The Citadel, October 2169
After a month of ballroom dancing, Shepard had a blister on each heel, a sore ankle from a misstep during a combination, and a smile that refused to fully disappear.
She did her best to hide the smile from her mother and Lamia; if her mother saw it, there would be uncomfortable questions that led to lectures about responsibility and possibly contraceptives, and if Lamia saw it, there would be a silent I-told-you-so that would last longer than Shepard might be alive. Neither was a particularly attractive concept, so Shepard hid her smile, and did her best to act like ballroom dancing was still only one step up from being affected with leprosy.
A smile that determined to exist, however, was also a smile equally determined to be discovered, and Shepard knew she had a ticking clock suspended over her head, counting down the minutes until someone caught her out.
The countdown ended one night at dinner.
Lamia had begged off joining them — she freely admitted that Shepard was her favorite student ("Most of the time," she always amended, darkly) with what was, to Shepard, a surprising amount of candor, but obvious favoritism couldn't be excused. Shepard spent most of her nights alone with her mother, trying different kinds of takeout, going to see movies, getting lost in the Wards. Sometimes one of Shepard's friends came along, sometimes one of Mom's joined them, but more often than not, the two of them explored by themselves.
Sometimes, Shepard thought they must seem like a country all on their own, with closed borders and a language incomprehensible to everyone outside. One of the side effects of having only each other to depend on for so long, as they moved from ship to ship, project to project, but the tangled layers of inside jokes and obscure references tended to scare off potential emigrees. Lamia was one exception, and so were Commander Forbes and her kids, and Hackett, and Anderson, but all of them had known Shepard and Mom for years. They had earned the right to share the jokes. It was rare to find someone willing to put in the time, and Shepard never complained. She liked the quiet borders, the peace, the comfort of coming home from school and flopping on the couch, with her legs spilling over the arm and her head pillowed on Mom's thigh. She never had to worry if Mom would understand what she meant, or what she needed. Mom always knew.
And that was the problem.
"So, you going to tell me why you've been grinning like a maniac for the past few weeks, or do I get to play twenty questions?"
Shepard didn't look up; that was a rookie's mistake. Mom would be able to read everything she wanted to know in the tiniest twitch of her mouth, so she took her time setting her fork to one side, wiping her mouth, and taking a long drink of water before she made eye contact.
"Don't let me ruin your fun, Mom," she said calmly. I'm good, I'm so good, she thought, smiling a perfectly benign, insipid smile. "I'm not saying anything."
"Oh, good," said Mom. She leaned forward on her elbow, her chin propped up in her hand and her own fork — still full of mashed potatoes and gravy — forgotten on the side of her plate. "I was so bored at work today, this'll be a nice change. Is it larger than a breadbox?"
The game always started with the same question. Shepard said "Yes," willing herself not to flush as she thought of warm, broad shoulders — definitely larger than a breadbox.
"Is it human?"
"Yes."
"Is it male or female?"
Shepard felt a wicked urge to say yes, followed by an even more wicked urge to say definitely male, just to see the look on Mom's face, but decided on self-preservation. "Male," she said, then "Come on, Mom, yes or no questions only. Don't get cute with the rules."
"Don't sass me, my girl, or the last thing I'll be is cute." Mom finally remembered her fork, and finished her mashed potatoes with a faraway, considering look. "Do I know him?" she asked.
Shepard frowned. A thorny question. Technically, no, Mom didn't know Michael. She had never met him, but she'd certainly heard of him. Saying yes would bring the conversation to a screeching halt; forget the lecture about contraceptives, Shepard would have to lock her mother in the bathroom to keep her from storming off into the Citadel to find Michael. Hannah Shepard held grudges like a krogan.
But saying no was almost a lie, and saying sort of was against the rules and would only prompt more questions. She could pass on the question, but with seventeen more potential questions to come, did she want to use up her one pass so soon in the game?
No isn't really a lie, she thought. She never met him, not really.
"No," she said, smoothly, and Mom just nodded.
"Is he in one of your classes?"
"Yes," said Shepard, still amazed her little dance around the truth had worked. She felt guilty, a sweet-sharp pang in her chest, but more than that, she felt relief. Live to fight another day.
"Is he someone you know from one of my other postings?"
That question struck too close, and Shepard was out of ways to buy herself more time. "Yes," she answered, eyes back on her plate. A few minutes ago, she'd been ready for thirds of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Now she couldn't stomach the thought of another mouthful. Oh, Mom would figure it out, and then she'd have to make her excuses, and explain that Michael had apologized, and meant it — but would Mom believe it?
She had better, Shepard told herself. I believed him, and I was the one he was an asshole to, not her.
Her mother had been the one to deal with her nightmares, though, so the grudge wasn't completely unreasonable — but Shepard had hoped, if this tiny seed she had spent the past two weeks carrying around in her chest ever got a change to grow, that her mother would try to like Michael, just a little.
"Is he Michael Burton?"
"Yes — what?" Shepard squawked, throwing herself back in her chair until it rocked back on its two rear legs. "You knew? Mom!"
"Of course I knew," said Mom airily, lifting her beer glass and draining it with a wink at Shepard. "You left yourself signed in on my terminal a week ago, and you were on his school profile. Not too hard to connect the dots, sweetie." She lowered her glass to the table, and then lowered her brows at Shepard. "Nice wordplay there, by the way. No, when I ask if I know him."
"You don't," Shepard replied, her guilt vanishing as an obscure feeling of being betrayed swept over her. "That was true."
"God, please don't tell me you're going to be a lawyer." Mom sighed and pushed her plate and glass back, folding her hands on the table in front of her.
Oh no, Shepard thought, flushing with embarrassment and misery. The lecture.
"Sweetie, just let me ask this one question. You're old enough to start making your own decisions about this sort of thing, but I can't help remembering what happened, and — do you feel safe?"
"Safe?" said Shepard, puzzled. "I don't —"
"Sometimes kids are assholes," said Mom. "I was, Lamia probably was a million years ago, and I have it on good authority that you were sometimes too. But he was mean, and he liked it. Has that changed?"
Shepard picked at the edge of her plate with her thumbnail. She had asked herself that question every day since seeing Michael again; she believed he was sorry, she believed he was different now, but that didn't do anything to change what he had been, and what he had done. Three and a half years meant very little in a galaxy where people regularly lived to be over a thousand years old; a lot could and did happen in that much time, but sometimes, deep down in the dark, the roots stayed the same.
Had Michael's?
"I think so," she said, gnawing at the inside of her lip. "He doesn't laugh when other people fall. He helps them up instead. And I think that's good. It's worth a try." She gnawed her lip again, and frowned when she tasted blood. Where had this habit come from? "He's worth a try."
Mom sighed, gustily, and leaned back in her chair, spinning her beer glass with a faint, rueful smile on her face. "Well, you know best," she said slowly. "But if he hurts you, I'll hurt him."
"Mom," Shepard said, with a smile of her own.
"Twice."
"Oh my god." Shepard fell backward in her chair, lolling her neck to stare up at the ceiling. "You're actually like, hoping he messes up, aren't you?"
"Well," said Mom, tapping her finger on her glass. "It's good to have something to look forward to."
"Yeah, maybe, but not when you're threatening to kill your daughter's —" Shepard hesitated. What had she been about to say? Crush? That didn't seem to cover the range of acrobatics her stomach went through when Michael put his hand on her waist, or when he smiled as he saw her approach through a crowded room. Boyfriend? That just seemed hopelessly optimistic. "—friend," she finished, lamely.
Mom sighed. "Fine. Consider all death threats against Michael Burton suspended until further notice." She rose and leaned over the table to brush the back of her knuckles against Shepard's cheek. "You're not stupid," she said, "and I know you're careful, but I'm your mother, so I have to say this. If he's not worth it, don't waste your time. And…be careful."
Shepard nodded. It wasn't a blessing, not by a long shot, but it was a start.
And she'd managed to escape the lecture on contraceptives. Small blessings.
Class wouldn't start for another fifteen minutes, but Shepard had over-estimated how long it would take to get ready. Not wanting to stick around and endure Mom's pointed looks at her new dress and extra layer of mascara, Shepard had escaped to class, and found herself with nothing to do until Michael walked in.
The dress and mascara did their duty; he stopped in the doorway when he saw her, mouth open, then made his way to her with a smile, the damned dimples on display. Shepard smiled back, more pleased than she could admit that she wasn't blushing, and decided to let him be the first one to say something. She didn't trust her mouth to do more than smile anyways; she'd watched the door like a hawk, looking away whenever someone who wasn't Michael walked in, then turning back to the door until it opened again. If someone expected her to talk, nothing except vowel sounds would come out.
"You," he said, as soon as he didn't have to shout to be heard, "you look, uh, nice."
Shepard resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 'Uh, nice?' That's the best he can do?
Take it as a compliment, said Lamia's voice, bored and wry in equal measure. He's sixteen, and you rendered him speechless. 'Uh, nice' is probably all he's capable of.
"Hey," she said, with what she hoped was a stunning smile, worthy of her dress. "Ready for class?"
"Uh," he said again, still smiling himself, but looking a little concussed around the edges. "Yeah?" he added. "I was, but…" He laughed. "Now you're just rubbing my face in it, Shepard."
"I'm what?" she asked, inching a little closer. Her stomach, far from doing any acrobatics at all, no longer seemed to be in her body. Fair enough, she thought. I'm not really on the Citadel anymore. "How am I doing that?"
"Because you hate me," Michael said, with something new in his smile — regret, maybe, but Shepard couldn't concentrate enough to figure it out — "And you look like that."
"Oh," said Shepard, startled by his honesty. "Should I get changed?" she asked, at a total loss for anything else to say. Her entire plan for the day had been limited to show up looking really good. It appeared she'd have to start thinking strategically, rather than tactically.
"What? Hell no!" said Michael, looking horrified. "I mean, unless you want to," he added in a low, shy voice, finally looking away from Shepard.
We're horrible at this, thought Shepard. Michael's confidence on the dance floor had been misleading; he was obviously just as ill-equipped to handle this — whatever it was — as she. She wished briefly for a handbook, for five minutes for an extranet search, for a supernova to smite them all, then straightened her back. Neither of them knew what to do? Fine. It made them a team.
"I think," she said, and waited till Michael looked at her again to go on. "I think we should get through class, and then we should get something to eat. Together," she clarified. "At the same place." Shepard winced as soon as the words left her mouth — dumbass, he knows that you meant together —but instead of rolling his own eyes, Michael nodded, practically vibrating with relief.
"Okay," he said. "Sounds good. Really good." His smile turned into a sly, secretive grin. "Maybe tapas? There's this great place on Zakera Ward, and we are tangoing today."
Shepard laughed and punched his arm, and sucked in a gasp when he caught her hand and held it. This close, she could smell the harsh scent of chlorine that never really left Michael's hair or skin, and the surprisingly appealing smell of his sweat. They stared at each other, in a bubble of silence, smiling stupidly, until the instructor clapped his hands.
It was for the best, Shepard mused as Michael let go of her hand and stepped back so she could toe into her high heels. The middle of her dance class wasn't where she wanted to have her first kiss — though she wanted to be kissed, very badly.
"Tango, huh?" she said. "Sounds fun. Not like I'll ever get to do it outside of class, but here goes."
This time, Michael did roll his eyes, but he took her into his arms without comment.
When she put her hands into her jacket pocket — she wasn't sure what to do with them, and unless they were occupied she'd fidget and pick at her nails — Shepard felt a thin foil package shift under her fingers.
Michael paused at the door, realizing Shepard wasn't at his side any longer. "You okay?" he asked, shifting from foot to foot. "Shepard?"
She'd missed the lecture on contraceptives, but she should have known Mom would find a way to get that point across, no matter what.
"I'm fine," she said, through a bright smile as she reminded herself to yell at Mom later. "Let's go." She looped her arm through his, kissing his cheek on impulse.
Much later, she decided, as Michael led her out into Zakera Ward.
