AN: And finally: our beloved Admiral Anderson...well, Captain here. I actually found that I love writing Anderson. It's just something about him. Maybe it's because I just love the role he plays when supporting Shepard. Kind of like a father figure...

Anyway, enjoy!

- Tac

For The Greater Good

"Give the Commander my congratulations," said the raspy voice from Anderson's console, "And Anderson… I'm sorry that I couldn't get them to let you keep your posting on the Normandy. The other admirals refused to entertain the idea."

"I understand. Shepard's a Spectre now, and needs a good ship and crew to bring Saren down. The Normandy is what she needs." What Anderson said was true. Now that the Commander was a Spectre, she was under Council jurisdiction; no longer under Alliance control and no longer taking orders from the human leaders and far from human concerns. But if that was how the Council expected it to play out, they were sorely mistaken. Shepard wouldn't even entertain such an idea should it be posed to her. And with that Anderson felt a small surge of pride and respect for the young officer. Shepard was—in heart and mind, in blood and sweat, in every curse and adrenaline-fueled outburst on the battlefield—an Alliance soldier.

This was why none of them had told her yet. If anything, it was out of pure fear that once they did tell her that he was being stripped of the control of the Normandy and it was being handed right over to her, she would march straight into the Council chambers—knuckles cracked and pistol drawn and sights dangerously lined with the turian councilor's head—demanding Anderson's position be returned to him. Granted, Anderson would love to see the look on their faces. Would have paid to see the look on their faces. Hell, he would have even brought the Commander out for drinks after.

But that was poor etiquette on his account.

"I'd feel better if it were under different circumstances." Hackett said. He was a man of strong integrity—a perfect balance of a strong, authoritative hand and the compassion of understanding—and hated nothing more than to see his soldiers trodden on, kicked in the dirt while they were down, and slapped with regulations when regulations were meant to be bent.

Anderson understood that feeling. He understood it all too damn well.

"We all would, Admiral."

There was a pause. Muffled voices; a woman speaking, a gruff sound of disapproval.

"Captain, I'm sorry to cut this short. My presence is required elsewhere. These mercenaries will never learn." He added in that last part with a tired huff.

He had a point. The mercs out in the Terminus Systems were far from the brightest of the bunch, at least, nothing compared to the groups in the Skyllian Verge. They weren't even on the same scale as them. One would figure that, after a while, the Terminus mercs would stop throwing themselves at the impenetrable wall of the Fifth Fleet. All it accomplished was giving the Alliance some target practice on poor, unsuspecting human fodder and cause the mercenaries to hire more inexperienced recruits, which then fed into seemingly endless cycle of casualties on the enemy side. It was humorous at first, a funny quality (if one could call it that) to the ease of their defeat. Now it had been whittled down into plain annoyance; an irritating thorn in Hackett's side, wasting precious resources and time.

Anderson understood all too well.

"Of course, Admiral. Best of luck."

Anderson heard something that he would dare say passed for a chuckle before the transmission ended with a definitive beep. Alone in the embassy room, Anderson collapsed into the chair behind him, unbuttoning the top buttons around his neck on his dress blues, wrenching the collar open in an effort to combat the hot, heavy air that assaulted him.

Shepard's team of misfits—what else was he supposed to call them?—had retired to the confines of the Normandy. The Commander herself had made a stop at the armory in the lower levels of C-Sec tower to pick up a few things before she joined them. He doubted that she ever passed up the chance to upgrade her gear, especially when the tab was being picked up by someone else.

He rubbed a weary hand over his face and leaned back in the chair, it protesting quietly with the change in tilt.

None of them were aware of what was about to hit them.

He found himself at a comfortable parade rest, hands tucked behind his back, begrudgingly waiting for Udina to speak, knowing that if even so much as cleared his throat in annoyance, the ambassador would win. The frustrating man had had him standing there for the past fifteen minutes, doing whatever he was willed with that irritating little console on his desk, making small grunts of disapproval. He tsked once, cursed under his breath the next, and finished it all off with a sneer glance over the top of the holo screen before busying himself once again.

Beating politicians is frowned upon.

Anderson repeated the mantra over and over, flexing his fists invisible to the politician. The man had no idea how close he teetered on the fine line between control and warranted assault. And he had been treading it since the unfortunate day Anderson had to cooperate with him. Udina looked up again and did nothing. Anderson let out a controlled breath.

Beating politicians is extremely frowned upon.

He tsked again, absently poking at keys. He was wasting time on purpose. He knew how much it irritated Anderson. Udina had no idea how close he was to that line…Another look, accompanied by a smug grin.

"Captain Anderson," he drug out his title and name in that awful accent, "I hadn't noticed you." Damn it, he was going to beat that smug face of his in.

Another controlled breath.

"You asked for me?" Fists clenched behind his back, pale knuckles.

Don't beat the man.

"Ah yes," Udina pushed away from the desk and stood, finally leaving that silly console alone, "It's about Shepard. The Normandy, to be precise."

Anderson could feel that unmistakable shit storm brewing, and he was caught right in the eye of it. Damn it, he hated dealing with Udina.

"Let me put it to you straight, Captain. Shepard is now a Spectre. She answers to the Council now. As her authority is unmatched to everyone except the Council themselves, it must also be that way upon her ship and with her crew." He faced him, and Anderson could see the plot as clear as day in the man's eyes.

"As of now, all control of the Normandy and her crew has been given to Commander Shepard. The ship is her own to do what she and the Council's wills. You two cannot be vying for the crew's obedience."

Anderson didn't like it. Not for the sake of Shepard taking control of the ship—she was an experienced enough leader to say the least—but for the sake of the circumstances. He was caught in a political backlash, with no strategy, no tactical fallback, and no way to stop the floodgates. He was grounded, whether he liked it or not.

The irritating device on the desk beeped at him. He wished that the silly thing would stay quiet for once.

"Anderson."

And the exact person he didn't want to speak to. Having to swallow his pride each and every time he spoke with Udina was detrimental to his health, he was certain of it.

"What is it, Ambassador?"

"Shepard has finished picking up the supplies she needed and is on route to the Normandy. I plan to be there before she is." And it cut off. That man was only one for pleasantries when it best suited him. He was a parasite, a damned leech. And the ambassador relished in every moment of it.

Anderson desperately wanted to beat the hell out of that man.

/ - /

"With all due respect, but what the hell?"

Well, it was a better reaction than he had expected.

"I want the truth. Why are you stepping down, sir?" Shepard crossed her arms, very expectant. There was no fooling her. Not Shepard. Not with this. But he was going to at least try, as idiotic as it was.

"You needed your own ship. A Spectre can only answer to the Council, and it was time for me to step down." He sounded like he was quoting his earlier conversation with Udina. It made him internally grimace.

"Like hell it is, Captain." He saw her throw an accusing glare at Udina, who shrunk back ever so slightly, much to his own amusement, before she turned it back on him, animosity gone and replaced with simple respect and the need for an answer. "Come clean with me. You own me that much."

He had wanted to avoid this, but it was obvious Shepard wasn't about to let it go. And she did have a point. He couldn't keep this from her; not after everything. Not after Elysium.

Already, he could see the quiet calculation gleam in her eye as she tried to muddle through all the possibilities.

"I was in your shoes twenty years ago, Shepard." He sighed, ashamed for his past mistakes, ashamed for keeping it from Shepard, the one officer that he knew that could handle this. But he made no attempt to hide it. He couldn't fall any lower on the 'self-disappointment,' than he was now. "They were considering me for the Spectres."

A flash of muted surprise; the quick one-two blink of her eyes, a slight twitch of her brow that she stopped from furrowing. He'd learn to read little signs like that., and as much as Shepard thought she was an unreadable façade, she was far from it when faced with a senior officer who had been around the block a few times.

He did, though, hear the distinct sound of betrayal in her voice, jaw set. "Why didn't you ever mention this? You should have told me!"

His own flavor of betrayal burned anew in his chest, a feeling that he had thought to have been dealt with long ago. "What was I supposed to say? I could have been a Spectre but I blew it?" He did. He screwed up bad, and lost almost everything, "I failed Commander. It's not something I'm proud of."

Another flash. This one of complete understanding. It softened her hard gaze; miniscule, but it was there. She could relate to the feeling.

It was one of the few large blemishes on his records…the classified ones, at least. A mission gone wrong, that turian doing everything in his power to make sure Anderson didn't succeed. So many civilian casualties. The convenient death of the one witness that would have exonerated him of Saren's charges.

Shepard had obvious questions. She always had questions. Everything about it screamed wrong, and she picked right up on that.

"Ask me about the details later." He said, waving her off. "All you need to know is that I was sent on a mission with Saren and he made sure that the Council rejected me."

She looked speechless for once. Perhaps it was the odd feeling of déjà vu she was experiencing. Or maybe she really didn't know what to say. He found the latter to be unlikely. "Captain, I—"

He shook his head. "I had my shot. It came and went. Now it's up to you, Commander."

Comprehending what he meant, Shepard straightened, her heels snapping together as she flicked a salute. "Aye aye, sir."

"We'll bring Saren down. I swear it."

/ - /

He wasn't about to deny that sense of abandonment that settled uncomfortably in his chest—edging out the old resentment from his earlier conversation—when he watched the Normandy take off without him, the sleek finish causing a ripple in the violet shield that protected this portion of the docking bay.

It hurt. It hurt like a blunt punch to the gut. He couldn't remember the last time he hadn't been on board a cruiser or frigate for an extended period of time, or hadn't flown through the endless, twinkling expanse that surrounded them.

He'd miss it.

He had grown attached to that magnificent ship in the short amount of time he had spent with it. He had grown attached to his crew. Hell, he picked them himself, so why wouldn't he? Joker, Alenko, Pressly, Shepard; all of them. Each person on that ship had something special to add to the crew to make it run like a well-oiled machine, better than that, in fact. The Normandy was meant to run better than anyone had ever seen.

She's do the Commander and the crew justice.

He'd still miss it.

Such sacrifices were needed to be made. A sacrifice for the greater good, really, as small as it was.

He wasn't so conceded to think that by him not being there, he was giving up so much for the sake of the galaxy. He was, in a sense, but it was a personal sense. In truth, he didn't need any more accolades. He didn't need to be getting shot at. He didn't have to deal with military-grade rations, or have to run inventory. No weapons check, or late night mission reports and patrols of the decks. No hum of the eezo-core, or the quiet chatter of off-duty soldiers. No smell of gun oil and no buffering out the dents and dings the mercs left in your armor. No more worrying if your crew were following the regs, or if you were politically correct when dealing with the other races.

He didn't have to worry if it would be his last night alive with his crew.

But he'd really miss it.