Work Text:
It wasn’t just that Jack Harper wanted the best of the best in every aspect of his life, he needed the best. He knew what was coming, and he had every intention for humanity to come out on top like they never had before. There was no other option or way forward if the human race was to survive. Conventional ethical constraints were, at the very least, an inconvenience towards that end. To that effect, it was imperative that he gather the very best and brightest, through whatever means necessary, to join his cause, to shed light on humanity’s true destiny. After all, he was the Illusive Man.
Human dominance was essential. Aliens were an unfortunate reality that simply had to be dealt with. But they would serve a purpose. Case in point… He glanced at his expansive display screen in front of him, flicking ash from his cigarette into the tray beside him. Several dossiers of aliens were arranged on one side, information compiled by Rana. The intel was good, even if her keen interest in Commander Shepard bore watching. The galaxy at present was ruled by bygone Alien races. So he would have to play within that system to get what he wanted. And once he did, well, then he would change the rules of the game. So he would gather the best these Aliens had to offer, and shape them into tools to fit nicely into Rowan’s capable hands. By the time she woke up, all would be prepared.
Jack stubbed out his cigarette and rose from his chair to pace the polished tiles of his office. He came to halt in front of one more dossier hovering on the screen. He stood face to face with his next objective. Flight lieutenant Jeffrey Moreau. The young man was irritation incarnate. Loyal, headstrong, intelligent, and indisputably the very best pilot alive today. The Systems Alliance had evolved over the years. It used to be you’d be ineligible for enlistment if you had so much as asthma or heart murmur. Yet here was a young man that had been bound and determined to give the middle finger to limitations imposed by his rare genetic condition. Vrolick’s syndrome. Two hundred years ago, someone with his condition would have been lucky to even reach adulthood. Though the weakness of his legs was objectively a liability in a military setting, where even a cook was expected to pick up a gun and fight at need, Moreau’s skills at the helm of a ship was worth the risk.
Besides, Rowan would never forgive him if he didn’t take care of her pilot and lover. If he wanted his best soldier in top form, Moreau was a vital component to making that happen, whether he liked it or not.
With a sigh of resignation Jack had to admit to himself that there was a possibility that the young pilot had grown on him, too. It had been his intention to send a proxy to recruit Moreau to Cerberus service, however it might be more effective to speak to him personally. As good as his agents were (they were hand chosen, after all), Jack, himself, was the very best when it came to dealing with difficult personalities like Rowan and Jeff. With a couple taps of his fingers on the control panel built into his chair, Jack had his personal corvette class ship queued for his flight to a carefully selected rendezvous point. One of his many private apartments, this one on Beckenstein.
***
“So, uh, this is weird,” Jeff remarked, drumming his fingers on the edge of the polished glass tabletop.
Across from him sat Rowan’s other lover, one he’d met only a handful of times in passing. The man’s meticulously pressed and obviously expensive as fuck suit was a stark contrast to the wrinkled twenty credit hoodie he was wearing. His beard was itchy and just a little longer than Rowan would have ever allowed him to keep it. If she were still alive to boss him around. His chest ached at the thought. As the months went by, he kept expecting the memory of her to hurt a little less, but maybe it was starting to fester, instead. What was he without her? The fact that he was grounded was more suffocating than space itself. Wooow… fuck that was a little close for comfort, considering how the loves of his life had gone down. Jeff shook his head sharply, then tried to drown out the intrusive memories with another sip of a frankly astounding glass of wine.
Jack Harper watched him, leaned back in his chair with every air of comfort. “What’s strange, Moreau, if how the very best pilot humanity has to offer has been barred from touching the helm of an Alliance ship. Tell me, why do you think that is?”
Jeff scoffed. Where to even begin? He’d had months to seethe over those bullshit orders. PTSD his bony ass. “Some asshat shrink has it out for me. All I did was tell it how it was. How the Alliance kept sweeping the truth under the rug. Those were no Geth that shot us down. But the truth is inconvenient, you know? Bad enough they lost twenty-one good soldiers on what was supposed to be a patrol run. But losing the hero of the fucking Citadel? They look bad and they know it. So what do they do? Categorically deny any of us that try to challenge it.”
God, he was still fuming at the ears over it. The Alliance wanted to keep the Council happy, and they were willing to make their best damn pilot look like a foaming at the mouth idiot, if that’s all it took. Not that they had another ship worth his skills to fly anymore, anyway. As if losing his best friend wasn’t bad enough, he’d lost the only other thing in his life that made him feel free. Jeff heaved a sigh and swirled the deep ruby liquid inside his glass just to smell the mouth watering bouquet again. He glanced up, noticing a small smirk on Harper’s face for just a split second. But he swore he’d seen it.
The man shrugged carelessly and took a sip from his own glass. “The Alliance has been ineffectual since its inception. Sure, it gave you a start. A chance to prove yourself. But you’ve outgrown it. They can’t offer you what I can.”
“What? A decent retirement fund?” There was no keeping the snark from his voice.
Jack set his glass down and rested his elbows on the table, leaning in just enough to draw Jeff’s attention despite his best efforts to remain indifferent.
“A better salary goes without saying. But I think that the opportunity to fly again is far more enticing.”
“Listen man, I’ve got no interest in being some courier. I don’t look good in little brown shorts, you know? So if you think I’m going to debase myself by flying your little shuttles around, think again. So make me a real offer. One that’s actually worth my time. I’m the best, you said it yourself.”
“Fine,” Jack’s voice sharpened. “Here’s my real offer, Moreau. I’m going to give you the one thing no one else can. I’m going to give you a second chance to keep Rowan alive.”
“What? What?” Jeff stood so quickly that his chair toppled over backwards. The backs of his knees screamed in protest, and he was pretty sure he’d bruised his femur against the edge of the seat in the process. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you cleaning yourself up, and making yourself fit to fly again, Moreau. This offer depends on it.”
“But– Does this mean she’s alive? You kept her from me for almost two whole years?”
Jack held up a hand to cut him off. “She hasn’t been alive that long, but my top specialists have finally earned their keep. Join Cerberus, and you’ll get to see for yourself.”
What the shit?
Rowan had always had questionable taste but this guy she’d been banging might just actually be insane. Handsome, sure, but bonkers.
But… Jeff had to admit, if he had all the money in the galaxy? He’d do whatever it took to save Rowan Shepard, too.
Jeff ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, and knocked back the rest of the wine in several long gulps. “You’re really serious? She’s not dead?”
“Not anymore.”
Jesus fuck. Okay. Okay, okay, okay… Somehow, with Harper the one saying it, he actually believed it was possible. “Fuck. Fine. Prove it. I wanna see her. If it’s really her, I’ll fly for free.”
Jack poured him another generous glass of the obscenely expensive wine. “Good to have you on board, Jeff.”
This time Jeff took the time to actually taste the wine and enjoyed the heady scent and buzz seeping through his limbs. “You, uh, you know I was just joking right? I wanna get paid.”
The rough responding chuckle made a shiver of.. Fuck… attraction? Did he find this guy attractive?? Well, whatever it was, the shiver travelled down his spine and settled in his core. Fuck, maybe he was just really, really pent up with Rowan gone for two years.
“I dare say you’ll be satisfied with the arrangement. I take care of my own, and Rowan would be insufferable if I didn’t take care of you, too.”
Whaaaat the fuck did that mean? Wait, don’t tell him. He was drunk and today had been a fucking gauntlet of revelations. Shit sounded too good to be true, and he wanted receipts. He wanted to see her for himself. He wanted to see what he’d be flying for himself. And also? He wanted another damn bottle of this wine for himself, too, while he was at it.