A/N: This is a companion piece to 'Wake'

Disclaimer: All lyrics used (We Still Fight) are the property of Jamie Jasta.

This is dedicated to all the people who have given their lives to uphold their beliefs, not to those that try to demean their sacrifices—you have no right.

Separation Anxiety

It was a fabulous place. The finest on the Citadel, Shepard had been told, the finest place for an exquisite gourmet meal and an unparalleled selection of wines, catering exclusively to the human community. The atmosphere was a quiet, respectful hush and the soothing tinker of silver against porcelain and glass on glass. Well-dressed waiters and waitresses and guests moved about on rich carpets watched over by magnificent tapestries hung upon the walls wherever one looked. Candles glowed on every dark tabletop, and to the side a large crystal chandelier hung above a large dance floor where a number of couples moved slowly to an old-fashioned waltz played on authentic instruments.

Shepard observed everything as he was led past the tables occupied by the rich and the famous; corporate owners or diplomats, film stars, even a five-star Alliance Admiral and his wife. In a far corner, at a table by himself, a thin man clasped his hands in prayer. Training and battlefield experience demanded he examine the area and note points of exit, defensible positions, the layout and composition of the crowd, the nearest place he could expect to find a weapon, and who he could turn to for back-up in case of any situation he couldn't handle on his own.

He did his best to suppress these ingrained habits, the last thing he wanted to do this evening was think business. Everything was perfect, down to the chafing black dress clothes without one stitch of military influence, down to the flower on his lapel. John Frederick Shepard was leaving "Commander" at the door for just a few hours. The music of Brahms drifted to his ears and he smiled, recognizing the sweet sounds of home.

"Your guest, Miss Penelope," the maître d'hôtel announced when Shepard arrived at the table.

She was dressed in a strapless gown of light coral silk, her hair was pinned in its customary bun by two thin crystal spikes. Shepard smelled her sweet lavender perfume as he kissed her hand with a flourish.

"You look gorgeous tonight, Ash."

She winked at him. "You don't look too bad yourself, skipper."

"Penelope?" he asked as they sat down to the table.

Ashley Madeline Williams shrugged her bare shoulders. "Fancy place, fancy name. It's a basic rule, you have to know this. Williams isn't sophisticated enough, why do you think I bothered with the fancy dress?"

"Here I was thinking you wanted to impress me. Consider me impressed."

"Shepard, you shameless charmer, it's part of the role. To fit in at a place like this, you need two things: fancy clothes and a fancy name."

"Ash, I can't think of a name that would sound fancier to me than Williams," he admitted truthfully. "Plenty of stuffier names, certainly, but one concrete thing I've learned about you is you're anything but stuffy."

"No room for stuffiness among friends?"

Shepard smiled. "It would be quite impossible for you to be stuffy, Ash. And honestly, if anyone should be worried about having a not-fancy-enough name, it's me. I've got a name that conjures thoughts of herds of sheep, tell me that belongs in a place like this."

Ashley smiled again. "You're incorrigible."

"I try."

An impeccably dressed waiter arrived at the table. "Welcome to Paradise, my name is Taylor and I'll be your waiter this evening. May I interest you in one of our prized wines to start things off?"

Shepard was about to answer no before Ashley spoke up. "Yes, do you have a recommendation?"

"The vintages from Lauze Nokoncy are exceptionally fine; it's a rich burgundy with notes of mellow pine teas."

"Do you have the '77?" she asked.

"Indeed we do. Excellent choice." The waiter made a note on his antiquated paper pad. "I'll bring that out to you right away."

"Thank you." Ashley looked back at Shepard. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You should really have a glass of wine every once in a while, skipper. How else am I supposed to loosen you up?"

He shifted in his chair. "Am I really that stiff?"

"Well, unless there's a wooden plank down the back of your shirt..." she said with an eyebrow raised in amusement.

This 'relaxed' thing was going to need some work, Shepard thought. With familiar ease he closed his eyes and practiced tensing and then relaxing his muscles while he tapped his fingers on the pristine white tablecloth with its subtle hexagonal pattern. He opened them upon the delivery to the table of the bottle of '77 Lauze Nokoncy. Ashley had been watching him the entire time.

"Was that something you learned on Myrmida?" she asked while the waiter set down the wine glasses and uncorked the decadent vintage, letting its deep aroma waft over the table.

Shepard nodded. "When alternative therapies failed they went back to the basics, which they should have tried in the first place. I used to have nervous seizures, but it turned out that getting my mind probed wasn't the answer, so they taught me some relaxation techniques to go along with the rest of the therapy and a few cybernetics they were using to help with the brain chemistry problems." He shrugged away the thoughts of that time. "It's an easy training to fall back on, especially these days."

Ashley took a luxuriant sip of her wine. "So Admiral Hackett recruited you for Internals Affairs straight out of Myrmida? What was it like on Langley Station?"

It gave him the creeps was the truth of it. The little-known, ghostlike watchdog of Arcturus Station tracked every military transmission in Alliance space, yet the headquarters for Alliance Internal Affairs where he'd held his 'recuperative' transitional job coming out of Myrmida was like an information black hole; everything went in for intense scrutiny, but next to nothing came out.

"Different," he said with a dismissive shrug. "A far cry from the front lines, which I guess was the point of it, Hackett was handling me cautiously. But it was still an assignment, still important, and by that time I was desperate to be back at work. I couldn't stand the doctors and the white walls anymore.

"But you'd hate it, Ash. Politicians dropping by every few days, more protocol than the race of man knows what to do with, and most of your time spent digging up dirt on fellow soldiers."

"So you'd find people for them to give crap assignments?" Her voice had an edge to it and he understood why. The name Williams curried no favor on Langley Station.

"What I did mostly was identify people of ours who needed help," he answered carefully. "People suffering from post-traumatic stress, paranoia, nervous breaks. It was my job to get them off the front lines. There's a lot of messed up people in the Alliance, Ash."

Ashley nodded. "I understand. Back when I was still an FNG, in my first combat squad we had a private named Mendoza who would go a little nuts after a few drinks. He'd go off and say things like how man wasn't meant to be in space or we'd all left our souls back on Earth. We all thought he'd shake it off when he got sober, but he never really let go of it, and he got worse every time he found a way to get drunk. I felt a little sorry for Mendoza, and I worried how he was gonna hold up in an actual combat situation. But eventually he got pulled from our rotation, and I never saw him again. About a week later I heard he was getting psychotherapy."

Shepard took a dainty sip of his wine. "You see? Us spooks aren't all bad."

Ashley smiled. "Skipper, if you think having a little cloak-and-dagger work in your file is gonna get you off the hook for this romantic date of ours, you've got another thing coming."

"Cheers to that," he said. "So what will take to convince you I'm not worth your time?"

"Afraid you don't have a snowball's chance in hell of that, sir."

They both laughed.

A few minutes later a thin, slight girl wearing a veil over her face arrived with their entrees. Shepard didn't remember actually ordering, but there were other things on his mind and it didn't seem important. After thanking the server it was his turn to sit and stare as he had so often wanted to do recently, while Ashley expertly picked at her plate.

The one still picture he had of her simply could not do her justice, that charmingly subtle, unapologetic beauty of a homegrown girl who stuck to her guns. He carried her picture even now in an inside jacket pocket; it was his constant reminder of why he strapped a rifle to his back every day. He only wished he had thought to make a recording of her laugh, her old-fashioned honest laugh that spoke volumes of her hearty soul and even heartier wit.

Shepard missed her terribly.

Seeing his stare, Ashley asked, "What? Is there something on my face?" She had a wry look in her eyes.

"No, but I'd like to put a kiss there if you don't mind," Shepard said with a grin.

Ashley flung a piece of lettuce at him with her fork. She giggled. "Now how's that for a first date. Why does it seem to be working?"

Before he could reply, Shepard was approached by another of the hotel staff, a perky woman with short red hair. "Mr. Shepard, you have a message at the desk."

Shepard groaned inwardly. One night, that was all he asked, one night free of obligations and distractions. But apparently it wasn't to be. He gave Ashley a helpless look.

"Go ahead, Shepard, I'll wait," she said.

"Okay, I'm coming," Shepard told the lady and started to rise from the table. "One more thing," he said to Ashley. "Penelope had to wait twenty years for Odysseus to come back, I hope that's not a reflection of your confidence in me."

Ashley scrunched up her nose and brow and shook her head. "Still joking, I see. We should talk about this humor of yours, skipper."

"I'm afraid I'm still hopeless."

"Hopeless? No. Maybe shameless," she concluded. "But worth it."

"I'll be back, Ash."

"I know you will, John. So go save the universe."

Reluctantly, he turned away from the table, from Ashley, and from his coveted time alone with her, and followed the woman to the front desk where his message waited at a blinking terminal.

Shepard knew who it was waiting for him at the other end of the line. He didn't want to answer but he knew he had to. He felt as if the eyes of everyone he'd seen this evening were on him, watching him, waiting to see if he would put his feet on the path he knew had to be walked in spite of its difficulty. They were all watching him; the man praying in the corner, the waiter and his wine, the serving girl who hid her face, even the red-haired hostess.

There was no name attached to the message, but he knew exactly who it was, and answering him was the last thing he wanted to do.

Shepard reached into his jacket and took out his photograph of Ashley.

Some things were worth fighting for, dying for.

There was a loud crash and his entire world shook as a rocket smashed into the organic pillar he crouched behind, the EMP staticking out his radio feed for a few seconds. Beside him, Krios and Lawson were poised on the edge, unloading death on the insectoid enemies amassed at the other end of the chamber. He hesitated a moment longer to burn the image on his photograph into his mind, then quickly tucked it back away in a pocket.

The sharp crack of Krios's sniper rifle was followed by a momentary lull in the ferocious gunfire. Lawson's voice buzzed in his ear-piece. "Come on, Commander, we need to move!"

"Moving!" he shouted in response.

Gripping his rifle, he leaped into the fray.

For those who fought for our rights, and for those who gave their lives, and for the families whose loved ones died; it's their honor for which we still fight.