Author's note:

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...

Prism

...

Time is passing slowly, but more quickly than she would have thought. Right the day after the Normandy's departure, doctor Chakwas, assisted by Doc, begins medical examinations, and then they consult the results with Mordin via FTL. Shepard is allowed to stay, but even though she is listening intently, she does not understand much. Them, medics. She wonders idly why everyone cannot speak in physics-derived terms. Would made everything so much easier.

"All right, could you now translate it into some human language?" she asks.

"I'll try," Doc offers. "A few series of intra-osseous injections for your spine, ah, I see they're your favourites. This will be different, doctor Solus' design. If that goes well, bone nanosurgery will be unnecessary. As for the eyes, we'll try laser surgery. One eye, in case something went wrong, then the other."

"And if that fails?" Shepard asks, always practical. She would love to have her own eyes back – as much as they are still her own eyes – but if that is impossible, she wants the sight back at least, to be able to work.

"If that fails, then it's eye-cams. And in that case it'll have to wait 'til the relay is established and we have a connection with Arcturus. Doctor Chakwas has excellent equipment, but not that complicated."

"Plus, having it designed by Mordin wouldn't hurt," adds Chakwas. "But in all probability, laser surgery should work. Well, that's about it."

...

Next week is excruciating, because in between injections in one set she cannot walk, so she is once more confined to bed. Katya spends much time beside her, talking, scaring the boredom away with her endless chatter. Shepard does not even tease her about that. With Astrid gone, Katya is separated from her friend, and it leaves a hole that cannot be filled instantly. So Shepard lets her talk.

When Shepard gets a message, from none other than Hackett, Katya does not ask about him, does not ask about anything, just tactfully leaves, slipping out of the med bay quietly.

"Computer, read the message."

The message is not overly long, but important, or rather its implications are.

— From: Admiral Hackett

Theresa, there's something I would like you to read. Call me when you're done with it.

Get well soon.

Hackett —

"Attachments?"

"Attachments: 1. Military Dossier: Steven Hackett. Contents: Dossier and History of Service. Audio Archive. Mail Archive."

There is another message in her mailbox, this one from Liara.

— From: Liara T'Soni

Shepard,

Following Admiral Hackett's request, I'm sending you all my Broker files on him. He does not know everything that's there. He asked me to send it all to you regardless.

Greetings from Tali, Garrus and the rest of the band.

Get well soon, Shepard.

Liara

PS Tali sends a short message. —

— From: Tali'Zorah vas Normandy

Shepard,

Liara told me about the files. Keeping my fingers crossed – is that how you say it? – keeping my fingers crossed like a good younger sister should. Well, we're not sisters, but still.

And come to Arcturus, once it'll be possible. We're all missing you.

Tali —

Shepard skims through Hackett's message again, then deletes the files. She does not need them; she trusts him on his word, as he trusted her that critical moment after Aratoht, and that is it.

She sends a reply to Liara, thanking her for the files, and to Tali, telling her she is missing them all, and that Garrus better finds a bar where they could all go and get drunk together. Then she sends a short message to Hackett, informing him she would like to talk. She has a vague idea what sending the files was all about, but she would like to hear it from him.

...

Hackett calls back two days later, while she is still abed, and she welcomes it as both the distraction from boredom and, much more, as the chance to hear his voice.

"Theresa. I get it you received my files."

"Yes."

"And?"

"I deleted them."

Hackett sighs quietly. "This was no trick, Theresa. No loyalty check, nothing of the sort. You understand than as an Alliance admiral I have read all your files."

"Of course."

"It's only fair you should read mine."

Shepard stays silent, not really knowing what to say. She does not need it; she trusts him. But, for some reason, he considers this important. She think she can understand.

"I do mean it, Theresa."

She is not quite convinced to the idea yet. Damn, it seems wrong, why cannot he see it?

"This is not about trust."

"Steven?" Damn, it is hard for her. She does not have much experience in talking about things so elusive as feelings. "You say it's not about trust. And I know you trust me..."

"But?" he prompts.

"You... don't talk to me. Not really. You sent me your files, but you don't talk to me about how it was. You comforted me when I needed it, but you don't tell me about your own nightmares. And you know about my past, but I still don't know some essentials about yours. I'm... Dammit, Steven, it's confusing."

There is a prolonged pause before he answers. "I do trust you, Theresa. It's just hard for me to talk about it all. I don't really know how to talk about it, I've barely ever had talked about those things before." He sighs. "But I will try to learn, if that's what you want."

Dammit, dammit, dammit, why cannot she just look at him? She would know. Like this, it is just fumbling around in the dark.

"Steven, I don't want you to do it against yourself. It's..."

"You deserve to know. As you said, I know these things about you. And, Theresa... Please, read those files. It really isn't about trust. Just about honesty and being fair."

"I... I think I understand."

"I just wanted it to be completely clear."

This is serious, Shepard realises. He does mean it. When he asked her to wait for him, he did not make her promise anything, and now she knows why: he wants it to be absolutely fair, and for her to think it over. And before she shall give him a yes, he wants her to be one hundred percent certain. It is touching, in a way, to see how much it means to him. It... has never been this way before, never, with no one. Dammit, this is serious with a capital 'S'.

"Okay. I will read the files. But..." she pauses. She cannot let the topic drop, they cannot turn away from it. It is too important, as simple as that. "I hope you'll tell me, in time. Meanwhile, I don't mind. It'll be enough to know there are no skeletons in your locker."

He laughs, even if it sounds a little forced. "No, no skeletons. Maybe just a bone or two."

"I can handle bones, I think."

"I think you've seen worse."

Shepard smiles. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Good to hear that." He pauses. "We'll talk about it all, one day, you have my word on it."

"That's fine by me. Meanwhile, I'll read those blasted files."

"Good. Call me when you're done with it."

"I will."

"Take care, Theresa."

"I will."

He laughs again at that, just before ending the call.

There is a net of trust they have weaved between them over the years: firm, solid. Shepard rarely tries to name the feelings she has for Hackett – truth to be told, she does not name them at all – it is difficult to find words to describe something that comes as natural as breathing. But when she thinks of him, there is always this feeling of safety, like a strong, warm current she can drown in.

...

In the evening – relative evening, by the terms of hour and habits of the station – Shepard activates the omni-tool, then takes out a pair of headphones. No reason anyone else should hear it.

"Copy all attachments from the most recent mails from Admiral Hackett and Liara T'Soni into two new folders and merge into a single playlist."

"File names. First..."

"Just read it. Damn... Skip the names," she corrects the order. "Playing: all files, by numbers. Commence reading."

"Alliance Military Dossier: Steven Hackett, Fleet Admiral.

— Name: Hackett, Steven

Date of birth: 2134

Place of birth: Buenos Aires

—

Education:

2146 – 2152: Advanced Training Academy for Juveniles.

Training notes: aptitude for science and leadership.

2152 – 2155: Massachusetts Military Academy of Technology

Faculties: Starship engines mechanics, design and construction; Navigation.

A course in mass effect physics.

2153 – 2156: Officer Candidate School

Fields of study: diplomacy, military logistics, strategy, tactics.

Languages: English, Spanish, Russian.

—

History of service

2152: Enlisted.

2156: ..."

Dates and descriptions continue, but that is really nothing new to her. She knows his history of service. What she really wants to know is hiding between the lines: why he enlisted, did he ever regret it. She wants to know about his first battle, and next ones, about doubts and mistakes, about all the moments he looked death in the eye and discovered it scared the hell out of him, and others when he looked death in the eye and laughed. About lost friends, wounds and nightmares. Everything. Everything that shaped him into the man he is now.

"Awards

2157: Silver War Cross [Star of Terra nomination cancelled after Shanxi]

2158: Palladium Star"

"Skip that," Shepard orders impatiently. "No, wait." Shanxi? This made no sense. Nomination cancelled? "Continue." Maybe there will be more in one of the other files.

"Medical records

2152: refractive eye surgery [hyperopia]"

"Damn, skip that." Medical records? Really? As if anything in thisfield could make an impression on her. Yes, she wants to learn of his battle scars, but not like this, no. Touch, skin on skin, quiet questions and equally quiet answers. That is the way to go, not bloody medical records! Then, again, they are a standard in any dossier.

Shepard sighs. "Proceed to next file."

"File: SSV Matterhorn black box recording.

— 'Hackett, get them out of here, and that's a bloody order! You have to warn Earth! You have to...'

'Lieutenant?'

'You've heard the Captain. Get me on the intercom. This is Lieutenant Hackett. We're getting the hell out of here, now!'

'But... The Captain...'

'The Captain is dead, Harding, and if we don't warn Earth he died for nothing, dammit, they're dying out there for nothing. Evasive manoeuvres! Get us to the relay, and that's a bloody order!' —

"File: Mail from Fleet Admiral Sofia Archer to Rear Admiral John Grissom.

— Grissom,

Not a chance. Hackett might well be considered a hero, but I'll not have him getting the Star of Terra after that public comment of how he's not certain he can condemn Williams for his actions. How old the brat is to voice bloody morals? What example does it set for our soldiers?

But I agree, we have to decorate him, something that'll keep the crowds silent. Give the boy a Silver War Cross and everyone will be perfectly happy with that. See to that, will you?

Archer —

"File: Voice recording from Combat Information Centre, Normandy SR-2. Date: 14th February 2185.

— 'Commander, incoming message from Arcturus. I thought, like, we're not with the Alliance anymore? Apparently, gotten it wrong, since it's your friend Admiral Hackett again. Next time we're doing an assignment for him, maybe we should go get his groceries too while we're at it?'

'Give it a rest, Joker. Kelly, could you leave, please? Yeoman Chambers. Now. That's a bloody order. Patch him through, Joker.'

'Commande-... Shepard.'

'Admiral.'

'You're actions are... curious, Shepard.'

'Are you referring to those Cerberus files, sir?'

'Yes.'

'And that's it, sir... Admiral? You called just to tell me that?'

'Shepard. Don't be ridiculous. I called to tell you we could use a soldier like you. Should you ever want to return to the Alliance, there'll be a post waiting for you.'

'It wasn't me who left the Alliance, sir.'

'... No. It wasn't. That...That will be all, Shepard. Hackett out.' —

She remembers the conversation quite vividly. They way he admitted that indeed, she had not been the one leaving anyone, that it had been the Alliance leaving her. The sudden, faintest trace of guilt in his voice. And how he did not deny that and just agreed with her. Taking responsibility, that was it. What she was always doing, what he was always doing.

A thought strikes her. "Computer. Sort by date. Give me the most recent file."

"File: Personal log entry.

" — Begin recordi- ... - ... - ... Damn, is this thing working already?

"December 31st, 2186 CE. A New Year celebration is going on... As much as there can be a celebration under the circumstances. We are hopeful. We won, we will rebuild, and someday even rise again, I can see that.

"I'm exhausted. Can't admit it, but I am. It's... Damn, I suppose talking to my omni-tool is one of the most idiotic things I've ever done in my entire life.

"They are lost. I don't want to realise it, but I have to. Whoever has been left in the Sol is probably dead by now. Lost... Damn, that's nonsense. Computer, stop recording. Delete the file. — "

There is something more to Hackett's words in that last part. The exhaustion he mentioned certainly is there, but there is more. The way he said 'lost' sounds... personal. Not any 'lost'. 'Lost' like in: he lost someone.

Shepard wonders briefly if he might have meant her.

...

It is something of a supernatural ability, Shepard muses, that whatever is happening and wherever it takes place, there is always a bottle of alcohol to be found for doctor Chakwas. This one is the same bottle Wainwright chose for a farewell drink with Hackett, but they left it intact. Wainwright mentioned something about the evening being too short for all the memories.

So now she is sitting – a welcome change, after a whole week in bed – sitting in Chakwas' room on a lower level of Galileo, drinking and chatting, as they used to do on the Normandy.

Shepard takes another sip of the scotch, the alcohol burning her throat, but a moment later it dissolves into pleasant warmth in her stomach. She hates the taste, but drinking with Chakwas has become something of a tradition. Besides, things told over the rim of a glass... it makes the talking easier for her. Sitting like this, sipping the booze slowly, means everything is safe for the moment, for she has time to relax.

"He send me his files," she says finally, after a prolonged pause. "Hackett," she specifies. Maybe doctor Chakwas will tell her some more. More that she found in the files.

Chakwas does not reply immediately, her hand moving as she is swirling her drink. "He's always been like that. When he's serious, it's very serious."

"You know him, don't you, doctor?"

"Had to patch him up on my first serious assignment. His first, also, and Wainwright's. That's when he got that scar on the cheek. It could've healed to be less visible, but we were short on supplies, and he insisted to take care of his squad first. He's always been stubborn."

"And then? The First Contact War?"

"Ah. Ugly, ugly business. He's been in the first fight, you know. The only ship which made it from Relay 314. He was given command of the ship, after the Captain was killed, and then commanded it into the retaliation battle. Didn't have much experience back then, had to rely on instincts. Made mistakes. Got his first patches of gray hair out of that." Chakwas drinks the rest of her scotch, then refills both glasses. "He can be... difficult, at times."

"You're friends? If you don't mind me asking."

Chakwas sighs. "Hard to say. We've never been that close friends. It's not like we wrote mails or called after he got promoted and I got reassigned."

"Oh."

"But I earned the right to call him by his name back then. He's not that insistent on regs when it doesn't get in the way of things."

"And that's it?"

"I'm sorry, Shepard." Chakwas sets her glass on the table. "But his frontline nightmares are his own, as are yours. It's up to him to share them. I respect that; you should, too."

"No need to chastise me, doctor."

"I'm not. Just reminding." Chakwas pauses.

"Has he..." Shepard hesitates. It is not right to ask, and it does not matter... Damn, it does. It is the past that made them who they are now. Besides, she is simply curious.

"Shepard, you're not serious, are you? Of course he's had relationships. But it's not my job to talk about it." Chakwas rebukes gently. "But no dead girlfriends, deceased wives or any other traumas, if that's what you're asking, and I'll pretend it was."

"Kind of."

"Does it matter?"

Shepard does not answer. Of course it does. But again, he never asked her about that either. Trust, again. Sometime, she will tell him on her own accord. Sometime, he will tell her. If there was something she should know, he would never try to hide it.

On a less logical level, only one thing seems important to her right now. That the Theresa Shepard she is now, and the Steven Hackett he is now, fit together right this very moment of time.

...

There is another file, one that arrives later than the others. Strangely, it has Liara's comment attached to it.

— Shepard, the file is coded. My computer recognised the specification as your comm device. If you can get past recoding it, you should know it is password-protected... But you probably don't need advice on this. This is from Hackett's voice mail, and, unlike the log entry backup which was not deleted due to a temporary program malfunction, this has been recorded, saved and then broadcasted.

Hackett doesn't know I have this file, but again, if this was deliberately broadcasted and is addressed to you, I think at some point he wanted you to hear it.

Can't contact you often, we have loads of messages to pass, and even my Broker devices have difficulties handling that much. Hackett claimed all the most effective channels, damn him; guess this goes with being the Fleet commander. I have to try it someday.

So long, Shepard.

Liara. —

Shepard hesitates. This is addressed to her, encoded, probably some wartime data that proved unnecessary. No harm could come out of it. Just what, it can bring up a memory or two, and maybe a following nightmare.

"Computer, read the file."

"Voice match: confirmed," announces the synthetic voice of her omni-tool audio mode. As it is her original omni-tool, it is enough to choose the configuration of the comm, and she can skip classic encoding altogether."Password required."

"Password: 2-1-5-4-3-4-Thermopylae." This is the code name she used for a data exchange channel established with Hackett. He was surprised she should choose such a name, and he remarked that history rather does not suit her, to which she replied this particular story was a memory from the past. She can still remember herself, maybe ten years old, sitting on the floor, listening to her grandfather as he is telling the story.

Back when they were establishing the password, she did not truly believe they could make it, that they could actually win the war. She hoped, but not believed. Not until that talk with Hackett just before the final battle.

"Password correct. File type: voice mail. From: Admiral Steven Hackett. File reading: commencing," announces the synthetic voice. There is a minor interference, and the recording continues, in Hackett's own voice.

"— This is nonsense, but I have to let go to be able to function, and this is the only way.

Shepard, I know you will never receive this message... Because you are dead. Killed on the Citadel, by my orders, by me sending you there. You'd have gone regardless, but that doesn't matter.

"Wherever you are now, know I am sorry. I would have made the same decision and given the same orders if I had to do it again, but know that I regret it. I regret it so much I am recording a voice mail to you, to a ghost, in hope it'll allow me to sleep at night, because I can't go on like this any longer, I have to get past it.

"As this is coded for your comm specifically, and your comm is probably lost, and even if it wasn't, you're most probably dead, no one will eavesdrop on it when broadcasted. In all probability, no one will receive it... But it will be out there. It is not possible this message will ever find you, but I cannot abandon the hope that somehow, it will. If you only knew... It would have changed nothing, if you knew. But I wish I've told you regardless.

"If you think I'm drunk, I'm not. Not yet, there isn't enough alcohol left on the damn ship. But yes, I am drinking. If anything, it makes your features visible more clearly.

"I sent the woman I... I sent you to your death. Your face still haunts me, every waking hour. I have to make it disappear.

"Farewell, Shepard... Theresa. — "

Shepard sits, transfixed, listening to the tremble in his voice. It is obvious he had been drinking, for otherwise he would have never said any of it. But hearing his voice, so deceitfully normal on the surface and so broken inside, touches something deep within her. The first weeks after the Citadel were difficult for her, but she cannot quite imagine what it must have been for him.

She blinks, and to her surprise feel her eyes and cheeks are damp. She reaches into the pocket of her suit and takes out a handkerchief, then wipes the tears away. As she puts the material back into its place in her pocket, she feels the familiar texture of stitched letters under her fingertips.

She wait a few minutes, until she is composed again, and calls him, because this cannot wait. Whatever she tells him now will not undo what he had to go through, but it is the right thing to do.

"Yes?" he answers her call curtly, obviously being busy with something else.

"Steve, I just wanted to..." she breaks off, and a moment of silence follows as they both note her use of a diminutive of his first name. Informal. Intimate.

"Theresa," he says quietly, and her own longing echoes in his voice.

"I got your message. From after the Citadel." She pauses. "Steve," she repeats his name, and it is a call, a caress, a confession of feelings. "Why didn't you tell me? Back then, why didn't you tell me?"

"We had to focus on other things," he explains, though without much conviction. "I should have told you, regardless."

"It's... I..." She is at a loss for words.

"It's all right now, Theresa."

"You have to tell it to yourself quite often, don't you?" she remarks softly.

"Yes," he answers, his candour no longer coming as a surprise to her. "Yes, sometimes I have to."

"It is all right," she says firmly, decisively. All that matters is they made it through the war, found each other, have a chance. "It's all right. Let go of the what-ifs."

"If you insist."

"Yes. I do." She pauses. "I guess that's all for now. Haven't really thought what I'd like to talk about, except that. But I had to call."

"I'm glad you did. I'll be calling you regularly, but it can't be as frequent as I'd like to. Once a fortnight, once a week at most."

"It's okay." She smiles a bit. "I'd just like an occasional sign you're thinking of me."

He sighs, so quietly it is barely audible, but she catches the sound nonetheless.

"I am always thinking of you," he says, before disconnecting.

It is late, but she is too moved to get to sleep, so she skims through the files again, reading, but there is almost nothing substantial there, nothing she either does not already know of or does care about. Almost nothing, but one: not a single word disappoints her. He has worked hard for his rank, and damn, earned every stitch of his admiral epaulettes. But she does not want to read about his history of service. The First Contact War with Relay 314 Incident and Shanxi; exploration missions – she wants him to talk to her about it. And Arcturus, and the Reaper War. Everything. He will, in time, just as she will tell him of Akuze and Alchera: not how it went, but how it felt.

For now, she has her own dossier of his. A memory patchwork of their encounters, dating back as far as Akuze, when she first met him in person and slightly off the official record.

.

.

.

Shepard is standing in the crowd of officials and soldiers, everyone around chatting while waiting to come over to offer condolences or congratulate her on her promotion to commander, some to do both. She wishes she could become invisible, or just get out of here this very moment. It is too much. If feels as if her squad has just been buried, the whole dreadful mission was just yesterday, and, damn it, why they make her attend this bloody decoration ceremony while she does not want any of this! The promotion will not bring her squad back, nothing will, and she does not want the bloody medal.

Shepard grits her teeth. She will make it through. And later in the evening she will find either a bottle of some alcohol or sleeping pills, because otherwise sleep will not come; only nightmares will.

Another Alliance official approaches her, and Shepard forces herself to keep her face neutral. His features seem familiar, but she cannot put a name to them... ah. Rear Admiral Hackett.

"Sir." She raises her hand to salute.

He stops her effort with a gesture. "At ease." He reaches out, offering his hand in congratulations. "Commander." This is all he says. No condolences, no congratulations, just a single word, the name of her new rank, which somehow conveys it all. It does not require her to put on a brave face or smile. He does not smile at her either, just steadily meets her eyes as they shake hands, very briefly: his palm holds hers firmly for a moment and that is it.

Shepard nods slowly. She is not the only who lived through a similar horror; she will make it, because she has to, just as others did. But it took that single word Hackett said to make her realise it, and for that, she is grateful.

...

The evening crawls on, so slowly time seems frozen, but at least she is able to hide somewhere in a corner with a glass of whiskey. The alcohol tastes foul, but it is fitting and, after all, is the good medicine not supposed to be bitter? She looks out through the window, but the stars outside do not bring the comfort they used to.

There is a sound of footsteps coming to a halt as someone stands next to her, but she does not turn. She will not leave before the end of the celebration if she has to stay, but she wants to be left alone.

"Commander," says a deep voice beside her, softly. Hackett.

Shepard turns. "Sir."

He salutes her with his glass. She nods is acknowledgement, but remains silent.

"It will fade in time, Commander." He keeps his voice quiet. "It will never disappear completely, but it will fade."

"Thank you, sir."

"I'd leave, if I were you. No one will notice anyway."

"I will stay."

"I could make up an excuse if you need one, Commander."

"I will stay," she repeats. "Thank you, sir," she adds, in an afterthought, though this time the thanks are just an empty phrase.

Hackett raises his glass again. "For the lost?" This is a question only halfway.

Shepard swallows the lump in her throat. Her answer is a hoarse, barely audible whisper. "Yes."

They do not talk much, just finish their drinks together. Shepard does not feels better, not quite, but a tad more peacefully.

"Sir?" She asks, all of a sudden. "Why bother?" Indeed, why should he?

"I've heard once that this is what tells a good leader from a bad one. People don't follow if they know you don't care."

This is the first time Shepard thinks that, just like Captain Anderson, Hackett is the right man in the right place. Also, what he says of leaders is true. From this evening on, she knows she will follow.