Chapter Text
2186
Widow, Serpent Nebula
Ship’s time: 07:00
As a general rule of thumb, once you hit O4, you’re expected to have your sense of humor surgically removed. It’s a prerequisite for further promotion. Sure, some folk make it work for them better than others, but James’s been on the clock for long enough to know how shit works. The brass - even the baby brass - ain’t there to be anyone’s friend.
Shepard’s no different. In Vancouver, the Commander pretty much writes the book on being the strong, silent type. He glares - fuck, no, he glowers - and occasionally growls, and the few times James gets soft and starts to think Shepard’s just fucking with someone, the suspicion is immediately put to bed by that stone-cold go-fuck-yourself stare of his.
Decent enough guy for someone with a kill count as high as his and a fucking hero to boot, but serious. No nonsense.
Then the last of Shepard’s fucks make an abrupt exit stage left, pursued by a dozen fucking Reapers. The sarcasm that unearths itself from beneath the weight of the entire galaxy is sharper than his damn cheekbones. Shepard’s a hilariously fucked up guy, but he isn’t funny. He’s crazy. The world is going to hell with a hand grenade, but the humor is accidental. Circumstantial, and usually preceded by some kind of explosion.
Then there’s the Major. Fuck, when they cut his funnybone out, they left him with a damn deficit. Compared to Alekno, Shepard’s a riot and a half.
Case in point. The Major’s spent the past few hours wandering the ship. He’s got an expression carved from stone and a perpetual grimace clustering around his eyes. Somehow, everyone’s chill with him being there, despite pulling a gun on Shepard less than a day ago. Fuck, Garrus even shows his face long enough to welcome him back.
The second human Spectre, live and in the unimpressive flesh. Sure, Alenko handled himself well enough in the five minutes they’d seen action together on Mars, but he’d also bitched at Shepard for most of that time and then got his skull smashed in by EDI’s new wheels. Nothing to write home about there. Anyone with a grain of sense can tell Alenko’s been handed the keys because of Shepard. Served on the SR1, saw action on the Citadel, and didn’t die in the process… he’s got the perks of Shepard’s association with none of his baggage. None of the things that make the Commander great. He’s a safe, uninspiring bet.
Alenko stares at the door to the observation lounge, brow furrowed and lips pursed tight. Probably pissed the space isn’t being used more efficiently. James leaves him to the allergic reaction he seems to have to fun, and books it down to the cargo bay.
By the time he settles back into his workstation, Cortez still hasn’t looked up from the guts of his precious Kodiak. “Nice to have the Major back on board,” he says, frowning at a knot of stripped wiring. Even nose-deep in work, Esteban has a sixth sense for shit that gets under James’s skin. Endearing bastard.
“Is it?” he grunts.
“The Commander’ll be relieved. Happy boss is a happy boat.”
If Shepard’s relieved, it’s because Alenko is back on his feet after getting his brain scrambled.
“They did just try to kill each other.” Sorta. Hot trigger fingers count.
Cortez barks one of his rare laughs. “Don’t think that’s the kind of thing Shepard takes personally.”
Topics around the mess table usually end up circling back to ‘who’d win in a fight, Shepard or…’, which leads to wild and unbelievable stories about the fights Shepard has had. Alenko might’ve pulled a weapon on the Commander, but to hear Joker tell it, Garrus has actually shot Shepard. More than once. Omega sounds like a shitshow and a half.
Hell, throwing down with Shepard practically seems like a rite of passage. James is still trying to come to terms with how easily he’d been put on his ass in their little dance session. He’s not smarting - his ego’s not that fragile - but he can count on one hand the number of times he’s lost a fight, and Shepard hadn’t even been trying.
There’s not much he can really say, is there? Shepard’s crazy, and Alenko probably knows it better than he does.
Crazy, but a damn fine CO. Waiting on his station is a crate packed full of weapons mods he’s only dreamed of getting his hands on. Three of them are illegal outside of the Terminus Systems. One of them hasn’t even officially made the supply chain.
“Did you ask him for this shit?” The smart choke adaptor for his Wraith is a thing of fucking beauty. He waves it in Cortez’s direction.
Cortez leans over his workstation. There’s a smudge of grease on his nose, dark as the circles around his eyes.“I put in the requisition,” he shrugs. “Wasn’t getting anywhere until the Commander stepped in.”
James hides his concern behind a snort of laughter. “Think he asked nicely?” The fact that Shepard can ask nicely for things is still a mindfuck. Nine times out of ten, the man’s got less tact than a krogan and less patience than a salarian.
But he’s gentle with Steve. He can kick James’s ass up and down the cargo bay, all spit and vinegar, then turn around and say something astonishingly kind to his pilot in a way that somehow doesn’t seem jarring or fake. That buys him any extension of goodwill that being the Savior of the Galaxy doesn’t.
“I think it’s a miracle he’s still allowed in the Presidium.”
That’s fair. There’s probably some Citadel-wide announcement made every time the Normandy docks. The bigger miracle would be finding someone with the cojones to try and stop him.
Next time they park up, he’s gonna have to brief the Commander on Operation Esteban and get a fresh pair of hands involved. If Shepard can get his hands on black market upgrades, then he can sure as shit help get Cortez fucked on tequila and off to the land of alcohol-induced sleep.
Fuck, but it’s a beautiful piece of kit. There’s a skill to wielding a shotgun that few appreciate, accuracy frequently sacrificed for brute force. With the right application, he can improve that accuracy by almost fifty percent.
He’s just about finished with the basic installation when Alenko steps out of the elevator, his gaze unfocused. After two steps, the Major stops, blinks, and turns his frown up another two degrees. “Damn,” he mutters.
Soft touch that he is, Esteban sets down his tools and leans over the barrier. “Everything okay there, Major?”
"Turns out this isn’t engineering.”
“One floor up, sir. Deck 4.”
Alenko’s frown twitches into something more neutral. It’s a better look on him than the pale imitation of Shepard’s glower. “Thanks. Still gotta get my head around that.”
James is more than ready for Alekno to go back to his unofficial inspection and leave them alone, but Cortez is being extra friendly to the not-so-new face. Alenko ventures deeper into the bay.
“Must be a bit disconcerting,” Esteban smiles. “The new layout.”
“Familiar enough to feel like home,” Alekno nods slowly, “different enough that I keep walking into things.” There’s something pensive, maybe even pained, about his expression. James pretends to be engaged in his upgrades.
Steve chuckles. “The commander still does. He’ll throw himself on a grenade before admitting it, but-”
Alenko laughs, and a patch of Tuchanka freezes over. “That sounds about right.”
“Anyone give you the tour?” James is going to strangle Cortez if he keeps this up. The idea is to get Alenko out of the bay, not invite him to stay for fucking tea.
“I don’t want to take anyone away from their work,” Alenko says. “And, er, EDI’s been helpful.”
The ship’s AI pipes up on cue. “My pleasure, Major. And once again, I apologize for startling you earlier.”
Alenko rubs the back of his neck. “Sure. Sorry I almost shot you.”
“I’ve been informed that it is your culture’s favored form of greeting and have adapted my internal database to recognize this. Though I am struggling to find collaborative data to validate Jeff’s insistence that it is ‘a Canadian thing’.”
No one, not even EDI, can make out the muttered grumble Alenko gives in response. James’s gonna take a guess that it’s not all that flattering to their pilot.
“Engineering’s one up, you said?” He asks, stepping back into the elevator. He already knows it, he’s just looking for an excuse.
“Aye, sir,” Cortez says. James turns back to his modifications.
Alenko nods, a polite dismissal if ever there was one, and the door slides closed.
“EDI?” Cortez calls.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“It’s not a Canadian thing.”
There’s a pause before she responds. “I see. Should I be concerned?”
“Yes,” James answers.
Cortez rolls his eyes. “No.”
He didn’t see Shepard and Alenko on Mars. He didn’t see Shepard twist himself into knots for Alenko’s approval.
He didn’t see the look in Shepard’s eyes when Alenko was laying in the medbay, bruised and bloody and still.
He didn’t see the look in Alenko’s eyes when he was staring down the barrel of a gun with Shepard in his crosshairs.
Alenko’s gotten to where he is because of Shepard. Whether he knows it or not is up for debate.
Whether he plans to exploit it… anyone with that kind of influence over the man holding the apocalypse at bay has the power to rewrite history.
Shepard’s a good CO. Might even be a good friend once all this shit is done with. James’s been watching his six since Vancouver, and he doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon.
2186
Horsehead Nebula, en route to Far Rim Relay
Ship’s time: 02:45
“After all this time, you finally admit it. I’m flattered, Shepard, really, but I can’t return your affections.”
For twenty minutes, Shepard’s been leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, foot bouncing.
For twenty minutes, Garrus has been ignoring him.
But there’s only so long he can suffer the physical manifestations of human absurdity before the urge to banish Shepard from his own ship kicks in, and he has to pause his calibrations before he does something the Commander will sulk about for the next month.
And since taking an indirect approach to that brick wall has never resulted in anything other than a concussion, he brings out the big guns.
“What,” Shepard looks around the battery as if the last twenty minutes of anxiety have been nothing but a blink of an eye, “the entire fuck are you talking about?”
“Your deep and abiding love for me,” Garrus responds. He puts his back to his station and matches Shepard’s posture. “You know nothing can ever come of it.”
“I honestly have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. Did you hit your head again?” Again, he says. As if the concussion Garrus got during the hunt for Seren wasn’t a direct result of Shepard’s driving.
“I’m talking about you and the fact that you’re hiding from Kaidan.”
Shepard scowls. It’s straight out of his post-Horizon playbook, so Garrus is right on the money. For a man usually so opaque, he’s distressingly transparent when it comes to Alenko. “I am not hiding from Kaidan.”
“No? So you’ve talked to him.”
“Yes.”
“About Horizon?” And being dead for two years. About Omega 4. About fucking Ilos.
There has been only one conversation where Ilos came up. Right after Horizon. Right before Shepard gave himself alcohol poisoning and Miranda Lawson nearly spaced him again. He doubts Shepard even remembers it. Garrus honestly tries not to. Remembering the look in his eyes is a step too close to remembering Omega 4. The too-long beat of hesitation before he allowed Garrus and Joker to haul him into the safety as the Collector Base collapsed under his feet is an unspoken horror shared by all three of them. It always will be.
He doesn’t have to wonder if he’s told Kaidan about that. Alenko may be glacially slow to anger, but there’s no way Shepard would come out of that confession without a black eye or two.
“Yes,” Shepard jerks his chin stubbornly. “He doesn’t blame me. I don’t blame him. Circumstances were just… shitty. We’ve got more pressing concerns right now.”
There are times - many times - when being Shepard’s friend is, quite frankly, exhausting. This, the whole topic of Shepard and Kaidan, is perhaps the most exhausting of all. Maybe because he’s seen both sides. Maybe because it’s painfully frustrating to watch two people he cares about become so isolated and miserable because they’re both so accustomed to self-sacrifice that the alternative is more terrifying to them than the end of the world.
Or maybe it’s just because humans are so damn dramatic.
Either way, exhausting.
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
“Alright then.”
“Alright then.”
Butcher of Torfan. Savior of the Citadel. Protector of the Galaxy. Actual damn child.
They lapse back into silence. Garrus returns to his calibrations, fiercely determined to push through that extra 0.3 percent before they hit the next relay and Adams starts twitching about coupling diversions. Shepard slumps back against the bulkhead, unfocused and pensive. There are a million and one things demanding his attention just beyond closed doors, but here, now, he’s quiet.
He looks guilty. Guilty and tired.
How dare he take a few minutes for himself while the world burns around them? How dare he be so exhausted that mere existence becomes a chore?
“Pass me the RX-12.” Garrus extends an arm out behind him and waits patiently for Shepard to press the tool into his talons. “Come on then,” he says, beckoning him over. “It’s about time you learned how to do this.”
“Not planning on going anywhere, are you?” It’s a joke, but it falls flat under the weight of the people they’ve lost. Williams. Pressly. Mordin. Thane.
Knowing Shepard, Thane’s death has yet to hit. Of all the weird and wonderful allies they found in their search for the Collectors, Thane has perhaps had the biggest impact. As much as he’d like to claim otherwise, it was Thane who managed to reach Shepard when he and Tali failed.
“Figured you should at least take this opportunity to learn from the resident genius.”
“Is Liara coming down?”
Garrus’ mandibles twitch. “You know, that hurts all two and a half of my feelings, Shepard.”
There it is. That grin. Rarer than eezo and twice as valuable. No longer the facsimile of amusement Garrus remembers. Real. The last time he saw it was after Mordin got it into his chaotic little head that Shepard and Garrus were sleeping together and offered up a number of species-appropriate lubrications. The stony expression he’d worn on the crew deck hadn’t survived five seconds in the battery, where Shepard had laughed himself to tears.
“Sorry buddy, you know I love you.”
He does. There’s no universe where that is in question. Shepard’s love is as bright as a supernova, and Garrus treasures it as best he can. It’s returned a thousandfold. There’s nothing he won’t do for him. Even, in this instance, if that means diving into his head and pulling him back from the dark.
“Less talking, more calibrating.”
Shepard smirks. “Aye, aye, Ptomech Vakarian.”
“Do not,” Garrus cringes, “even start with that shit.” There’s a crisis for tomorrow’s Garrus. Today’s Garrus has his hands full already. “Now pay attention.”
Shepard snorts and bumps their shoulders together as he joins him at his station.
2186
Horsehead Nebula, en route to Far Rim Relay
Ship’s time: 05:00
It’s rare Liara has cause to venture down to engineering. Gone are the days when she’d stick her head in to check on Tali, nervous for the young quarian hidden down there alone with a human crew. That was a time when Pressly wouldn’t look her in the eye, and Ashley always made sure to stay close enough to cover Shepard’s six when Liara joined the ground team.
Now, the young technicians Shepard recruited back from Cerberus hang on her every word. The mess Sergeant goes out of his way to ensure there are asari dishes on the menu every now and then. The two privates on fire watch have no idea she’s the Shadow Broker, but they watch her with awe every time she enters the war room.
The SR2 might not be the original, but the sense of belonging that comes with the hum of her drive core is just as strong. It’s soothing when little else is. Doing a quick lap of the ship, looking in on the crew, running her fingers along the bulkhead - still intact, still strong - is a ritual she can see herself adopting more frequently.
Perhaps she’s not the only one.
“Kaidan?”
Of all the places she might expect to find humanity’s second Spectre, crawling around the storage bay with a handful of what looks like processed cheese wedges is considerably low on the list.
He looks up with a sheepish expression. “Hey, Liara.” Even after all these years, he still rubs his hand across the back of his neck when he’s trying not to be awkward.
“Are you alright?” Humans have so many different ways to express themselves, and trauma rarely manifests itself the same in everyone. Perhaps this - admittedly rather odd - behavior is an expression of the extreme stress they are all under?
“What?” He puts his shoulder to the grated floor, better angling his head to look under one of the benches bolted into the wall. “Oh. Yes, thank you.”
“Have you lost something?”
“My marbles, maybe?” She blinks at him until he flashes her one of those affable smiles of his. “I might be going crazy.” She gestures for him to continue. “I think there’s something down here.”
As if summoned by those words, a faint little meep echoes from below the grate.
“Oh! Admiral Squeak!”
It’s his turn to blink at her. Several cubes of cheese fall from his fingers to form a small mound by his knee. “Excuse me?”
“Shepard’s hamster.”
“Shepard has a hamster?” In fairness to Kaidan, his reaction is no different from her own. Shepard only bothers to take care of himself because the routine of military life is so ingrained in his behavior, and his daily so-called ‘shit, shower, shave’ is all on autopilot. That he somehow manages to keep pets alive feels oddly out of character.
“And several fish.” She’s spotted a few jellyfish in his tank as well.
“We’re talking about the same Shepard, right?”
“He’s very fond of them.”
Affectionate bewilderment is a look Kaidan frequently wore back in the early days of their mission against Seren. Interspersed with the occasional furrowed brow and the eventual scowl of apoplectic fury that developed in the face of Shepard’s recklessness, that soft, wistful look laid his emotions clear to anyone who might witness it.
Seeing it now gives her hope that maybe there are parts of themselves not irrevocably changed by grief.
“Admiral Squeak?”
“I believe he received a field promotion after their assault on the Collector base.” Kaidan’s brow arches. “I don’t think he saw actual combat.”
He snorts. “Well, I’m not going to ask how - or why - he’s hiding down here. Trust Shepard to find the one animal as averse to the rules as he is.” He twists until he’s sitting with crossed legs and lays out his trail of cheese squares. “I haven’t asked; how are you doing, Liara?”
It feels rather awkward to just hover while he sits, so she perches on the edge of the bench opposite. “I’m not the one less than a week out of the hospital.”
“No, you’ve just spent the past few months frantically trying to save the galaxy.” A flash of fur darts out from under the far grate, vanishing before either of them can react.
“I’d like to think I’ve been a little more collected about it.” He meets her gaze with the same steady expression he wore through most of their mission against Seren. Even Virmire couldn’t completely fracture it. Shepard’s never been able to derail his concern with a smart remark. She has no idea why she’s even trying. “Things have been… fraught."
Those eyes miss nothing. “You getting enough sleep?” A small change of scenery and they could well be back on the SR1, quietly running through the medical checks he ran on all the ground crew while she tried not to wring her hands in her lap. He’d never had an asari patient, she’d never had a human medic. They muddled through it together.
In this, he is unchanged. She is not.
“Are you?” She challenges.
“I slept for weeks.”
“I don’t believe being in a coma counts.”
He huffs. “I’m sleeping more than Shepard, at least.”
Aren't they all? Between the nightmares and the impossible burden of responsibility that’s been placed on his shoulders, Shepard’s relationship with sleep is as contentious as his relationship with Cerberus.
“You say that like you’re not crawling around below decks at,” she checks the time and grimaces, “five in the morning.”
He arches an eyebrow at her. No matter how many times she’s tried to mirror the small flex of facial muscles herself, she’s never managed. She’s quite jealous. “And you’re what, sleepwalking?”
“Perhaps we’re all a little prone to insomnia these days.”
She hums in agreement, content to watch as he patiently lays out his lure. Shepard would be chewing up the deck plates already, but Kaidan’s always been the more patient of the two. Someone on his ship has to be. With Shepard, Garrus and Joker as her only barometers, and with the end of the galaxy looming on the horizon, her own perspective on patience isn’t what it used to be.
“Do you remember when Ashley made us hot cocoa?” The memory rises unbidden, summoned by this rare moment of downtime spent with a man she’s not seen outside of a firefight since he looked at her with dead eyes and recounted that awful day over Alchera.
He smiles softly, something else she’s not seen in years. “You were very suspicious.”
Hot milky beverages have never sounded appealing. She cares less for the taste than she does for the warmth they bring.
The ghosts of the SR1 lurk in the shadows of the storage bay. Ashley never set foot on the SR2. The mess has never been home to a fluorescent pink fibo-graphic Christmas tree stuffed into the corner, an ugly and somehow perfect backdrop to Shepard and Kaidan warbling out-of-tune Christmas songs, ones she knows from her own studies were not supposed to include the word ‘fuck’ as often as they sang it.
She’s never sat next to Kaidan at this crew table, his hand in hers and his head pillowed in his arms as Shepard tried to massage the back of his neck, and Ashley quietly got more and more upset that her go-to pick me up of hot cocoa would likely kill Garrus and Tali if they tried it.
A month earlier, Ashley wouldn't have cared that two members of the crew couldn’t join in. After that night, she harassed Shepard until he agreed to adjust the next galley requisition order.
It arrived two days after they returned from Virmire, and Liara had burst into tears at the sight of it.
Everything had felt so impossible at the time. Now she longs for that simplicity.
Admiral Squeak pokes his little nose out from under the bench opposite, whiskers twitching. Showing as much reckless daring as Shepard, he sets out to collect the chunks of cheese laid out for him.
They watch in silence as Kaidan coaxes Shepard’s hamster out into the open, one cube after another neatly nibbled away until the only remaining piece is the one in the palm Kaidan has laid face up on the ground.
A confident little “Meep,” later and Kaidan can gently close his fingers into a cage, trapping Admiral Squeak safely in his grasp.
“We should get you back to Shepard, hmm?”
She follows him up to the elevator and hits the button for deck three and deck one in turn.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she smiles. No doubt the two of them have a lot to catch up on. They don’t need a third tire. Wheel. It’s late enough - early enough - that she can justify breakfast.
Kaidan catches her elbow in his free hand. “Stay?”
Has he ever asked her for anything? She can’t think of a single time.
The lump in his throat bobs when he swallows. He’s nervous. Afraid. Afraid of being alone with Shepard without the buffer of a third party. When the door opens on the crew deck, she stays by his side.
They step out onto deck one together. “He’s missed you,” she says softly.
Before he can reply, the door to Shepard’s cabin opens. Shepard startles, datapad in hand, and nearly walks right into them.
“You’re loitering,” he says accusingly, gaze darting back and forth between them. His gaze lingers on Kaidan a fraction longer than it does on her. “Why are you loitering? Should I be suspicious? Liara, what did you do?”
“What did I do?”
That’s a little uncalled for.
“Don’t think I don’t know you’re the one behind the decaf in the coffee pot. You’re not as subtle as you think you are, T’Soni.”
She opens her mouth to protest. Humanity’s obsession with caffeine continues to elude her, and she’d gladly avoid the toxic contraption that is the mess coffee pot if only he’d set a good example for the crew and actually sleep once in a while.
Ever the peacekeeper, Kaidan takes a step forward before she has the chance. He thrusts his hand forward, Admiral Squeak nestled in his palm.
Wariness melts into joy. The lines of stress and experience that are etched prematurely into Shepard’s face soften into something that can almost be mistaken for laughter lines. “Buddy!”
The hamster squirms from Kaidan’s grip and leaps fearlessly into the air. The data pad goes flying. Shepard dives forward, hands extended, saving him from an undignified collision with the deck. A trill of excited squeaks accompanies an attempt to crawl under the sleeve of his BDUs.
“I thought I lost you!”
“Kaidan rescued him.” Liara nudges Kaidan gently with her shoulder. Anything to break through the hopelessly besotted wall of silence he’s hiding behind.
Kaidan rubs the back of his neck, hiding his expression from Shepard, even if he can’t fool Liara. “Found him scouting the storage bay, figured he could use some backup.”
“Sound to me like you’re in line for a promotion.” The hamster squirms happily in Shepard’s palm as he gently runs a finger down its back. “You want Hackett’s job?”
“Meep.”
Kaidan snorts. “I’m sure we’d be in capable…paws?”
“Admiral Squeak is a certified reaper killer. He snuck into my doom pack when we took down the Collectors.”
So apparently, he has seen active combat. It feels entirely ridiculous to envy a rodent, but a hamster was at Shepard’s side when he stared death in the eye. She and Kaidan were not.
“Commander Shepard did request that Admiral Squeak supplants Jeff in the chain of command should anything happen to him,” EDI announces.
Kaidan groans. “Please tell me you’re joking,”
Shepard smirks. “I never joke about the chain of command.”
Kaidan’s sudden need to clear his throat conveniently disguises his unprofessional response.
“We agreed that the lack of thumbs would make piloting the Normandy a challenge.”
Kaidan shakes his head, his smile faint. “I’m glad I could reunite you both,” he says. “Goodnight, Shepard. Liara.” He nods at her and retreats to the elevator.
She could call him back, but it’s Shepard he wants to hear from, not her.
Still clutching his hamster to his chest, Shepard watches him leave, his expression unreadable.
The elevator doors slide closed.
Liara turns to him and wonders, not for the first time, how a man so eminently capable in nearly every arena he enters can be so utterly incompetent in this one very specific sphere. “You really are distressingly obtuse sometimes, has anyone ever told you that?”
Shepard sighs in misery. “It’s been mentioned.”