A/N: This story was originally published under the username 'celestial-insanity' on December 24th, 2010. Unfortunately, I lost access to that account when I went to university and FF.N support hasn't responded to my emails. :( So, I am reposting certain oneshots I wrote to this account to create some continuity between accounts. Please enjoy!

A/N: I wrote this brief one-shot in three hours! This was inspired by Jeff Buckley's rendition of "Hallelujah." Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good NIGHT! :)

Darkness crept into the world like a slick monster, engulfing those in its way with a thorough, precise monopoly that was constantly fought by the harsh luminous lights of the Citadel. It was never really dark on the Citadel, but the terraformed sky and gardens gave the impression of a night cycle that many of the alien species aboard desperately needed. To Kaidan, though, it was just another marker that he was running out of time, and that he was the only one that seemed to know it.

The subtle, husky scent of beer was what had drawn him into the human-dominated Barking Spider. It was a large establishment on the edge of Zakera Ward, and its Bavarian design reminded Kaidan of an old German place he used to go to back on Earth. It wasn't crowded at all, but Kaidan didn't see that as strange. After all, most people were probably spending their Christmas indoors instead of at a bar like this one. He was just one of the few who had nowhere to go and knew it.

The bartender looked just as tired and homesick as Kaidan felt. "What would you like?" he asked.

"Something good," Kaidan said. "Doesn't matter what."

The bartender nodded and Kaidan took a seat, putting his elbows up on top of the table. He took out a datapad and brought up the most recent message from about a day ago, something he'd read at least two dozen times by now but hadn't figured out a proper reply to:

Kaidan,

I understand that you'll be in the area for a while. I'm spending Christmas alone this year, and if you're looking for company I'll only be too willing to give it. Let me know.

With respects,

David

The bartender slid his drink towards him, and Kaidan's hand closed around the side of the mug automatically. Condensation was already beginning to form on the outside of the bulky, old-fashioned glass, something that Kaidan wasn't too used to. This was a true, honest to God archaic tavern, alright. Not a sleazy strip club or even a bar like Flux, which served a plethora of drinks catered to appease the varied tastes of the Citadel's multicultural populations. This was a good place to come to.

The light inside the bar was soft, somehow illuminating the hard, woody texture of the boots and tables. It was distinctly masculine and stately. It had character. Joker would've liked it. A large, real fir tree was in the far corner, its colored lights winking softly in time to a slow, sad-sounding dirge that played over the speakers.

December 24th, 2183. Christmas Eve, and I'm spending it in a bar.

It wasn't as though he hadn't done that before, but he'd been expecting to celebrate the occasion a bit differently this year. He'd imagined spending it aboard the Normandy, where nothing was guaranteed, not even their own survival. Even in the worst of times Shepard would have found a way to mark the occasion. A little ornamental tree on her desk, maybe… she'd joked once about having Joker play music over the intercom for the holiday season. He'd been looking forward to it.

'Joker's still in the cockpit; he won't abandon ship.' Those words would never leave him. They kept returning with the insistency of a hungry animal, starving for his remorse and starving for his regret. The beat of the song playing overhead seemed to be the explosions forcing their way through space and time. 'I'm not leaving, either.'

I shouldn't have left you. Kaidan went through this mantra at least seven or eight times a day, now. He was no stranger to death, to loss, but this had cut to the core like a knife through the same wound that Ash had left. Now he was responsible for the deaths of two people, inadvertently, because Shepard had put him – him, Kaidan – in front of everything else: in front of the Chief . . . and in front of her own life.

'Kaidan. Go.'

No.

'Aye, aye.'

No . . .

Shepard, the hero of the Alliance and the savior of the Citadel. Shepard, the only woman who'd made him feel like he'd mattered for once in his life beyond the biotics and beyond the soldiering. A woman who, as strong and as vibrantly powerful as she was, that had relied on him.

Kaidan was familiar with all of the stages of grief that he was expected to go through. There were five, not that anybody was counting. Who needed their opinions, anyway? He knew exactly what was going on in his head, and he didn't need a damned shrink or an ex-Captain telling him that they knew how he felt, that they empathized with him. He'd seen so much war, so many lives torn apart, that he knew that right now he just needed to find an outlet for the harsh feelings bottled inside before he snapped . . . but he also knew enough to realize that he wasn't emotionally prepared to let go of those feelings just yet.

The funerals had been long, drawn-out affairs. Considering that there were no bodies and that nobody could even find the Normandy wreckage, the media focused mainly on profiles of the twenty-two lost in the attack. Many of the people Kaidan had known and interacted with, and seeing their faces plastered on the screen alongside childhood photos and heartfelt interviews from friends and relatives did nothing to make him feel the loss any less.

The funerals had taken place on the Citadel, fittingly enough. The keepers had already moved most of Sovereign's wreckage from the Citadel Tower and repaired it, so Ambassador Udina had suggested that they hold the ceremony there instead of somewhere else more suitable like Earth. Kaidan hadn't agreed, but it was Anderson who talked him down. They didn't need another incident and, according to him, it would stir sympathies from the non-human races if they saw the Council, people that Shepard herself had ordered saved at the cost of many lives, lead the procession.

The Barking Spider had a large-screen extranet receiver above the liquor stations, and right now it was tuned to Citadel News Network. The CNN was running another overview of the funerals, covered by that annoying reporter with the high-pitched voice Ashley hadn't taken a liking to. Emily Wong still had that charming smile and glossy black satin hair that he remembered. He was just glad that the bartender didn't turn the volume up, because he was perfectly content listening to the song playing over the speakers. It sounded hauntingly familiar, but for the life of him Kaidan couldn't place it.

It was something Shepard would've danced to.

'Well, according to the old vids, we have oceans, beautiful women, this emotion called love—everything they want.' She'd been leaning on the balcony overlooking the rest of the Citadel, the soft multicolored lights of the nebula casting a menagerie of shadows across skin that glowed with the type of ferocity that only the super-fit people seemed to have. In that light, you couldn't have even seen the scars on her face; he'd only seen her eyes, glinting with a strength he could only guess at, looking peacefully over the civilization that she was to save.

It was the little moments like that, the quiet ones, where Kaidan could truly just relax, take a deep breath, and truly appreciate everything about Shepard. And, somewhere in that relaxation, she'd found some kind of comfort in him, too.

Some kind of comfort . . . Kaidan was a smart man, and he'd proved very capable of judging the motives and inclinations of others. Shepard never played games with him – she'd always been there, she'd looked to him to be there before anybody else. He needed her. He needed to see her every day, talk to her, like an addiction. And, by some miracle, she'd felt like that as well.

Ashley had always joked that he seemed more aware of his surroundings when Shepard was around, and it had been true. Even off-duty, if Shepard was on the deck Kaidan would invariably orient himself so that he had her in his peripheral vision all of the time. Of course, Ashley and the other soldiers did that by instinct as well, probably from memories of harsh groundside training, but Kaidan had found himself peeking out of the corner of his eye to see where she was even with no prompting, watching her movements, sometimes talking louder to include her in his conversations.

When that unidentified ship had attacked, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind that Shepard wouldn't make it out. He didn't like leaving her alone, but at the same time he knew that he had to make sure the others got out alive. In the heat of the moment it'd seemed perfectly acceptable, as much as he'd hated it then, too.

The escape pod sensors hadn't even managed to get a proper reading on the ship before it took off. The Normandy was better equipped for that, and the last thing left from that wreck was a distress beacon that Shepard had recorded herself. He'd heard it during the funeral – the media had gotten their greasy hands on it, damn them. Was nothing safe anymore?

Kaidan didn't even have any personal emails from her to scroll through to relieve some of his heartache. The only emails he'd ever received from her were ones sent to the entire crew informing them of their next assignment, where they stood, and their current resources. She was too much of a professional to put anything important into an email from her Alliance Navy account . . . which probably turned out to be a blessing in disguise, considering that fraternization within ranks was against the regs.

Against regs . . . hell, how could he have been so concerned about that? If he'd known in the beginning that they were going to defy the Alliance, defy the Council, steal an advanced warship, all to track a rogue Spectre down to a planet most had never even heard of, he probably would have jumped at the chance whenever it came.

"You waiting on someone?"

The bartender's voice shocked him out of a self-destructive trip down memory lane and regret. Kaidan looked up from the drink he'd barely touched and forced a tight smile on his face. "Just . . . thinking," he said. "Sorry, I probably shouldn't stay here."

"Looks like your thinking's going to take quite a while," the bartender said seriously, sitting down comfortably in a high bar stool on the other side of the table. He reminded Kaidan of a thinner, more worn-out Santa Claus with his pure white hair and beard. Even in the low light, his eyes seemed to sparkle. "Sometimes people figure things out faster if they talk about it, though."

Kaidan didn't even have the strength to be irritated. "It's not something I'd like to talk about," he said. He reached in his pocket and took out his wallet. "Look . . . how much do I owe you?"

The bartender just shook his head and waved his hand in the air dismissively. "Keep your credits," he said. "Consider it a Christmas gift."

"That's very generous of you," Kaidan said, placing his wallet back in his pocket. "Thank you."

"No, no, don't thank me," the bartender said with another shake of his head. "I don't make much of a profit on holidays, and you look like you need some of that thinking juice."

Kaidan snorted. "Thinking juice?" he asked. "Heh, I guess you could call it that. I just want something to make it go away for a while. I want to . . . I want to not remember for a night."

"Sometimes remembering is all we can do for the dead," the old man said knowingly, crossing his arms. He had the air of somebody who knew exactly what they were talking about and how it applied to the listener's situation. Kaidan had encountered that in hostage situations before, but never to himself inside a place like this. The old man poured himself a shot of some expensive-looking liquor on the shelf, paused, and then poured another shot as well. He set the smaller glass in front of Kaidan. "You waiting on a ghost, son?"

Kaidan clenched his hand underneath the table and used the other to deliver the shot expertly to his mouth. "You know, I'm sure you have to close up for Christmas," he said, beginning to stand. "Thanks, uh – "

"No, no, sit down," the bartender said. "I don't get enough one-on-one time with my customers. Always serving them en masse, you know, never time to get to know them as individual beings. But stay as long as I do in the business, and you begin to see similarities. How one guy acts around another. Subtle things at work. Helps you learn about people. You just have to pay attention."

He poured Kaidan another shot.

"And you, son," the bartender said seriously, "look like you're having more than just the average man's troubles. Sit down. You'll feel better."

Kaidan shook his head, backing away. "Thanks, but no thanks. I don't need help."

"No?" he asked innocently. He held up a rectangular device in his hands with a mischievous smile. "Well, you might need this."

Kaidan's lips mashed into a hard, thin line. "I'd appreciate it if you returned my datapad."

"Well, I'd appreciate having a chat with somebody on Christmas Eve," the old man countered peacefully. He placed the datapad on the shelf behind him and said, "Now, you'll get this back after we've had a nice, long conversation between friends. How does that sound?"

Kaidan reluctantly got back into his seat. "You always this pushy?" he asked.

"Only when I think that I can help out," he said genially. "Talking among friends, even people you don't know, is much more simpler than staring off into space alone. It's Christmas, for crying out loud. The season for good feelings, gift-giving, celebration of life!" He sighed. "So many people forget that. So obsessed, they are, with this new alien garbage that they're forgetting their roots. That's why I built this place, to help the humans find their roots again. Getting lost in tangles of turian, asari, salarian, drell, hanar – that's for the politicians of tomorrow. Today, we've earned the right to relax and enjoy the holidays. Anybody still alive after Saren's attack on the Citadel deserves it, don't you think?"

Kaidan downed another shot with ill grace. "Too many people died, but it was still less than it could have been."

The bartender nodded. "Citadel's never felt so empty before," he said quietly, glancing outside. As if to accentuate his point, there was nobody there. "Lot of empty places at the dinner tables. Lots of dead cops. Lots of . . . ghosts to wait on, see."

"You have any ghosts you're waiting on?" Kaidan asked.

The old man nodded. "I've been to many funerals lately, and I still have more to go," he said. "I have friends all over the Citadel. 'bout a half of them are dead, now. The others are at their own funerals. And so here I am."

"I'm sorry about that," Kaidan said. "Sounds like you have it rough."

"I wouldn't dare say I have it rough, son," he said with another head shake. "No. I have to live without these people, true, but they're the ones who lost their lives. It is civilization itself that now lacks because of their deaths. And I probably don't hurt as much as their children do, or their parents, sisters, nephews . . . No, no. I don't think I have it rough at all."

"I'm having trouble detecting sarcasm here," Kaidan said, studying the old man's wrinkled face intently. The alcohol was putting a ruddy tinge to his cheeks. "Help me out, here."

"But I'm telling the truth!" said the old man, surprised. "What ghosts are haunting you tonight, Kaidan?"

His voice was so compelling, so old, that it made Kaidan feel like a child again. And, despite himself, he opened up to this strange man. "I worked with Commander Shepard of the Normandy," he said slowly, gathering up momentum. "And I was there when she and twenty-one others died a week ago today."

The old man's eyes closed and he bowed his head. "Oh, dear . . ."

"And . . . I loved her." It sounded odd, saying that to a complete stranger, but somehow it seemed like a poison was being slowly sucked out of his chest. Some of the hurt, some of the pain, began to siphon away with those four words.

"And you loved her," the old man sighed. "And she loved you back."

"I never really thought she'd be capable of doing something as human as die on me," Kaidan said with a soft chuckle. He took a swig of the beer he'd gotten previously and wiped his mouth on the hem of his jacket sleeve.

"Tell me what she was like."

And so Kaidan was drawn into a conversation with a man he barely knew about Shepard. He talked of some of her personality quirks, how she and Ash interacted, how deeply emotional she was but how she couldn't show it. It was like removing a painful splinter a small bit at a time, and, no matter how painful it was, once he'd gathered his speed he knew that he couldn't – shouldn't – stop. He needed to do this.

About an hour later, Kaidan was getting down into minute details: how she brushed her hair back when she was nervous, how her nose scrunched up at the smell of alcohol. "She used to call it poison," he joked. "She'd drink it anyway."

The bartender laughed, stroking his beard. "She would have liked my stuff," he said. "I never go wrong."

And then he thrust the entire bottle of fine wine right in front of him.

"Now, Kaidan, I think you have somewhere to go tonight," he said seriously, a humorous twinkle in his eye.

Kaidan chuckled. "Yeah . . . I suppose I do."

"Take this, get drunk, and remember," the bartender said. He placed Kaidan's datapad right next to it, Anderson's message highlighted. "Tell Captain Anderson that you're coming to spend the night, son."

Kaidan nodded, standing. His legs were numb from sitting for so long. "Look, uh . . . I don't even know where to start," he said. "Just . . . thanks. For listening to me. For the alcohol."

The old man smiled that crinkly smile of his. "Merry Christmas, Kaidan," he said. "Don't let me catch you here alone this time next year."

"I'll try hard," he said. "You have a very Merry Christmas. Just . . . have a good one."

When he turned up at Anderson's doorstep, he didn't think that anybody would be home. He knocked uncertainly on his apartment door, holding the wine awkwardly in his hand. It was late at night, and he didn't think that the Captain would be up, but was surprised when the door opened all of its own, revealing David Anderson dressed in a pair of civilian slacks. His face practically lit up when he saw him. "Alenko! You made it!" he cried, embracing him in a totally out-of-character hug.

"Yeah," he said with embarrassment. "Got some drinks . . . want to crack open a few bottles?"

Anderson led him into his apartment. The door closed behind him.

Darkness creeps into the world like a slick monster, engulfing those in its way with a thorough, precise monopoly that was constantly fought by the harsh luminous lights of the Citadel. Sometimes, though, the lights won, and though the night was there, lingering in the background, those who lived on the Citadel could enjoy the soft radiance.

He drank, and he remembered, just as the bartender told him. He'd forgotten just how nice lights looked on a Christmas tree.