Honour Thy Father (Sam)

[Vansen Tyree]

It had been a lot to process.

Admiral Tyree sat in the guest quarters that Jovan Station had provided for him, his uniform jacket tugged on but left unfastened, exposing the girdle of bandages and kolto packs helping his body to keep his vital organs inside him. The accommodations were much as they had been before the terror attacks had rocked the station, and while some efforts had been made to tame the chaos of overturned furniture and fallen decorations, everything still felt just a little bit out of place.

Or perhaps it was the Admiral that felt out of place. This was not where he was supposed to be, not by anyone's definition. As far as the doctors were concerned, he should have still been in the infirmary, still half wrapped in that damned backwards gown, resting, while every officer from Aurek to Thesh could come in and gawk at how much the mighty Vansen Tyree had fallen. As far as Taataani Meorrrei was concerned, he should have been back on Bothawui, or whisked off to the Carshoulis Cluster, someone of his importance deserving far better care in his fragile state than the Alliance military was able to provide. As far as Vansen himself was concerned, he should have been back on Moonus Mandel, or back on the damned Challenger, ignoring this damned half-healed gut shot wound, and doing his damned job.

He was none of those things. He was here, loitering on Jovan Station like a bystander at a speeder crash, utterly useless to provide any sort of assistance that was worth a damn, but still compelled to hover close by just in case. He told himself that any efforts to convey him elsewhere would be a waste of resources; resources that could be better spent repairing and resupplying the station, pilots more valuable in the cockpits of fighters protecting the vulnerable outpost than in the driving seat of a shuttle. He told himself that he was a valuable resource, someone Commander Akiena could wheel out if bureaucrats needed to be barked at, or if the station's crew needed to see that the Alliance was taking their situation seriously at the highest levels. In truth, he was a waste of cabin space and supplies: a broken down old speeder locked away in a garage, leaking fluids onto the duracrete and draining more credits than he'd ever be worth again.

Maybe Taataani was right. Maybe he deserved a break from the Alliance to recuperate; or perhaps the Alliance deserved a break from him. But not yet. There was still... something. Any description that Vansen could think of made it seem both too big and too small at the same time. The only word that felt close to right was matter: in that it was a matter to be addressed, and that it mattered in some way. Or perhaps it shouldn't have; perhaps it meant absolutely nothing at all. That was the question Vansen had deliberated over, ever since the doctors had explained how his life had been saved.

His eyes fell to the medical report; to the results of the blood analysis; the chemical and genetic breakdown that his doctors and physicians had used to find a viable source for his life-saving transfusion. It wasn't until Vansen had joined the Rebel Alliance that he'd become conscious of the awkwardness of his blood chemistry: apparently the luxury of Republic and Imperial medical resources had been such that it had never before been a concern worth considering. It had seemed like such a minor thing: something the medical suites aboard the Valiant, Challenger, and at Moonus Mandel had been effortlessly prepared for with a pint of his own red cells every once in a while to build up a comfortable supply. It was a situation that faded completely from his thoughts whenever a needle wasn't jammed into his arm; the kind of easily forgotten situation that you never even considered when straying from your usual assignments. It had never been an anchor before; never been a ball and chain that Vansen was forced to drag behind him wherever he went.

That was only half of the equation, though. The other half was the greater struggle. Vansen had been lucky: luckier than someone as sceptical as he was about the Force and its machinations had any right to be. The medics here on Jovan Station had screened his blood; they'd searched through every patient file in the station's records, transmitted the results to every ship within range; and inexplicably, they'd found a match. Not just a close match, either. Not just someone who had all the right what-nots, or who lacked all the wrong ones: a match, right down to the genetic level. They hadn't found someone with the same kind of blood as Vansen Tyree: it was his blood pumping through their veins. A 99.99% correlation. If this report had been in the hands of lawyers rather than doctors, he'd already be signing his first cheque.

The how and the why swam in his mind, medication complicating his path like rocks in a river, icebergs in an ocean. He'd managed to get a few minutes alone with her personnel file, thanks to a Novgorod crewman with the right kind of no-questions policy. From her age, she must have been born while he was off at War; that answered the who, and the how, but not the why of how he had never known. Every possibility competed with each other in his thoughts, but they all conspired towards one conclusion: of course he hadn't known. What mother would be irresponsible enough to let Vansen Tyree be a father to their child?

His options were numerous, and yet each one dwindled if granted more than a moment of thought. Perhaps she didn't know. Perhaps she didn't care. Perhaps Vansen had no right to impose himself into her life after so long; perhaps it was the epitome of selfishness to even consider it. He couldn't help it. He was too old, too close to his end, too consumed with thoughts of how he might be remembered to pass up an opportunity to see what legacy he was leaving behind. Perhaps there were more subtle ways, more discrete approaches, that a man in his position could exploit: but no. Too much had been concealed, and avoided. Perhaps his bull-headed straight talk was exactly why he'd never been told; but it was who he was, and it was the only way he knew how to be.

A chime came from the door of his quarters, heralding the arrival of Sam Porter and her security escort. Security escort. That twisted in his gut more than the blaster shot had; he'd signed those forms, signed off on his own daughter being relegated to house arrest aboard the Novgorod. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, the right way to make use of the Alliance's rare resources. He'd never expected the decision might save his life one day; could never have imagined it. Damn the Force, and it's meddlesome way of complicating everything.

Barely suppressing a grunt, Vansen heaved himself out of his chair, and suddenly realised that despite everything he had rehearsed saying in his head, he hadn't spared any thought for what to say now: some strange and twisted reversal of a daughter's first words.

"Come in," he called, as close to normal sounding as he could achieve, flattening his knuckles as fists against his deck to help ensure his balance.

[Sam Porter]

When they'd come for her the first time, she had cooperated in the hopes that doing so would shorten her service term. After all, how many conscripts could say that they had been able to help some higher-up officer continue to breath? None that she knew of. The thought of possibly knocking a few months off her mandatory stint in the Alliance military had been enticing enough to make her decision easy. She had enough of the red stuff cycling through her veins to share, and if she happened to be a match for some Admiral, all the better. Saying yes had been practically a no-brainer, even.


When they came for her this second time however, the lanky blonde had been... less than thrilled. She'd also been less than sober. Once the deed had been done and her part was over, she'd been taken back to the Novgorod. A canned 'thank you' from the doctor had been her only reward, and Sam was less than thrilled that no other word had been said. Nothing on whether her kind actions would cause time to be dropped away from her sentence. Just... 'thank you'. She'd been helped back off the station and into her quarters to sleep off a rather simmering grogginess. Napping only lasted a few hours however, as agitation shunted her out of her dreams and back to reality. A reality that she'd not really gotten anything worthwhile out of agreeing to help.


It'd been enough to make her slide from the bed and pull a small box from underneath; Caridan white wine - there wasn't really a vineyard name, just a generic box with even more generic wine inside. And it wasn't even very good wine; but it was something to take the sting of unspoken rejection away. It also helped to dull the resentment. Or amplify it. Either way worked for her, to be honest. She'd be stuck on this dumb ship for the full term, and there was nothing she could do about it.


Sam Porter had just finished upending the contents of her stomach in the fresher when the door chime sounded. Stumbling out, she was in the process of wiping her tongue off with a shoprag when she opened the door.


She'd not exactly been belligerent, but she hadn't been a model of obedience, either.


A tow-headed, moppy-haired gangly mess of limbs, hiccuping every tenth step. They'd had to make a stop on the way, as she emptied her stomach once more in a public fresher. With the same shoprag she wiped down her teeth and tongue, feeling more than a little bit cross-eyed.


Sometimes bad decisions were terrible despite the anger that fueled them.


And when they stopped her at a door, she stood like a petulant child, side-eyeing each guard with a venomous glare. Neither were phased, of course. The effort took its' toll, and as the man on her left depressed the door chime, she felt her shoulders drop. When the voice on the other side answered, her entire mood dropped as well.


The door opened, and for a moment she stood in the doorway, unsure if she should tempt fate. A prod at the small of her back made the decision for her, and Sam took two tentative steps; enough to place her just inside the threshold. She remembered Admiral Tyree's face and name, but only because when they'd first come for her, they had made sure that she understood the gravity of the situation. Beyond him being an Admiral, there was nothing else that she'd needed to know, and she certainly had not asked.


The shoprag came up again to give her front teeth another wipe as her eyes darted to either side, taking in the state of things; not the best, certainly. Furniture was still tumbled about, though it was obvious an attempt at ordering had been made. Nothing heavy, but enough to made sure that someone wouldn't trip over anything.


"Nice place you got here," she finally mumbled.

[Vansen Tyree]

It was like looking into a mirror.

Granted, it was a mirror that gazed backwards in time five or six decades, and it apparently seemed to get a little confused about the gender it was supposed to be reflecting; but Vansen knew that look. Knew that pallor. He'd seen it staring back at him from a 'fresher room mirror far too many times when he'd been her age. He almost smiled - almost - as a mix of sympathy and amusement danced through his head. He hadn't known what to expect when the daughter he'd never known he had walked through those doors, but of course it was this. Of course someone walking around with a set of his genes would show up to something as potentially significant and memorable as this with enough alcohol still in her system to be on the brink of throwing up.

She's definitely yours, his mind mused, as Vansen offered a curt not of dismissal to Sam's escorts. He waited for the doors to close, waited for a moment to pass, stretched out the image he was trying to convey by forcing himself to stand for just a moment longer before he allowed himself to surrender. He had enough strength left in him to ensure his descent back into the desk chair wasn't too violent and lacking in grace, but it did force a heavy sigh out of his lungs as he landed. He leaned into it, playing it off as deliberate; or at least, as part and parcel of the grumpy old Admiral that the Alliance was used to him being.

"You get what you pay for," he quipped with a grunt, finally addressing Sam's mumbled comment. A hand waved vaguely in the room's direction. "Help yourself to a chair, if you can find one that isn't broken."

Vansen acted as if he wasn't paying attention, counting the desk drawers with his fingers as he tried to remember what he'd stashed where. Ordinarily he would have lived out of a travel bag in a situation such as this: no use unpacking if it was just a fleeting visit. Circumstances had extended his stay here on Jovan somewhat however; and while his ability to do anything constructive here instead of on Moonus Mandel was limited, he sure as hell wasn't going to get anything done if he had to keep standing up and hobbling over to a suitcase every damn time he needed anything. So, things had been emptied into drawers. Organised. Rationalised. Sad thing was, he'd actually felt the slightest bit fulfilled after having done so.

A drawer was pulled open, and a small bottle of nondescript white pills was pulled out. The writing was in Bothan, or Bothanese, or Bothawese, or whatever the damn blazes the canines called their blasted language; Vansen recognised enough of the words to know that this was what he'd been looking for. He set the container down on the desk in front of him, tapping the lid for emphasis.

"Two of those," he explained, rummaging back in the drawers for a container of water. "Should start reacting with the alcohol in in your system. Breaks it down into benign hydrocarbons, or some science crap like that. Should make it a touch easier to keep things down."

He set the bottle on the desk and waited, finding his brow furrowed, but not in the way he was used to. It was as if it was misaligned, not as furrowed, eyebrows pulling a little closer together than they usually did. Concern, not annoyance. It was an odd feeling. He wasn't sure that he liked it.

"Might need to go easy on the booze for a few days. Your blood-alcohol level is going to be a bit of a bitch until your body regrows what the doctors stole to save my sorry ass."

[Sam Porter]

A sniff, and Sam couldn't help the hiccup that escaped. It was followed by a worrisome urp, but thankfully the bile stayed down for now. She guessed that it wouldn't do to further empty what was left in her stomach in front of an admiral, and for once her gut agreed with her brain. At the very least, she wasn't waking up cuffed to Ledo Prent again; though, with the state of things now, she wondered if that particular option wasn't the better one. At least Prent was someone she could understand, even if he did always call her Sheila.

A few more steps in, and the shoprag was stuffed into her back pocket as she slowly reached out to pluck the bottle up. It looked like any other bottle of meds, and she frowned in the attempt to decipher the Bothan script. Whatever it said was no telling, and with a frown she let muddled eyes go from the bottle to the Admiral. The suspicion creeping into her expression was plain as day.

What sort of game was he playing at? Was this some sort of consolation prize? 'Sorry but we're not gonna shorten your service term; instead here's some mystery pills'. It waslike a bizarre dream, and the blonde felt her frown deepen into an unmistakable scowl. This all had to be some cruel joke. Some evil scheme to make her feel like she'd actually done something good - not like she wasn't forced to do just that. Or at least, the Alliance's version of 'good'. A person didn't develop a healthy dislike for those in higher positions without mostly-good reason, and for Samantha Elzibet Porter, she had plenty of such reasons.

Unlike the Admiral's controlled sit-down, she let out a tired sigh while letting her body fall into the closest chair, limbs flopping as her weight was taken off of her feet. It was a nice feeling, though fleeting as she looked to the water that'd been set out for her. The pill bottle was turned over in her hands, fingers passing it to and fro.

"I been worse off before," she finally croaked.

There really was no way to dance around whatever subject she'd been brought here for; was he going to thank her as the doctors had, then have her carted right back to the Novgorod? In her mind, that was the most logical thing, and so she chose to just get this little visit over and done with.

"If you called me here to say thanks, I'll just go ahead and say you're welcome and we can be done, yeah?"

The pill bottle was returned to the desk, unopened.

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen's heart sank a little. It was a surprise to discover he even had one.

Then again, he wasn't sure what else he had expected. To him, this was a difficult and important conversation. To Samantha, it was nothing. The only reason he was anything more than just a name on a form was because Admiral was written in front of that name. He was an inconvenience with a fancy title, and for her, for now, that was the extent of it.

He almost went along with it. Almost allowed her to make her escape, and return to her oblivious vomiting in peace. Perhaps that would have been the kinder thing. Or perhaps it was only kinder to Vansen, sparing him the conversations and questions that might follow; or worse, sparing him from what would happen if it turned out she simply didn't care. Vansen had wrestled with it, every moment since he'd been told: agonised over which choice was the right choice, whether it was better to be told or to find out on your own, or never to know at all. Samantha hadn't sought him out, after all. This wasn't her choice, and a few common genes didn't give him the right to make that decision for her, did it?

But it wasn't as simple as that, was it? This wasn't some stranger seeking out a long lost daughter, threatening to derail her quaint and happy little life. She was a conscript, here because the Alliance of Free Planets had decided she should be here. But now all of a sudden she was an Admiral's daughter; and that shouldn't change things, but it did. Vansen had wrestled with that notion, too. If he revealed their connection, would she try to leverage it for her freedom? Wouldn't anyone? And what father wouldn't make that option available to her, nepotism or not? This wasn't the Galactic Empire, after all. They were all crooks and rebels here, just dressed up a little fancier than the average. The Free Planets had already made it's fair share of questionable legal decisions in their short existence, what harm was there in a little healthy rebellion to undermine one that in the grand scheme of things hardly seemed to matter?

Such thoughts made the decision harder, adding weight to his impulse to maintain the secret, while at the same time questioning and undermining his motives for that choice. Was the secret there to spare him discomfort? Was it there to spare him the temptation of abusing his Admiralty status? Was it really the benevolence towards her that he hoped it was?

There was only one thing that Vansen knew with any certainty: he hated secrets. There were times when the mission demanded it; when security concerns insisted that certain things be need-to-know. But there were times when that became overzealous. Times when a soldier couldn't effectively do their damned job because they couldn't see the whole picture, and didn't have all the cards. This felt like the latter. No matter what Vansen thought or felt, whether Samantha knew or not was not his choice to make.

He lifted the medical report carefully from his desk.

"You're here because I thought you might be interested in why your blood was a match for mine."

A moment more of hesitation held Vansen's hand in place like a gravity well, before he forced his way past it, handing the document towards Sam.

"Seems we've got some genes in common. Felt like the kind of thing to hear in person, rather than a thank you note."

He fell silent, a yawning ache of realisation at what had been set in motion slowly propagating through his body. His mind reacted to it the same way it always did: a deflection; humour; a little gruffness thrown in for good measure.

"You want to rethink your stance on those pills, so I can offer you a drink without killing you?"

[Sam Porter]

The unfocused suspicion in her eyes only grew with a sideways look to the flimsi being held out for her. What in the world was this old yotz getting at? And more importantly, why? It was enough to begin taxing her already short, still-woozy patience. There wasn't really much she could do about things as they stood right now though; it was just something that she figured she'd have to sit through. Whatever reasons there were for her having the right kind of blood really didn't bear weight in her mind. It was just one of those things that happened sometimes. Lucky for the Admiral, not so lucky for her.

The side-eyed look finally capitulated however, as a sigh rattled up from her lungs and out from between down-turned lips. Reaching up, she took the flimsi with the impatience of a drunk having been so rudely interrupted from their dogged attempts at drinking themselves into a hospital visit.

Still her eyes stayed on him, brow furrowed in mighty fashion before her gaze shifted down to look at whatever bit of nonsense he seemed to take particular old-person-fascination with.

She blinked.

Then blinked again. She scowled, brow knitting together as the flimsi was brought up a shade closer; as if a closer look would make the letters clearer than they already were.

The corner of her lip pulled up, jaw opening only a sliver. Her entire face seemed to twist into an incredulous expression. The flimsi itself looked official enough, but the words themselves.... there had to be some sort of mistake. Except that there wasn't. Everything, every word she kept reading, it made the case convincing enough. And well, it wasn't like this day could get any more bizarre.

Still though, there was a sort of resignation that settled over her, and her shoulders slumped as her entire body seemed to melt into the chair. She became the chair.

Eyes closed, and a final, pent-up breath came out as her head tilted back against the top edge of the backrest. Her voice was more a resigned grumble than anything else.

"Dammit."

[Vansen Tyree]

It wasn't the reaction he'd expected. The small consolation was that it thus wasn't one of his imagined worse case scenarios. His brow furrowed into a frown, head tilting to one side as he watched her go through the several stages of - something?

Whatever it was, it seemed to begin with confusion and end in surrender. Vansen wasn't sure how to react to that. He'd been prepared for anger, for frustration, for scathing questions about where he'd been all her life. He'd been prepared to endure some sort of emotional breakdown. He'd even braced himself that there might be some sort of hugging and/or crying involved. This was something else. This was his kid finding out she was his kid, and apparently being deeply annoyed by it.

What did you do in that situation? Did you just sit there and endure it? Did you match emotions? Did you try and shrug it off as if it was nothing, act relieved that it hadn't devolved into something? Vansen wasn't equipped for this. Perhaps he should have just sent the damn doctors, let them break the news, and leave it up to her to act, or not. This situation though, this strange messiness that he'd blundered into? As far as Vansen could see, there was only one viable way out.

The whiskey bottle thunked against the desk, stopper yanked free, a liberal helping glugged into a waiting glass. The fluid was barely allowed to settle before it was picked up and thrown down Vansen's throat, face scrunching a little as the alcohol hit his nerves and receptors, hand lingering for a moment or two to press against his forehead as if somehow the whiskey would resolve everything. It didn't, of course; not alone at least. Vansen clunked the glass back down on the desk, reached for the bottle, and prepared to send reinforcements.

A second glass was filled as well, then moved across the desk to wait beside the water and the pills, strategically behind them, as if trying to convey an unspoken message of the order in which they should be consumed.

Vansen's mouth opened to speak, but he stopped. Perhaps it was going to be another quip, or some other typical down to business Vansen Tyree remark, but he let it fade away as soon as it was aborted. His own charged glass was held in his fingers and contemplated, rotated slowly back and forth, the whiskey gently swaying within. Should he apologise? Should he try to explain? Should he offer her answers? Remind her where the door was, if she didn't care and just wanted to leave?

"I didn't know."

Excuses then. Excuses veiled as explanations. Clearly Vansen had been spending too much time around politicians; they were starting to rub off on him.

"I was away fighting The War, and your mother never told me."

[Sam Porter]

What had once been a reasonably uncomplicated existence (stay on Novgorod, go out when either allowed or told, make bombs... lather rinse repeat) was now in danger of becoming more complicated. Sam didn't particularly like complications. Explosives were simple enough so long as you knew what you were doing and paid attention. People though? People were just plain volatile. People that were your biological father who also happened to be an admiral... well that was just a downright cruel turn of events in her estimation.

A groan, and her head angled back up, eyes cracking open as she finally reached out to take up the pill bottle once more. A forceful twist later the cap was tossed to the desk's surface, and she shook out two capsules.

Another hiccup as the bottle was replaced with the water in her hand.

Admiral Vansen Tyree. Gods-damned Admiral Vansen Tyree. She swallowed the pills with a quick plug of water, making a face as she did. Oh, she remembered the name well enough; she'd been given the specifics of her 'house arrest' the first day she'd been escorted aboard Novgorod. A single flimsi detailing the terms of her service and what would be expected of her. The thing that'd stuck out the most however, was the fact that she would not be allowed off-ship without an escort. And under it all, his name in crisply printed Aurebesh. Oh there were a few other names on there, but his stood out in her memory the most - especially now.

She bared her teeth as her gaze went to the glass of whiskey waiting for her. A deep breath, and her free hand went out to pull it closer; not exactly picking it up just yet, just bringing it near.

"I don't really know what you expect me to say."

The whiskey was then pulled up, and held in a loose grip atop one leg, her other hand still holding the flimsi.

"I mean, the irony isn't lost on me; being essentially grounded by a guy I never met who, as it happens," Sam gave the flimsi a shake for good measure, "... is apparently my real dad."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen laughed. Or at least, the closest to laughing that someone as deeply embedded in grizzled stoicism could get. It wasn't funny, not really; the snorted sound was more a nervous release of energy than anything else. There was an absurdity to it though: it wasn't exactly what he would have said, but it was close enough that hearing it come out of Samantha's mouth was just plain strange. There was no reason that she should be like him, no correlation between them save for a few genes, no impression that his total absence could possibly have left on her personality; and yet there it seemed to be. Confirmation bias and forced perspectives most likely, but a rational explanation like that was the last thing his mind wanted to accept.

"Just be glad I've not had Alliance Intelligence screening your boyfriends."

He recharged his glass, but left it on the table for now. He wanted the drink, and Samantha didn't seem like the sort of person who would judge him for it; but there was drinking to calm his nerves, and then there was seeming like he was drinking to dull his pain over this new discovery. Granted, if anyone had asked him what kind of surprise daughter he wanted, Sam Porter wouldn't have matched up with any of the criteria. Hell, he'd probably have said no thanks. Families were for people whose emotional spectrum was far less monochromatic than his. Families were for the young, people who had a whole lifetime to figure it out; he hardly had enough years left for experimenting around to figure out what worked, and he sure as hell wasn't going to go taking cues out of his own father's playbook. It was probably best for the both of them if they just went their separate ways, and continued to mean the same nothing to each other that they had for Sam's entire life.

But there was something else there, nagging at the back of Vansen's mind. Maybe it was some twisted sense of duty and obligation, the kinds of principles he had dedicated his life to. Maybe there was just enough of Grace in those eyes and cheeks that he couldn't quite bring himself to let that slip away. Rationally, it shouldn't have meant a damn thing; but he wanted it to, somehow.

His brow furrowed again, a soft sigh escaping.

"You don't owe me a damn thing."

One of the few little pieces of carefully rehearsed phrasing began to trickle out.

"You already helped save my life, and that's more than I have any right to ask. If you want answers, if that's even something that you care in the slightest about, I'm not sure I even have any to give. If you want to stand up, walk out that door, and have this be the last time we're in the same room outside of parole hearings, that's your choice to make. But I -"

His voice cut off. Vansen realised that he'd been staring at the desk instead of looking at her. He corrected that, despite the uncomfortable wave of thoughts and emotion that cascaded through him every time he did.

"I'm too old to know how this works. Where we go from here, that's entirely up to you."

[Sam Porter]

The flimsi was set on the desk, freeing up her hand so that she could lift it up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Eyes closing, her entire expression became pinched as he essentially dropped a hefty bit of familial who-knew-what right at her feet. She'd never been one to dwell too long on that sort of heavy thinking; it usually just led to sad memories and sullen nights spent on her side in bed, staring at the bulkhead wall. Did she resent the fact that she'd been through more foster homes growing up than there were hairs on a Bantha? Did she resent never really knowing her real parents growing up? On the surface Sam had always scoffed at those kids who had such a luxury - parents that hugged them and smiled at them and were generally there. Further down though, further than she more often than not dared to tread, she was jealous. Whatever reasons there were that she'd been placed into the system, the smallest part of her always worried that her biological parents simply didn't want her. She'd been young enough that her first memories were of a long, dimly lit dormitory room; rows of beds and soundly sleeping children. Every one of them slumbering... except for her.

It was a memory that - though her first - was one that she consistently tried to forget. Of course she was never so lucky, and periodically the lanky blonde found herself assaulted with dreams of that room. Sitting cross-legged in a bed that was far too small for her and looking around at the quiet, rhythmically breathing bodies on either side.

Being serious was something she detested. She had built up a veritable armory of defense mechanisms for avoiding the more depressing sides of life. But in this moment, each one of those defenses fell woefully short and she found herself having to confront an uncomfortable set of circumstances.

Her hand came down then, and the glass came up. Disappearing half of the contents, Sam let the fiery liquid burn an angry trail down her throat on its' way into her stomach. Lips peeled back over her teeth as she stared down the length of her legs.

"Better than what I usually drink," she offered as a weak beginning.

A deep breath, and she straightened up in her chair, leaning forward a small bit so that she could rest elbows on knees. The glass was now cradled in both hands. For now, she refrained from looking at him and instead looked into the glass and its' murky brown contents.

"Look. I don't think either of us really knows how this is supposed to work. You never had to consider anything but whatever it is you do, and I was never the sort of kid to sit and think for long periods of time about all the families I went through."

How did people exist like this? Having to confront things on such a deep, dark, personal level? And in that moment, she decided to simply voice that frustration.

"I'm not good at this sort of thing, ok? I'm bad at being sentimental, I'm not good with affection, and being emotional is an energy drain. I try to stay away from that stuff as much as I can because that's how a person like me survives."

[Vansen Tyree]

Another not-really-a-laugh escaped from Vansen, though there was a little more mirth to it this time.

"If you think that's something that sets us apart, then my reputation isn't what it used to be."

He reached for his own glass, but it didn't rise from the table; it teetered, gripped between his fingers, a contemplative frown forming on his brow. He searched his mind for an analogue to this situation, some circumstance with which he was familiar that he could cling to, helping him understand how to venture forward in this situation. It was a negotiation, of sorts. A compromise. Samantha compromised herself by offering such a personal insight, and in exchange Vansen needed to do the same. Mutual discomfort. Mutual honestly.

Gods, he hated all this feelings and emotions Forceshit.

"I was older than you when I first met your mother. I fell for her, hard, but I was too far gone and too set in my ways to know what to do with that. The Clone Wars started, and I did what I'd always done: I dropped everything, and ran off to serve the Empire. I suppose -"

He offered a small shrug.

"I suppose that's when you happened."

The glass was raised and a sip taken, relished and savoured this time, the warmth of the whiskey competing with the cold encroach of nostalgia in his bones.

"I don't know why she never told me. The military had always been my life, maybe that was why. Perhaps she thought I would give it all up if I knew I was a father. Perhaps she was afraid that I wouldn't. I'm not sure even I know what I would have done back then. It wasn't until the war was over that I started to change, and even then I juggled our marriage with Imperial service. I suppose by then, it was already too late."

He fell silent, and the frown deepened as memories from the Wars floated through his mind. He thought of the arrogant, middle-aged ass he'd been back then; so much pride, and swagger, and loyalty. He'd married the job long before he'd married Grace, and if he could step back in time to those ancient days, he would have throttled himself for not becoming a different man sooner. His years of regret had matured like a fine wine, which he indulged in involuntarily on increasingly frequent occasions of late; but how different might he had been with a family there to adjust his priorities? Would it have changed him? Would it still have taken the destruction of Alderaan and the loss of the Inirials to open his eyes, or would he have rejected the Empire's ways sooner, fighting earlier for a better galaxy for his child? Or would he simply have given up entirely, hiding away in the foothills of Rendili, happy to pretend that the rest of the galaxy simply didn't exist.

"It must have been hard for her, trying to raise you knowing or at least fearing that she'd have no help from me. I can't say that she should have had more faith in me, because back then I sure as hell wouldn't have deserved it. Which I suppose makes it your fault. Grace would have loved you with all her heart, I don't have a shred of doubt about that. If she gave you up, she must have -"

He hesitated before he finished, a bitter twinge of realisation that for all of Grace's good intentions, things had not turned out how she must have hoped. Vansen's expression softened, his attention finding Samantha again.

"She must have hoped it was what was best for you. I know that must not mean much, especially coming from me instead of her, but I know it's true right down in my bones."

The frown returned.

"But that's just excuses and explanations. I, we, Grace and I... we did wrong by you, Samantha. I wasn't ready, I wasn't good enough, and my failings robbed you of a father, and a mother, and the kind of life you should have had. For that, I am sorry."

[Sam Porter]

She'd take a tiny step outside of her normal comfort zone, and now he'd gone and dragged her further out like some youngling tearing about while waving a ribbon streamer in the air. It was like some sort of bad joke that'd turned into a not-joke, then taken even further down a hole that she'd not exactly planned on jumping into when the door chime had cut into her brain thirty minutes ago.

The room still occasionally swam, but whatever medicine she'd taken was helping to keep the worst of things down; enough at least to allow her the ability to pour more alcohol down her gullet. Though, right now she settled for simply staring at the still half-full glass. Every word he spoke seemed to send her more into a barely-controlled tailspin of memories and confusion, and Sam found herself turning inward, trying to scour through her jumbled mass of thoughts to try and recall any sort of remembrance of her mother. A face, maybe? A hand? A far-off voice? Nothing. There was nothing.

Not even some cliche necklace or charm. No old, crumbled bit of paper with a note on it kept on her person somehow through all the years. There had been no keepsake, and certainly no letter. Not even an old holo. Would it have changed things? Having something like that? Sam gave a sniff, lifting her free hand to scratch at an itch on along her jawline.

"Don't apologize."

It was the first thing to say that come to mind, and finally she lifted the glass to take a sip. Again it burned, but this time she was expecting it, and let it sit on her tongue for a moment to soak up the oaky notes. Maybe some other time she'd feel more inclined to delve into those deeper recesses, but right now, in the first stages of this exchange, there was a bit of regrouping that she needed. All of this was not something that she was used to, and there was no mistaking the look of someone who seemed as though they were sitting on a chair made out of nails. To be honest, she felt glad that she wasn't the only one feeling this way; just that he'd gone and jumped in with both feet rather than her own method of grazing a toe into the cold water.

In the following seconds she reverted to what felt safe.

"What's done is done. Can't go back in time and change all that."

Sam looked up then, locking her eyes with his.

"Just, don't call me Samantha."

[Vansen Tyree]

"Noted," Vansen agreed, bowed his head slightly in acceptance of Samantha's - Sam's - terms.

He let silence fall for a few moments: the worst kind of awkward silence imaginable. Normally Vansen found quiet to be peaceful; or at least devoid of distractions and irritations. There were times when too much silence left you alone with your thoughts for too long, but the mountain of mind-numbing flimsiwork that the Alliance kept him supplied with, and the case after case of whiskey that so many Senators seemed to think was an original and insightful gift, kept that kind of scenario largely at bay.

When uncomfortable silences like this arose, Vansen usually satiated himself by nursing the glowing embers of frustration towards the politician or bureaucrat responsible. But that wasn't an option here. The blame existed in a state of quantum uncertainty. Did Sam blame him, even though she seemed to claim otherwise? Did she blame Grace, the only person not here to defend herself against it? Should Vansen be allowed to blame himself, even with the mitigating circumstances? It was all well and good to accept that the past could not be altered; but the past could still haunt you, and there were often repercussions and ramifications that someone needed to take responsibility for.

Perhaps it was the universe's idea of a cruel joke: Sam Porter, someone Vansen had signed into house arrest for the things that she'd done, now sitting as judge and jury over Vansen's past actions. He wondered what he would do in her place; and what she might have done had she been in his.

"Would you change it, if you could?"

Vansen didn't even realise he'd uttered the question until he heard himself say it.

"The past, I mean. If you could give yourself a different life, would you?"

[Sam Porter]

She was in the midst of a sip when he asked his question, and swallowing, her features pinch in a strange sort of pained and exasperated expression. As though she'd suddenly been handed a steaming tuber that was burning her hands.

"Eehhh... "

How was she supposed to even approach that??

"That's a little heavy for right now, don't you think?"

A deflection? Yes. A stall? Most definitely. Thinking about the what-if's was a waste of time, and she had more interest in dealing with the here and now of things. Course, the 'here and now' of, well, now... well, it had suddenly become a lot more complicated, hadn't it.

Still that almost strained look dominated.

"Can't we just take it a day at a time?"

[Vansen Tyree]

Was it a heavy question? Perhaps it was, but Vansen barely knew a soul in the Alliance who didn't already have an answer prepared, contemplated in dark times and quiet moments. Moreso than credits, regret was the currency that Rebellion soldiers found themselves paid in, and heavy or not, and for Vansen it was impossible to comprehend a life where it had never been contemplated.

But then, Samantha was no Rebellion soldier. Vansen found that difficult to remember, given what Sam had done and been through on the Alliance's behalf; but her skills, though invauable at times, were involuntary. She was a conscripted criminal, her service to the Alliance a way of serving out her sentence. She served because she had to; and she was here because she had to be. The reminder sunk through his core like an anchor. In Vansen's mind, he was the estranged father trying to make amends. For Sam, he was merely her jailer. Perhaps to her, this all felt like just another prison. The muscles in Vansen's jaw clenched; another dividend from his Alliance pension of regret.

Vansen steeled himself, sabacc face and features etched in stone hiding the unexpected disappointment that came as Samantha laid down her terms. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, or wanted; but he'd tried to prepare himself, and had thought he'd been ready for whatever reaction Sam might throw his way. He'd been prepared for anger, for acusation, for indifference; he even had a strategy for emotions that he typically wasn't equipped to deal with. This, though? This feeling that he had become an inconvenience, a development that only mattered to her because she found it irksome?

If shouldn't have bothered him, but Vansen knew why it did; and it was as simple as it was pathetic. He was old, and he had nearly died. He'd been confronted with a still-painful reminder of his mortality, and he'd realised just how small a footprint he would leave behind. People would remember him, perhaps even fondly; but it would be like the death of a celebrity, or a statesman. People would notice, people might even care in the moment; but after that he'd just be another in a long line of dead veterans, leaving nothing behind save for a name etched into a memorial wall, and perhaps an underwhelming patrol frigate named after him in a decade or so, when the Alliance ran out of more significant 'heroes' to comemorate. For a moment, he'd allowed himself to think - to hope - that this might be an eleventh hour opportunity to mean something to someone, enough that his existance might matter to someone even after it ended.

An old addage floated through his mind, an almost mocking contribution from barely remembered lessons in Rendili literature back home. What we leave behind is not as important as how we've lived. Perhaps that was the root of it all. After all these years, it was too late for Vansen to undo or rewrite his life: he couldn't affect the more important, and so the relics and memorials were all he could influence now. This must have been how the Sith Lords of old felt, compelled by the looming threat of mortality to commission monolithic tombs to immortalise their existance.

"One day at a time," Vansen echoed with a quiet nod. No matter what he thought, or felt, this was Samantha's call, and those were her terms. "I can do that."

Vansen hesitated a moment, before reaching for the lid of the whiskey bottle and securing it back in place. His brow furrowed slightly into a frown as it was held out towards Samantha as a gift offering. It wasn't his usual frown, however. This one was softer, more concerned than annoyed, and perhaps the faintest bit sad. Buried beneath it, half a century of military service struggled and scrambled to get out of the way, allowing Vansen Tyree to sound for a fleeting moment like an ordinary human being.

"Thanks for saving my life, Sam."

[Sam Porter]

She lifted her eyes to stare at the offered bottle, and with a long, slow breath, she bit her lower lip for only a brief moment. She could understand why he was doing this... well, she hoped she could understand, at any rate. She had decent enough guesses, and suspicions as to why he looked the way he did; the most obvious to her was because he always looked as such. Apparently serving a military for so long kind of left its' mark. It made sense.

She knew what he was trying to do, and knew that it must've been important to him, but there was a part of her that didn't want to take the bottle. It was nothing grown from disdain or annoyance, but simply the thoughts of a personal still trying to play a small bit of catch-up. She felt a little bit behind, trying to frantically pick up the pieces of this revelation.

Finally though, she relented. His gesture was of kindness, and to refuse would send the wrong signals. And so she reached out with a free hand, taking the bottle carefully.

Bringing it down into her lap, she looked down at it.

"Well... "

Well what?

"... anytime, Sir."

Awkward, stilted, and though sincere, it was still strange to say.

"Just, uh, don't make a habit out of 'almost dying'. I only got so much blood."

[Vansen Tyree]

"Your mouth to the Force's ears," he countered with a chuckle, trying to deflect away from how that Sir sounded and felt.

Of course that was the term she'd use, when addressing an Admiral; but there was the superior officer kind of sir, and then there was the kind that reminded you of just how old you seemed through other people's eyes. Neither seemed right coming from Sam - respect for authority didn't exactly seem like her forte - but what alternative did she have? Any variation on dad or father was unearned, and Vansen doubted he'd earned many nicknames among his subordinates that were repeatable to his face. On his last few commands they'd called him The Old Man, something he'd heard the Inirial kids use in a not entirely objectionable way; but with Sam, that term potentially came with uncomfortable baggage.

The faintest hint of a fidget crept into the Admiral's posture, trickling out from the back corners of his mind that he seldom dwelt upon. He almost kept it bottled up, as per standard operating procedure, but a hesitant continuation finally managed to grumble its way out.

"My father was the kind of man who made his kids call him Sir. Not someone I'm keen on emulating. All things considered, Vansen is fine, or Admiral if that's too awkward; at least until we stumble across something that works better."