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Chapter Text

Garrus

The others weren't looking so hot.

Had anyone asked him why, it would have been proper to point out that these people mourned more than just their Commander. They had all been devoted to her in ways far beyond typical military relationships, because Shepard had a talent for making people feel purposeful again.

That's what he would've said, once. Now, it hurt just to think about Shepard. And he didn't feel like talking.   

He never could've told her, but he'd fallen for her that day she'd come to rescue him from the mercs on Omega. She'd appeared, phantom-like, in his rifle's scope and he'd been taken aback by his physical reaction to the sight. The sweet bow of her upper lip and the lines of her neck as she turned had left him breathless and weak. 

Later, she'd confided in him. She was afraid, she admitted; afraid, alone and vulnerable. Garrus had thought about being in that sniper's nest with only his rifle and his resolve and how she'd swept in and saved him. He would do what she'd done for him.

I've got your back, he'd promised. Always. 

He'd done his best to keep his word. He watched her six when she was distracted and hated Kaidan for her when she couldn't. He kept one eye on the crew she didn't quite trust and when she finally did, he'd cemented himself into the position of her right hand man and it felt good.

There's no Shepard without Vakarian, she'd told him, and her words had hit him like a bullet to the chest.

His talons itched for his rifle. He couldn't sit here and watch an empty coffin travel down the aisle while emptier platitudes awaited it. Shepard would've hated this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to be buying him a drink and clapping him on the shoulder and smiling that special smile she reserved only for him. This wasn't right.

This wasn't her. 

---

It was easy enough to hack the skycar protocol systems, even with the more aggressive software updates installed after the Cerberus coup. Finding the same terrace on the Presidium proved to be more difficult, his mind wasn't what it used to be. It didn't really matter though. Shepard wouldn't have cared.

His rifle is a comforting weight along his back as he stands, taking in the view. It's nice. The ever vibrant Citadel hums beneath him, unaware of his gaze. 

Garrus doesn't try to stop his tears. Shepard would understand. She cried in the end too, he'd heard it in her voice.

Alone up here the wind drowns out all other sound. If he closes his eyes it's possible she is right there behind him, sighting down that ridiculous rifle of hers, preparing to miss her shot for his sake. He can almost hear her laugh.

You coming? 

Wouldn't miss it. 

Chapter Text

Liara

Sometimes she wondered why Shepard had said no.

Shepard had spoken so eloquently on the subject of love when Liara had brought it up. Her talk of slow music and sandy beaches and dinners lit by candlelight had been enchanting. Liara had wanted that desperately. And not with just anyone, but with the woman standing in front of her. 

Shepard had been kind. Hers had been a sweet and delicate refusal, but Liara wondered anyway.

What did Shepard need that she didn't have? 

She'd been young then, though, and prone to day-dreaming. Now, only a year later (which was a pittance really, in an Asari lifetime), she felt so much older. A great tiredness hung over her now. When Liara thought about Shepard she didn't remember the savior, the soldier or the peacemaker. She could only remember the pained expression Shepard had worn when she'd heard Liara's confession. The dim lighting of her office had only served to heighten Shepard's beauty. 

It was cruelly poetic that that dim little office no longer existed.

Harden your heart, little wing. The world can be a cruel place, her mother had once said.

Liara had loved her too and she'd died too, blood welling from bullet holes Liara had helped put there. 

There'd been no bullet holes involved in Shepard's death though, only space and ice and trauma. Liara had seen the body, recovered by an Alliance cruiser who'd needed her unique knowledge of Shepard's mind to identify it. She'd almost been recognizable.

Now Liara sat alone on the Citadel. No artifacts called to be discovered. Even her old and well-worn fantasy about digging up a Prothean did not interest her. 

It was all nonsense. Day-dreams. The dead couldn't walk again.

She was Dr. Liara T'Soni though, so she wondered about that too. Why couldn't the dead walk again? Theoretically, if enough brain tissue were intact... the thoughts wound through her mind and coiled around the picture of Shepard's pained face with terrifying ease. She couldn't afford such ridiculous hope.

Still, she rose and aimed for the nearest public terminal. Answering her questions had always calmed her and helped put her mind at ease. She could research, nothing complicated needed to be involved.  

She wondered anyway, though.  

Chapter Text

Kaidan

Oh Kaidan. If only you weren't such an idiot, Ash used to laugh.

It was a familiar sentiment. He'd said it to himself every day since… well since he'd first met her. She'd been fresh out of the N7 training program back then and was already infamous among Alliance Marines of all dispatches. 

She was still the only case where barracks gossip had failed to prepare him properly. He could laugh about it now, but back then he'd been horrified.

One glance, one smile, and she'd reduced him to a gaping child. He'd promptly stuck his foot in his mouth and garbled incoherently but she had laughed gently and, smack, that was it.

He fell hard.  

He didn't really want admit how far out of his league she'd been. That wasn't what he wanted to remember anyway. He wanted to remember her eyes, her throaty chuckle and the way she used to stand when she was fully armored up; like all the galaxy could've rushed at her in a great wave only to break upon her form in a rush of spray.

Goddammit he loved her. For all the good it did.

He sits among friends years later, his fiancee at his side, at a celebration for their engagement. Yet he still steals away amid the festivities for the pleasure and privacy of the cool rainy night. He loves his fiancee. She is soft and sweet, and everything a broken man like him could deserve.

So why is he here, out in the rain, and not inside with her? 

It's not really a question. He knows. It is the face he sees sometimes when he makes love to his future wife. It's the woman who would've been out here in the rain too, wrestling silently with her own demons.

Shepard.

He still remembers that day when he'd helped her up and she'd fallen into him, her lips tantalizingly close to his. That had been the first intoxicating touch of her cool hand, though she'd pulled away quickly.

He prefers not to remember her last touch, when she'd pushed him aboard the Normandy before racing away into the light.

Chapter Text

Thane

He could read much off most members of her species, but the only portal to Shepard's inner workings were her eyes. He'd stare into them, the hum of the drive core to his back, forearms resting on the cool metal table before him. 

She smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes him smile back.

"Uh, I think my translator just glitched… what did you just say?" she laughs.

"Siha," he repeats calmly."Someday, I'll tell you what it means."

Her eyes narrow playfully. "So goddamn mysterious Krios. But I'll get it out of you eventually."

"No doubt," he says, helpless in the pull of her smile. He is happy.

He hears her reading with Kolyat but the voices are distant and hollow.

It's only right, he thinks, turning toward the window, that my last memory be of you, Siha.

See you across the sea.

Chapter Text

James

Sure, he’d known who she was before. But he hadn’t known how she was.

It wasn’t until he had been on Menae, shooting husks alongside her and Doc, that he’d come up with an appropriate analogy for her personality. She was like those singularities Doc made. She drew everyone into her; sucked them into caring about her, and in turn, sucked something right out of them.

He fucking hated how she made him feel so scared all the time. Like if something happened to her, he had no idea what to do. Everything would be meaningless without her. He masked the terror with cockiness and bravado, as though, yeah, he actually did have the cojones. But her flashing eyes and the smooth skin and holy hell that ass of hers… it didn’t help the matter.

You’re working yourself up over nothing, Esteban says to him one night in the shuttle bay. James is totally hammered by that point.

But… he grinds his teeth. Something sits heavy in his chest.

Steve's gaze is watchful. Knowing.

Oh fuck it. She’ll get it done, he slurs, but without much conviction.

He found himself wandering the ship, looking for her no doubt, but he ended up in the observation lounge. It was empty. He sat down and stared out the window for a while, thinking of home and how Citadel tequila didn't really taste the same. It wasn’t until he got up, just as the morning crew cycle was about to start, that he noticed he’d been sitting on something. He picked it up. It was a picture.

Shepard was smiling, her red hair slightly mussed, an arm around some dark haired woman’s neck in a friendly way. They were in fatigues, clearly at some divey bar. Dios, she was beautiful.

She never asked about a missing photo, probably thought it lost to the cleaning crew. But James kept it always, stored in a compartment in his armor, right above his heart.

Chapter Text

Miranda

There are glowing wounds on Shepard’s face and they annoy her.

They’re blatant reminders of Miranda’s incompetence, her inability to plan for the unexpected. She should’ve had a contingency plan in place. She’d let her guard down a bit, trusted people, and nearly lost a tremendous asset in the process.

Never again.

Shepard annoys her too, at first. This is who she’d spent two years of her life slaving over?

She’s too soft, Miranda thinks, as she sees Shepard bend over plague victims on Omega and offer them Medi-gel. She’s too weak, Miranda thinks, as she watches Shepard shed quiet tears in her room after the Horizon encounter. She is naïve, Miranda thinks, as she follows a frustrated Shepard away from her former allies on the Citadel.

But Miranda sees the people around Shepard, her team, blossom under her touch. Shepard is a funnel focusing their rage, a scope perfecting their aim, a crucible burning away their impurities. And when it’s her turn to help Miranda, she is there, standing at Miranda’s trembling side as Miranda is betrayed and hurt and weakened. Afterwards she does not gloat or chastise, but instead places a warm hand on Miranda’s arm and smiles softly at her. Miranda couldn't remember the body she’d been repairing ever emanating such a heat.

It’s later, but not much later, when she sees Shepard again, who once more tirelessly provides aid. When the matter is settled, there is another warm hand on her arm and a good-bye. Miranda watches Shepard go, the touch burning into her flesh. She lays awake that night, allowing her mind to wander, imagining that scalding touch placed on her face, her back, her thighs, wound in her hair, pressing her against…

No.

Never again, Miranda.

So she dreams of it instead, safe in a realm her logic cannot touch.

Chapter Text

Anderson

He remembers when they brought her to him, trying to figure out a solution to the problem she presented. She was untamed and wild, a bitch of a woman back then, rough around the edges in all the wrong ways. Even mag-cuffs couldn't restrain the glare she'd given him; a harsh stare that had detailed exactly what she’d be doing to him if she had her way about things.

The best killer in the Alliance. And she was a skinny, red-headed young woman with freckles on her nose.

He remembers the freckles had startled him. She's just a child, he'd thought. Her eyes were haunted, so angry back then, but all he really saw were the freckles. It is all he still sees.

They’re covered in a layer of ash this time, the remains of London concealing her youth, but when she wipes her brow wearily she uncovers a few. It’s like a gap in a cloudy sky revealing stars.

He swallows heavily for a moment, the hesitation in his words not gone unnoticed. She gives him a glance, concern discernable only because he’s seen it on her face many times before. Directed at her squadmates, at a civilian, at himself, it mattered not; he knew her face better than anyone else.

A single nod to her and he’s back on track, explaining the final push, Shepard nodding along while she listens carefully. The N7 on her armor glints in the harsh light of the flood lamps.

He is so proud of her. 

Chapter Text

Traynor

Shepard doesn’t laugh like you though she would.

You'd expected… well, certainly not this. No laughter maybe?

It didn’t matter if you went through Basic on Luna or in the colonies, everyone knew about Shepard. Knew she could probably kick ass from here ‘till Sunday and have enough left over to polish off some Batarians on the way out. That was how she was always painted, anyway, as the stoic warrior-maiden type. Not the kind of woman who’d laugh affectionately when you tell her you like playing chess.

She remembers it too. Remembers you like chess and invites you up to her cabin to play and even if it’s only a holo-interface it’s one of the best games you’ve played in a while. Not because Shepard’s any good, in fact she’s pretty terrible, but because she laughs again and talks about her fish and lets you see beneath the armor.

A bit anyway.

She’s still terrifying when she boards the ship after a mission, her face hard and her armor splattered with gore (the last time you saw blood was a botched shaving attempt in the shower), but not as much as she used to be. You start to feel like you fit in on this ship, somewhere between the tech schematics EDI whips up and the shitty chess stratagems Shepard tries to pass off as brilliance.

In real life, that tactic would’ve worked!

Adorable.

In the end though, she shows you out of her cabin with a smile and a go get some sleep, Traynor, but you do your do your best to get one more laugh before the doors close behind you. The hall is quiet, the world somehow dimmer without Shepard in attendance. The rumors about her personal life are true, it appears, so you're not likely to get anything more than another chess game in the future.

It's hard to feel disappointed about that though.   

Chapter Text

Joker

He remembers waiting, after he told her, for her sympathy. Perhaps there'd be some condemnation or disgust in the mix too; hell, he hadn't known her well enough at that point to expect anything in particular. They’d spoken a grand total of three times, and he was including that one curt, Morning, aimed in his general direction two days before.

She’d surprised him though, which was not an easy feat. He was proud of his analytical talents when it came to people, skills honed from a life time of breaking down other people’s armor to build his own. A sarcastic remark here, an offensive joke there; he built those walls and never let anyone see the self-pitying cripple underneath.  

She'd had the grace to look disinterested.

I didn't know, Jeff, but you say you’re good to fly and I believe you. You've given me no evidence to the contrary.

And that was it. She was in the cockpit for seven more minutes, fulfilling that fifteen minute block on her schedule, and then left for the stairs down to the cargo bay. He’d watched her progress on the camera network, his throat strangely tight.

I believe you. 

A lot of shit had gone down since then.  Saren (fuck him) and the goddamn geth weren't even the worst of it. The worst was watching Shepard on the security feeds, day after day, hunch over further under the galaxy’s great weight.  He watched helplessly as she left through the airlock each day. Then he would plug into her helmet’s stream and witness her kill with a grace that scared him. He used to stream the audio too, but stopped after she took a geth’s incendiary round to the arm and screamed as her under-armor suit caught fire. It had been a terrible sound. Commander Shepard wasn't supposed to scream.

She never misses her morning cockpit check though, and today is no exception. She stands alongside his chair, armored up, the cup of coffee in her left hand providing an odd contrast to her otherwise fierce image.

Pressly’s getting antsy.

I wonder why, he replies, hands deft even though he's fresh out of his bunk. You’d almost think he has some fine piece of ass waiting for him on shore leave.

Shepard grins. God, I don’t even want to go there this early.

He turns his head to grin up at her and the Normandy explodes. One of the junior navigators' panels short circuits in her face, the feedback killing her instantly.

Fuck! Shepard screams.

Emergency bio-barriers come up and Shepard slaps an oxygen mask on his face, hard enough to nearly break his nose. He doesn't even notice. The Normandy is dying, guttering away, and though his feverish fingers fly, he can’t save her. He looks helplessly up at Shepard. Her face is grim.

She throws him into a pod, which might’ve done some damage had the artificial gravity still been operational. He clings to a harness, strapping himself in with difficulty. Still in the hall, Shepard is struggling with the lack of gravity, her mag-boots apparently damaged by the super-heated floor. Then he hears it: the terrible nightmare-inducing whine of that ship’s weapon warming up for a second blow. Shepard is clinging to the wall and looks at him, her eyes lost under the tinted visor of her helmet. She punches the control panel and he’s ripped away from her, from the Normandy, from acceptance; from everything that ever had any meaning to him.

They tell him she’s dead and he can’t believe it. They tell him he can’t fly and he won’t believe it. But a message comes through one day and it makes him pay attention. It makes him think.

Shepard knew the galaxy needed help. We know we need Shepard. We need you too, Mr. Moreau. Cerberus has resources. We can give you treatments, let you fly and best of all, do something good together. She is not gone. Do not lose hope.

He is still for a long time. He thinks about Shepard and the sound of her scream and about being brave.

I believe you, he writes back.

Hey, it’s what Shepard would've said, right? 

Chapter Text

Samara

Shepard is unusual.

Where so many humans burn bright and quick, Shepard remains an exception. She is not tossed about by whims of passion nor do the buffeting tides of popular opinion turn her aside. She smolders. She endures.

She does not comprehend the significance of my oath to her. The detective does, perhaps, but does not deign to share. Shepard is impressed and uncertain. She’s never heard of our Order before. No matter. She will find none of the deception or betrayal she fears in me.

Her companions eye me with suspicion as we leave the station. Good. They are protective, wary of the new member in their pack. It speaks highly of Shepard that they act this way.

Shepard falls back beside me, lips slightly parted. I wait. She wishes to ask me something.

Back there, that detective… what I mean to say is, that oath you swore to me isn’t a very common occurrence, is it?

Perceptive. Perhaps she does know. I almost smile. It’s pleasing to find such clarity in a human.

No, it is not.

Shepard’s brows contract minutely.

Does this trouble you, Commander?

She is quiet for a moment, weighing words.

I just hope I’m worthy of such a promise, Justicar, she says finally.

It is because you respond as such that I believe you are, I reply.

Her eyes meet mine and hold, a long moment in which the gap of age should have yawned between us but did not. This is a surprising revelation.

If Shepard is unsettled by the moment, she gives no indication. She nods and turns away, falling into step in front of her team. It's a position she does not entirely enjoy. That much is obvious. It’s the place where she belongs, however, perhaps for that very reason.

What a magnificent Justicar she could’ve been. 

Chapter Text

Cortez

“You know,” Brooks said suddenly. “She wouldn’t have let me live.”

Shepard turned. Her face was expressionless but her eyes were hard and bright. It was a dangerous look.

Steve saw grief in that stare. It wasn’t obvious, the Commander wasn’t an easy read, but if anyone could recognize the hard eyes and tight lines of grief, it was him.

Understanding Shepard’s reason for mourning was less easy for him. Her doppelganger would’ve happily pushed her out the shuttle bay door and taken off with everything she cared for. Steve didn’t even want to consider what could’ve happened to the war effort had the clone succeeded. No one could do what Shepard does.

The grief was there though, etched into her stony face, and he knew Brooks was right. Her ‘Shepard’ wouldn’t have spared a thought.

You can’t clone everything, he realized.

That sentiment hung in the air between all of them, unsaid.

He pushed Brooks forward, giving her a hard jab in the back with the heel of his hand.

That’s for ruining my shuttle bay, he thought.

She made no complaint, just stumbled and recovered as if nothing had happened. She was most likely contemplating the coming events: a shuttle ride to the Presidium, a hearing in Alliance courts and then a long-ass term in the shittiest shit-hole prison in Council Space. He briefly considered a pleasing scenario where a stray sky-car would hurtle out of the ether and splatter her like a bug.

A guy could dream.

He finishes securing the shuttle doors when she speaks.  

“Shepard. She’s…” Brooks gives an exasperated sigh.

Steve doesn’t miss the unadorned ‘Shepard’ she’d uttered. Brooks had abandoned her previous ‘This Shepard/That Shepard' method of differentiation.

She purses her lips arrogantly, the effect of which is somewhat less impressive thanks to her disheveled appearance and dull eyes.

“Cereberus fucked up,” she sniffs.

Steve wisely says nothing. First rule of transporting prisoners: don’t talk to them. 

He can’t resist thinking about her comment though. He isn’t sure what she’d meant. Had Cerberus fucked up by making Shepard’s clone less impressive than the real thing? Or had Cerberus fucked up by letting the real thing slip through their fingers?

He could still recall the clone’s final moments. Shepard, in all her eternal mercy, had reached for the woman. But said woman, that pale reflection of their beloved Commander, had just let go. She’d given up. Shepard would never do that.

Brooks was right, Cerberus had fucked up. They’d never understood what they lost.

Steve grins.

Their loss. 

Chapter Text

Jack

Shepard is a fucking pussy and that’s the truth.

Just look at her. Too nice, too pretty, with good teeth and no tats. She’d last less than a day in some of the shit holes I’ve lived in.

I called it the second she lowered her gun back on Purgatory. Hell, that label became law the moment Shepard let me on this spit-shined ship of hers. She’s gonna regret doing that probably.

Scratch that, she is definitely gonna regret that, mostly because of that badass fabricator in the armory that I’m allowed to use. Shepard graduated from fucking pussy to stupid fucking pussy the day she authorized that.

It got worse though, because she kept on being stupid.

Helping idiot colonists, giving away her creds, curing fucking sick people… nothing was off limits. It’s all: ‘Mama Shepard’s here and she’ll make all the bad dreams go away’ kind of shit.

Sickening.

Sure, she remembered her promise about those files, so what. And she took me to Pragia, standing witness to my greatest ‘fuck you’ ever, but that doesn’t make her any less of a pussy. Because good people, pure people, heroes… they aren’t real.

They can’t be. This galaxy is just a bunch of shitty people doing shitty things. Even though shitty people can be nice sometimes, like that Cerberus flunky who used to sneak me apple juice, they'll always end up sticking you full of needles and making you cry.

Though, if she’d have been that dude, I bet Shepard would’ve given me a whole fucking gallon of apple juice.

Anyway, whatever. Fuck heroes, because they’re all big pussies and Shepard is the biggest and stupidest of them all.

And that’s the truth.  

Chapter Text

Jacob

Jacob allows himself a few seconds to realize the absurdity of the situation. Some unknown asshole has their army of mechs converging on his position, likely sending them after the valuable cargo locked in the lab behind him. And said cargo happens to be a corpse.

Well not a corpse anymore, if Miranda’s had her way by now.

Jacob smirks, drawing his barrier tight against his skin, preparing to lean from cover and engage the mechs.

Of course she has.

A stray shot hits his barrier and Jacob drops behind the railing with a gasp. Disruptor round. Shit. He presses himself against the cool surface, hearing gunshots splut splut against the opposite side. Once more, he glances down at his omni-tool.

Dammit Miranda. Where are you?

The lab door opens.

He nearly shoots the woman who staggers out of it. Her eyes are wild and she’s stumbling a bit and for one wild moment Jacob thinks she’s a zombie from one of those terrible Earth-made movies he’d watched growing up.

Then she speaks.

“Who are you?” she gasps through cracked lips and Jacob can hear it, even through the hoarseness in her voice.

He can hear the Commander Shepard.

He’s heard that voice countless times before: Alliance recruitment ads, ANN news reports, various inspirational holos and recently, a series of educational videos Miranda had made him watch.

She’ll need to trust you, Jacob. Miranda said, looking over her datapad at him. It’s essential she form meaningful connections to replace the old ones.

She’d handed him a datapad from her desk.

Watch them all. Know her. You’re both soldiers, I’m sure you’ll find her interesting.

He hadn’t meant to, but he’d devoured it all. Her service record was impressive but the off-record stuff, the stuff Cereberus had done some digging to find, well… it was grimly fascinating.

And here she stands, great glowing cracks running down her cheeks like she’s a volcano about to erupt.

It flashes before him: her childhood on Earth, her time with a gang (how quaint, Miranda had sniffed), the grainy shuttle footage of the Akuze landing site, her Spectre initiation, blurry images of Saren’s corpse, the names of her foster parents, the names of her pet fish (all dead), the names of the deceased Normandy team members.

Miranda had done well with those videos.

Get to Know Commander Shepard: 101 Mundane Facts so She’ll Think You’re Her Friend.

He swallows.

“You must be Commander Shepard. I’m Jacob Taylor.”

And I’m sorry about everything, he wants to say, but he knows Miranda would kill him.

So he gives her a small smile and quietly hates himself.

Chapter Text

Zaeed

It’s a goddamn shame Shepard is so young. Too young, he knows, too sweet and far too beautiful for a gnarled old man like him. Doesn’t matter though. He wants her like he wants a bullet in Vido’s head; with a hot and horrible hunger.

She brushes her fingers over Jessie and he watches quietly. Her and Jessie are very similar, but he won’t be telling her that.

Reliable as all hell. Bloodthirsty, he hears himself say when she asks about the rifle.  

The corners of Shepard’s mouth lift. He clenches his hands into fists, digging nails into his palms to avoid reaching for her.

Shit, he’s getting soft. But how could he ever tell her he admires her? And how could he ever confess that when she’d snapped a man’s neck with a well-placed kick, it’d made him want to fuck her?

She drops her hand from his beloved rifle and leaves with a smile. He walks over and places a hand on Jessie, a light touch to mirror’s Shepard’s. They’re too similar, now that he thinks about it.

Just like Jessie, Shepard knows where to put a bullet. And just like Jessie, he knows he can’t let Shepard go. 

Chapter Text

Hackett

“Why me?”

A thousand light-years separate them, yet he can see the small furrow between Shepard’s brows in stunning clarity.

Quantum-entanglement, the techs had beamed. The way of the future. Everything you’ve ever wanted in a communications device.

They were wrong. Steven Hackett didn’t want to see the tight lines of desperation in his soldier’s faces. He didn’t want to see Anderson’s strained and terse movements. He didn’t want see the bluish hollows beneath Shepard’s eyes. He wanted the grainy old vid messages back; the ones where you could stare at static-distorted faces and pretend they were whole and healthy.

Admiral Steven Hackett had said none of this, however, when he was presented with the designs.

Good, he’d said. Well done. Begin production tomorrow.

The Admiral had meant it. Steven had not. 

“Why me?” Shepard repeats.

There's panic in her eyes. Panic and sorrow and maybe even accusation. Bile rises in his throat. Steven wants to look away. That was the thing about perfect clarity in communication, though. It goes both ways.

Admiral Steven Hackett doesn’t look away. He doesn’t fidget or mince words. He looks right into that painful gaze and jabs a finger at it.

“Because you’re the only one who can. Because people believe in you.”

Make them believe in you, the Admiralty Board had said. You’re a unifier.

It’s why we chose you, Steven.

“And that’s enough?”

Steven Hackett doesn't need quantum entanglement to see Shepard perfectly. He looks at Shepard and sees himself, sees the man who'd wept in the privacy of his office after the news from Earth. Sudden rage drives him onward.

Why me?

“Yes,” he growls.

Shepard’s gaze drops away from his. He can see each lash on her lids flutter when she presses her eyes closed. He hesitates. 

Shepard looks up suddenly. Her brow remains furrowed, but her eyes are bright. 

“Thank you, sir,” she says, and it comes out hoarse.

No. Thank you, he wants to reply.

But the Admiral would never say that. So he nods, and hopes it's enough.  

Chapter Text

Javik

The Citadel reeks of death.

He knows it is a self-evident insight to reveal. The bodies of men and women litter the floor around them, their blood pooling black under the pale emergency lighting. The team is quiet, their breath labored and sour. Even with their limited sensory abilities they smell it.

The hallways press in on him wrongly. They are not built for him, not for the rest of them, not for anyone. He slides back into a doorway, eyes on the room beyond, and the motion takes him too far. The furthest tip of his head crest brushes the wall and suddenly he is spinning away in memories layered so thickly he tastes them.

-alone, I need you, help me-

-Brother. We are here for yo-

-on’t like him looking at her like tha –

-rivers of blood I’m dying I’m-

-e found out, I’m so fucke-

-o hope lef-

”Javik?”

The commander is in front of him, kneeling. He shakes, knees aching, and catches himself with a hand to the floor. The blood there has not even congealed yet and he-

-eel like I don’t know her anymore, she’s grown up so much. Someday she’ll ask me why he left and I’ll have to tell her the tru-

“Javik!”

Shepard hits him once, her fist hard across the lower portion of his face, and he lurches back to existence with blood in his mouth. He blinks up at her and a memory floats to the surface, his own this time, of another day he’d come slipping back from darkness to see her face.

“Commander,” he rasps out.

“Javik, what just happened? You blacked out on us. Are you-“

Her concern wafts over him, overbearing in its sincerity. If he closed his eyes she could have been one of his people; the cipher colors her scent to an achingly familiar hue. The urge to touch her skin, to reassure and be reassured, wells up within him. 

Instead, he lets his eyes roam her face, taking in the delicate flush of exertion coloring her cheeks and the soft plushness of her lips. Despite her scent, she is not one of his people.

He is alone.  

“I am fine,” he replies and rises from the floor to retrieve his rifle.

Shepard stops him with a hand to his arm, fitting it between the plates of his armor to rest cool against his skin. Even through the synthetic material of her armored gloves he can feel her aura, resting comfortably against his own.

“We’re almost through to the council. Hang in there.”

The team shifts behind him, their scents anxious and determined. He rolls his shoulder loosely, letting his rifle fall back into its comfortable place at his side.

We.

“Yes, Commander,” he answers, and the scent of death recedes just a bit.