First I would like to thank those of you who reviewed, favorited, and alerted. That was seriously the radest thing. I'm glad that you guys are intrigued and hopefully I can keep it and your interest going. I have a lot of major plans for this story, and hopefully, I don't fuck it up.

Anyways, thank you all so much for reading and being kickass and just...awesome :)

Whenever he looked at the photographs, he thought of new things he should have done.

It was crazy how intense the sounds of the ship grew when all the crew had quieted down for its brief few hours of rest. These moments were very few and far between but when it happened the silence was all but overwhelming. It was the sort of silence that left you alone with your own thoughts and for James that wasn't necessarily something that he enjoyed.

James never did get much rest himself but he did always take that down time as a moment to lie down and attempt to grab some sleep. When all you could hear is the loud hum of the Normandy's engine, and the thrum that sent small vibrations along the metal grate of the floor along his back or on under his feet (depending on whether he was standing or lying down), he found what little comfort he could in the silence it offered.

With this loco war going on, it seemed almost laughable that any of the crew would take the time for sleep. But it was like Scars had told him: To win a war you can't half ass it; soldiers needed rest to keep them sharp. You didn't want to send soldiers running in halfcocked. Poor bastards probably wouldn't make it more than five feet before a bullet or one of those fucking Husk things took them down.

God, just thinking about those things gave him the creeps causing his skin to crawl as his body shivered.

So, with Scars words always lingering in his ear, here he was trying urgently to get at least a few minutes of sleep in. His mind always refusing his bodies request for rest, which constantly left him pissed off. His body was the ultimate weapon, he never considered himself anything else, but when the weapon in question wasn't able to do some required upgrading, it was more than just a little irritating.

James could no longer think past war and to be honest, at times, he didn't want too. To even try was like drifting back into dangerous territory that held too many unknowns. So he forcibly struggled with every passing minute of every waking hour to stay away from those kinds of thoughts.

Thinking lead to decisions and for the past year James couldn't allow himself to even consider trying to make calls on his own. He didn't trust himself with the outcomes and backlashes that would happen if he did.

The Peruvian whiskey he'd grabbed when he'd had a "friendly" game of poker with the Major had done just enough to help him to actually relax. His muscles visibly starting to ease as he rested his arms behind his head, crossing his ankles, as he stared up at the blank ceiling of the shuttle bay.

He knew he wasn't going to sleep anytime soon even if he had drunk the entire bottle without any help this time from Esteban. But as the warmth of the whiskey began to spread through him it became easier for his body to lie languidly on the bay's floor.

This was as relaxed as he was going to get.

The sparring match with Shepherd had been unyielding, yet therapeutic in a way. He'd been able to completely leave out Mac and any other really private details, and Shepherd had appeared satisfied with the information James had given him. Not trying to pry any further.

After Shepherd had caught him off guard and landed him on his ass, he'd informed him that his life was worth living, that mistakes happen, and that it was their responsibility as protectors to continue on with the fight. So that those who had sacrificed their lives in the process to protect the weak wouldn't go to waste. That their sacrifice was worthy because it was noble; that it had saved lives.

An aggressive sneer slide across his face as his eyes squinted up with an unbearable hatred at the ceiling at the absurdity of the idea.

In what way was anyone's death noble? Especially all the death going on right now around them. So many women and children dying. The petrified men who act like cowards hiding in corners instead of defending the very people he says he loves. How was that in anyway noble? Shepherd could call James whatever he wanted, he didn't fucking care, but if there was one thing he wasn't, it was a coward.

What the hell were you thinking Mac? He thought bitterly.

It wasn't until it was too late did he realize his mistake.

It'd been a long time since he'd thought or even spoken her name out loud. He'd avoided it like the plague; at the cost of keeping his sanity. He'd even trained Esteban to only refer to Mac as "She" or "Her," never by her name.

He couldn't bear to hear it.

But here he was, thinking it, and fighting his tongue from muttering it like the foulest of curses. He'd be sure to blame this all on the Peruvian whiskey later when he sobered.

Removing one of his arms from behind his head, James felt it begin a slow descent down to the left side pocket of his trousers.

He knew all too well what lied within that pocket and almost instantly his body broke out into a sweat; a sickening ache of anticipation and fear growing more extreme as his fingers edged closer. By the time his fingers disappeared inside the pocket he'd nearly became violently ill; his calloused fingers shrinking back from the delicate filmy paper as if it had bite him.

This would be just another thing he would accuse the Peruvian whiskey of. Along with the stupid notion of bringing up Mac.

The second time his fingering brushed out against the paper it didn't shrink back. Instead, they deftly roamed over the edges he knew already to be worn down from over exposure and mindless rubbing. Even knowing where the curled edge that held the smudge mark that had resulted in whatever alcohol he'd been drinking that he'd spilt on it.

A sizable breathe shook free from his large chest; not even realizing that he had been holding it in until the screaming burning of his lungs informed him otherwise.

Almost angrily, his hands convulsed around the picture, and without a second thought lurched it free from his pocket, and brought it up to his eyes.

It took what felt like forever for his drunken vision to clear before he could finally focus on what was in front of him. But when his vision did clear up, and he was able take in the whole photo without interruption, he felt his breathe catch sharply, as his thumb ran absentmindedly over her beautiful smiling face.

Marcela.

In a matter of seconds he was rushed with what felt like an avalanche of emotion.

Grief. Love. Anger. Regret. Loss. Betrayal. Despair. Excitement. Pleasure. Joy.

At the end, as his continued to stroke her side of the photo, he could feel the surge of happiness that the photo brought. How amazing he had felt that day and the look on her face as she laughed somewhere off to his side at his reluctance to take the photo.

Mac had always had a love for old style photos. James himself had only ever seen the kind of camera she carried on old vids and had found it amusing that she carried it around with her like a second gun. She'd felt like taking pictures that day as they walked around the colony, and James could still remember the mischievous glint in her eyes as she'd turned to him. A playful smirk raising the corners of her, full, pink hued mouth as she made her way towards him.

At that moment he could've cared less what wicked idea she had just come up with. All James was focused on was the captivating woman that was walking towards him. Remembering with pain-staking clarity the way her thin alliance tank had hugged tightly to her chest, the way her hips swayed liked every step was a dance, and her long, wavy cinnamon hair framing her face as she drew closer.

Glancing back at the picture now he caressed his thumb over the wavy length he could see; as if he could possibly feel it one more time.

It had always felt like a major victory to him when he was able to talk her out of putting it up in her harsh bun that she favored. And James knew that whenever she wore it down without his provocation, it was because she chose to do it for him, because she knew how much he loved it.

He missed running his hands through the soft, silky length of her hair.

She'd sat down gently, boarding on playful, in his lap and easily melded herself against him as she wrapped a secure arm around his neck. He'd wrapped a possessive arm around her waist in return; pulling her in just a little more tightly and inhaling the sweet scent of almond, honey, and the still strong scent of the orange she'd had earlier with their lunch.

Her body responded immediately to him and leaning in close to his ear she spoke, voice breathy:

"Take a picture with me."

His body went rigid at the thought. Shit, he'd only voluntarily taken two pictures in his entire life. One was for his personnel file for the Alliance and the second was of the whole squad. As much as he loved to flaunt himself, James Vega just did not do pictures.

It didn't even take Mac a millisecond to feel his resistance and instead of pouting, she laughed. It was joyous, light, and full. He'd watch her head fly back; her eyes tighten as her laughter shook against his arm. It was so infectious he couldn't help but smirk as he watched her, while his large hand gave her thigh a frisky squeeze.

"What?"

"I can't believe the big and bad Mr. Vega," she teased, drawing out Esteban's choice name for him, "Is scared to take a picture. Scared it's gonna steal your soul or something?"

James fiend terror making her chuckle.

"Can it do that?" he said, voice quivering in mock fear.

Playfully she hit his arm.

"Come on! Seriously, what's so wrong with taking a picture with me?"

"Nothing," he laughed. "Nothing is wrong with taking a picture with you."

"Then why don't you want too?"

He shrugged his massive shoulders; finding it funny when she moved a little with the gesture.

"Maybe I just don't want to be caught seen with you," he teased.

He couldn't help but laugh hysterically as her mouth dropped open in a surprised O and tried to remove herself from his lap.

"Alright, I see how it is then-"

James had grabbed her roughly by her hips and sat her back down on his lap. She'd turned a bright smile on him as she returned her arm back around his neck as he used his free hand to pull her closer towards him.

"Alright-alright, you can take the damn picture."

"Woo you sound so excited. You gonna smile? Show them those pretty teeth of yours?"

"Hey, what are you talking about? All of me is pretty."

"Oh yes," she giggled, "You're the prettiest slash beefiest man I've ever met. It's an amazing feet really, to be so pretty yet so big at the same time. It must have been hard growing up so pretty and such-"

She was rambling, like she always did when she'd get nervous or excited. The easiest way he'd learned to shut her up was to kiss her. So he did just that. Lacing his hands into her hair he pulled her mouth roughly down on his; at first continuing the roughness, as he claimed her mouth , but slowly, nearing the end his other hand drifted up to gently run his fingers along her jawline. By the end, and before he'd pulled away, the hungry kiss and turned soft, and as he pulled back from her mouth, his body now hungry to take her somewhere private, he growled, "Take the damn picture."

It took her a while to register what he'd said, as her heart hammered against his chest, until finally the light clicked on. Clearing her throat she adjusted herself against him while he watched an amused smile on his face, at her flustered attempts to regain her control.

Lifting her arm up in front of them he'd remembered at the last second what he'd just agreed too and fought not to cringe for the second time. Instead, he decided to distract himself by nuzzling his face into her neck, his lips grazing along her throat, and then playfully blowing air into her ear.

That had got her laughing and right as she went to pull away the camera had snapped the shot.

It had frozen that moment into what James thought as the perfect picture; one of those good memories that he had so few of.

Mac was laughing openly, looking, to what James hoped, was blissfully off into the distance as he blew the air into her ear, tickling her. Her arm was still wrapped around his neck, her hand clutching onto his shoulder, as he had pulled her closer into his arms. And if you paid really close attention, if you really looked, you could see the faint traces of a smile on his lips.

He looked happy. He was happy.

Now happiness seemed far away, distant, like it had never really existed at all too begin with. Like she had never existed too begin with.

Suddenly all the other emotions took a backseat as fear paralyzed him and gripped him painfully tight in the chest. Running his thumb more frantically over her image he almost began to scream at the idea that soon he would forget even these simple memories, forget what she looked like; that she had even existed.

He felt like a drowning man searching frenziedly for something to grasp onto. Any memory, image, scent, phrase-anything! As long as it had something to do with her he would be fine.

Finally his mind gave him peace when he scrambled all the way back to the first day she had entered his life, and without hesitation, he dived head first back into the memory.

I know a lot of us aren't used to seeing the vunerable side of Senor Vega but I always felt like there was more to him than his cocky, smexy, badass exterior. Of course, he is all of those things BUT I thought it would just be interesting to explore Fehl and these other emotions; emotions he may not be able to deal with so well.

As always, I am wondering what you guys are thinking. If you've got any questions or comments let me know :)

Thank you all so much for reading!

Much Love