Author's Note: What's this? I have three stories going concurrently? Yeah...I'm a little ADD I guess.

There is far too little Shoker fiction out in the world, so I decided to add my take on the matter. I have to admit, my love for Garrus is going to make it difficult to write him in as a friend and not a love interest, but I do so enjoy writing Joker's snide wit. It's a plus to be able to add in some extra oomf with aeronautical jargon. Growing up in a family of pilots sure can expand your vocabulary in the oddest ways.

My take on Shepard will be completely different from my Shakarian fics. Here you'll find a rigid paragon Shep perusing as an extremely talented Vanguard who should actually be an Adept. Liberties will be taken with the storyline, otherwise it just wouldn't be fun ;)

[Insert standard Bioware disclaimer here]

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

Excerpt from Crossing the Bar, Lord Alfred Tennyson

I: Crossing the Bar

The hallway – at least what she thought was a hallway – was illuminated with harsh lights installed in neat, even rows. Everything around her was solid. A white tile floor that squeaked under her boots, white metal walls that stretched dozens of feet in either direction. So bright and sterile, utterly strange. Her forehead rested against the cool surface, cold seeping through her, eating away at the ache in her temples. The air was recycled; she could taste the tang of carbon on her tongue with each breath - breath she shouldn't be able to take.

Death had claimed her, in the dark gravity well over Alchera. She'd spun helplessly away from the ravaged body of the Normandy, inertia propelling her into the thin atmosphere. A rogue piece of debris had clipped her breather tubes. Silence pressed against her, punctuated only by her panicked breathing. Her awareness had slowly waned, vision blurring to grey and then black at the edges, until her eyelids became too heavy.

And then there was nothing.

Nothing, until the sensation of cold metal against her back, of limbs almost too heavy to lift. There had been gunshots, and klaxons, and a sharp but lovely voice warning her of attack. The blur of combat, LOKI mechs and a pistol that was unfamiliar in her hand. Explanations of life given to her, hanging a price on her head. "Four billion credits," Miranda Lawson, owner of the sharp but lovely voice, told her. Four billion credits to reanimate a decimated corpse held together by ceramic armor and a frozen atmosphere. Her memories were there, she had been assured, up until the demise of the Normandy. She knew nothing of the status of her crew. She was too afraid to ask. Thus, she had crept from her small cell of a room to wander the Cerberus station aimlessly, a raging headache working its way between her eyes. Padding barefoot through endless hallways, wearing plain white fatigues, she felt every bit the ghost she should be. Everything was so pale and so similar, and in a moment of pure shame and pity and utter failure, she had pressed her head up against the wall, trying to gather some semblance of resolve.

"Commander?"

She lifted her head and turned towards the voice, brushing blonde curls from her eyes. A figure, swathed in iridescent light, drew towards her. Ball cap, dark hair laced with red, the smattering of an unkempt beard. There was a hesitance in his step, but it lacked the usual pained shuffle. A soft smile played at her lips that stretching muscles long since used.

"Joker?" she breathed, turning to close the distance between them. His face wasn't contorted in pain, framed by fire and the metal bones of his ship. It was almost jubilant, and she felt tears spring up in her eyes. Petite legs still carried her faster than his. Momentarily forgetting herself, she threw her hands around his neck, leaning into him, balancing on her toes. She felt him hesitate, arms stretched out in front of him, palms up, before he gave in and encircled them around her. The first human touch she felt since waking, and his warmth spread through her like good whiskey.

"Careful, Shepard," he mumbled into her hair. "Still slightly breakable here."

She turned and smiled against his neck, beard tickling her cheek as she let out a soft laugh.

"Sorry, sorry." The sound of her own voice was strange in her ears, all upturned vowels and deliberate enunciation. "You're the first familiar face I've seen here."

His grip tightened slightly and then he stepped back, letting his hands fall to his side. Her embrace had knocked his cap askew, and unkempt hair was poking out from under it in tufts. He tugged it back into place with a look of forced annoyance, but the grin playing on the edge of his lips betrayed his actions.

"Yeah well…" his voice drifted.

"Why are you here?"

His smile turned into a full-blow, shit-eating grin, and in a very un-Joker-esque act, he grabbed her hand and tugged her down the hall. They passed through a set of doors, to another hallway, this one lined on one side by a dark window. She marveled at his unhindered gait as he turned her to face the glass, a spark of energy sliding down her spine at the feel of his hands on her shoulders. He was alive, and he was here, in one piece. Her death had not been in vain; she had gotten him the escape pod in time to save his life.

"They only told me last night," he said, nodding towards the window. Lights flickered on, dancing off the sleek hull of a beautiful black and white frigate. Her mouth popped open, and she swiveled her head to look up at him. The ship's reflection threw flickers of light across them. She noticed the sharp creases that etched themselves across his forehead and around his mouth. His smile, warm and inviting and rare for him, still crinkled the corners of his eyes with real happiness.

"She still needs a name," he continued, hands still resting on her shoulders.

"Great minds think alike?" she asked quietly, turning back to press her hands against the glass.

His answering smile held all the warmth she could have wished for.

Goddamn. Leather chair. Leather chair!

Joker ran his hand along an armrest, reveling in the feeling of buttery calfskin and ergonomic design. The seat still needed a bit of breaking in. He shuffled his rear deeper into the chair and let out a loud sigh of contentment. Twenty-two months of being grounded, his wings clipped and head thoroughly poked and prodded by an Alliance shrink. Seven of those at the bottom of a bottle, before being approached by a tall figure ensconced in a white and black cat-suit which could old be described as painted on. Joker shook his head, trying to piece together the cloudy memory.

Miranda Lawson had settled gracefully on the bar stool next to him, deftly sliding away his double of G&T to the side, ignoring his slurred bark of dismay. She had thrown words like "experimental procedure" and "guaranteed flight time" at him until his head was spinning from more than just the alcohol. The next day he found himself on a charter flight to Omega, of all places, where he was then shoved unceremoniously onto a plain puddle jumper. Several relay jumps later, he found himself at a Cerberus base, where they proceeded to mend his brittle leg bones with materials and techniques even his techy brain couldn't begin to comprehend. His physical therapy included long walks down sterile white hallways, as well as time in a flight simulator, running a program eerily similar to a Normandy class frigate. They had waited until a month ago to drop the real bomb on him:

Clementine Shepard was alive, and on the station.

Of course, it took several minutes of coaxing to calm him and help him understand that while Shepard was alive, she was not yet conscious, and in the final stages of being "put back together". Joker shuddered at the thought of his commander lying supine on a lab table, pieces of her body sewn haphazardly back into place. He was long past the need for alcohol as a mental crutch, but that night he had sat in his bed, head in his hands and a bottle of barely drinkable whiskey between his legs. His hangover the next day had been a doozy; they excused him from physical therapy and the flight simulator in order to nurse his sore head.

Seeing her in the hallway, forehead pressed against the wall, had been almost surreal. She was exactly as he had remembered her: curly blond hair - the color of wheat on a sunny day, cascading in soft waves down her back, much longer than it had been in her Alliance days. Petite figure in one piece; she had never grown past 5' 4". The smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose was present, along with her eyes. Those couldn't be faked. She was famous for them the galaxy over. Her face earnest and a little scared, she had stared up at him, entrapping him in her gaze; left iris a stunning steel blue, the right a deep, warm chocolate brown.

Joker always admired her "girl next door" beauty from afar; he left the heavy flirting to Alenko and the ensigns. Shepard and Kaiden had always shared a common bond forged by being biotic, but Alenko's talent paled in comparison to Shepard. She was, above all other things, a biotic powerhouse. Joker, with his now almost unlimited access to purloined Alliance files (courtesy of Cerberus), was well versed on her dossier. At age three she had started showing signs of biotic talent; by age five she was training with some of the best the Alliance had to offer, courtesy of her parents' military involvement. Admiral Hannah Shepard and Captain Whitaker Shepard could be viewed as the quintessential embodiment of humanity. Their only daughter had followed closely in their footsteps, enlisting at the ripe age of eighteen, rising to N7 designation by age twenty-four. The Alliance made a show of the Shepard family, but as Joker dug deeper, he uncovered several startling reports of experiments run on the young Clementine. Withholding of food to see how it affected biotic abilities, multiple EKG's and months at a time spent hooked up to computers measuring energy output. How her parents had allowed it, Joker didn't know, and he wouldn't be caught dead bringing it up to the Commander.

Now, ensconced comfortably in his leather chair, Joker frowned at the controls in front of him. His jubilation at seeing Shepard alive was somewhat short-lived at the mention of the new Normandy's AI. EDI's blue holo was alight to his left, blinking obnoxiously and just plain in his space.

The soft cadence of footsteps behind him drew his attention back to the task at hand: their first relay jump with the SR-2.

"Joker, this is ace!" Shepard announced, her dulcet British accent ringing through the cockpit. The pilot couldn't help but crack a grin at the mention of his new pride and joy. He swiveled in his chair to face her, faltering a bit at the sight of her in a white and black Cerberus uniform.

She fills it out well, though, Joker thought before mentally chiding himself for ogling his commanding officer. But, indeed she did; the black fabric was cut and tailored to her body, outlined sharply with white piping.

"I have to admit," he replied, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Cerberus knows how to build a frigate. I can't wait to make her dance."

"It is improbable that a ship is able to dance, Mr. Moreau," EDI's voice emitted from her holo, flashing in time with the syllables.

"And then there's that," Joker groaned, scrubbing his previously laced hands across his face in indignation.

Shepard gave him a knowing look. A small part of the pilot wanted her to reach out and touch him again. The months spent in an alcohol-induced haze had given way to a myriad of illicit dreams, all of them involving his then-dead commander in compromising positions and outfits. Mixed in with the ever-present replay of her being blown away from the flaming wreckage of the SR-1, sleep was not a place where Joker sought solace. It had, however, given rise to apparent long-quashed feelings of want for Shepard. Like a goddamn teenager all over again, Joker had growled to himself. Painful erections and nowhere to find relief. He and his hand had been well acquainted over those next few lonely months, more so than usual. He'd chalked it up to frustration at his then-healing legs and lack of flight time.

"Play nice, Joker," Shepard warned with a wink. Her hair was an artfully arranged mess of curls around her face, flowing over her shoulders. He couldn't recall the last time he had seen her wear it down; on the SR-1, she was regulation down to the spit shine of her boots. Her hair had always been tamed by a gratuitous amount of gel, drawn into a tight knot at the base of her neck. Now, it was loose and shimmering in the bridge lights, a golden crown of soft ringlets. He bit back a groan and the longing to reach out and run his fingers through it.

Jesus fucking Christ, Jeff. She's been back all of three days and you're already losing it.

"I didn't ask for this, Commander," he said, throwing his hands in the air. "It could seriously affect my performance. I could become obsolete, no better than the rest of the chumps flight school turns out. No better than a shuttle pilot!" He fell back into his usual tactic of wit and sarcasm, wrapping a cocoon of biting snark around him. The mission came first, and he didn't need inappropriate images of Shepard dancing across his subconscious. The sharp fear of being grounded again before he even got a chance to put the SR-2 through her paces simmered alongside the gut-clenching guilt he felt every time he looked at his commander. He imagined his bubble of personal space expanding to encompass his entire chair. He would have liked to make it the entire bridge, but she was his commanding officer, and he did like her.

"I disagree, Mr. Moreau. My sole purpose is to assist in-"

Joker thumbed the mute button with practiced ease, and turned to give Shepard a dark look from under the bill of his hat. "See what I mean? Ship cancer."

Shepard shook her head and heaved a sigh, making Joker avert his eyes from the way her expanding chest caused her uniform to tighten in a spectacular way.

"How long until the jump?" she asked, laying her hands on the back of his chair to watch him expertly maneuver the haptic interface.

"Just coming up on the relay. Lots of traffic in this cluster, and without that nifty military clearance, we get to wait in line just like everybody else."

There were several perks to being Alliance, one of them being an automatic budge to the front of any relay line. Now, he ran a finger down the far right of the console, bringing the Normandy's thrusters down to 5% for low-speed cruising. He double-checked their lateral drift as they made their relay approach, staying far enough out to avoid an accidental collision with some other idiot who called himself or herself a pilot. The SR-2 was something akin to his wildest wet dream, and he ran another hand along the interfacing almost lovingly, banking them slightly starboard to approach the relay on a parallel. The ship responded, and Joker could feel the slight shift as the inertia dampeners kicked in to fight the sudden change of direction.

Several things needed to happen for the ship to successfully be catapulted through a whitehole. A computer interface was reading the total mass of the ship, as well as calculation down to the thousandth decimal their fuel usage as they taxied towards the relay. Any mishap in numbers and the Normandy would be torn apart at the seams and debris scattered in a linear pattern for millions of light years. He had to time their approach just right, as the relay became increasingly larger, rings spinning and whipping faster as the frigate slipped forward. A tendril of blue eezo shot out to encapsulate them, lighting the cockpit with a subtle glow. With the slightest tugging sensation, Joker felt the ship being flung forward, hurling through space-time at blistering speed. In seconds, the ship decelerated, and his hands flew over the controls with practiced ease.

"Piece of cake," he said to no one in particular, until a warm figure above him leaned her head down, curls sliding onto his hat and around his face. He felt his spine and shoulders tense at the intrusion, simultaneous with the twinge in his groin. Go away go away go away, I don't deserve your attention and you keep getting in my space. He leaned forward slightly, as if to adjust the IES system, when in fact he had entered the relay already stealthed.

"You make it look so easy," she said, and Joker turned the slightest bit to peek at her from the corner of his eye. Her dichromatic gaze was on the nebula in front of them, eyes sparkling in wonder. The scent of her shampoo –lavender and peony, if he had to guess- wrapped around his senses, and Joker felt his vision gray at the edges. He knew she must have been leaning against his chair on her tip-toes, perfectly balanced and completely at ease.

"We'll be at Freedom's Progress within the hour, Commander," he croaked, frowning at the husky pitch of his voice. If Shepard heard it, she said nothing, and simply squeezed his shoulders before walking away. Joker leaned his head against the back of the chair and allowed himself a throaty groan. This is what the extranet is for, old boy, he reminded himself, and tucked the thought away for later.

Shepard's quarters were pretentious, to say the least. Almost the entire upper section of the frigate was dedicated to the room and adjoining bathroom. Workers had taken to calling it "The Loft", due to its location above the CIC. Now, alone, she stared at the fish tank installed along the port wall, frowning. Besides the matter of the whole "being alive" fiasco, she was still trying to wrap her head around the sudden changes. In her mind, merely days ago she had been flung from the SR-1 out into space, white armor glinting as fires burned off any remaining oxygen in the ship. She'd ordered Kaiden and the rest of her crew into the escape pods before the sentinel's shout of "Joker won't leave the bridge!" spurred her into action. She had found him, a clear emergency breather mask over his face, foggy with his panicked breath. His hands flew over the controls, and mutters of "Come on baby, hold together, we've got this" broke her heart. Between the thought of losing her crew and her pilot and the desolation she knew he would feel at the demise of his ship, she was almost rooted to the spot. Another explosion rocked through the CIC, and she sprinted to the bridge, begging him to abandon ship. She had gotten him to the escape pod with seconds to spare, but the image of Joker's face was forever etched into her corneas; his eyes wide with terror as he reached out to grab her hand as an explosion blew her back. It was the first time she had noticed the color of his eyes, as she spun away from his escape pod, slamming her hand on the release button. They were green, like liquid emerald, the kind that you could sink into. His terrified face had been the first image she saw as Miranda's voice jarred her awake back on the Cerberus station. For a split second, she had tried to reach out to grab his hand, only to realize her muscles weren't quite obeying what her mind was telling them to do.

She'd been surprised and delighted to see him, standing nearly straight, a slight hint of pride at his almost unhindered gait. But then she had noticed the lines that had settled around his mouth and forehead, and the way his eyes looked tired and world-weary. He let his beard grow longer, and it suited him. In her effervescent haze, she recalled their easy friendship back on the SR-1, his whip-crack wit a match to her dry sense of humor. He was in her cockpit once again...alive and in one piece, but not necessarily whole.

She mused on his apprehensive behavior as she pulled off the Cerberus uniform to replace it with the slick black undersuit. It was brand new and slightly stiff as she worked it up her legs and over her arms, bending at the elbows. The fabric was woven with a Teflon-like fiber and silver of all things, treated with eezo. Supposedly it helped give her already phenomenal biotics extra oomf. She managed to pull the suit all the way up and zip it, collar coming halfway up her neck. She had new armor, painted white, and she thanked Miranda for a little piece of familiarity among all the craziness. The inside of the ceramic plating was coated with a conductive metal that allowed the hardsuit to monitor her vitals and biosigns, including temperature and heart rate. The armor was void of any Cerberus branding, and Shepard tallied another silent win on her imaginary chalkboard. The set was incredibly well fitted, and as she adjusted several gaskets, linking all the pieces of the suit together into one cohesive unit, she checked her medigel levels and made sure the readouts were correct. Twin pistols sat lightly at her hips, and her shotgun rested on the small of her back.

The last piece of equipment she had was her amp, placed surgically at the base of her skull. She pulled up her omnitool and ran a scan over the back of her head. She highly doubted the unit would be malfunctioning in any way; it was brand new, and apparently an 'experimental technology' superior to the L5 implants. Cerberus had tweaked her body in so many ways she lost count, but Miranda had promised she would find her abilities improved. Shepard had shaken her head at the suggestion, considering she was, in fact, one of the most powerful biotics on record, limited only by energy and an outdated amp. The readings came back normal, so she donned her gloves and made her way to the elevator and down to the CIC.

Kelly Chambers, her yeoman, chirped a happy greeting as she passed on her way to the bridge. Shepard nodded in acknowledgement, but skirted away from the woman for more familiar waters. Joker's space was claimed by the deep frown he wore, as well as his palpable annoyance at EDI and her "intrusions".

"Suited up and ready to kick some ass?" Joker quipped, not even bothering to look back at her. He was busy nosing the ship into orbit around the garden planet below them, geosynching them with colony's coordinates.

"I must admit, I am feeling a bit restless," she answered, and flexed her gloved fingers. The hardsuit was already sending a crackling buzz of biotic energy across the surface of her skin, and she tamped it down, leaving the sharp smell of ozone in its wake. Joker, sensing the increase of flowing eezo, turned to look at her from under the bill of his hat. Part of her saddened at the sight of his frown, which seemed just about permanently etched on his face. He had been in such a pleasant and playful mood earlier, but now he was just downright dour.

"Uh, what's with the light show, Commander?" he asked cautiously. She couldn't see his eyes under the shadow of his hat, but she knew that they were weary.

"Pent-up energy and a new biotic-enhancing hardsuit. An interesting combo."

"Ah, well, keep it away from me and the controls," he said tightly, turning back to the console. She heaved a sigh and tabbed the comm on her collar, calling for Miranda and Jacob to meet her in the shuttle bay.

"I wish you could take us down there," she said softly, trying to thaw his icy attitude.

"Can't," he replied simply. "This baby is too big to maneuver in atmo."

Shepard merely nodded, giving it up as a lost cause, and turned on her heel towards the elevator.

Joker sighed as the shuttle descended to the colony below, scratching absentmindedly at his beard. He could blame sexual frustration and sleep deprivation for his sour mood, but he knew it was just his usual manner of pushing people away. Even his commander wasn't immune to his misgivings and snark, and he had tried to ignore the sad sound of her sigh as she left the bridge. He flicked three screens up in front of him: Shepard, Miranda and Jacob's suit cams. Their biosigns displayed neatly underneath each, and he watched as they exited the shuttle into the desolate gloom.

Joker knew he was being unreasonable. But seeing Shepard wrapped in brilliant white armor, biotic energy running unchecked down her arms, his gut twisted with nerves. He'd been reminded of her mortality in the worst way; watching her spin away from the burning wreckage of the SR-1 as his escape pod ejected from the bridge violently, slamming him against the side and shattering four of his ribs. Watching her willingly walk into danger yet again without so much as a concerned look on her face made him inwardly cringe. The twinge of guilt he felt every time he looked at her added fuel to his anger and apprehension. But, as the planet-side team made their way through the colony, Joker felt himself thawing slightly at Shepard returning to active duty.

The mechs never stood a chance, and before they even got within shooting range, Joker watched through Jacob's vid feed as Shepard wrapped herself in a torrent of vibrant biotic energy, unleashing it with a flick of her wrist. The shockwave took out four mechs, and she whooped and punched a fist in the air in glee. He found himself smiling slightly at her celebration, admiring the way the blue energy danced across her blonde ponytail.

The team worked their way forward, breaking into a pod and stumbling upon a quarian, of all things. Joker was musing the encounter would only be complete if Tali showed up, and low and behold, she was there, along with several other quarian marines. He could hear the disappointment in Shepard's voice as Tali told her should wouldn't be joining their team, and he knew when she was back on the ship, she would be difficult to consol.

Joker was the only familiar face on the ship for Shepard, and he mentally kicked himself for being such a tool. Here he was, pouting over misplaced sexual tension and sore joints, when she was still coming to terms with being alive. He snorted and reached for his coffee mug, the last dregs of which had long been cold. Way to go, Jeff. You sure are good at fucking up. He swirled the dark drink, and snapped his head up as an idea came to him. Not too much, but not too little, he thought, and initiated the autopilot to shuffle to the crew deck.

He was correct in his assumptions of her dour mood when the shuttle settled into the ship's cargo bay. She snapped at Miranda when the woman tried to explain the necessity for Veetor to come aboard, and Shepard had taken the data from the quarian and sent him with Tali, a look of loathing shot directly at the Cerberus operative. The commander had stormed out of the elevator, giving a tight nod to Chambers as she made her way to the bridge, armored boots making a surprising amount of noise for someone so small. The wind that caught up with her as she stopped behind his chair brought the smell of burning metal and ozone, along with the faintest hint of lavender and peony shampoo.

"Set a course for the Citadel, Joker," she said through gritted teeth, arms crossed over her chest. He turned in his chair, a steaming mug of tea in his hand, and smiled up at her.

There were no stern-facing cameras on the bridge, otherwise he would have pulled a still of her expression from the security vid for his viewing pleasure. Her face went from utter frustration to jubilation, full lips parting into a thousand watt smile.

"For me?" she asked, reaching out for the mug. She'd removed her gloves at one point or another between the shuttle and the bridge, and her bare fingers brushed his, sending a current of electricity down his arms straight to his groin. The sharp snap of residual biotics accompanied it, and he forced himself not to jump.

"Who else?" he scoffed, pulling his hat brim low to shield his eyes. "I sure as hell don't drink Earl Grey."

His assurance that the tea was indeed for her melted a considerable amount of tension off her petite frame, and she clutched the mug in both hands, eyelids fluttering as she let the steam roll over her face. She took a tentative sip and sighed in contentment. "There's even lemon in it. You sure can be sweet, Joker," she said, mismatched eyes coming to rest on his. He fought the urge to squirm under her gaze, and instead arranged his face in a semblance of indignation.

"Yeah yeah, he muttered, turning back to the console. "Just don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to keep."

Her light laugh made his heart flutter slightly, and she shuffled to stand next to his chair rather than behind, leaning against it and sipping her tea. Her proximity, along with those damned biotics, made the hairs on his body stick up. He rubbed a hand over the arm closest to her.

"Thank you," she said, so quiet he almost missed it in the drone of the ship's FTL drives. "You're the only one I know here, Joker. And even if you weren't, I enjoy being around you. So stop trying to push me away, just to reel me in again with your expert tea-making skills."

His hands froze in their dance over the controls, and he turned to stare at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was no sign of mirth on her face, and he internally checked his attitude. "Don't get used to it," he said, but his tone was lighter, and he let a smile play on the edge of his lips. In an uncharacteristically brave move, he nudged her arm with his shoulder, just enough to jostle the mug in her hands. She glowered at him, and he gave her a wink.

"Cheeky bastard," she said, and with one last lingering look, left the bridge. Joker swiveled his chair to watch her go, eyes following her figure as she sauntered away.

Even in armor, you are sexy as hell, woman. He shook his head and returned to the job at hand, piloting his ship into the dark vacuum of space.