Hearing about Shepard was one thing. Seeing him work was a completely different experience.

They'd all heard the stories while working on the Normandy retrofits – Shepard was this bloodthirsty, bullheaded super killer the Alliance unleashed when they couldn't sort out their own problems. He killed thousands of batarians during the Skyllian Blitz single-handedly, annihilated scores of Collectors with his rogue team of Cerberus operatives, and was so determined to blast his way through danger it was said he could punch his way through a Reaper and live.

Well, they were partially right. Commander Shepard did battle through ten thousand batarians (almost) by himself, he did wipe out Collectors and Reapers wherever he went, and he did survive an expedition through a Reaper. What they weren't right about was his snarling, murderous attitude. Steve supposed a margin of error was expected.

Especially when he actually met the Commander.

The Commander didn't look like a murderer. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a small waist. His blond hair was spiked up off the top of his head in a faux hawk – something Steve didn't expect in a life-long military man. When he spoke to Steve, his voice was low and quiet, and his eyes were so cold and so blue Steve thought, for a brief moment, they must have been carved from river ice.

When he held out his hand to shake Steve's – "Relax, Lieutenant. It's nice to meet you." – Steve couldn't help but stare at the sharp, staggered scars that crawled up his forearm, clear up until they disappeared under the rolled-up sleeve of his fatigues. He also had three long scars across his face: one cutting down his left eyebrow, through his eye and lips to his chin, another stretching across the arched bridge of his nose to his left ear, and a smaller, less noticeable one on his right cheek that was possibly made by the same weapon as the one across his nose. Just seeing the marks set Steve on edge. A strange feeling shot through him as he talked to Shepard, his eyes strangely drawn to the pale marks on his light skin, as if it wasn't possible for one man to have so many scars visible, let alone the stories they must carry.

Commander Shepard was also very quiet. He didn't speak often, even when he was with a group of people who were talking very animatedly. He attended poker games between the crew several times, which Steve found odd, since the Commander neither played, drank, nor talked much to the crew. He seemed to know the people who played, though – James, Garrus, Joker, EDI – even Steve, although their friendship (if Steve could call it that) was relatively new. The Commander instead chose to hover nearby, his calm, hooded gaze watching, his hands behind his back at parade rest if he wasn't smoking.

Steve also noticed odd habits the Commander had. Habits that, if the Commander had been anyone else, it might have been harder to understand why he had them. Commander Shepard didn't eat in front of others, didn't touch members of his crew outside small pats on the shoulders or firm handshakes. He turned pointedly away from the observation windows in the port and starboard rec. rooms. He cleaned and double-checked his own gear, even after Steve had triple-cleaned and triple-checked them himself.

They were odd, little things. Steve knew the stories – they all did. The Commander was a war hero. He battled Collectors and Reapers alike, without flinching, unyielding in the face of certain annihilation. Even when he died, he rebounded back so quickly the Collectors, who'd ravaged the galaxy of human colonies for two years while the Commander was dead, were eradicated within a couple short months after his awakening. It was like nothing could stop him. An insignificant observation window seemed an odd thing to turn away from.

But then Steve found out why.

"Commander."

The Commander whipped around, his body moving so quickly Steve thought he might rip the gun he was working on right off its secured harness sitting on the worktop. The shuttle bay was dark except for the bay lights shining above Steve's, Shepard's, and James' workplaces. A short, battered lamp shone dimly on Shepard's worktop across from his armor locker, the yellow light reflecting in his blue eyes and off the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His shoulders, once a tight line when Steve had walked in, were now relaxed. He dropped the sauntering iron he had in his hand and ran a hand through his wispy hair.

"Sorry, Steve," he said. He sounded tired. "I didn't hear the elevator."

Steve shook his head. He approached the Commander slowly and stood next to his worktop, peering over the various clips and parts arranged on its surface. They were all sorted by size and make, neatly lined up on the Commander's left side.

"It's alright. It's late – I didn't think anyone would be down here. Are you working on anything particular?"

The Commander shrugged a shoulder and stepped back from his table. He crossed his arms, cocked a hip, and put his weight back on his left leg, his right coming out in front to balance him. The crew – Steve included – had started to call it the Commander's "I'm listening" pose. It was as relaxed they ever got to see him. Steve stayed where he was, hands behind his back, his body open and equally relaxed. He found, during the odd times he and the Commander talked, the Commander responded well to being approached with neutral body language and speech.

"Well I – uh. After the Cerberus raid on the Citadel, I was – well, I was – uhm." The Commander cleared his throat. "I'm not used to having free time. We have some shore leave tomorrow, so I figured I'd get to work on a schematic I was thinking about, but I've had so much on my mind that I just couldn't get it done before now. And call me Shepard, please. 'Commander' is just, uh, reserved for those that aren't close."

Steve nodded, trying to keep the smile off his face. Their odd friendship had been budding into something, and whatever it was, it scared and thrilled Steve. Shepard was quiet and awkward, all long limbs and scarred skin. The couple talks they'd had revealed Shepard sometimes didn't know what he was doing, but kept going, because he knew there was no other way. It was the sort of helplessness Steve had experienced after Robert had died. And in his weird, socially inept way, Shepard had encouraged him to move past it. Steve wished he could do the same, but knew that as far as relationships went with commanding officers, all he could do was support Shepard as his friend and crew mate. Nothing more.

Even as Shepard bit his lip and relaxed his posture. Even as Steve's eyes followed the strong, fluid curve of his powerful shoulders and spine, the weight that must be pushing down on them so suffocating all Steve wanted to do was push the entire galaxy away and tell him it's all right.

"Steve? You're staring."

Steve snapped his gaze back up to Shepard's, his heart dropping at the knowing look starting to crease Shepard's brow. He swallowed thickly and started to take a couple steps back.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking. I didn't mean to cause discomfort, it – "

"It's alright."

Shepard's quiet answer drew Steve's escape to an abrupt halt. He stood where he was, his hands flexing anxiously as Shepard started to grin. It was a small, almost amused smile, his teeth peeking through his lips. Steve had seen Shepard smile a handful of times. And each time, his chest constricted until he couldn't breathe.

"It's alright," Shepard said again, softly. He held his hand out to Steve, and it wasn't to shake his hand. His palm was up, and his long, scarred fingers were outstretched to Steve in an invitation Steve wasn't sure he was ready to accept.

What about Robert? He'd said his peace, laying Robert's last words to rest at the refugee memorial. He'd cried so many nights he couldn't keep track of them all, and sometimes, in the darkest hours, Steve held a gun in his hands and thought about ending it all and joining Robert. But then this man came – this broken, helpless man so determined to help others he sacrificed at his own expense. Steve never believed he would meet The Commander Shepard in person, nor learn about the man behind the legends. And yet here he was, not only learning about the true man, but falling in love with him, too.

Steve swallowed thickly and, without any further thought or hesitation, took Shepard's fingers. Immediately their palms came together and their fingers intertwined. Steve's heart raced in his chest, pounding so hard he thought it might burst through his ribs. When he looked up from their hands he saw the wide, happy smile on Shepard's face, mirroring the smile Steve could feel spreading on his own lips. It only felt natural to step forward and kiss Shepard, their lips coming together in a soft, long press of their mouths. Warmth flowed up through Steve, and he thought that for a moment, when he opened his eyes, Shepard's shoulders weren't weighted down with the galaxy.