Chapter Text
Scott starts drinking when he's fourteen.
It's not a big deal. Some of his friends started earlier. Some later. Sara snuck her first drink at twelve, and she told Scott it was terrible, but when the bitter liquid burns the back of his throat and settles warm in the pit of his stomach, he doesn't feel terrible, he feels strong. Confident. Like Dad would absolutely hate that he was doing this, and that makes him feel bold. Good even.
When he gets to the bottom of the bottle, he stops thinking about what Dad would or wouldn't like, and that feels good too. It feels like the first time in recent memory he just didn't care — and that's a feeling worth seeking out again. Which he does. In earnest. The first drink is a dare. Everybody's got a friend who dares them to do stupid stuff. The second is at a party, social lubrication. The third is with a group of other kids hanging out in the presidium above the consort's chamber, hoping for a glimpse of Shiala. Individual moments that have no meaning, no purpose. Flitting from feeling to feeling without a singular aim or goal. Feel good. Laugh for a while. Do stupid things that feel normal. Eventually, he starts to string them together, until it becomes a need. A prerequisite. Without it, he's rigid, a ball of worry in the pit of his stomach he just can't tease apart. Too many thoughts firing from too many directions. Everybody's watching. Nobody cares. Seriously, Scott, get a grip. The last one is in Sara's voice like all his sensible thoughts are.
He's fifteen when he steals the bottle of vodka from the liquor cabinet in his father's study, right next to the lock box where he keeps the Carnifex. Scott takes the bottle back to his bedroom, the one he shared with Sara until she went to the academy. The room was messier when Sara was here, but with her gone Scott keeps it immaculate. He makes his bed with military corners every morning and wouldn't dare to leave a thing on the floor.
He lays in bed staring at the painted metal ceiling and nurses the bottle of vodka, grimacing after every swallow. Dad is staying late at the embassy tonight, and Mom is at the academy with Sara, so Scott is alone. This is normal. The empty darkness of the family apartment is normal. The silence outside his bedroom door is normal, too.
Sometimes he's confronted by how different everything is now that Sara is a biotic dream child and he is just a disappointingly normal kid. When you're born to two geniuses, you hope to be special. All Scott is, is constantly confused. Confused about his place in the world, confused about why Dad hates him so much, confused about the feeling he gets in the pit of his stomach when he's around certain people. Certain people who seem to vary in gender and species and everything else by vast degrees of separation. There don't seem to be any connecting lines between the people Scott feels things for in the pit of his stomach, and shouldn't there be something he knows he's attracted to? He can't really be horny for everyone, can he? God. He's disgusting. Scott takes another drink, and he still hates the taste, but it's getting easier to swallow.
Deep in the apartment, the door opens and closes, the floor creaks and Scott scrambles to close the bottle. He stuffs it under the perfectly tucked comforter beside him while the creaking footsteps make their way toward his room. Dad appears in the door frame much quicker than Scott would have thought possible, does Dad control space-time? Sometimes it feels like he does. Alec Ryder is looking tired, hair mussed, and shirt wrinkled beneath an open uniform. He leans against the door frame to Scott's room, eyes travelling over its contents and widening a fraction in surprise when they pass over Sara's side, clean and obviously uninhabited.
"Where's Sara?" He asks, and Scott's stomach is doing something weird that makes him want to barf. "She's....she's with mom at Grissom..."
Alec snaps his fingers. "Dammit, right." His face scrunches up the same way Scott's does when he's thinking too hard, and then he looks at his son, really looks at him for the first time, and his eyebrows pinch up, and his eyes are soft and apologetic. "I was supposed to make dinner when you got home from school."
"It's fine, Dad."
"You ate?"
He didn't. "Yeah."
"Good." And like that, concern drops from his expression. He waves a hand at Scott in goodbye and continues down the hall to his study.
Scott is left with a sour feeling in his gut. He slides down the pillow and lays flat on the mattress, body heavy, sinking into the duvet, and closes his eyes. He imagines his father coming into his room, sitting down on the bed next to him, maybe smelling his breath and admonishing him for taking the bottle of vodka. Maybe he'd be mad, and he'd yell. Maybe he'd say something like, what's wrong with you? Or why did you take it? and Scott could shoot back something like, why does it matter, you don't care what I do, or, so you'd talk to me. He imagines telling Mom or Sara about the bottle. Mom would be very quiet and analytical, the way she gets about a math problem sometimes. Sara's scorn is too much to contemplate, enough that he fishes the bottle out of the bed and rolls himself off the mattress, landing a little shakily and standing too fast so that the room wobbles and he has to steady himself. Sara is hardly ever angry with him, but the idea of drawing any negative reaction from his sister sets Scott spiralling. They're supposed to be co-conspirators, not enemies. If Sara's not in his corner — he has no one. So he can't risk her finding out. Not about this.
He turns back to his bed and feels the alcohol rebel against his diaphragm. Swallows. Hard. The bottle slips between storage boxes under his bed frame, and he climbs back on the mattress to pass out on top of the blankets. Three days later, Scott puts the empty bottle into his backpack and takes a detour to the already busy market in Zakara Ward on the way to school. He's not supposed to come down here on his own, but the presidium has eyes everywhere. If someone saw him, word might get back to Dad. Down here, he's anonymous. Just one of the many kids running around, if somewhat cleaner than the duct rats. It's easy to find a recycler and slip the bottle in the bin.
Dad is already home when he comes in the door. Scott wasn't at school today and hasn't been for a few days now, but Dad's not supposed to know that. Alec works late all the time. Mom's back at Grissom with Sara. Scott started skipping classes, getting older kids to buy him something to drink and then nursing it for hours while he bums around the Castle Arcade. If he can keep a low-grade buzz going for most of the day, he'll keep himself from thinking too much. Worrying about Sara, worrying about Mom, missing them. Missing Dad even though he's still here. So that's the routine. Then he comes home and slips into bed. Waits in the dark with his eyes open until he hears Dad get in. But not tonight.
Tonight, Scott steps through the door around twenty hundred hours and Dad is already there, waiting in the living room with two other people. A woman with a high, sleek ponytail and a man with dark skin and darker eyes. They're both wearing blue uniforms. Alliance.
"Dad?" Scott feels dizzy. Are there really two of them there, or is he seeing double? He grips the back of the sofa, the world tilting when Alec and his guests stand.
"Come in, son."
Scott sits heavily in a chair, suddenly surrounded. Sinks back as far as he can into the cushions and wishes he could disappear. "Is...is mom okay? Sara..."
"Oh," Alec glances at the uniformed guests and smiles in an apologetic way. "Everything's okay son."
Scott nods, a short tight movement close to his chest.
"This is Lieutenant Kadeem and Chief Sarna. They're...recruiters. From a prestigious Alliance school on Earth." Scott's eyes flit from Dad to the strangers and back. He doesn't speak.
After a moment's pause, Alec continues. "Your mom and I have been...concerned. With her current commitment to the academy and my hours, we both feel like you need a little more... oversight."
Scott's eyes narrow. Dad isn't making sense. Why isn't he making sense?
"Lieutenant Kadeem is impressed with your test scores."
"You show a great aptitude for leadership, Scott." The woman says, staring at him with some kinda soft expression, maybe pity.
"Your most recent performance may be underwhelming," Alec is looking at them again, and Scott's starting to flush because that means Dad has noticed the skipped classes, right? "But your grades were always dependable before your mother left."
"She didn't leave," Scott corrects, like it's extremely important to straighten that detail out. "She's working, she's not gone. She's just working."
The strangers' smiles harden in place, Alec really looks at him for the first time since he sat down. "Your mother and I have made all the arrangements. If you had been home earlier, you'd have had more time." Alec says pointedly.
Scott's mind still hasn't caught up. He squints back at Dad, then at the 'recruiters.'
Alec gets to his feet. "I've got a bag packed for you, but you should make sure you have everything you need."
The strangers stand, Dad is standing, and Scott is melted into the chair. He stares up at them bonelessly until the realization lands like a two-ton warhead. "You're sending me away," He says. "You want me to... go with them?"
Alec is looking down his nose, and Scott can't stop thinking that he knew, he knew about the skipped classes. What else does he know about? The missing bottles from his office? Could he have known about those too, and done nothing? Said nothing? But this isn't nothing. Shouldn't there have been some interim steps before sending him away? Like a conversation. Yelling or threatening or hugging or something before it came to this?
"You'll be living on campus with the rest of your class. It'll be a great experience for you, Scott. Just like being in the service."
As if that's what Scott aspires to. He gets to his feet. Shuffles past the strangers and stumbles a bit on the step up from the living area to the hall. Everything is spinning now, and he's not sure if it's the alcohol or something else, a deeper disorientation. The way he's felt the world shifting underneath him since Sara and Mom left, leaving him drifting. Lost. The duffel bag on his bed is filled with tightly folded shirts, pants, rolled socks and underwear. His toothbrush and comb are in the side pocket. He stands over it like an idiot, trying to think of what other parts of his life are worth packing. The data pad on the end table? The photo of him and Sara on the dresser, arms flung around each other while they celebrate their high score at the arena?
"We'll be doing this till we're ancient," Sara laughs.
"Coming to the arena?" Scott asks.
She shakes her head. "Fighting side by side!"
And he's not sure if he should mention the fact fighting is Dad's hobby, not his, or that he can't even picture himself at twenty, let alone thirty or forty or whatever qualifies as ancient. Dad has a vision for them both, and sometimes that's enough. Scott catches a glimpse of the person Dad wants him to be in the mirror. A chance reflection while he's riding in the elevator between levels. It's Scott, but a little cleaner cut. Brown hair buzzed down and short at the top, uniform pressed and buttoned just so. He might be that man someday. The man that fights for humanity and puts himself in the line of fire for his team. Who continues the Ryder legacy of exploration, first contact, and charting new stars for the Alliance. If new stars exist to be chartered. There must still be a few. He looks down at the duffel bag and tries to imagine that man. Then he zips it up, adding nothing, and walks back into the hall.
Dad is waiting, the recruiters are standing by the door. The lieutenant checks her watch. Dad lets Scott pass, then walks behind him. Scott can feel him, hear him, at his back. The Chief opens the door, and the lieutenant steps through. She holds it for Scott, a soft smile on her lips, and Scott stares at her a beat, heart starting to hammer against his chest, palms suddenly sweaty.
He turns to Alec and doesn't think, doesn't hesitate, just throws his arms around his dad's middle like he's the only life buoy in a vast and unforgiving ocean of stars. "Please, Dad, please don't send me away." Scott chokes into his dad's chest, and Alec’s arms hover around him without touching. "Please, Dad, please."
He's sobbing now, instantly covered in tears and snot like he's been going at it for hours instead of seconds. Alec has a broad chest, just like Scott, with wide shoulders and strong arms. He hesitates a moment longer, then, finally, wraps his arms around Scott in an answering embrace.
"Please. Please. Please!" Scott can't stop. The duffel is slipping, so he drops it at their feet, gathers Alec's shirt in his fists and holds on for dear life. Alec doesn't say anything at first, letting Scott babble into his chest, a gentle tightening of his arms his only answer until he finally pulls away. He holds Scott at arm's length and stares into his face like he's reading something important there. Scott's never felt like the something important. He soaks it up, lets it calm him, his hands still twisting in Alec’s shirt sleeves.
Dad's blue eyes shine. "Scott, I can't give you what you need." And he sounds sorry, at least. He sounds sad. A catch in his throat that means something. Something. If only Scott could figure out what it was. There must be a clue, a clue inside that will solve the riddle of why Dad doesn't want to keep him around.
Alec glances over Scott's shoulder, nods softly, and then he's letting go. Firm hands clamp down on Scott's arms, and he's being led away. He reaches for Dad, straining against the hands, still pleading, but Alec moves back. Withdraws. The rejection is like a radiation leak, numbing him. Scott's arms drop to his sides, and he falters, finally moved to silence. The hands on his arms turn him away from his father, but his head swivels to watch Alec as he goes. Dad's face is always hard to read, always stony and firm. If it's crumbling today, Scott doesn't see it. Maybe he'll never be allowed to see it.
He throws up three times on the shuttle ride. Chief Sarna rubs his back while he pukes into a bucket. The few other kids on the transport pretend not to stare. After, he's empty, clammy and trembling. He wishes Sara were with him, but he can hear what she'd say in his head. Fuck him. I love you, baby brother. And he thinks, fine, let the other kids stare. It's not like he's looking to make new friends at this bogus school.
He lets the tears roll.