Here we go - the sequel to Skin and Bone. If you haven't read that, I would heartily suggest it because the entire foundation of this story is there. If you have read it, keep your eyes peeled for a few nods to the original. Hope you enjoy! Please leave any comments or suggestions - I always appreciate feedback of any kind.

Prologue

It's six years after the Reaper war when she comes.

James is alone as per usual on Sundays. He's stripped to the waist, beating out his excess energy on his punching bag, sweat pouring down his body. He's only thirty-four – young still, in the grand scheme of things, and don't you forget it – but his one arm hasn't stopped giving him trouble since the war. Too much exertion, not enough downtime. It reminds him of Shepard, how she used to always roll one shoulder or other, bruised but never beaten and too goddamned stubborn to sit down. The thought makes him smile even as a pang of loss ripples through him. Those were amazing and horrible times and God, he shouldn't miss them as much as he does.

Earth is doing better, but it's nowhere near the place it used to be. Still, trade is good, and when James looks out his window, the destruction is slowly being replaced by a better, brighter future. This is what they fought for, and James, hell, he's damned proud he's come this far to see it, no question. Hard to believe that not so long ago, those streets were lined with rubble and worse. He tries not to think of it, but those fucking thoughts have a way of worming their way in.

He's never been real good at shore leave. As much as he hates to admit it, he was at his best during that war. Now, he mostly cruises about playing space cop and tagging terrorists. It's good work, no denying it, but things were so much simpler when it was just the Reapers. Back then, all he had to do was point and shoot. Now, there's all this responsibility and shit, this constant worry that what they've saved is just all going to crumble into ash again.

Some days, he wants to ask Shepard how she did it, but, well...

When the doorbell rings, he grabs a towel from a nearby chair and pulls it down his face. He wonders idly if he should throw on a shirt, but this is his house and it's not like it's a bad view. He tosses the towel on the couch, knowing the flack he's going to get later but what certain people don't know won't hurt them. He makes sure his pistol is prepped on the table next to the door. He could use that fancy ass security system, but after a week of shore leave, he's itching for a fight. Come and get it, bastards, he thinks to the universe.

Only, it's not some tough as nails merc behind the door, or even some twinkle toes assassin. His breath catches at the sight of those all too familiar blue eyes, and he has to force his heart to beat regularly. He crosses his arms, feeling naked, but his jaw is clenched tight.

"Uh, hi," she says, voice soft and sweet like that bird that likes to nest up on the roof and wake James at four in the goddamned morning. Her hands are clasped around a leather bag, hands clenched. "I'm -"

"Shepard's kid, yeah," says James, with a short nod. "I remember."

"Dahlia," clarifies the girl – no, woman. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been a stringy 16 year old, all awkward angles, come to see Shepard at Alliance HQ. He'd looked at her and seen, in some small way, what Shepard must've looked like that young. Now, she's grown into her own identity. She still looks like Shepard, yeah, there's no escaping that, but the similarities are lost in the details. This woman, she's soft and willowy in a way her mom never quite mastered, and lacks the hard lines and smooth muscles that come with being a marine. In another life, he might've been interested, but now? No. No chance.

In the time since the war, this woman could've made a million credits selling out her story – no, not hers, Commander Shepard's story – to the press. About how Shepard had gotten pregnant at a young age. About how she'd given up her baby daughter and gone on to become a hero. There were a thousand different angles. She hadn't, and James would be eternally grateful. Hell, until recently, he'd just figured her for dead – there were enough people that had simply vanished following the mess with Reapers.

But she makes James more uncomfortable than he's been in ages. He shifts his weight from one leg to another. "Something I can help you with?"

"I," says Dahlia, eyes downward. "I want an outsider's opinion of Commander Shepard. I want to know what she was like during the war, not just what the vids say. I tracked down anyone I could find. Sent messages clear across the galaxy. A few of them came back. I replies, but even though some of them shared stories, they mostly said the same thing." Now she turns those eyes on him, and the hair on the back of James' neck stands up because it's fucking uncanny how similar that intensity is to Shepard's. "Talk to Commander Vega."

He curses Scars and Sparks and Doc and all the rest of them for doing this to him. They know he's not too great with words. This would explain Scar's recent ambiguous message about having company. If James ever sees that smug turian bastard, it's on.

"You wanna come in?" he says, moving to the side. Dahlia ducks her head and moves past him and into the house, taking in the locked weapons cabinet, the exercise area, the various medals and commendations placed on the mantle. He gestures her to the sofa, where she sinks down, bag at her feet and continues to peer around with undisguised curiosity. James doesn't like it, doesn't like feeling like he's on fucking display, like some animal in a zoo only there are few enough zoos left now. "You want a beer?"

She shakes her head, but just because she's declined doesn't mean that he can't have one. He pulls a bottle from the fridge and pops off the cap, tossing it in the sink. He grabs a shirt from where he tossed it on window bench and puts it back on, before padding back into the living room, sinking into his chair and slumping down. He takes a swig. The silence makes him uneasy.

"So," he says, "what do you want to know?"

"Everything," says Dahlia.

And there's no fucking way in hell that's happening, because, well, he'd have a hard enough time telling some of his closest friends some of the juicier details, never mind this, this girl who's also Shepard's daughter and, well, no, just no. Still, his mouth quirks at what Shepard would say if he started divulging some of the more private bits. He says, "You're going to have to be more specific than that."

God, she even chews on her lip like Shepard. The whole thing is just weird. She sneaks small glances at him and says, "Well, you were her guard while she was on trial, right?"

James nods and takes another sip from his bottle. "That's me."

"Maybe start there?" she offers, firing up the record feature on her omni-tool.

But he doesn't want to start there, because those months were a straight line of boredom with the occasional interjection of confused emotions. By the time the Reapers attacked, he and Shepard had already gotten closer than was technically allowed – not that they were best friends who knew each other's every secret, but he'd seen her as more than just some (admittedly hot) face on the vids and she'd seen him as more than a simple Lieutenant with his head up his ass. Not that he'd done much to prove otherwise, if he were being honest.

"Not much happened," he says, and from an outside perspective, it's true.

Dahlia seems to sense his hesitancy because she sighs. "Listen, Commander Vega, if you don't want to talk about this, I'm not going to make you. Lots of people don't after – well, after." And though the rest of her sentence goes unsaid, they both know what she means. The war wasn't pretty, or even heroic. It was bloody, brutal, violent – and that had only culminated when Shepard used that Crucible to blow the shit out of the Reapers.

James sighs and leans forward, cradling his beer between his hands. "No, fuck, no. It's not that."

Emotion slices across Dahlia's face. "You loved her," she says, voice alight with sad understanding.

He allows himself to chuckle. "Get rid of that past tense and you're bang on, chiquita," he says.

"I didn't know."

"Then I have to be doing something right," he says. He places his beer on the table and twines his hands together. "Now, I guess the only place to start is at the beginning, right? When those Reaper fuckers invaded our planet." He takes a deep breath. "Shepard and I, we were something like friends at Alliance HQ. Can't spend that much time around another person without being a little friendly. Then the invasion happened, and, well, let's just say things got real complicated real fast."

Which is a nice way of saying that everything went to hell in a fucking handbag.

Next Chapter: Earth is attacked and James' first mission with Shepard does not go as planned.