Written for the Mass Effect community 2011 Secret Santa exchange.
Bailie Shepard appearing courtesy of the lovely uglynoodles; other characters courtesy of Bioware.
Sway
She could never sleep soundly at Christmas.
When she was four, she stayed up all night, camped out next to the door with two cookies on a plate (there were three, at first, but she got hungry at midnight and ate one, and Mama needed the last of the milk for her morning coffee). She blinked, just once, and when she opened her eyes again her mother was climbing out of bed with a yawn and a smile, laughing- "Did Santa come already, baby?"
The year after that, she wished every day for a month that Santa would bring Mama back.
It didn't happen, but she never really broke the habit of staying up late, waiting. In her flight school days she volunteered for holiday watch when no one else wanted it; she found solitude, a thermos of tea, and all the candy canes she could eat vastly superior to the dozen dinner invitations from well-meaning friends. After twenty-five years- she's pretty sure the last two don't count, considering she was dead and all- she's used to being awake, alone, on Christmas.
Besides, tonight her head is itching.
Her hair's gotten long again, to that awkward point where it starts tickling the tops of her ears and rubbing against the inside of her helmet. She runs her hand over her scalp, and sighs. Definitely too long.
She stands, padding across the cabin floor barefooted until the sensor responds and the bathroom door slides open with a barely audible hiss. Rummaging around in the half-light, she closes her hand around her hair clippers, presses the blade against the back of her head and thumbs the power button.
Nothing happens.
She gives the razor a solid thump with the heel of her hand, and presses the button again. Still nothing. Holding it up to eye level, she scowls, as though somehow she could convince the device to work solely based on the power of her disapproval.
"Stupid clippers." A quick pass of her omni-tool reveals the problem. The power supply's fragged, exactly the type of fussy electrical repair she hates. She'll have to borrow, tonight, and it's late; as she watches, the clock ticks past midnight, adjusts itself to the twenty-fifth.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
And so she pulls on her boots and wanders the ship's corridors up and down, clenching a striped stick of peppermint candy between her teeth, searching for signs of life- preferably of the short-haired, head-shaving variety. (She rules out Jack by default- she's not much for sharing, that one, and besides she uses a straight razor nearly as long as her hand and sharp enough to split atoms.)
She finds herself humming as she walks through the control room, a melody she half-remembers but can't quite place at first until she gets within earshot of the cockpit. She can hear him singing, then, something about a reindeer with a shiny nose, and a rhythmic tapping that sounds like drumming.
"Joker?
"...you'll go down in hiiiiiiiiiiistooooory!" He has a pencil in each hand, banging out a staccato rhythm on the console in time with the music blaring from the speakers, and a red-and-white fuzzy hat perched precariously atop his usual cap.
"Joker!" She prods his shoulder.
He jumps, and sets the pencils aside. "Music off, EDI- um, hey, Shepard. Merry Christmas?"
She smiles. "Merry Christmas. You can keep singing, I don't mind."
"I figured you'd come to complain about the soundtrack, like everyone else tonight. Some people have no sense of holiday spirit." He shrugs, pointing upward, then taps the console to start the music playing again . "Hence the doorstopper. Keeps 'em at bay."
There's a sprig of mistletoe stuck to the ceiling with electrical tape.
"Not me." She crunches the last bit of candy cane between her teeth, then leans over and kisses his cheek. His beard scratches at her chin; her scalp tingles reflexively, and she scrunches her nose to keep from itching it. "Toll paid. Can I borrow your clippers? Mine died."
Joker turns, eyeing her speculatively. "I thought your beard was getting a little long."
"Funny." She straightens and nudges him, ever so slightly, with her hip (just enough to get the point across- the first time she did it, she had her armor on and sent him to the infirmary with a broken arm). "I'll sandpaper you to death with my scalp if you keep that up."
"Sure, you can borrow them. They're in my trunk, next to-" he makes a face. "Um. Actually, let me go get them." He pushes himself upright and steadies himself on his feet; the song ends and the music trails off in a jingle of bells, then picks up again, softer and somehow sadder.
She still can't quite get used to the idea of Joker walking, even though it might just be the one good thing Cerberus ever did, even though it's been months since he first came toward her, grinning, in the shadow of their resurrected ship. Sometimes she misses the sound of his crutches. She's pretty sure he doesn't, though.
He stops after a few feet and tilts his head, listening. "I always hated this song."
"Why?" She tries to make out the lyrics- have yourself a merry little Christmas, it sounds like, not one of the silly novelty songs more popular in recent years. "Too depressing?"
"Sort of." His shoulders rise and fall in a half-hearted shrug. "They used to have a Winter Ball every year at school, when I was a kid. I'd never go- didn't make a lot of sense, since I couldn't really do much, y'know?"
She nods.
"Anyway, one year my mom got stuck chaperoning the thing so I went along with her, in my best suit and my shiniest leg braces, and I sat, and I watched." He sighs. "Then, this song started playing, and a girl from third-period Chemistry asked me to dance."
"And you thought she was making fun of you?" She takes a step toward him.
"That was the problem, actually. She was completely serious."
She considers her response for a moment, a simple I'm sorry seeming terribly inadequate.
He doesn't wait for her answer. "I always knew there were a lot of things I couldn't do, but that was the first time I-"
"Dance with me." She holds out her arms.
He turns to stare at her. "I don't dance, Shepard. That was kind of the point."
"You didn't walk, either, until a few months ago. Besides," she grins, moving in front of him so they stand facing each other, "this sort of dancing's just standing up and swaying."
"I'm not going to-"
"That's an order, Lieutenant. Hands around my waist and start dancing." They're toe to toe, now, and she rests her hands on his shoulders.
Even as he rolls his eyes, he reaches for her; his fingertips settle at the small of her back. "Just promise you'll let me lead?"
They stand there together, swaying ever so slightly back and forth, and she could swear that EDI shuts off and the lights dim except for where they're standing.
"Maybe this song isn't so bad after all." The tips of their noses touch, and the powderpuff of his Santa hat brushes against her forehead.
"Maybe." She says, and kisses him, and even then he wobbles only a little.
She is awake on Christmas Day, and she is not alone.
Fin