The High Road is Hard to Find
Warnings: Major character deaths and suicidal themes.
A/N: This fic is based on the premise that Shepard has a colonist background and pursued a romantic interest in Ashley Williams but chose to leave her behind on Virmire.
Shepard's feet are bare and his toes dig into the soft dirt beneath him, the soil dark and cool against his skin. He's cold and his eyes slide closed as he turns his face up toward the sun, to gather some heat in his bones and ward off the goosebumps prickling his arms. But the sun offers no warmth and he's left with a shiver running up his back, his teeth chattering loudly in his ears.
The air is fresh, crisp, and smells vaguely of pine. Shepard breathes in deep, to savor the scent for just a moment. He's been cooped up on a ship for far too long; he's forgotten what a world could feel like. He wonders if this is home.
His eyes open and he begins to move, his feet crunching through thick blades of grass, one foot in front of the other. Shepard doesn't know where he's going but it doesn't really matter. There's dirt and air here, a sun that can burn his skin, redden his face like a tomato, grass and trees and everything he can't find on the Normandy. That's all he cares about.
He walks until his lips are chapped, his fingertips numb and the sun has set beneath the horizon. The sky has darkened to the same black that Shepard spends his life in and he finds a sort of comfort surrounded by the darkness. And then he stops, his feet skidding to a halt in the soil, a single point of light shining in the distance.
Shepard creeps closer, silent and deadly like this is just another mission. His breath is lost somewhere in his chest and when he sees a familiar wooden house, painted dark green with a white door he gasps and the sweet air finally floods his lungs. He'd recognize this place anywhere, the miles of fields, the flowerpots carefully tended to by the door, the broken farm equipment.
The wooden stairs creak as he climbs up to the front door and it slides open in front of him, no pass code needed, no decryption that he's grown accustomed to. A warm, thick draft of air hits him and the light brightens, his hand flying to his face to shield his eyes.
"John," a strong yet soft voice says and it's been a long time but he'd know it anywhere.
Shepard lowers his hand and steps inside, the smell of pine stronger now, engulfing him. He squints against the light but he has to see for himself, he needs to see. He needs this to be real. "Mom."
She looks the same as he remembers, all those years ago when he was young and wet behind the ears, the same as she looks in the photos he keeps hidden away in his quarters. Her hair is a bright, vibrant red, and her skin is pale and untouched by time. She's a moment stuck in the past. "About time you came home."
The house is the same as he remembers too, decorated in warm, earth tones, sages and burnt oranges. The curtains are old, the rugs are borrowed and the couch has a stain on it that won't go away. It's everything he never knew he wanted. "I didn't mean to be gone so long," he responds, taking a step, then two more before wrapping his arms around her thin frame.
"It's okay, John. You're here now." She rests her head on Shepard's chest for just a moment, and he's sure if he looks down she'll have tears hidden in the corners of her eyes. She'll fight tooth and nail before she lets them fall.
He lets her go and looks down at her, a question burning at the end of his tongue. "How did I get here?" Part of him doesn't care, the other half (the one that pushes and pushes until he saves the fucking day) needs to know.
"The same way we all got here." She smiles at him, her lips curled up, her lipstick perfect and soft. "Come warm up. Your father should be home soon."
Shepard lets her lead him to the fire, blazing in the corner hearth and he doesn't remember this being here, doesn't remember anything that wasn't a control on a wall that adjusted the temperature. But it warms his bones and his mother's fingers brush through his hair and he lets it go. He's home.
He doesn't spot her until he looks out his window, glances out to see the sun rise, the sky splattered in pale pastels. There she is though, standing in the middle of a field, her feet bare, cut off jeans riding low on her hips, a black t-shirt tight across her chest.
Shepard throws on a pair of pants, doesn't bother with a shirt, and runs out of the house, his mother shouting behind him to put on some clothes, it's still winter (it's always winter).
He runs, pumping his arms, carrying his legs as fast as he can just so he can see her face up close. He stops in front of her and doesn't touch her, too scared to touch her and find out she's not real. "What are you doing here?"
Her eyes are misty and she's looking everywhere except at Shepard. "That's what I should be asking you, Skipper. You shouldn't be here yet."
"I should've been here years ago if you ask me." Shepard reaches out finally, touches her face and forces her to look at him. Her skin is cold under his fingers and she's probably been standing out here for far too long. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Ash."
Ashley smiles, still refusing to let the tears go. She's a strong woman, like his mother, and even now she's not going to let him see that side of her. Hidden in her own shell until he tears it down. "I've been waiting for you but I thought it would be a lot longer. I just got here."
Shepard cups her chin and wraps a hand around her waist. Her hips are wide and the curve of his fingers around her bone feels right, like they just belong on her skin. "I didn't want to leave you behind," he says and it's an apology but it sounds like so much more right now. He tries not to think of Virmire and the decision he was forced to make.
Ashley's hair is down, fluttering around her shoulders and it's the first time he's seen it this way. She looks softer, a little bit younger and every bit as beautiful as he remembers. She smiles and leans in, her arms wrapping around his torso. "I know."
He stands there with her and it feels like forever before he lets her go.
Shepard's father is the strong and silent type. He doesn't say much but when he does, it means the world.
They're working out in the fields today, tilling the land, harvesting the crops. They only plant what will grow in this never ending winter, broccoli and cabbage and spinach. Shepard has a hand full of lettuce, dirt under his nails and sweat soaking his thin sweatshirt. It's still cold but not cold enough to keep him inside. Not cold enough to convince him to put shoes on.
He throws the head of lettuce into a bag when his father turns to him, put a gloved hand on his forearm and freezes him in place. "John," his father says and Shepard just breathes, waiting to hear what he has to say.
His father has a serious look on his face, his lips in a thin straight line, pressed tightly together as if he's still searching for the right words. "We're proud of you," he settles on, dropping his hand from Shepard's arm. "We always have been." He goes back to wrestling a head of cabbage from the ground and it's like he never said anything.
Shepard smiles and he never knew so few words could mean so damn much. "Thanks," he replies, keeping his tone steady and a firm head attached to his shoulders.
He's been waiting a lifetime to hear those words and even though he's drenched with sweat, is covered in dirt and his muscles are sore to the point of exhaustion, he suddenly can't feel the cold anymore.
Pressing his hands against Ashley's, Shepard rubs her cold fingertips between his palms. He tries to give her some warmth but it never seems to take. He doesn't have any to give.
He leans in and presses a kiss to her knuckle, lets his tongue flick out and slide against an old scar, healed over and forgotten. "Do you miss it?"
Ashley chuckles, her bare abdomen shaking and rippling for just a second. Her body is lean, thin, flat and she wraps herself around him like a starving python. "You mean the running? The shouting? The blood?"
"Sure. Or the camaraderie, the praise, the sense of accomplishment." He rubs her hands a bit harder, waiting to see a spark flicker between their skin but nothing happens.
Shepard expects her to take a second, to at least think it over. Ashley was born to be a soldier, born to be in the heart of battle, a gun in her hands and blood on her armor.
She just shakes her head though, a curl of soft hair resting against her clavicle. "No, I don't miss it," she tells him, looking in his eyes and he knows she's serious.
"No?"
Ashley leans in and brushes her lips against Shepard's. She tastes like spearmint, fresh and icy against his skin. "No. This place is peaceful, everything I fought for. There's no war here, no bullshit. My dad is here, beyond the hill. Everyone we left behind will turn up eventually. Later rather than sooner, I hope."
Letting go of her hands, Shepard leans in and captures her lips again, letting his hands try to warm different places on her body. He doesn't need to ask anymore questions. Not right now anyway.
She pulls away, her hand pressed against his chest, keeping him at a safe distance. Her chocolate eyes are a bit worried, stressed in a way they weren't just a moment before. "Do you?" Her chest stops rising and falling and he can tell the world rests on his answer.
He doesn't hesitate. "No," he says and leans in to press his lips against hers again. He doesn't miss the destruction and chaos he left behind, the pressure and all the blood he has on his hands but can't see. He has everything he ever wanted under his hands.
Shepard opens his eyes as the klaxons blare overhead, a loud and consistent drone buzzing in his eardrums. He sees nothing but white walls staring back at him, clinical and cold. The air is thin here, hissing in through slits in the ceiling, funneled in through miles of tubing. The smell of antiseptic is strong and he gags at the scent, longing for the freshly cut pine.
He struggles to sit up, his hands planted on a cold, metal table. A flash of searing pain wracks through his body and he grabs at his abdomen, sucking in air through gritted teeth. He's in some kind of clinic, a hospital. Maybe a morgue.
There's a woman talking to him, telling him to get up and get out. This isn't where he went to sleep; this isn't where he's supposed to be. He knows it.
He fell asleep in his bed, wrapped up in a pile of blankets, stars twinkling in through his window. He spent the day working in the field alongside his father, the night on the sofa talking with Ashley while his mother cleaned up in the kitchen, a mug of cocoa in his hands. He had dirt under his nails and sunburn across his nose when he fell asleep.
Now he's somewhere else entirely and it feels wrong. He's out of place, a foreign body invading a healthy system. This isn't where he's supposed to be. He left the black behind, traded it in for dirt and sunshine, and now he's been roped back in.
"No," he whispers, his voice raw and he's hot, scorching, his skin on fire and it's wrong to feel this way again.
He's not sure how to get back though and there doesn't seem to be time to dwell. The room rocks violently and he stumbles to his feet, his fingers reaching out and grasping the edge of the metal table.
The woman in his ear, the one with the accent, is yelling at him to get moving. There isn't a lot of time. They're under attack. "Grab the pistol," she shouts at him.
Shepard shakes his head and with clean hands, he reaches for the weapon. It feels heavy, thick, burdensome but he keeps a tight grip and pulls the trigger. He knows how to do this, how to survive, how to lead. He was born for it.
He leaves the dream behind for just a moment and when it's over, he'll figure out how to get back there.
"We rebuilt you," Miranda says and it still doesn't sink in. "Brought you back to life."
Shepard stands in front of her desk, leaning down into her space, crowding her in. She's not giving him the right answers. Maybe he's not asking the right questions. "Why? Why me?"
She smiles at him, with her perfect teeth, flips her perfect hair over her shoulder. She's a model, the prettiest face he's ever seen and it's so fake, so plastic it makes him sick. "You're special, Shepard. You can save us all."
"There are others," he protests, the smell of pine lingering in his nostrils. He can't get it out of his head, out of his senses. He closes his eyes and he's on Mindoir, his mother's hot chocolate on his lips, Ashley's small fingers wrapped around his wrist. He opens them and finds metal and plastic and a life he hasn't lived in a long time.
Miranda pushes her chair back, is on her feet in a split second. Her armor is skin tight, leaves nothing to the imagination and yet Shepard can't stop staring at her teeth, the way her lips curl up like she gives a shit about anyone but herself. "No one like you though. You are the only option we have."
Shepard's done here, done arguing with her over nothing. She'll never open her eyes and sees what he sees. She hasn't been there, doesn't know what it feels like to be safe and loved. "There are always alternatives. You're just too blind to see them."
That fake smile drops from her lips and for a second, just a damn second she looks human, like anyone else you'd cross on a street. "You don't sound too happy to be alive, Shepard."
He walks away.
The new Normandy may be shiny and impressive, top of the line with every upgrade they can get the resources for, but it's wrong somehow, it's missing a heart and a soul and even Joker can't fix that.
Shepard's quarters are nicer this time around, larger and equipped with every fancy gadget he doesn't need. There's a private terminal, his own bathroom with a shower that has every massage setting available, and a sound system that pumps club music through the room at all hours of the night. The music gives him headaches but he can't figure out how to turn it off.
There's a fish tank built into his walls and even though Flipper and friends look happy enough in there, he knows it's all for show. There's a place they don't know about yet and won't find until they're flushed down the toilet. Shepard's sure it's an ocean that's waiting for them, not a narrow tank with fake plant life and store bought flakes floating on the surface. He thinks about forgetting to feed them just so he can help them get there faster.
His quarters are frivolous, an expense that could have been spent somewhere else. He could sleep in a cot, on the floor. He doesn't need all this opulence, all this show. This isn't who he is; this isn't who he's ever been. He sleeps in a large scorching bed, the blankets suffocating him every night, and he tries to forget about the feeling of Ashley pressed up against him, his body seeking the warmth from hers that isn't there.
There's one part of his quarters that he likes, one very small part. On the corner of his desk, past his terminal and next to all the meaningless awards he's won, is a small picture frame. He keeps Ashley there, on his desk to look at whenever he needs to remember what is waiting for him when he's done here, what he's dying to get back to.
He just has to finish the fight and find a way back.
He's leaning against a box, some sort of cargo forgotten or left behind. Whatever the case, it's providing him with enough cover so he doesn't get his head blown off. Rapid gunfire is whizzing by his hiding place and his squad is seriously outnumbered. There are too many geth, not enough humans on this mission.
Garrus and Jack are here with him, scattered across the room, strategically placed in different locations. The strategy isn't holding up, Shepard didn't anticipate these numbers. He planned this out, had it mapped out in his head, and it still managed to go terribly wrong.
Shepard is down to his last clip and there aren't any within reach for him to grab. He's ready to call for a retreat, the words hanging on the edge of his tongue, when it hits him. He's not going down without a fight. This is his chance.
He takes a deep breath, smelling oil and machinery and nothing that smells remotely like what he's looking for, and stands up, bracing himself for impact. This could be a stupid idea, this could save them all.
His cover abandoned, his hiding place no longer safe, the geth turn on him. Shepard fires, emptying his clip with well placed head shots until he pulls the trigger and nothing happens. He's out of ammunition. His shields are rapidly failing and soon he's under fire with no protection, nothing keeping him alive.
The edges of his vision darken and there's blood everywhere, running down the side of his face, pooling in the bottom of his shoes. He can't see anything, feels nothing but intense, white hot pain everywhere and somehow, it's worse than suffocating to death in the cold vacuum of the black.
Shepard slumps to the ground, once again under cover but the damage has been done. He's wheezing, his lungs laboring to suck in any air. Goosebumps appear on his arms and he's suddenly colder than he's been in a long time. He smiles, blood dripping down his nose and into his mouth. It won't be long now.
Garrus appears at his side, muttering softly under his breath. He's got medi-gel in his hands and Shepard shakes his head, pushes weakly at Garrus to keep him away.
"No," Shepard whispers, unable to get his voice any louder.
"Shepard, we need you," is all Garrus says before he applies the gel and Shepard's vision begins to clear, his limbs begin to warm again.
He was so close, so fucking close. It was right there, at his fingertips. Home. And now it's gone.
Fuck.
Shepard's sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes settled on his boots, when Tali walks in. He forgot to set the lock on the door again, often forgets to do the little things like that sometimes. In the grand scheme of things, fighting and scrapping to save as many humans as possible, it doesn't seem that important to remember the small stuff.
He lifts his head and watches as she sits down next to him on the bed, her smaller frame pressed up against him. She doesn't say anything for a long moment and then slides her hand onto his thigh. "What was it like?"
The hand on his thigh surprisingly lacks heat. It's neither hot or cold and Shepard wonders just for a second what it would be like to feel her bare hands on him, if she would turn him to ice or set his bones on fire. Instead, he feels the indifference of a glove and it's a nice change of pace for once.
"What was what like?" He plays dumb because he's tired and he's not sure any of this is going to pan out. He's following orders from a guy who has no real name, works for an organization that goes against everything he stands for. He was brought back to save humanity and yet he fights it on a daily basis.
He hears her breathing softly through the suit, her eyes blinking rapidly through her purple mask. He probably will never see her face, watch the simple expressions he takes for granted with everyone else. She's quiet for a moment longer before she breaks her silence. "Death."
Shepard puts his hands over hers, wondering if his warmth is seeping into her skin through the thin layer of material. "I'm not sure I should tell you," he says and then slides her hand off his thigh. He doesn't know about this kind of thing. There is no handbook, no set of rules he's been told to follow. People don't come back from the dead everyday.
"Tell me something, Shepard, please. I'd like to know." Even though her voice is mechanical, he can still hear the soft edge, the pleading hidden in there somewhere.
He sighs, sets his gaze back on the floor. "It's a place you won't want to leave," he tells her and he's sure he's said far too much.
She sits there with him, not saying anything, just breathing. In and out, in and out until their chests rise and fall together. She's probably trying to think of something to say, he's trying to forget he said anything at all.
"I'm sorry," Tali eventually says. He's sorry too.
This is it, the end. He's done his job again, saved humanity. The Reapers are still out there, lingering around the edges, but he's given his team ammunition, enough to work with and get by without him. They might think he's unique, irreplaceable, but they're wrong. They don't know anything really.
He's running, not as fast as he should, not as hard as he can. He's moving though, the base ready to explode at any second and take him down with it. His heartbeat is elevated, a trickle of blood dripping down from his nostril. It's nothing but a small battle scar, nothing compared to what could have happened.
The Normandy is just ahead, hovering, ready to catch him when he jumps. Tali and Garrus are in front of him, they leap first and land safely within the open door of the ship. They're all waiting for him.
Shepard skids to a halt at the edge of the platform, stalling when there's no time to do so. His mind is whirling, the gears working overtime, and all he can think about is goosebumps on his arms and the way Ashley's hands feel between his.
The team is yelling at him, Joker in the middle, a gun in his hand as he fights off the Collectors trailing behind Shepard. He doesn't turn to look, doesn't need to know that he's so close to death he can smell it.
"Shepard!" Tali is pleading again, that soft drone of her voice carrying through all the noise, all the chaos. Shepard hears her and he still doesn't move.
He still has time, seconds to make that final jump, but he stands still. This was always a suicide mission; he's not supposed to survive.
Blood is rushing to his head, roaring in his ears and he can no longer hear Tali's pleas or Garrus' shouts. He can only hear blood running through his veins, the white noise taking over.
He wants to say goodbye but there is no time and he'll see them again.
Shepard holds his ground, his eyes fixated on the open hatch of the Normandy, the option he didn't choose. As the Collector Base explodes, searing flames engulf him, white hot heat scorches his skin and tears him apart. He hears nothing, feels nothing.
He smells pine and smiles.