spending a lot of time trying to, you know? To make sense of it."
     "There's always been passage between both here and there. It's not common, but - it happens. Think of it as being like ... there's areas of the world where the earth's crust is weak, where there's extra-strong magnetic waves, where radios fail, where houses built in the area sporadically vanish into sinkholes? Same deal. Sometimes it's because the person I don't know, resonates just right or wrong, take your pick, sometimes it's a localized anomaly. But people slip through the cracks and end up there. There's a guy there whose family was on a Spanish ship heading to the New World a couple hundred years ago. The ship vanished into a whirlpool during a storm and ended up there. One way trip for them, obviously, but they adapted." Pres picks up his napkin. The food's bound to arrive right in the middle of this, and he wants to be prepared to look normal. "So you get people there who are, well, people. Adriano and his family, case in point. Then you get people who aren't ... well ... they're people, too. They're just not human people."
     He falls silent, thinking with a small frown on his face. He wants you to understand. But he is still worried. He has to say things right, or not at all. The risk of him screwing things up is his worst nightmare, right now. He looks up at you again. "That's where Maddie is, dad. And it's why she hasn't called. Cellphones don't exactly work across the way. And there's another thing about it, too. It's - well, you know what the fourth dimension is, right?"

     "Extraordinary," he murmurs, shaking his head. "Incredible." He just doesn't know what to think. Part of him is giddy. Part of him is in awe. Part of him is worried for his children's safety. He clears his throat as the food arrives, taking another swallow of his scotch. The food is laid out quietly by the server. He will return. Right now, you appear engrossed in conversation.
     "Thank you," your father says with a nod to him. He waits until the server is out of ear-shot. "And you... you and Maddie and Gillian... you are there under your own free will? Are you okay? Do you need anything? You were all cut out for adventure, but I'd never have imagined this. We aren't going to... not see you again, or...anything like that? I worry about Madison the most. She's just a girl, Preston. She needs you and she needs Gillian to look after her. I really failed her," he shakes his head as he cuts his meat. "I haven't been much of a father to any of you, but ...particularly her."
     He is too distracted to eat. He looks at you with a clattering of utensils on porcelain. "Are these people... kind to you? Are you ...free to come and go as you see fit?" There is parental worry there. "And...yes... yes, yes, of course. The fourth dimension. The fifth dimension as far as that's concerned."
     Still relatively pale, Preston Oliver West II takes a bite of the beef tenderloin and garlic mashed potatoes. He isn't aware of chewing. He is too busy contemplating the existence of a multi-verse and magically imbued children.

     "You haven't failed any of us, dad. We're making our own choices. Some we'll get right and some we won't, but we're all of us strong-minded, opinionated, stubborn asses who're trying all the same to do the best we can. We just have I guess a bit of - well, relationship issues, but who doesn't?" Pres gives you a little smile. He's trying to reassure you. He's just not very good at it.
     "I'm free to come and go as I like. I'm not a prisoner, dad. If anything," he ducks his head and mumbles, then sighs, looking up. "They gave me a damn title." Can you tell how uncomfortable he is with that idea? But there it is.
     He rubs his face. "I guess I didn't tell you that part. Um. See, most of the kingdoms over there - it's a monarchist system for the most part - well, they're allied together with some exceptions. And there's a high king over them. So - yeah, titles and stuff." Pres picks up his fork, looking at his food and then at you. "Gruffydd and Balthazar's grandparents were the first high king and queen over there. They're from here, but they ended up over there, don't ask me how, I don't know. And they ended up organizing stuff. And," he sighs, closing his eyes. "Gruffydd's the crown prince now. Balthazar's his younger brother, so ... he's a prince, and an archduke."
     Which means your little girl's dating royalty. Pres picks at his food with the tines of his fork, then looks up at you again. "Gillian's not over there. She's still here. Well, in England, but you know what I mean. Anyway, dimensionally speaking... I think it's a higher dimension than the fourth. There's - time moves faster, there."

     He looks up at you with that Gillian look. Royalty? "Monarchy?" His mouth twists a little. "I suppose Plato was right. There are only so many forms in the universe." He takes a swallow of scotch, sitting back from his picking at his plate.
     "You haven't said, son," your father says to you, "...what your hidden ability is." Your father has never been impressed with titles. They are not important in his universe. "Your mother will be ecstatic to hear your sister is dating a prince. But he has an early title. We have checked it out. It's on the up-and-up. Or at least it appears to be. No one is sitting in the House of Lords, however. It appears to be one of those...toothless titles, ones simply held in hereditary terms by a family, but is more or less dormant. I checked on that Bran character as well."
     He pauses. "So what do your sisters think of all this? Does Gillian know? And Maddie... how is she, really? This isn't all.... over her head somehow?" he wonders, gesturing with a fork. "She's an artistic, carefree soul. I just can't imagine her in a royal court..."

     "Gillian knows and is less impressed. She fights that kind of vanity." Pres smiles faintly. As do you. "Maddie was pissed at first that he hadn't told her, but she's gotten over it and now she's pretty thrilled. But she's easily impressed that way, you know? Rock star, quarterback, prince... it's all pretty much the same to her. She's coping fine, she's just being her usual self."
     He eats some of his chicken and vegetable medley, not really tasting it, which is a pity as the food is quite excellent. "I think Gillian's forging on ahead, and trying not to think about it too much while she puts the pieces together. She's focusing pretty hard on her schoolwork, too. you know Gilly, nothing really slows her down for long."
     He pushes his plate away after a few bites, picking up his drink again. "I can tell you Bran really does love her. And he has money, and he's a prince over there too - he's a younger brother of Balthazar and Gruffydd's dad, well. One of their dads. It's ... complicated."
     He grins halfway at that. If you only knew. "My own stuff isn't important, dad. I mean, it's there, but ... it's not fire and it's not electricity." His smile fades. "It has its own price, just like anything."

     You don't want to talk about it, and he's not going to force you. He is interested, concerned. But there is just so much to discuss that certainly some things can simply be dropped. He nods a little, taking another bite of tenderloin. "I'm your father," is all he says, "...and you can always confide in me, Preston."
     There is a slight twitch of his mouth as he finishes chewing. He washes down the beef with scotch. He will definitely need a taxi after this. And he's not sure about the symposium later either. He might have to feign illness...
     "I can't imagine Gillian is at all impressed by that," he grumbles a bit. "But if he truly cares for her and you can vouch for that, then I will... try to give him the same benefit of the doubt that I have given Balthazar. I am not surprised Madison is coping well. She is, of all of us, the least tied to her own past here. She hasn't had much of one yet," he smiles. "She's only seventeen. Of course, I'm not delusional. She's not a girl anymore." He's missed her entire childhood. That sits a bit hard with him. "I just hope she has sense enough not to get pregnant before she is able to graduate and, of course, get married. Is it a serious relationship? I should hope so if she's moved in with him." No, he's not happy about that. No one wants to think of their little girl, their baby, cohabitating with a man.
     That deserves another swallow of scotch.
     "Gillian is a bit like me in that regard. A bit too much, I think," he sighs. "She buries herself in her work, as I have shown her to do, having done so all her life." He holds up a hand, begging you for mercy. "Not too much information on their family, please. I have more than enough going on in my head as it is."
     He exhales mightily. A clearing breath to cool off his over-active brain. "I want you to keep me informed, yes? The girls have not been as...forthcoming as you, Preston. Can I have your promise to do that?" Now it is his time to plead.

     "I think she'll hold off. I'll try to keep an eye on her, dad. It's serious - I think he'd propose to her now if he could, but he thinks she's too young, that it wouldn't go over well with you, with the rest of the family, especially with granddad." Pres rubs his face. "She doesn't care - she's still at that place where she's ready to damn any and all cheerfully if it means having what she wants. She's going to have to get over that, but ... I guess time will take care of it."
     He folds his hands in front of his plate, grimacing. "Yeah, of course, dad. I'll do my best. You ... well, you see why I couldn't just tell you over the phone, right?" His eyes are beginning to ache; he closes them. "I'm sorry to tell you like this, but..."

     "Please do that for me, Preston. I would appreciate it. I know she can be difficult. She's young. She's as headstrong as the rest of us. And of course now her fiery temperament makes more sense," he wryly offers. "But she needs someone in that strange world. Someone who she can always count on. And that's you, her brother. I am glad that Balthazar seems to be level-headed. That is a relief. I would be pretty upset with a proposal before she's even out of her sophomore year. It is so easy for girls to simply quit school. It is really critical that she finish. That she always has something to fall back on, at the very least. And," he smiles a little, "...time takes care of everything, eventually. I hope she settles down." He shakes his head. She is a wild child in his mind, made no less so by the truth of all of this.
     "I appreciate it, Preston. I have utter faith in you and ... even for all of the migraine-inducing overstimulation," he smiles a little to you, "... I am glad you confided in me, son. I won't tell a soul, especially your mother. Fortunately, she is distracted by planning your sister's real or imaginary wedding. And... I understand," he nods. "I don't think i would have been very comforted by a long distance call from the fourth dimension. I would have worried more."
     He moves aside his plate. "You've been holding this all in like Atlas, haven't you?" Your father sees you rub your eyes, he takes note of the price you've had to pay in knowing this and now in revealing it all.

     If only that were all. Pres sighs, and he looks up. "It changes things is all, dad. Life is change, I know that now." He has grown up overnight. Even by that other world's timescale, it has forced him to come to terms with hard truths far faster than ordinarily he would. "It's not in itself good or bad, but ... things are changing, and they're going to go on changing. I'm different from what I used to be."
     From what he thought he was, to what he is now. His smile is half there and half not. And he takes off the sunglasses so that the silver in his eyes can be seen, flecks of it augmenting the storm cloud grey. It is not overwhelmingly alien yet. Yet. "Maddie's found a vocation in dance. She's working on it hard, now, as hard as Gillian ever worked on anything. I'm hoping it makes her more or less okay with Gillian, because if not..."
     He lets that trail off. "Gillian's been being the bigger person. Honestly, I think Gillian deserves credit for it. You know how neurotic she can be, but she's really facing things head on, and she's been giving Maddie space to get through her growing pains without confrontation. As for the wedding, I think it'll happen, dad. I don't know for sure, but it won't happen because mumsie wants it; if it happens, it'll be because Gillian wants it, and if Gillian decides she wants it, even Bran will be hard-put to call a halt to it at that point. As for the other place... it helps if you just think of it as another country, dad, with its own government and its own culture and so on. That's what it is, really. It's just - there's no direct flights to and from there."
     He slumps back in his seat. "I'll tell you more next time, okay? It's been a lot already." Am I chickening out or being considerate? Even I'm not sure. But I don't think going 'dad, I'm gay and the high king-to-be's prize' is going to make him more confident in my ability to handle the situation. He'd just worry. Better to keep my mouth shut...

     "Life is change," your father echoes. "For everyone. And I'm sure the girls will work it out. Maddie is going to have to mature. Gillian will need to learn to compromise. You need to learn that you can't fix the universe. And I need to learn not to have scotch with lunch. We all have battles ahead, Pres. All of us."
     He leans in and reaches across the table to pat your arm. "I'm proud of you. And... I'm really happy that you are healthy again. I don't think anyone's adequately recognized the amount you've had on your plate the last two years. You must be relieved. I know what the girls are doing. You will update me on what you're doing? I am interested. I do not mean to make it all about them..."
     As you slump back, your father nods quietly, letting it all go for the moment. "Certainly. I may beg out of the symposium tonight. Stomach ailment. I won't even be lying," he remarks dryly. "Scotch and beef tenderloin is always a ticket straight to indigestion. "Care to come by the hotel? We can play cards. And if you want to ... tell me more about your life then... I am there to listen..."

     "Yeah, sure. I'll keep you posted when I find stuff out." He smiles slightly at that, looking up as he slides the sunglasses on. But I won't tell you what's going to happen. That'd just be cruel.
     "Cards? Sure, why not?" Pres nods a little. "I can't stay too late, though. I don't want to miss my ride."
     A ride straight to somewhere else, on an express nobody else can take. "I'm glad you're okay with this, dad." Or that you will be. It will take time. Everything always does. Pres pushes the chair back, rising to his feet unaided. "You'll probably have the rep from Tampa still wanting to beat down your door when you get back. You should tell him that he needs to wait until you've talked to your wife. Anything less and he'll still be there til eight or nine. I'll see you around five, five-thirty, dad. Oh, and I need a favor." He draws up short. "Gruffydd's youngest brother's coming to New York soon. He wants to see the Yankees play. I was wondering, if you're still on good terms with that pitcher dude..."
     He lets it trail off. He knows you can put the pieces together from there. He gives you that silver crescent-moon smile, then turns to go, hands in his pockets. The light falls on his fair hair, turning blonde to silver in the transition of the turn.
     Otherworldly..

Posted by rowan at October 30, 2009 01:45 PM