The man in navy blues who is her son pauses as he sees her in the lounge, and then resumes that slow, as if dreamy walk towards her, and the sight of him makes Hannah's heart wrench.

Connor never used to walk like that.

Never.

As a child, he was agile and fast, though rather short for his age, and unhappy for it, until he grew up quickly, almost overnight, when he had almost given up hope that he ever would. After that, followed a period of clumsiness: like a pup of some big dog, with paws too large and limbs too long and not really knowing how to master them. It's a time Hannah remembers fondly: as a side-effect, the clumsiness produced a sort of shy charm, so endearing as it reminded her of his first attempts at walking when barely one year old. Then, almost overnight again, he suddenly became a man like his father had been, strong and graceful, and walked with strides full of self-confidence and energy.

Neither is there now, and he walks with the steps of a stranger.

He stops a few – too many – steps from her. "Hello, mom. You didn't tell me you were coming."

Of course not. You would have told me not to. "Hello, son. The Orizaba was due for repairs, so I took a few days off." It was the other way round, but it doesn't really matter. Hannah crosses the remaining space to embrace him, reluctant or not, and he duly offers his cheek for a kiss. The gesture hides the fresh scars from sight, and she holds to him tighter than she intended.

Almost immediately he moves to release himself. "Mom… not here, please."

His voice is tense and Hannah sees that most of the unnatural calmness is a sham. "Of course. Let's move out, you must be sick of hospitals."

He only nods and they set out, two officers in their blues, walking side by side, impersonally. The silence lingers.

"I've rented a small flat in a quiet neighbourhood, near a park, so we can go over there... or have you found a place to stay already?"

Connor shakes his head.

"There are two bedrooms, you can stay till you find something more to your liking, or as long as you want, the rent can be prolonged after I leave."

"Perhaps," he says blandly.

"Or are you hungry? Would you like to stop for a meal somewhere?"

"I… no, mom, I'm not hungry. Your place will be fine."

Running out of momsy topics, Hannah remains silent. She has spoken to him before, and to the doctors, as well; she knew what to expect. It's no easier for her to cope with the wall of silence for that, though.

They exit the elevator and walk along a short corridor, the large window panes offering a view of a small park within the hospital block. A nice, quiet place for recovery, only now it contains some wasps in its honey.

The corridor outs into the passage to the main entrance, and this is there the wasps have flocked, with their microphones and camera drones. "Damn them reporters," Hannah mutters, rather annoyed, as she glimpses them from the last windows. Doctor Flores had assured her that the day of Connor's release from the hospital care would remain confidential; apparently, someone took care that it didn't. "Let's deal with them quick and –"

Seeing Connor turn ghastly pale freezes the words in her mouth. With disbelief, she sees the sheen of perspiration on his face, his eyes, dilating, flickering wildly.

It is only a matter of time before they are spotted.

"Connor," she takes him by the arm, "I know that you don't feel up to this but we can –"

"Can't… I can't, not any more…" his voice is deformed by numb lips and, to her horror, he looks as if he is about to faint.

"Connor Shepard," she says somewhat more sharply than she wanted, "don't tell me that you'd freak out because of some stupid reporters!"

His eyes barely focus on her. "Get me out of here… please…"

"Connor!"

Gosh, if the reporters see him like this…

Digging her fingers into his arm, she gives him a sharp yank, and when that doesn't work, she barks into his face: "Pull yourself together, Lieutenant! Now! That's an order!"

That does it – for a moment, he looks as if she had struck him, but he has snapped from whatever it was that held him, and Hannah presses on: "Calm down. Breathe. We'll go through this together. Whatever they ask, you have just been released, you are still recovering, you thank them for their attention, fullstop. If they want mission details, they are to address the army PR guys. If they are bothersome, I'll deal with them. Is that clear? – Is that clear?" She repeats when he doesn't respond immediately, while seeing peripherally the crowd ripple with excitement and all heads turn towards them.

"…yes. Yes, mom."

"Good. Breathe. You can do this. Now, offer me an arm and we're good to go."

Together, they walk towards the buzzing cameras.


Hannah sighs with relief only after the rented skycar, running on autopilot, steers into one of the highways. Connor sits motionless, staring ahead, his hands clasped in his lap: a picture of false serenity. He doesn't look at her even when she addresses him.

"Connor," she tries again, touching his shoulder; he makes only the tiniest gesture of recognition.

Hannah bites her lip. The psychologist, Ivan Kutsyk, gave her quite a detailed overview, and outlined strategies to deal with this, but, damn, this is her son.

Besides, a soldier also knows that the time for a breach comes when there is a weakness, and subtlety be damned.

"Son… won't you tell me what the hell has just happened?"

The response is a bit more than she wanted.

"Tell you?" he issues a sound between laughter and a sob. "Tell you? Isn't that funny how that's the only thing everyone ever wants? 'Tell me this' and 'tell me that', does no-one really give a fuck that perhaps I'd rather not tell, for a change?"

Taken aback by the outburst, she doesn't respond, and Connor rakes the suddenly trembling fingers through his hair.

"Every single fucking day, someone comes prodding at me and wants me to tell, really, no pressure at all, why the fuck can't you all just leave me alone? 'Tell us how you feel, Lieutenant', how the fuck they think I might feel? As if it wasn't enough that I see it every night –"

The hands, stopping in mid-gesture, fly to cover his face.

Slowly, feeling as if she was walking a minefield, Hannah places her hands over his. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but don't hide from me. Don't act as if I've never seen you cry, silly."

He resists a little longer, but after the weeks on the edge, plagued by constant nightmares, he gives in. He lets his hands down, lets his guards down, lets her embrace him and lets tears go.

Rocking him gently, Hannah leans her cheek against the top of his head and waits for the surge of emotions to wear off. Finally, when the sobs subside and he moves away a little, she procures a tissue.

"Thanks," he mutters, wiping his face and blowing his nose. He rakes his fingers through his hair again. "Sorry for that, mom."

"That's alright."

"No, it's not. You didn't deserve that. It's –" he raises his hand to his eyes and lets it fall back. "I – I'm afraid that I am starting to lose my mind, mom. It keeps coming back, every night, even with pills I get only a couple of hours of sleep, and then, I'm back there again and live it all through till I wake up screaming. I can't get it off my mind at night, and they have me constantly come back to it at day, all the time. Even when Kutsyk says that we can talk something else, it's the sole reason why he is there in the first place, so it's really no use, it's still there and won't go away."

"Now that you have been released from hospital, it should be easier to distract yourself," Hannah remarks. "Hospitals are crazy even under more normal circumstances."

"So I keep telling myself. I'm still to have those sessions with Kutsyk, though – I'm off the duty until he gives me a go." He casts a sidelong glance at her. "Did he tell you about that incident with that reporter?"

"Which reporter?"

Connor closes his eyes and leans his head against the seat. "A couple of days ago, a girl from some local network sneaked into the hospital… into my room. She pretended to be a nurse, you know, but she had a camera and… 'tell our viewers how you feel, Lieutenant'." He shakes his head. "I think I started yelling at her… I don't really remember what exactly. I lost there the whole unit, my best friends… is that really so difficult to figure out how I feel about that?"

His voice quavers and Hannah takes him by the hand, seeing new tears escape from under the closed lids.

"You know what happened to Toshio and Yelena?" he asks almost inaudibly.

She does; she clearly remembers the two of them, so cheerful and full of life on that shoreleave on Terra Nova… the gruesome details of their deaths cut deep.

Connor is breathing raggedly. "If anyone asked me that…" He doesn't finish, and only after a while says in a more normal voice: "I wouldn't have coped with those reporters if you hadn't been there, mom."

"I was. Don't flagellate yourself over 'ifs', Connor Shepard, that's the surest way to hell."

"No big difference, I feel like I'm already there, I can tell you," he mutters.

"You can?"

Realizing what he has said, he laughs a little. "I do. Now, could we call this a day and really, really talk something else? I need a break, mom."

"Of course. That's what I'm here for, silly."


At the rented apartment, they change from their blues and spend the rest of the day outdoors: a mother and her son, holding their hands while walking; an arm around each other's shoulders when sitting on a bench. They stop for dinner in a small restaurant; she has a small beer, Connor doesn't, because of the medication.

The whole rest of the day, they talk: fun staff and reminiscences, current issues, the past, the future… and each and every topic, no matter how distant, inevitably goes on a tangent, touching on something related to the raw memory of Akuze.

The first time it happens, Connor falls silent in mid-sentence, with an expression of despair; but Hannah's arm is firm around his shoulders, and after a while, he finishes what he was saying.

Other such instances go more smoothly after that.

As the day passes into the night, they prepare for bed early. Connor takes long: the healed scars will require tending for some time yet. Hannah makes use of the time he spends in the bathroom doing her correspondence and making a few necessary calls; when he emerges with an apologetic grin, she pretends a frown. "Stalling again, Connor Shepard?"

He laughs at that: the evasive actions he used to do as a boy only to get to bed as late as possible certainly never faded from memory but then his expression freezes. "Gosh, am I?" he mutters.

Hannah deactivates her tool and walks over to him. "No way I'm carrying you to your bed."

That produces a faint smile in response.

She accompanies him to the bedroom and kisses him for good night.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes in his hand the pills prepared on the bedside table. As she fetches him a glass of water, he looks up at her. "What a commanding officer would I make if I wake up screaming every night?"

"That will pass, son," she says with every ounce of assurance she can gather, "that will pass."

"When?" he mutters as he swallows the dose.

"With time," she answers softly. Months after Fareed's accident, she still had nightmares of burning ships; she never told Connor.

She also used to have nightmares of losing him after that, as well, her tender boy; she never told him, either.

In those years, Connor used to have nightmares of his own: childish fantasies of lurking monsters which inhabited the darkspace and crept out at night. Time and again, he would come snuggling to her in the middle of the night, for comfort.

These did pass, as well, with time.

Hannah feels her throat tighten. "Make me some space," she says.

When they lie side by side, she pulls the blanket over them: the long-forgotten familiarity even more awkward for his broad shoulders and his head heavy on her arm. She can't help but start giggling at the silliness, and Connor joins her: soft, relaxed laughter.

"Mom," he says after a while, watching the shadows cast by the decorated shade of the night lamp. "I'm glad you're here."

Her throat tightens. "Always, sweetheart. Always." Her right hand meets his left, entwining their fingers… feeling the uneven skin underneath.

"Will you sing to me?" he asks softly.

Sing to me. Adventure stories were for the beddy time; whenever he woke up from a bad dream, it was a time for singing.

She could tell him that she has no power to keep his nightmares at bay. Or that he is a man grown, and grown-ups do not cope with their fears like that. She could resort to the rational, reiterate the psychological lecture of processing trauma and survivor's guilt.

Hannah relieves her throat: she hasn't sung in years. The simple melody of the first lullaby that she recollects is uneven and rasp until she manages to relax her vocal chords and give at least some semblance of purity to her weak voice.

She sings, letting everything go. There's only the song, and the memory of the boy snuggling to her, warming up and relaxing while falling asleep. She always waited then a little longer, listening to his even breath, savouring his warmth against her, before she carefully carried him back to his own bed.

When she runs out of songs, Connor is fast asleep. She carefully removes her arm from under his head and sits on the bed, rubbing the numb muscles. Then she turns to him to watch him asleep: she hasn't had the chance in years. The night lamp casts long shadows of his nose and brows, his eyes sinking in darkness; the light adds softness to the cheekbones and jaw with the ever-present stubble that always grew faster than he could manage to shave.

Then, the one thing she cannot get accustomed to: running from the temple all the way down, the scar.

With time and money and many more plastic surgeries, it might eventually be almost invisible, Doctor Flores told her. It's not particularly disfiguring even as it is now, though; despite the prolonged time between the injury and the treatment, the modern medicine and technology have considerably mitigated the effects of the acid splash, even with the much worse burns on the arm and shoulder. No discomfort, no loss of functionality… the scars are now merely a cosmetic defect.

The scars.

Hannah has to resist the urge to cup his face and cover that offence to the youthful skin, reminding her with every look that mere few inches, and he would have lost his eye; he would have –

She would have lost him.

The tears she has been keeping at bay the whole day finally spill but she doesn't cry long: in his presence, with his calm breath, induced by the sedatives, fear and pain are washed away more easily.

'Time and peace are now of essence,' Doctor Flores told her, and Doctor Kutsyk kept nodding to it. 'Time and peace and gradual regaining of confidence.'

Somehow, Hannah suspects that during that single day together, Connor has told her more than he had told Kutsyk in weeks, but while this might be the start, the end is still a long way to go.

Studying her son's face, she cannot help but ponder how this all is going to play out: time and peace may not be enough if there is not the will to drive the healing process. Does he have it in him? Will and determination have already kept him alive but to survive is not the same as to live on. As they talked, Connor did touch on the subject of future several times – the return to duty, the mind-blowing possibility of the ICT course – but these sounded as options so far in time that they did not really relate to him, Lieutenant Connor Shepard, grounded and burdened by his nightmares.

Never before had he been put to such a test.

When Fareed's ship exploded due to the mass core malfunction – ironically, just two months after the First Contact War ended, which he had survived without as much as a scratch – Connor was too young to be deeply traumatized by the loss, and until recently, his life never poised any real obstacle to him. He did show dogged determination to achieve that which he wanted time and again, but never did he have to pick himself up after being beaten. Hannah wonders if she perhaps didn't make a mistake, not really pressing him into challenges to utilize his potential to the full, well aware that with his natural talents, he often took up a rather relaxed attitude (and actually, the times when she did have to step in to put down his lazying with schoolwork were quite frequent after he reached puberty); the experience would have come handy.

Yet, she could not find it in her to choose what would have been best for him; the option was never hers. She never wanted him to live up to his father's memory but rather find his own course; she was proud of his achievements but never required them. She knows that Fareed's father mightily disapproved of her attitude, up to the point that their relationship, not particularly good to start with, as Jonathan Shepard apparently always thought her too bland for his dashing son, soured into a single call every couple of years or so. To a degree, she could understand the old man's grudge, but she was never willing to sacrifice Connor to his desire to make up for the fact that Fareed died a casualty instead of a hero.

Looking at her son's face, she sees little of Fareed in him except the colouring: it is her own broad set of jaw and cheekbones, even broader for his masculinity – barely a trace of Fareed's dark beauty from his mother's side.

The face of her son, strained now even in his sleep.

Strained and scarred but alive.

Yelena Denisova could only be identified by her DNA and Toshio's body was never found, along with the rest of those who died on Akuze.

Hannah knows that it doesn't matter to her if he ever returns to active duty, or resigns to pick up on a ship designer career as he once pondered, it only matters to her now that he lives, and she can only hope that whatever turn his life takes from now, he will be the one satisfied with it.

He only needs the time to pick himself from the ground to make that turn happen, and he has to do it on his own. She cannot keep bad things from happening to him no more than she could choose for him; she cannot keep his nightmares at bay… but she can be there for him, always, and offer a hand, or anything else that he might need and that is in her powers to give.

If time and peace are what he needs now, she will make sure that he gets them – oh, she will.


Coda I

Universe apparently hates her, Khalisah al-Jilani sulks as she sees Lieutenant Shepard jogging in the park just under the window of her office the third day in a row.

First, there was the incident in the hospital when that old crone of a nurse hacked and smashed her camera. Then, Mr Burton yelled at her for getting her equipment damaged after she had to admit that not only had she failed to secure her scoop but had no report for the evening news, either. Next, he yelled at her some more and threatened to sack her because a doctor from the hospital raised an official complaint for the breach of privacy. Finally, she had to make up stupid excuses which no-one believed, anyway, when she turned up for work with a black eye because she couldn't possibly tell anyone that Mommy Shepard paid her a visit and punched her in the eye in a way of greeting.

And, as if that was not enough, the next day she saw the Shepards strolling in the park, just where she could see them whenever she raised her head from her 'tool.

Her first impulse was to scream and kick her table in frustration – an impulse she quickly suppressed as she couldn't afford to give Mr Burton any pretext to carry out his threats. Her second impulse, to make the shot of the two with her omnitool, had to be abandoned, as well, because while 'don't you dare to mess with my son again, ever' was a rather vague instruction, the list of repercussion was very detailed, and extensive.

So, she just returned to proofreading the scripts for Pet Time! while fuming secretly, and every time she glimpsed the Shepards, she just lowered her head more and pondered over a more fitting phrase for "magnificently curled fur".

A couple days later, Mommy Shepard seemed to be around no more (while the black eye took much longer to leave) and Khalisah had plenty of opportunity to watch Shepard on his own, sitting and watching a small shadowed lake for hours, or walking around the park slowly and without any purpose. Unfortunately, Mr Burton made clear that his news company didn't need another scandal for messing with the Troubled Hero and the occasion to shoot hours of material was thus wasted, day after day.

Then came yet another day when she wanted to yell in frustration and this time she didn't hold back, as the whole crew was out, shooting the aftermath of a freighter accident at the spaceport, and Anneylou Voranski had just gone to fetch some taccos for lunch. Khalisah yelled every single vulgarism she knew, including some extraterrestrial ones she had picked in the vids, seeing Shepard suddenly rise from the bench, toss a twig he had been toying with into the lake and stride away energetically, while she wasn't ready to document it.

Her hopes surged a little bit when he did return to the park on the following day, apparently taking up exercise, and Khalisah had to rub her reminding eye to distract her hands itching for a camera which she didn't have.

Since then, watching the man has become her daily obsession, together with saving up like mad to buy new equipment.

When she finally does get the camera, Shepard stops coming.

Khalisah promises herself never, ever, to be deterred from making a shot again, by anything.


Interlude

Glancing from the crumpled reporter to Shepard striding ahead, Garrus decides that it might be wiser to shut up for the time being, and bring the issue up only when it becomes clear that no angry crowds or C-Secs are after them.

"That was somewhat… unexpected," he comments to Shepard's back when he finally deems the time right. "I wouldn't have thought you had this in you."

Shepard slightly pauses in midstep. "Well, you weren't quite an amateur vigilante when I met you, either."

Garrus' mandibles twitch. "Are there supposed to be professional –"

A look. "They're called police, I believe. The ones you quit with."

Feeling as if he suddenly became the one under scrutiny, Garrus tries not to sound irritated. "I am far from condemning your action but one must inevitably wonder whether this was wise, given your… status."

Shepard stops so abruptly that the turian almost hits into him, but when he turns he seems strangely calm. "It was long coming. It was well-deserved, it felt right and I don't regret a thing – sounds familiar? As for the wisdom of the action, between a suicide mission and a court martial, I find myself not giving a fuck. Got a problem with that?"

Got a problem with that, Mr Archangel? You who actually left bodies on the floor, not just one punched reporter, for exactly the same reasons, and was never called out on that?

Garrus shuffles uneasily. Though his failure still plagues him with nightmares, one thing he can tell for sure: he doesn't regret a thing. Cautiously, he says: "Well, if you feel it was deserved…"

Shepard rubs his hand. "You bet." He takes a deep breath. "I missed a couple of birthdays and Christmases while I was…out…, so I'm not going to lose any sleep over compensating myself a bit."


Coda II

The Bay 38 and its access are, of course, a restricted and heavily guarded area, as well as the neighbouring ones, but that doesn't really bother Tali: two bays higher, she still sees what she needs to, the Alliance transport ship and the clusters of reporters in the bays next to it and above, their long-range cameras already positioned and focused.

Universe preserve that they missed a thing, she thinks bitterly, and then smirks under her face mask as her omnitool receives a confirming ping from Kasumi: ready.

Excitement washes over the crowds of reporters as a C-Sec vehicle, heavily guarded, arrives at Bay 38, and Alliance guards steps forward. Tali doesn't hear what is being said as the reporters drone frantically into their microphones, but she can guess well enough: the Hero of the Citadel arrested on the charges of genocide and terrorism leaves little space for imagination. She can see the scandal-thirsty bosh'tets leaning forward, pointing… and she can see Shepard, getting out of the vehicle – keelah, restrained like some base criminal! – to be escorted to the ship.

Her fingers move almost before the brain marks the information.

Sorry to disappoint: no main news today.

The sounds of excitement turning into the howls of frustration are the sweetest music to her ear, as the smoke and sparkles from the overloaded cameras engulf the reporters.

With Kasumi's help at another strategic point, making one big hacking sweep was an easy cake.

Her comm comes to life with a crack of static: Kasumi's cloaking always causes some deficiencies in transmissions. "Nice fireworks," the thief chuckles. "Shall I upload you some shots? Khalisah al-Jilani stomped over her PDA."

"Perhaps later," Tali declines, wondering whether there might be a single thing the thief would take seriously, "I have work to do."

"No change of mind? Well, have your fun with the Alliance. I'll send you the pics when they won't compromise you."

"Keelah se'lai," Tali mutters, and then sends confirmation on her omnitool: on my way.

Unlike most of the crew and team who chose to disembark on Omega rather than deal with the Alliance investigation, Tali decided to stay till the Citadel. She is not Alliance, after all, and unlike the others, has no criminal record or activities to answer for, and if Shepard stood by her in her court hearing, she owes him no less than provide her own testimony before she leaves for the Flotilla.

The security before Anderson's door give her a pointed look, and Udina starts about Cerberus associates right away, but she cannot care less. "I don't know what you might know about Cerberus associates, Ambassador," she says sweetly, "I worked for the Council Spectre," and watches him go a few shades more purple.

Anderson, though clearly worried, chuckles at that softly. "True enough, Ambassador. Miss Zo'rah is clear to go as soon as she provides her testimony. – By the way, nice work in the dock, Tali – but you wouldn't know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Of course not, Councillor."

"Pity. I heard there was some fun stuff with the reporters there."

Seeing Anderson all but wink at her, Tali smiles behind her mask. With a friend like that, perhaps Shepard will sleep just a little better, during whatever awaits him.