Talk

Space vessels never really slept. They required at least a skeleton crew, around the clock, to monitor and maintain basic systems functions. However, even in space, humans and aliens alike were ruled by internal circadian rhythms. And thus it was that 0300 hours was a less bustling time than, say, 1300 hours. And that was just the way that Joker liked it.

He rose slowly from his chair and stretched carefully. He was stiff after sitting for so long. His symptoms from the Vrolik's had been flaring up again lately, and he grabbed the crutches that were leaning nearby. Doc Chakwas kept telling him he needed to move around more to strengthen his muscles and take the pressure off of his bones, but that was easier said than done on a crowded spaceship when you were in constant fear of being jostled. Besides, he hated the feeling - real or imagined - of everyone's pitying eyes on him as he made his painstaking way across the bridge. This time of night, he could move without fear of interference or observation.

Joker nodded to Pressley as he passed the navigation console on his way to the cantina. The mess hall was below deck, but this small room - which used to be a storage closet - provided the crew with a coffee station, as well as water and a supply of ration bars. The space was supposed to have motion sensor lights that came on automatically, but they never seemed to function correctly. Or maybe he just moved too slowly for them to detect anything. Either way, Joker was familiar enough with the layout to make his way by the glow from the various outdated appliances scattered about. He reached the coffee station and found nothing but sludge burned to the bottom of the pot. He swore as he picked it up and turned toward the sink to rinse it out.

"Problem?" came a voice out of the gloom.

"Shit!" Joker cried as he juggled the carafe. He managed to save it, but one crutch slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor as the lights finally blinked to life.

The commander sat at the tiny table wedged into the corner, squinting in the sudden brightness. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"I didn't think anyone was in here," Joker told her as his heart rate slowed from a gallop to a brisk trot.

"Yeah, I kinda gathered that," Shepard replied, dryly. She waved a half-empty bottle of alcohol at him. He couldn't tell what it was from this distance. "Would you rather join me in a drink than have coffee? Oh, wait - are you on duty?"

"Not officially, no."

"How can one be unofficially on duty?"

Joker shrugged. He was in the cockpit at all hours, assigned duty or not. Shepard might be in charge, but the Normandy was his vessel.

"Grab a cup and have a seat," Shepard said, gesturing across the table.

Joker set the pot of charred brew down in the sink and grabbed a clean mug from the counter. He looked at the crutch on the floor, and then dismissed it. Retrieving it would require more energy than he was willing to expend at the moment. He made his way to the table and eased into the chair opposite her.

Up close, Joker saw that Shepard was drinking cheap vodka. She poured a generous amount into his empty cup, then refilled her own. There weren't any mixers on the table. Shepard took a healthy swig.

"So, rough day, huh?" Joker offered, lamely.

"You could say that."

"I'm sorry about Alenko." Sorry didn't seem sufficient to convey what he was feeling, but he couldn't think of a better word.

Shepard's only response was another gulp of her drink. "So, talk to me, Joker."

He waited, but she didn't continue. "What?" Joker asked.

"Huh?"

"Talk to you about what?"

"Anything." Shepard brandished the mug of alcohol wildly; some sloshed over the rim. "I like the sound of your voice."

"Really?" She'd never mentioned that before.

"Yeah. You're always there, on the other end of the comm. It's comforting." Unlike her normally rapid, clipped speech, tonight her consonants had soft edges and the words snuggled up against each other like puppies in a litter. "Although, you're usually telling me I'm about to die in, like, 5.6 seconds, so I don't know why I find that comforting. You're like the voice of God." Shepard cocked her head, regarding him. "Or doom. Or something."

"Commander, I think you might be a little tipsy." Tipsy was putting it nicely. Joker was quite sure that she was completely snockered.

"Call me Sam." At the horrified look on his face, Shepard snorted vodka out of her nose. It burned her nasal passages, and she made a mental note to try not to do that again. "Okay, scratch that. I guess we'll stick with Shepard."

The lights chose that moment to extinguish themselves, shrouding them in blackness. For a long while, neither of them moved or spoke, and the only sound was that of their breathing. Then Shepard whispered, "I fucked up today, Jeff. I fucked up bad, and this time, there's no making it right." Before Joker could even begin to conceive of a comforting response to that, he heard her chair scrape along the floor as she stood. Her boots squeaked as she trudged to the door, but the room remained dark.

When the door swished open, the lights grudgingly flickered on once more, but by the time Joker twisted around in his seat, Shepard had disappeared without another word.

"It'll be okay…Sam," Joker said softly, to the empty room, before downing the rest of the vodka.