On her thirtieth birthday, a woman was entitled to wallow and think about her choices. Locked in her golden cage, Athena Shepard took full advantage of the privilege.

Worrying a fingernail, dressed in the cotton shorts and tank she'd exercised in, she silently took stock of her life. She'd lost her rank and her ship, her crew and her Spectre status. She'd lost count of the number of people she'd killed in the line of duty. Mercenaries, criminals, assassins, opposing soldiers. Sure, she'd also saved countless people, but it was hard to see that when whispers of the dead haunted her dreams. Even the Batarians, maybe especially the Batarians, would never let her rest. As some old American president had said, it takes many good deeds to build a reputation, but only one to shatter it. And now, because of this one deed, her voice was ignored.

The Reapers were coming. She'd bought the galaxy some time against them with the deliberate murder of an entire colony, but what difference did it make? Instead of looking for ways to protect themselves, the galactic races were still just bickering with each other, letting old grudges instead of new threats direct their politics.

Agitated, she got up to pace. The adrenaline filled her every time she thought about it, basic fight or flight, but she had nowhere to flee and no one to punch. Her chest ached at the impotence.

"Commander?"

She whirled to face the door, and forced her body to relax, her mouth to smile. "Lieutenant. For the hundredth time, you're not supposed to call me that." She crossed her arms and cocked a hip. James Vega stood in the at-ease position, hands at the small of his back. "At least you didn't salute this time."

The respectful-Marine face gave way to that mischievous smirk she'd come to know from her guard during her time in confinement. "That would ruin the surprise," he said as he slowly moved his massive arm out from behind his back.

In his hand was a big bottle of top-shelf tequila. "Happy birthday, Lola."

She stepped forward, amused at both the gift and the nickname. "Thanks, James. I guess my reputation preceded me, huh?"

"Well, I thought about getting you some other things instead. Gun mods, a ship model, some asari lingerie. . . " He gave her that grin again.

"But how would you know my size?" she said, although she grinned back. She stepped forward to take the bottle from him, inspected it to hide her face. She knew Andersen had chosen him as her guard specifically because he was sympathetic towards her. He always spent part of his shift in here with her, playing poker, holding her feet while she did sit-ups, watching vids, chatting. Basically keeping her from going insane. Some days - most days, actually - he was the only human contact she had. He was simple, generous, tough, stubborn as a mule, and built like a brick shit house. He was a soldier, first and foremost, just like her. He was the only one around here who didn't look at her like she was a monster.

And she saw the way he did look her sometimes? - like he was still awed he was spending time with the Command Shepard, hero. She'd sparred with him more than once, tried to beat that look out of him, bleed in front of him, show him she was just a person. She didn't want to be anyone's goddamned hero. For the most part, it had worked. But that look of hero worship had been replaced by that flirty grin, and it was a little harder to figure out what to do about that.

"Be worth the guess to see the tats."

"What?" she asked, jerked out of her thoughts.

"Rumor is you've got some awesome tats in some . . . awesome places. Care to share, mi amigo?" He took an easy seat in her desk chair.

Athena smiled. She could flirt back. Hell, it was one of her primary skills. And it kept the day interesting. She stepped in front of him and leaned over, gripping the arms of his chair. "Well, look at what I'm wearing. Or what I'm not," she said, gesturing to her workout attire. "If I've got 'em, they've gotta be in some awesome places."

His eyes flicked over her. "Not fair, Lola. Dios mio."

She laughed and grabbed the tequila she'd set down on the desk. "I'd apologize, but you asked for it. And look who's talking about 'not fair.' Do you deliberately buy your shirts two sizes two small, or is it a happy accident?" At his laugh, she hesitated, then waved the bottle in his direction. "Share? I'd hate to drink alone on my birthday."

His eyes lit up as he took the bottle from her to crack the seal. "Mama always told me to never let a pretty girl drink alone."

"Well, we can't disappoint Mama Vega, can we?" She perched on the edge of the desk, studying him. He was nearly a head taller than her and twice as wide. At first glance, he looked like a standard-issue Marine meathead. At second glance, he looked the same. It was only after you talked to him awhile, after he'd worn through the jokes and flirtings he used to keep people at an arm's length, that you saw what a good-hearted man he was inside. He'd never be anyone's valedictorian, but, like everything else about him, his brains were solid. In a good way. He might think slowly, but he thought. He chewed over everything she said before replying; he offered his true opinion rarely, but you knew when he did it was a thought-out and honest judgment. And given the good judgment he'd shown so far, she knew that when it came time to make split-second combat decisions those decisions would also be right.

"Glasses?"

"Nope. We're gonna do this the old-fashioned way, James," she said as she took the bottle from him. With a wicked grin, she put the bottle directly to her lips and chugged a few shots' worth at once.

"Lola!" he laughed as he tugged the bottle from her hand. A small splash hit his hand and her tank as he pulled it away. "Poco loca! You gonna hit the floor, pelirroja!"

She gasped as the burn of the alcohol hit her stomach, then her blood. "What?"

"What?"

"What was that last thing you said?"

"Pelirroja?" He smiled. "Redhead, Lola." He stood to touch a strand of hair that had escaped her messy bun. Wrapped it around his finger. Stepped a step closer.

His eyes met hers, and she stilled. He'd touched her before, plenty of times. He was a touchy-feely kinda guy - always punching her shoulder, touching her arm, letting her lean against him when they sprawled on the floor to watch a vid - but this was different. His hold on her hair pulled, hurt, and she liked it. Her heartbeat sounded in her ears. He was smoldering at her with those eyes. It was wrong. It should be illegal.

The moment held, lasted, while they looked at each other. Suddenly, Vega broke the tension. He smiled and, quick as a cat, moved his hand to her bun and pulled out the band keeping her hair up. With a cry of surprise, Athena desperately tried to keep her curls out of her face as the hairstyle collapsed. She was left standing, appalled, as the fat crimson ringlets of her hair settled around her arms and back.

"There," Vega said, satisfied.

"There what?" she asked, exasperated, as she tried to put her hair back in order.

"Bella." He reached over to take her hand. "Lola, you are too pretty to wear your hair like an old woman. Why do you do that to yourself?"

"Asks the guy with short hair. Because I have too much hair and I hate it." She sighed. Her hair, she knew, wouldn't submit to the bun again until she showered.

"If you hated it, you'd cut it off. Besides," he rubbed her knuckles with his thumb, "woman like you knows hair like that's sexy as hell."

What was it about the red curls that turned men on? He was right, though, it was why she didn't chop it all off. But she was disturbed. This just wasn't like him - she knew he had hot blood, just like her. Knew he could handle flirting without thinking it was romance, just like her. But he wasn't smirking, and that was a little terrifying. So she could keep arguing with him, or she could try to joke him out of whatever this mood was.

Joking was her best option. He may take home girls from the local bar, but when a man like James Vega flirted like this, with his hand on hers and his eyes all dark, he wasn't thinking innocent flirting. He wasn't joking. If she let this continue, it wouldn't be a one-night stand or a simple fuck-buddy arrangement while she was under lock and key. It would be the one thing she'd avoided since the clusterfuck that had been her time with Kaidan. It would be a relationship - and flirting may have been as natural as breathing, but she had some serious special-needs going on when it came to relationships. It seemed like half of the guys she met made moon-eyes at her eventually and just as fast as you could say "black widow" they were out the door. So she wasn't as quick to jump under the covers as she'd been. Hell, half her crew on the Normandy wanted to get in her pants and she'd resisted.

Unfortunately, that also meant it had been a damn long time since she'd been laid. Especially if you counted those two years in a Cerberus lab. She was easy pickings and she knew it, so it was time to change the tone.

So she took the bottle of tequila back from him and walked across the room, taking a swig. She sat on the floor with her back against the foot of the bed and used the bottle to gesture at him. "So did Papa Vega have any pearls of wisdom to share?"

His face closed at the mention of his father, and she instantly regretted the question. Apparently, this was a touchy subject. He sauntered over, taking his time before plopping on the floor next to her. His arm and thigh were touching hers, and he reached over her body to take the tequila and swallow some.

"Mi padre . . ." He started, then paused. Shepard wondered if he would really talk, or joke it off. "It's hard to have pearls of wisdom when you're hopped up on red sand all the time."

She realized she'd been holding her breath, and let it out. They wrestled for the bottle for a second, but Shepard poked him in the side to make him let go. "Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. My dad. Alcohol," she said when she saw him watching her. She waved the bottle. "Guess the apple doesn't fall far, huh," she said bitterly.

"Don't talk like that, Lola." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, gave her a small one-armed hug. His words slurred just a little. Between the two of them, the bottle was mostly gone.

"How should I talk, then?" Her words were sharp, but her body fit neatly against his. She laid her head against his shoulder because . . . well, because it seemed like the thing to do, that's why. Another shot of tequila. That seemed like the right thing, too.

He fixed her with his serious look, but the tequila made it impossible to joke him out of it. His voice was impatient, bordering on angry. "You're Commander Athena Shepard. You saved the Council, saved the Citadel. You eat Reapers for breakfast. You ain't no alkie."

Shepard shook her head. "Apparently, I didn't beat enough of that hero shit out of you."

"Wha?"

"Yeah, I'm Commander fucking Shepard." She grabbed the bottle violently from his hand and stood, pacing angrily back and forth. "I've talked and talked and talked as Commander Shepard. I talked about Saren, I talked about the geth, I talked about the Reapers. No one listens. And now I'm sitting here, fucking helplessly talking, while everyone around me does nothing but fucking talk." Enraged by this point, she kicked her desk chair across the room. It split when it hit the wall, but she didn't pay it any attention.

She gasped when strong hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. Shocked, she looked up into James' dark, angry face. His fingers bit into her arms, not flirting now, practically lifting her off the ground.

"You listen to me, Lola. You don't lose faith, you hear me? Who cares what they're talking about? Those machines are coming, and the assholes in charge gonna beg for your help when they do. They need you to win this and they know it. So you believe. 'Cause if you don't believe, how can we? You hear me, Lola?"

She inhaled to respond, but his mouth was on hers before she could speak.