Lucas stepped inside without waiting for Dean to talk, as he already knew that his son was either spiraling or out cold with sleep. He closed the door behind him gently, green eyes already taking in the state of things: Dean sprawled on the bed, one arm over his face, blonde hair sprawled everywhere, the obvious posture of a man having a philosophical crisis before breakfast.
Lucas sighed softly, the sound fond rather than worried, and crossed the room at an unhurried pace. He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough to be felt without touching, giving Dean a moment to acknowledge his presence on his own terms.
"Well," Lucas said mildly, "you're breathing. That's a good start."
Dean made a noise that could have been agreement or protest. "I regret consciousness."
"Also familiar," Lucas replied.
He waited a beat, then reached out and brushed a few strands of hair away from Dean's forehead, the gesture natural. "How bad is it?"
Dean lowered his arm just enough to look at him. His purple eyes were bright with exhaustion and something far too thoughtful for this hour. "On a scale from one to ten?"
Lucas raised a brow. "I'm braced."
"Somewhere in between, I made a reasonable decision, and I should legally never be allowed near a diplomatic table again."
Lucas smiled. "Ah. So the choice is settling in."
Dean groaned and rolled onto his side to face him properly. "I fell for the face. I… fell for that cursed face."
Lucas's smile grew entirely unsurprised by his son's tastes.
"The face," he repeated thoughtfully, as if cataloguing evidence. "Not the reports, the treaties, the months of negotiations, and, for sure, not the fact that he wants me alone."
Dean pressed his forehead into the mattress. "He has no right to look like that."
Lucas hummed. "They rarely do."
"It's the eyes," Dean went on, resigned now. "And the scar. And the way he stands, like the world has tried very hard to kill him and failed. Repeatedly."
Lucas laughed quietly. "You sound offended."
"I am offended," Dean said. "By genetics. And posture."
Lucas reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Dean, you didn't accept an alliance because someone was attractive. You accepted it because it made sense. The fact that he also happens to be… visually compelling is just the universe being unhelpful."
Dean sighed. "You say that now, but I have to meet him alone soon, and he doesn't look like someone taking stalling too well. He was stalled for a month already and climbed three stories only because he felt me."
Lucas's expression lightened with amusement. He didn't remove his hand from Dean's shoulder.
"Mm," he said thoughtfully. "Yes. That would complicate things."
Dean rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling again, resigned. "He doesn't do waiting. He does… with purposeful patience. Which is worse."
Lucas snorted softly. "The dangerous kind."
"Exactly," Dean said. "He waited a month and then decided vertical architecture was an acceptable solution."
Lucas laughed under his breath. "I remember that phase."
Dean turned his head. "You climbed things?"
Lucas closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if sending a silent prayer to whatever god was responsible for patience.
"No," he said calmly when he opened them again. "That men like your father, and Dax, don't give up once they've decided. And neither will he."
Dean stilled.
Lucas continued gently, but without softening the truth. "You already like him. You said yes the other night, to the engagement, to what it represents, and to him. You knew what you had done."
Dean swallowed. "That doesn't make it less terrifying."
"Of course it doesn't," Lucas said, almost fondly. "But it does mean you don't need to brace for impact. You can meet him as yourself."
Dean glanced at him, uncertain. "And if he's not what he seems?"
Lucas smiled, slow and razor-edged in a way Dean recognized immediately. "Then your father will be delighted to start a war."
Dean huffed a laugh despite himself. "Comforting."
"I aim to reassure," Lucas replied smoothly. "So my advice stands - enjoy it from the first moment. Don't waste energy anticipating disaster when you're allowed to want this."
Dean stared at the ceiling, then muttered, "You're frighteningly calm about this."
Lucas squeezed his shoulder one last time. "I trust you. And I trust that anyone stubborn enough to climb palace walls just to find you understands exactly what he's risking."
Dean sighed, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer legal counsel.
"Great," he said. "I'm dating a future international incident."
Lucas laughed quietly as he stood. "It runs in the family." He headed for the door, already composed again, and added over his shoulder, "Now get ready for breakfast."
The door closed behind him with infuriating calm.
Dean lay there for a moment longer, listening to the silence settle back into the room. Then he groaned, dragged himself upright, and muttered to no one in particular, "If he climbs anything before coffee, I'm declaring this a hostile act."
And with that, Dean Fitzgeralt began his morning - still almost nineteen, still very much in trouble, and now officially on a collision course with an empire.