Shore Leave—Segment 1

Short Mass Effect Fanfic

Setting: Shortly after Mass Effect 1

Pairings: FemShep/Joker

Saren was dead. Although the words should have brought her joy, Commander Myla Shepard felt only a cold lump of dread festering in her stomach. The Citadel was safe—but for how long? Sovereign was destroyed (here she felt a small bloom of pride in her smartass pilot who'd fired the final blow) but more Reapers would come. The Council was too busy throwing celebratory parties and begging her to accept commendations to see the truth or they were too scared to face it.

We have dismissed that claim.

Anger spiked; she clenched her fists and shook her head. They weren't blind, but they worked pretty damn hard at keeping their eyes closed. Shepard took a deep breath—calm. There was too much official business to get out of the way for her to get emotional now.

Over the next week, Myla Shepard wrote medal recommendations for her team (Alenko's would be presented to his relatives posthumously), scheduling funeral services for those comparatively few aboard the Normandy SR1 who had died, and composing a formal letter of praise and general commendation for Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams to be sent to the Alliance military board. No more crap assignments for her. Luckily, Shepard had even managed to evade nosy reporters (with the exception of Emily Wong, to whom she had given her word).

Finally, after innumerable hours of hacking through red tape and a series of short, secret crying sessions in her personal quarters, she was ready. True, the Reapers were coming, but the defeat of Sovereign had bought the galaxy time. How much, Myla didn't know, but the crew had been through enough. It was time for a little well-deserved break.

She walked up the narrow passage between the command center and the cockpit, responding with a polite nod or friendly smile to every upbeat greeting that the "night" crew tossed her way. No stopping to talk, though, she had made her decision and would follow through before the Council or anyone else tried to send her off on a boring patrol mission.

The end of the walk—a comforting sight. Jeff "Joker" Moreau and his dark blue ball cap was as much a part of the Normandy as the Galaxy Map or the annoyingly slow elevator. She paused for a moment behind the pilot's chair, content to watch the deft movements of his hands as they manipulated the glowing readouts. Then her gaze was drawn to the empty copilot seat and, with a pang of remorse (and more than a little guilt) she remembered the man who used to sit there.

I had no choice, she reminded herself, repeating the tired argument that had become her mantra during many sleepless nights. There was nothing I could do. The words sounded as hollow now as they had the first time, and in a rush she remembered his shy smile, his soft voice, the way his forehead rankled into a frown at the onset of yet another migraine. She remembered when he'd confessed his feelings for her. She tried to forget the pain on his face when she'd told him that she didn't feel the same, that she—

"Commander? You okay?" Joker's voice, uncharacteristically serious, cut into her thoughts. She mentally shook herself.

"Yeah, thanks Joker," Myla said, bringing a hand up to her forehead, trying to banish the throbbing headache that had suddenly attacked her. He shrugged, sensing that she wouldn't elaborate, and turned back to his glowing consoles. Shepard sighed; she wished sometimes that he would try to talk with her. She placed a hand on his headrest.

"I've been thinking—" She started.

"Uh oh. That's never a good sign." Damn, he was quick. She managed a smile and flicked the bill of his cap so it covered his sea green eyes. "Hey!"

"The Normandy has been on mission for about four months straight. Her crew has been to hell and back. I think we need a little break."

He grinned and punched a hand in the air, "Sweet! Shore leave! I vote we go to Illium."

"You would. Fortunately," he groaned and she allowed herself a smug smirk, "I am the commanding officer, this is not a democracy, and I say we go to…" Her mind whirled and she picked the first planet to solidify in her thoughts. "Altair."

"You're kidding. Altair is the Florida planet—that's where all the old people go to retire."

"And why do they go there?" She prompted.

He heaved a resigned sigh, "Because of the white beaches, dual sunsets, and overall exotic scenery. I think asari are exotic."

"Your opinions, Joker, as always, are duly noted and ignored. Make it so!" She turned and walked away but caught his muttered comment.

"Aye-aye, Picard. I hate when she references Star Trek..."

Her pulse hammered at her wrists and throat. Gods, she didn't ever notice her heart rate going up until she'd left him. Shepard shook her head briskly, dismissing the soft half-formed thoughts. She couldn't afford to be emotionally compromised, couldn't risk her pilot—the best damn helmsman in the Alliance Fleet—becoming emotionally compromised.

Bullshit, said his voice inside her head, That was the excuse you gave Kaiden and Liara because you didn't want to hurt them. You're too soft and you know it. You just don't want to be hurt.

Enough, she told herself, I can't be distracted from the Reaper threat.

Then why are you going on shore leave? His voice was smug, wry, knowing. Why on Altair?

Shut up or I'll tell Chakwas that I hear voices.

She'll put you on heavy meds.

Yeah, well, maybe then I'd get some solid sleep.

Ah yes, but then you'd stop having those dreams.

Shepard stopped walking, felt a blush creep horribly across her cheeks. She glanced right, left, making sure no one had seen her behaving strangely. Good. Myla entered her private quarters and logged into her personal terminal.

She had an important message to send.