TITLE: Happy Birthday Commander Shepard 2017
CHAPTER: Lordy, Lordy, Shepard's Forty
AN: My annual Commander Shepard birthday story for your kind consideration. This is for those of you who believed in happily-ever-after and a future with lots of little blue babies. Only to have your heart broken…
"You are as young as your faith,
As old as your doubt,
As young as your self-confidence,
As old as your fear,
As young as your hope and as old as your despair."
— Douglas MacArthur
John Shepard stepped out of the shower and tugged a towel around his waist. Why he did that, since he never did it before, he couldn't say. Might have something to do with the reason he deliberately avoided looking at himself in the mirror. It was steamed up anyway. Nothing to see. He'd already shaved in the shower, so no reason to wipe down the glass. The towel slipped, and Shepard gave it an impatient yank. How'd the damn things shrink anyway? Famous, handsome like him are not immune to the consequences of aging. The prick of passing years stings their egos just as it does the average father, brother, and son. Any number of age preventatives are available to those with the means and money. It's just that he never thought about his looks. Yes, he has a young wife, and she might appreciate a well-preserved man on her arm. So why was he thinking about it now at 1700 on this rainy spring evening? He had everything a man could dream of and then some.
The real-life space hero Admiral John Shepard, contemplating the possible ravages of time and the and the 40th anniversary of his birth was anything but average. He could be many things, but never typical. His list of accomplishments legendary, his exploits, battlefield strategies, interspecies negotiation skills, and biotic techniques are standard curriculum in military academies across the galaxy. In the beginning, a handful of grad students sought him for interviews to complete their dissertations. More than a little flattered at their requests, he'd agreed to an interview. The third such request left him mobbed at the Naval Academy, surrounded by starry-eyed cadets and trapped in the Mess Hall. It was his wife who insisted because of his notoriety that he hire a publicist.
That sparked the biggest argument of their relationship. A soldier didn't need a publicist, and nearly everything he'd ever done was still classified. If he had to say just one more time that he'd just done his job, Shepard thought he might jump off the Presidium roof. Well, that had never happened, and his publicist's name was Lisa. He never spoke to her mostly because she reminded him of Diana Allers—the very thought of that woman made him shudder—and he hated reporters in general. The competent young lady had a list of acceptable answers and information to dole out to reporters, grad students and nosey fans. Okay, life was easier this way.
Inside his spacious closet, well out of sight of the mirror and he knew because he checked, Shepard scrubbed his body dry. His big feet, which he hated outraged him with their wrinkled pink skin and was that a gray hair on this big toe? Then he looked down again to finish drying his legs, and that was a mistake because there it was peeking out at him from the coarse jet curls between his legs. Was that a gray hair? While he thought seriously about yanking it out, he resisted the temptation. Barely. The offending towel, duty completed, landed near the hamper.
Shepard had just flung open a door searching for his favorite pair of blue jeans when it appeared. How could he have forgotten? He nearly slammed the cabinet door shut. A full-length mirror revealed him. No, dammit. He'd faced Reapers, Collectors, the Council, endured Hannar love poetry, death, reporters, physical pain and the lonely isolation of command. He could do this. Admiral Shepard bravely met the eyes of his reflection.
He supposed the implants did help…
A turian suddenly appeared in the mirror just over his right shoulder.
"SWEET SPIRITS! My eyes! Put that thing away."
"It doesn't come with a storage compartment," Shepard replied not bothering to cover himself or rise to the usual bait of human's aren't as good as turians.
"Yes, well." Garrus closed his eyes with a dramatic gesture. "Someday you humans might evolve into something useful. Speaking of useful, I need help with the ladies, I'm worn out, and we haven't even had dinner. And I was promised dinner."
Garrus ignored Shepard's glare and snagged the blue jeans with a talon.
"Please get dressed before I begin making observations about how your odd and numerous foot appendages bear a strange resemblance to that thing between your…"
"Shut it, Garrus." Shepard snapped before covering himself with a pair of briefs.
"Much better." Garrus handed him the pants without further comment.
Shepard glanced at his turian friend. "I see you've adapted to the human concept of actual clothes instead of armor. That print could wake the dead."
Garrus tugged at the hem of his Hawaiian shirt. "Isn't it wonderful? If I can't live somewhere warm and tropical, I can carry it around with me."
"Can't?" Shepard tugged a shirt over his head. "Last time I counted you had a house on Palaven, an estate on some obscure Carribean island, to which I've never been invited and a Presidium level apartment on the Citadel."
"It's hardly an estate, and you are always welcome."
Shepard didn't respond while he shoved his feet into sneakers and tied the laces. Finished dressing Shepard headed for the door only to find Garrus blocking his exit.
"We made it another year, Shepard," the turian murmured his voice rich with subtle harmonics while resting a hand on Shepard's shoulder.
This moment had become a ritual for them since the night of the Battle for Earth. The night they'd said their goodbyes with the promise of meeting at a bar in heaven. They never made it to that bar, and each year they took the time to honor that horrific night when no one thought they might survive until dawn. Shepard wrapped his arms around the slim waist of his friend and buried his face against the turian's neck.
"I love you," he murmured and meant it. Didn't matter if he were a married man, an Admiral or a hero, Garrus Vakarian meant more to him than any person or thing in the galaxy. They weren't lovers, never had been, but the shared experiences of the battlefield, the close calls, the late nights and the brother who always had his back forged a bond only death could break. Even death had tried once...well, twice actually, and failed.
Garrus trilled his response and pulled Shepard into a tight embrace. What Garrus felt for this human had no words in his language to express. Didn't matter if he were a married man or the Primarch, John Shepard was his personal hero, his mentor and the family he never really had. I love you, didn't cover it. Not by a long shot. The moment drew out until Garrus pressed his muzzle against Shepard's cheek.
"Hey, you gonna help me with the ladies or not?"
"Yeah."
Shepard followed Garrus down a darkened hallway and a short flight of stairs. He stopped Garrus on the landing.
"Thanks for coming."
"Wouldn't have missed it."
The pool of light at the bottom of the stairs grew as they descended into the main living area. The murmur of voices and the clink of glasses blended with the strains of smooth jazz from the speakers. Directly in front of him stood a quarian. Gone were the nervous fingers and the hesitant speech. Before him, dressed in the muted shades of red as befitted her position, stood an Admiral, a leader of her people. She launched herself at Shepard, and he caught her.
"Hey, beautiful. Damn, it's good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too."
Over Tali's shoulder, are the smiling faces of his old crew. His home echoes with their familiar voices, and it fills him with contentment. Across the sea of well-wishers, his eyes locate the luminous blue eyes of his wife. There are days when he wonders what he did to deserve so much in his life, and there are moments of perfect contentment, like now when Liara raises just one elegant eyebrow, and he nodded back.
Their footsteps echo through the crowded room. James laughed aloud when their youngest, little Samara, charged between his legs and dodged around Steve. Behind her, scolding Samara for her behavior followed their solemn scholar Janrailia.
"DADDY!"
"Father! We've been good. I do believe it's time to open your presents," Helize shouted from across the room.
"Daddy! I'm hungry." Johanna took his hand and gazed up into his face. Not that he would ever let them know, but this beautiful girl was his favorite. She was the oldest, his first child. When they placed her in his arms, the universe clicked into place. She loved to laugh, and she loved to dance. She shared the indigo mysteries of her mother's eyes and a lust for life that left both her parents wondering how to slow her down or if they should even try.
In seconds he's surrounded by his five daughters. Their middle daughter, Zenrivi placed her hands expectantly on his forearm, and he lifted her into his arms. She hugged her father's neck and whispered into his ear.
"Happy Birthday, Daddy. Mommy says to tell you that you're hot as ever," she giggled. "I don't know what that means, Daddy."
"I love you, baby."
"Love you too, Daddy!"