"Malka? You silly girl, how many ti-"

She stopped speaking when she opened the door. A man stood there; a tall, powerful figure, dressed in beggars' clothes but carrying himself without apprehension. Adina opened her mouth to send him away; they were not a wealthy family, but what they could spare they already gave to charities. But something stopped her. This man was no beggar. There was pride in him. Nobility. And... power. This was a man who did not ask for anything.

And for a moment, Adina was afraid.

"What do you want?"

The man blinked. She could not read what she saw in his face. Something like confusion. Or disappointment. But no malice.

And then, studying his face, she realized who this stranger was.

"Shimon," she whispered.

Adina had no sooner spoken the words as flung her arms around the stranger almost twice her size. The stranger put his arms awkwardly around the woman, a faint smile softening his features.

"My son," she said into his sternum.

"KEEP WORKING," he shouted over the drills to the men in the trench, as he started down the hill toward the struggling paper-pusher. When he was sufficiently far from the site, he removed his hard hat.

"CALL FOR YOU, SIR," said the assistant. He must have just started; running calls up the hill was a strictly-newbie task.

The assistant started back down the hill, beckoning Tamir. Apparently whoever was calling him was still holding.

Tamir descended the hill, using long, easy strides. He entered the mobile office structure, set his hard hat down on the table inside.

The assistant handed him the phone.

"Hello?"

"Tamir," hissed the voice on the other end.

"Adina?" Tamir's brow furrowed as he walked to the water cooler. "Is everything alright?" Adina never called him at work.

"Tamir," Adina's voice came again, almost whispered. "He's here."

"What? Who is there?"

"He's come back!" Tamir thought she sounded like she was weeping.

Adina, who's there? What's going on?"

"Shimon! Our Shimon has come home to us!"

The kitchen table seemed small. The house seemed small. It felt scaled down, and not uniformly. The ceilings were lower than the walls closer. He knew this was because he had been a seven year old the last time he'd lived here, but it felt no less strange. He had memories of playing under the kitchen table. If he tried it now, the legs would not touch the floor.

Mother returned, telephone in hand. She set it on the counter. "Your father is on his way home," she said with a warm smile. She moved toward the counter. "Are you hungry? Can I get you something? I don't have any of the cookies you used to like so much. I bought some for the times we thought you were coming home, but..."

Rabin ignored the prod. "I am not hungry," he said, the Hebrew feeling unweildly on his tongue.

"Perhaps something to drink?"

Rabin shook his head. "No. Thank you."

His mother brought him a glass of water anyways, and seated herself at the table, looking eager. "You've grown," she said, grinning.

The corners of Rabin's mouth turned up. "You've aged," he replied.

His mother cackled, eyes sparkling. She looked younger when she lauged, more like she used to. "You've become a handsome young man. I bet the girls at school never left you alone."

Rabin smiled non-committally. "How are things here?"

His mother waved a dismissing hand. "Oh, you know, nothing ever changes here. I want to hear about you."

But things did change. They had. His mother had been here, had seen the changes happen slowly. She probably hardly noticed them, probably didn't think of them as changes. But for Rabin, this was not the world he'd left behind. Seeing it through an adult's eyes made a difference, surely, but so much was different nontheless.

But he told her of his education to make her happy, told her a censored and vague tale about the schools. He left out the important parts, the parts that stayed with him: the fights for survival and respect in Battleschool, the family he'd had in his quad at Command School, the brand he'd received for defending that family, the darkness he'd slipped into after. Of his failure to complete the Pilot AIT, he said nothing. Nor did he speak of Scorpion.

They had been talking for half an hour when the door squeaked. Mother rose, a little too creakily. Rabin wondered how this old lady would care for another energetic child.

Rabin rose too, and his father entered the kitchen.

They didn't look much alike. They had similar builds, bulky and powerful by nature, but Father's was going soft, shrinking down, starting to droop. His power was waning. Father's hair was straighter, and his face bore little resemblance; Rabin had always been told as a child that he had his mother's face.

There was half a second of uncomfortable stillness. Then Father came closer, and Rabin closed the distance, and Father put his arms around Rabin, clapping him on the back with manly affection. It felt hollow to Rabin, somehow. He could remember feeling proud when his father hugged him that way, once. It was a man's hug, and it had made him feel respected. Now it felt... empty. It felt like a hug that meant nothing, a clap on the back to show the world that this was not one of those other, sentimental hugs.

There was small talk for a short while. Rabin told more about his schooling, without saying very much at all. This pleased everyone, because he knew they didn't really want to hear. They--his mother in particular--simply wanted assurance that they had done the right thing in sending their boy away, that everything had been fine, that he'd had fun, that he'd learned much. They didn't want to hear about how it really had been. That would be too much for them.

After a while he was able to shift focus to them. They told him of the changes that had taken place since his departure, however small. Father spoke, mostly, as mother skipped over too much. Eventually Malka came home, and Gilad and his wife arrived, and everyone clustered in the too-small kitchen, and the talk gradually became more comfortable. Rabin noticed that when it was no longer his responsibility to keep conversation functional, Father lapsed into silence, watching but not participating. Mother got on with dinner. Malka had many questions about Battleschool, questions neither Mother nor Father had asked, and Rabin only barely deflected some of the more upsetting ones. Gilad was interested primarily in specific subjects, like the battle room and the simulators. He told Rabin that he had studied as much declassified information as he could find in the two years following Rabin's departure.

Dinner came, and the family sat down around the too-small table, which must have been somewhat crowded even before Rabin's presence had been added. Father lead the family in prayer, and Rabin listened to the words. This, at least, was the same. He closed his eyes, and listened to the sound of his father's voice, as he had as a boy.

Then Tamir and his son were alone.

"Would you be more comfortable speaking English?" Tamir asked, words only mildly accented, after an uncomfortable silence.

"It's been a long time since I was around anyone who spoke Hebrew," Shimon admitted, somewhat gratefully.

There was another long pause. "We expected you some time ago."

Shimon nodded, slowly. "There was trouble with my AIT. They had to change it at the last minute."

"We received the notice from the IF," Tamir said. "They explained the situation and apologized." He looked up from the scratches on the table's surface. "They said you were to have come home a year ago."

Shimon's lips pursed slightly, and then he looked around the kitchen, at the lamp, at the door to the entryway, everywhere but at Tamir. "I've been on Earth thirteen months now, yeah."

To that, Tamir could think of nothing to say.

"Working for the IF. See the world, fight terrorism, that shi... stuff. Haven't had a whole lotta time in between missions."

"The IF said you would have two weeks after graduation..."

Shimon sighed. "Yeah."

Tamir said nothing, until Shimon met his eyes. "Your mother and I were very concerned."

Silence. "Yeah."

"The IF would tell us nothing."

"I'm SOTF, Father. You can't know where I am or what I'm doing, most of the time. It's not safe."

"No. I supposed not. But we would have liked to hear that you were safe."

Shimon looked away. "Yeah."

And after that, no one spoke for some time.

It was Tamir who finally broke the silence. "So," he said, gravely. "How was school?"

Shimon's head lifted, eyes met Tamir's again. A faint smile. "No sweat," he said. "Like summer camp."

Tamir grinned.

They talked for a while. Mostly of politics; Tamir knew that Shimon would have had plenty of time to catch up on Earthside affairs since his return, especially given his work with the IF. But Shimon was interested in hearing what Tamir had to say, or at the very least, pretended very well. And he had input of his own. But the topic wore down, because Tamir was tired. He rose from his chair with a small groan.

"It is good to have you home, Shimon."

Shimon nodded. "It's good to be here."

Rabin was losing. He had never played pool before, and the way the game was going, he was not likely to again. Gilad was lining up his shot. Beside him Guo Qing was leaning on her cue, smiling in a predatory fashion that suggested that not only would her husband miss this shot, but also set up her next for her. Rabin sat on a nearby stool, grimacing at cigarette smoke hanging in the air. He watched Gilad shoot, miss, and swear. He watched Guo Qing smirk arrogantly at Gilad, and then sink two with one shot. Gilad exaggerated a scowl. Rabin could see that it wasn't entirely forced, however; his brother always had hated to lose.

"So how long are you in town?" Gilad spoke English. It was the language he and Quo Qing had in common, so it was natural for him.

Rabin shrugged, watching Guo Qing sink another shot. "Another day or two. Not long."

"Shipping out again?" Gilad's eyes were darting around the table, totalling up how far his wife was from winning. Though Rabin was terrible at the game, he did understand the rules clearly. Two shots more would finish it.

He glanced at his brother. "Couldn't say."

Gilad took the hint. "No fucking way," he said, looking at the shot Guo Qing was lining up. It involved two banks and a corner pocket. His wife's eyes lifted to his, and she smiled sweetly as she sank the improbable shot. Gilad made a disgusted noise, and turned his attention back to Rabin. "So what have you been doing for the past year that you can talk about?"

Rabin shrugged again. "Married to the job, I guess."

This gave Gilad pause. "Whoa," he said, with a disbelieving glance at Guo Qing. "I hope you don't mean to say that you've taken up the vow, kid. We Rabins have a reputation to uphold, and, aha--" he glanced slyly at Guo Qing "--the ladies no longer have Gilad to service them. Say it ain't so, Shimon." In answer to Gliad's jab, Guo Qing sank the eight and ended the game. "Shit."

Guo Qing joined her husband at his side, positively sauntering. "It would be a shame to waste perfectly good Rabin genes," she agreed.

Rabin bowed his head and smiled to himself. "Don't worry, no vows."

A grin spread across Gilad's face. "I knew it. Look at this shitheel. Bet he's got a bitch in every port."

Rabin choked on his beer.

"Don't embarrass him," Guo Qing said. And after a moment's thought, added, "Or me."

"You dog," Gilad said with paternal pride, clapping Rabin on the back.

"Another game, boys?"

"Gimme a bit to recover," Gilad replied. "Well come on, Shimon. If you can't talk about work, and you won't talk about sex--" he looked pointedly at Guo Qing "--then what can we talk about?"

They were both watching Rabin.