A/N: Written for tumblr user bettydice and the prompt "Haunt Me"
The last thing to go is the smell of her hair on the pillow where he lays his head.
He knows, of course, that it all has to be in his imagination. There are days when he thinks that it must be the way his implant acts up, itching at a part of his brain wired all wrong. Kaidan has always felt a little bit like a ticking time bomb, doing the best he can through the pain, through the headaches, and now through the pitying glances of doctors who can only shrug and tell him that there isn't much they can do but make him comfortable.
The thing is, he never expected to live this long. By Shepard's bullets and the grace of God he's been given reprieve after reprieve - at Eden Prime, on Virmire, above Alchera. The place where shrapnel tore through his hardsuit on the streets of London still burns occasionally with the phantom pain of hot metal through his flesh, but he lived.
He lived, for what it was worth.
No one ever officially told him what happened to Shepard, but then they hadn't needed to. The moment she was gone he felt it, even separated by miles of space, through the shudder of cannon fire and the buzz of anesthetic through his veins, like a hand going limp, fingers sliding away like water seeping through the edges of a cracked glass.
He hadn't wanted to wake up, then. Now. Every day since. It's made the dark not seem like such a foreign creature. He's drifted in the black before, and in a way this is a blessing. The years have been long, and not altogether kind, and there are mornings when the sun shines over her side of the bed that he can feel her under his arm, warm and solid and real.
Sleep is softer. Sleep is kinder. Sleep is -
They've told him it'll be just like going to sleep, and that's never been such a bad thing.
Vega just doesn't get it, haunting the halls of the hospital in civvies that look more and more like a uniform. He keeps thinking they can patch him up, that 'the Major' will be back on his feet in no time. Cortez understands, though. He's run enough shuttle missions to recognize a lost cause when he sees one, when the damage is too severe and all the medigel and the prayers in the world won't be enough to put back together what was broken.
Steve knows a little too well. He'd gone looking for Shepard, after the Citadel fell. He'd come looking for Kaidan, too, the day the Normandy made port in Brussels, all those long years ago.
It was a fine line to walk. Always had been.
Letting go is Shepard's legacy: of pain, of the past, of fear and hopelessness and heartache. Of anchors and expectations. Of misconception and prejudice. Of mistakes. Of regret. Of hate.
The least he can do is go gracefully.
They'll be okay, he thinks. Everything is in order. The bed is made, the dishes done. Liara knows what to do with his place, knows how to contact everyone once it's all over. He didn't want her there for the end, doesn't want anyone there to see - there's nothing to see.
With his eyes closed he can almost feel her there, whisper kisses against his eyelids and strong fingers on the wrinkles in his brow.
The last thing to go is the smell of her hair on the pillow where he lays his head.