After more than a week on Arcturus, Shepard—indefinitely relieved of duty—was going to be transferred to Alliance Headquarters in Vancouver. Anderson was not accompanying her on this leg of the journey, which meant—according to Anderson—Vega was going to be Shepard's best friend.

He harbored some secret suspicion that the devious old Admiral had ulterior motives, but he wasn't sure what they were.

Vega shifted uncomfortably as he stood in front of the two officers the day of departure, with Shepard looked him up and down. The way she regarded him, the way she was doing it now, did it made him feel…naked.

Not in the sense that she was undressing him with her eyes—he could have handled that and returned fire. No, what got him was the sense that she was stripping away what most people would see, looking at his basic fibers, assessing his weak spots. Peeling him like an onion with the intent of continuing to do so until she found where the peeling process hurt.

It was like being under a microscope. She could probably tell him the exact number of hairs that made up his scruffy stubble.

"Starting to feel like I'm on the butcher's block, ma'am." He began to suspect the reason he'd been a hanging around in the periphery since being tapped for duty was simply so she could get used to seeing him—so she wouldn't be saddled with a security detail she didn't know from the janitorial staff.

Shepard smiled humorlessly, turned her head to Anderson. "I like him."

There was more in the three words than simply the Shepard stamp of approval.

Anderson clearly thought so too, for his expression became almost indulgent.

Whatever the subtext was, Vega wasn't sure what it was, but he knew it was there.

"Be nice," the older man cautioned.

"I'm hurt. I'm really hurt, Admiral." Shepard shook her head as though inviting sympathy over a slight against her character.

Vega was glad to see Shepard starting to bounce back; it had started once she'd been sequestered on the Normandy. She'd looked pretty rough between Omega and now. On the few occasions he'd had close contact with her she'd either seemed half lucid or like a robot. Maybe they had her on pills? Somehow he didn't think so. A combination of shocks wearing off? That sounded a little more likely. Maybe she now knew something that comforted her.

He wondered about the circumstances that could push someone like her to blow up a mass relay. She'd done it, she admitted it, but it seemed very…out of character…from what he knew of her.

Not that he knew much; he had the essentials. She was an N7, one of the toughest, meanest, cleverest soldiers the Systems Alliance turned out. She was the only one who'd done anything about those Collector bastards…and he currently had her undivided attention.

"Not yet you're not." Anderson clapped Shepard on the shoulder. "I'm glad you like him. Get used to him: he's going to be your best friend."

"Naturally." Shepard shook her head as Anderson exited. She gestured to the small table with its two chairs. "Have a seat." She picked the chair facing the large, currently opaque, window. When Vega did not obey, "I don't bite: sit down." She tapped the table with one finger.

Vega wanted to ask 'what if I want to stand?' but found that Shepard's level gaze, which evidenced the unwavering patience of a boulder growing moss, was an effective tool in her arsenal.

He sat down across from her, perching on the edge of the seat.

"I already know your name, but why don't you introduce yourself?" When his eyebrows knit together, she shook her head slowly, as though at a stubborn horse. "You pick things up when someone introduces themselves. For instance, I know that your name is James Jonas Vega. Doesn't tell me much; it's like saying 'the sky is blue.' When it is," she added, remembering worlds where the sky wasn't.

"Vega's fine." Vega continued frowning at Shepard, who seemed to be waiting for him to say what was on his mind. "You're not what I was expecting, ma'am."

"Just Shepard, Vega. What were you expecting?"

"Not what I'm getting." He couldn't articulate it. Anyone in the service who'd heard of her knew that Shepard had a personal aura, that made being in a confined space with her like being in close quarters with a big predator.

This was true, except this predator wasn't interested in him.

She was cited as being manipulative (in good and bad contexts, depending on who one asked) and he certainly got that: he felt like a plastic figure she was turning this way and that, as she inspected it, she was musing how to place him for greatest effect.

It struck him as very benign and he had to wonder what, exactly, she meant by 'I like him.' It clearly meant something to Anderson, something the older soldier approved.

"Fair enough. People in person are never like they are on paper. So," her tone became less professional, less assessing, "you're obviously not a conscript, you obviously didn't piss off Anderson and get posted as my babysitter as a punishment, you have expectations, and you haven't asked the all-important question."

"What's the all-important question?"

"Am I crazy?"

Vega frowned at this. "Am I crazy or are you crazy?"

"Exactly."

Vega shook his head slowly. He knew he was a little crazy: it was why things went sideways when he was around. He knew she was crazy, but it was the good kind of crazy for a marine to be. One could not be considered 'not crazy' when she charged a Mako through a relatively untested poorly-understood Prothean device, crash the rover onto the Citadel, and proceed to slaughter geth until the Fleet got its act together and took out that Reaper-bastard.

"Crazy. I think all around crazy."

"Good."

…he was feeling that bad feeling.