Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and especially for the reviews. They're always welcome :)

Special thanks to my fabulous beta, Janka, who took care of this chapter.

...

Spacetime

...

When she comes back to her apartment after a few hours at Grissom, Steven is already there, having returned from his journey. Well, it must be Steven, because he is the only one except her to have the access code to her quarters. There are soft tinkling noises coming from the kitchen, clinking of metal against metal, and she guesses he is making coffee, and probably puts the cups on the little table.

As Shepard walks across the room, she notices some Steven's possessions among her own, and it is plain baffling how big a difference can such a small change make. He managed to unpack before her return, and it feels as if all the things have always been there. As if he has always been there, living with her.

She enters the kitchen quietly, but from the way Steven's lips quirk into a smile she knows he is aware of her presence.

"How's Eden Prime doing?"

"Good. First food supply scheduled for next week. Speaking of food: I brought you something," he says, uncovering a small container.

"Dear God, the smell..." Upon leaving Grissom, she was not hungry. She is now. Whatever it is Steven brought her, it smells heavenly. She remembers the smell, a vague memory from her past: light dancing on the table surface, her grandmother's colourful striped apron, a gush of warm air from the oven.

"Bread." He smiles at her briefly. "And butter. And that tiny jar over there is honey."

Shepard blinks, but everything is still there, so she is not dreaming. This is... These are simple things, things she remembers from those proverbial better times. This is like discovering a long forgotten world, one where it was possible for her to feel safe and happy.

When she looks up at Steven, he is smiling down at her, his gaze soft.

"Steve, you're a treasure." She pecks him on the cheek, trying to hide the fact she is moved by his simple gift.

"I also brought the last bottle of wine I had on Terra."

"Oh, it's a date?" she asks, moving closer to him.

"Housewarming party," he replies. At seeing her frown, he laughs. "I'm sleeping in your bed. So, a date is a must."

...

It is most certainly one of the strangest dates she has ever been on. There are a few slices of bread – not too many, after months of eating nutrition paste and then wafers, one has to be cautious with regular food. Shepard is sure nothing has ever tasted better than this, and the honey trickling down the spoon has to be one of the most beautiful sights in her life.

Steven is laughing at her when she tells him that.

"It's just food," he says. "But yes, I think I can understand."

"It feels so familiar," she mumbles, loud enough for him to catch it.

"What?"

"I... don't know. Everything." She shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"No." The look in his eyes is tender, warm. "Not really. Not while everything's all right."

The comm beeps, signalling an incoming call. Theresa glances at Steven and they exchange a look – it really is impossible to get anything done in peace. Maybe Commander Shepard or Admiral Hackett could pull it off once in a while, but both combined – there is no chance.

Shepard rushes into the living room to get the call.

"Shepard." It is Miranda, dressed in Alliance blues. She is not wearing a uniform, just her standard suit, with a small Alliance logo stitched on."Just called to tell you they're opening the bar tomorrow. So, surprise, surprise, when T'Soni and Vakarian arrive, we can go out for a drink."

"Sounds good."

"It's settled, then." There is a muffled signal of another comm, and Miranda looks up momentarily. "Sorry, have to go. I'm helping with transport planning right now, and Hackett will have my head if I'm late with it. So long, Shepard."

"For the record: I would just reprimand her," Steven says. He is standing on the kitchen threshold, leaning against the doorframe.

"It is very impolite to eavesdrop," Shepard lectures, turning the comm off. Whatever business anyone might have to do with her, it will wait for tomorrow.

"It is very impossible not to overhear anything in this tight appartment of yours. You might want to apply for bigger quarters."

"We could also move to your place, you know. Should be more comfortable, with you being the Fleet Admiral and everything..."

"Gave my rooms up. Seemed the logical thing to do, since I'm spending most of my time aboard the Normandy."

"Fine, fine." Shepard smiles up at him. "Any chance you've already opened the wine?"

"Yes. By the way, be careful with those drinks you're planning."

"Oh, sure, laugh at me."

When she comes closer, he puts an arm around her, and she leans against him. It still catches her off guard sometimes how easily such everyday displays of affection come to her. It is even more amazing how her body seems to fit against his.

"I'm glad you'll finally meet at least some of your friends," he says, dropping a kiss onto her hair.

Shepard's hand finds his. She is still afraid to voice it, even in jest, but she thinks that she is even more glad of having him here beside her.

...

Later in the evening Steven is sitting at the desk, working on something, but now and again she catches him glancing up at her.

"Need a break?" she asks, patting the free space on the sofa, right next to her.

"Not yet."

"You're positively infuriating, you know that?"

"It'd be difficult to forget, since you're reminding me of it on a regular basis." But he smiles at her all the same, gets up and walks over to her.

"Your home city?" he asks, his finger hovering briefly over the holo screen of her datapad.

The screen is displaying a photo of a cityscape at night: rooftops, chimneys, a hint of smoke somewhere in the corner, and lights of countless windows. There are no stars visible, and the sky is that peculiar shade between violet, rosy pink and yellow, so typical of big cities where lights never go down.

"I used to sit there, you know," she murmurs, pointing somewhere right beyond the frame. "Right there."

Hackett leans over her shoulder to take a closer look. "Best seats in the house."

Shepard moves her head and their cheeks are almost touching. Almost, not quite, but she can feel the warmth of his skin on hers.

"I used to sneak there whenever I could and try to get to the rooftop. And then sit there, sometimes for hours. It was... another world. Up there, I felt I could be myself, though I didn't yet know who that was. Kept thinking of all the stars and systems I've seen on the net. It was... well, a bit pathetic, I suppose, but I was only a teen. Searching for my breath of freedom, I guess."

His hand squeezes her shoulder gently. "Thank you."

That genuinely puzzles her. "For what?"

"Telling me."

"Oh... But..." There is nothing to thank for, at least she feels so. But since Steven seems to have a different opinion on the matter, she does not mention it. "Well... You could always tell me something in return, mhm?"

"Not much to tell. Had my nose in one book or another for most of my teenage years." There was something in his voice; nothing clear or evident, just vague something.

"Steve? There's more to it, right?"

"Yes. I'll tell you one day, promise. Just... It's been too long. And it seems very foolish now."

She laughs a bit. "Just like my old nickname."

"You know, 'Terri' doesn't sound so terrible when you think of it."

"How so?"

"Sounds like a diminutive of 'Terra', doesn't it?" He smiles lightly. "Little Earth," he adds quietly, in a warm tone.

Shepard swallows. Up until now, she has always thought herself immune to this, and using pet names still seems idiotic for her... And she knows he will not do this on a regular basis, because neither of them is that kind of person. But the way he says it, his voice between amused and tender, makes it touching. And damn, it is touching her far too deeply. "Dammit, Steve, stop. Stop doing that!"

"I'm sorry... Doing what exactly?"

"Being so damn poetic!"

"I'm not poetic, just observant. And..."

"Steve, don't..." She looks down, suddenly embarrassed, and furious at herself for this.

"Theresa, what is it?"

"The way you talk of me sometimes... I can't pay back, Steve. I'm no good with words. So please, just..."

He walks around the sofa, then leans towards her, takes her chin in his hand and gently motions her to face him. "I know what I've signed for, right? So no more of this melodrama."

Shepard looks up at him, meeting his eyes questioningly. He holds her gaze steadily, and it is exactly the kind of answer she needs. She pulls him to her, but instead of kissing him just rests her forehead against his.

"See?" he asks, settling on the sofa beside her. "That's fine payback for me," he adds as she nestles against him.

...

Life with Steven is comfortable and so beautifully easy, except for the times when it is not. It is fine with her when he has to leave for weeks to assess the progress of one or another project, to run a routine defence check, to organize escort for one or another team of scientist and explorers, or to argue with the Council, infuriating them artfully simply by being his endlessly calm self. It is fine with her when he does not return at night because of an emergency.

It is anything but fine when he wakes from a nightmare in the middle of the night and will not talk to her. He is sitting, leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, teeth gritted. Making no sound other than breathing.

"Steve?"

He half-opens his eyes. "Can it wait?"

"Steve, what is it?" Whatever it is, it has to be important; she has never seen him like this, has never had an impression he was so distant as he seems now.

He does not reply.

"Steve?" Shepard is not going to back down. She will get it out of him. "Steven, talk to me, dammit!"

"Arcturus." His voice is hollow, so quiet she can barely hear it.

Shepard curses inwardly. Damn, she should have guessed, she knows him, dammit! It is just that never before has she seen him so broken. Never. She inhales deeply, trying to find the right words, aware the effort is futile. What he needs is presence, and comfort of someone's touch, not words, but he will not let her provide him with that. "Steve," she says very softly, a tone she has never used before, even with him. "Stop beating yourself over that. You did all you could."

"It wasn't enough." It seems to pain him more now than it used to then, but this she can understand: now he has time to truly think about it.

"Steven, please."

"It does not fade. Only gets sharper."

"Stop blaming yourself."

"How can I, when that damn station reminds me of it all the time?"

She cannot take it anymore, she does not want to take it. He looks as if he has barely slept while being away for the last week – which is probably true, judging by the messages left on her comm. And damn, if it has been the same nightmare all that time, it is high time it ended. "Then why did you order to rebuild this bloody station here?"

"Because people need a symbol."

Maybe they do, she thinks, but you need sleep, Steve. She will not let him pay the cost over and over, just as he did not let her. Because, dammit, it is not right! "Screw people and the bloody symbol, and this goddamn station that only gives you nightmares!"

Without a word, he makes a move to get up. She can see the tight set of his jaw, and the single muscle twitching in his cheek. He is not just angry, he is furious, and his outer calm is terrifying. He turns, sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to get up and go.

"Hackett, don't you dare leave!"

He stops mid-motion. He takes a breath, and when he lets the air out all the rage evaporates, leaving only exhaustion marked clearly on his face by the shadows under his eyes.

A wave of emotions chokes her. "Steve, I'm sorry... So sorry..."

He meets her gaze and holds it. "I am sorry, Theresa," he says gravely. "I shouldn't have... It's not your fault."

"Neither it's yours," she says decisively, meaning both his quiet outburst and his remorse over Arcturus. She reaches out, and in a blink of an eye he holds her tightly to him. His kiss is bruising; passion and despair in equal measures. Now she understands why he refused her back then on Gagarin; it is not supposed to be like that. Later, maybe, shall he need it, or shall she need it, yes, but not the first step, no, this is not right.

Shepard pulls away, as delicately as she can, only to put her arms around him and hold him, hands stroking his head and rubbing his back gently in slow, soothing motions. He buries his face against her hair and clings to her.

"I am sorry, Theresa," he repeats.

"Steve..." She says, then hesitates briefly, because his name does not seem enough. She has often comforted someone, but how is she supposed to find right words seeing him like this? God, she remembers how after Arcturus his voice did not even waver. In her mind, he has always been a picture of an infallible leader, and to see him so broken... He is as much human as she is, and it is only natural even his endurance must have an end... But nothing could have ever prepared her for this. "Steve, dearest, please, give it a rest. We let emotions get the better of us, it happens, we're sorry, it's all right. It's all right."

"Theresa, I'm not a child. I don't need..."

"Steven Hackett, shut up and listen to me. How long has it been since you've shared your troubles with anyone?"

"Long." He pulls her even closer against him, and it does not seem to be entirely out of need for comfort. "But not that long."

"I'm not letting it drop, not this time." She cannot help a little sigh as he kisses her neck. "And don't try to divert my attention..." She shudders as his lips touch the hollow of her throat. "Steve, don't... Talk to me, all right? Steven, if you don't stop right now I'll have to get you out of your clothes, and weren't you the one who once told me it's not the right solution?"

"Yes, I remember. Damn too well." He rests his forehead against hers. "No, you're right." He takes a deeper breath and lets it out with a sigh. "It's... damn it."

"It backfires if you try to hold it back for too long," she says quietly, recalling her own breakdown that fateful night on Gagarin. "So don't ever do it again, okay?"

"Only if you promise to do the same."

She looks up into his eyes and smiles at him encouragingly. "Promise."

"Very well. Promise."

"So... Let's try to get some sleep, Steve, mhm?"

"I won't fall asleep yet." Regardless, following her example, he settles down onto the pillows. "Can we talk for a moment longer?"

"About?" She leans on her elbow, her other hand idly wandering across his chest.

"The past, times you used to be Terri, or earlier? Your childhood dreams? Something happy. Anything."

Shepard smiles again. "Terri used to pine for a commander from one of those very old sci-fi series. He quoted Tennyson, too."

"Does that mean I'll have to learn some Tennyson by heart? Have mercy." He makes an effort to small-talk, and somehow that lifts his spirits a little.

"No, I don't think so. Mhm. No."

"Are you absolutely sure? I still remember that one quote, should you change your mind."

"And here I've never thought you're a romantic..."

"I'm not. Not the roses and poetry type, anyway. But everyone needs words from time to time, and the woman I love certainly deserves them."

Shepard goes still, marvelling at the simplicity with which he said it. No one has ever said it to her before, not like that, not that plainly, not that straightforwardly. Not that sincerely.

"Steven Hackett, have you just said..."

His eyes light up, that twinkle back to them again. "You've heard. Unless everything I say has to end with the 'Hackett out' phrase to be valid."

Shepard laughs out loud. "Likewise," she says softly.

"Theresa, I've told you already, I don't want declarations yet..."

"You're a decent liar, Steve, but not that good."

"Eh, caught red-handed..."

Her hand cups his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Tell me."

"What?"

"The truth, Steven."

He sighs. "Fine. I do want a declaration, I do want to know this is going somewhere."

"We've just worked through a major crisis. I'd say I know where this is go-..." she stifles a yawn. "Going. Sorry, Steve, I'm dog tired."

"Let's go to sleep, then," he says with a smile. "Just wanted to see your reaction."

"Steven, dammit... But I wouldn't mind if you were to keep annoying me for, let's say, a few years. Or a dozen. Or..."

He gathers her in his arms. "Sleep, Theresa." Maybe he is right, interrupting her like that. It is too early to speak of ever after.

Shepard does not, in general, believe in bad luck, but she would not like to risk it any way. This thing they have with Steven – by far, it is one of the best that ever happened in her life.

"Mhm..." is all her answer, as she curls up against him. Last thing she feels before falling asleep is the soft touch of his hand stroking her hair.

...

There are many daily duties, as the planned date of re-opening Grissom Academy is approaching quickly, and Shepard concentrates on her work, trying to do her best. But after returning to her quarters, and eating dinner over yet another book, she often thinks how odd it is that everything seems to be passing by her in a blur. Everything but evenings, nights and mornings, and she wonders how could it be that her world dilates to one tiny space: her room, her bed. To a single point: learning to live with Steven. Once and again, she catches herself waiting – she used to wait for his visits at first, and then, after he moved in with her, for his returns.

This is all new to her: safety, having so much time for leisure, actually having time to fall in love and experience the process day by day, building the relationship slowly. How she grows to anticipate the moment when she turns towards the door with a smile and he is there, or waiting until his hands are on her shoulders, and he mutters a warm welcome in her ear. This, in all probability, will not last forever, and the haze will fade. But Shepard never doubts what they have is more than mere infatuation, firmer, solid. Friendship, respect, that trust that has kept her sane in her most difficult moments, and understanding... She is not quite certain if this is how love is supposed to be, but hells, does the name really matter when what they have makes everything easier, because they can walk through it together?

They are both learning. To share their private space with another – though it is much more difficult for her, and she figures out he has been there before. She does not ask, but one evening when they are sitting side by side, reading, he discards the datapad and starts talking quietly. She has no choice but to do the same. It is difficult, but when Steven says that they will leave it all behind them, for it is only about him and her now, she knows it was worth it.

They are learning to talk, and to be silent together, to work and spend free time, to fall asleep and wake up together, and thousands other tiny little details that add up to a shared life.

They are also learning to discern each other's nightmares by the way they wake up in the middle of the night. With Relay 314 and Shanxi, he brings his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and after a moment he is back his collected self – the First Contact War was long ago, and he has learnt to deal with it since. With the Battle of Earth, what wakes her are his arms tightening around her body as he holds her to him, pressing his lips to her hair, and she strokes his face, whispering 'I am here' over and over, until his breathing comes back to normal.

With Alchera, she wakes up gasping for breath, to find he is already holding her, and slowly the dream begins to end not with falling into a hell of pain and flames, but landing safely in his arms – or maybe it is the movement of his arms encircling her that wakes her up. With scenes from the war, she clings to him, burrowing her face against his chest or neck, and he murmurs soothingly into her ear, most often repeating the 'brave girl' phrase. With the Citadel, she is lying completely still, eyes closed and tears slowly flowing down her cheeks, and he brushes the tears away, pulls her to him gently and says a quiet, iron-firm 'I'm with you', and when she opens her eyes to look at him he kisses her softly, then presses a lingering kiss to her temple, and she falls asleep again, feeling safe.

...

There is time for sharing stories, funny and serious and emotional, as well as simple memories. There is also time for sharing battle tales, written across their bodies in scars.

She already knows the scar on his cheek is a reminder of his first assignment, and she lets her fingers trace it gently. She then brushes a faint scar on the left side of his nose.

"Relay 314," he explains curtly. "We got shot, a console exploded the Captain into face. I just got minor scratches."

There is another faint line beginning at his collarbone, and she traces that one, too.

"Shanxi."

"There are more, aren't there?" she asks, her hands moving from his skin to the buttons of his shirt.

"Yes."

As he lets her undo his shirt, Shepard thinks that this is trust. Her fingers follow the lines of the scars, gently, but she does not cross the line they set, not now, now is not the time. Now is the time for war stories, that should be told just like this. When she glances up, at his face, light reflects in his eyes, but he makes no move, just allows her to read him, at her own pace.

It astonishes her how easy it seems all of a sudden, just being close like that. Yes, she wants more, certainly, but she is learning trust is more than granting a permission to move closer, close enough to share a bed at night. She discovers there are more ways to express trust on such a personal level, surprised it comes so easily just to write 'I care for you' across his skin with simple, tender touches that have very little to do with desire.

She traces another scar, one beginning at his side and continuing down towards the hip. Her fingers follow, dipping beneath his clothing, her touch soft, light. She waits for him to stop her, but he does not, just watches her quietly. Suddenly she is certain that should she wants more, he would not stop her, because he wants that just as much, but there are things she must discover and learn herself, so he gives her time. Shepard leans over and kisses the corner of his lips lightly, feeling him smile. Sometimes, like now, she thinks he knows her better than she knows herself. She withdraws her hand, but without hurry.

"Just scars," he mutters. "Not very different from yours."

"I don't have much of my own, after Cerberus. Oh, don't fret, this doesn't bother me... all that much. Not any longer."

"You got the one on your cheek back." His palm cups her cheek as his thumb follows the pale line of the scar.

"Yeah. Got this one almost right."

"There's one missing. Here." His finger brushes across her lips, where the scar used to be, and then he kisses the spot gently.

"And another one here." She points at her wrist, drawing an invisible line, and again his lips ghost over her skin.

She continues, this time pointing to her shoulder and again his lips follow her sign. When she indicates her ribs he rolls her top up and his hand trails the line her finger draws, his skin warm against hers.

Shepard touches his temple, hand sliding down to rest on his cheek. "Others... should wait?" she half-asks, briefly pointing at her hipbone.

"For later." He puts his hand there, tenderly, but there is more to this touch.

She meets his eyes, then covers his palm with hers. "My rehab is long over," she says, reminding him of their agreement.

"I know," he responds quietly.

She ponders on this for a while. He is leaving the decision to her... and she is beginning to understand. "Does it ever seem like the time is right?" She grimaces. "It never has, to me. Not truly."

He smiles. "You'd be surprised."

"Oh, don't you patronise me."

"I'm not. You certainly don't need that."

Shepard sighs. "Everything as planned with your trip to Sur'Kesh?"

"Trip? Very funny. Yes, everything's as planned. I'm taking off tomorrow. Doctor Solus is coming with us."

"God, I'll miss him. But he's earned his retirement."

"He's not retiring. I thought you knew," he adds, reading surprise on her face. "He said he's planning to run some tests there. Mentioned something about sea?"

"Oh. That." Shepard smiles sadly. "Tests on seashells. I... I think he won't come back, Steve."

He puts an arm around her.

"I'm fine. Just... He's a friend. But don't worry, I can cope."

"It doesn't make it hurt less."

"Steve, stop. Please." She moves away, because if she keeps feeling his warm presence beside her, she will crumble, and dammit, not now. No grieving for friends who are still alive! But she cannot get rid of the thought that even though the war is over, the goodbyes are not, and despite the fact she knows that is the course of life, it is hard.

"Theresa?"

"Don't... Please. Don't touch me. Not right now." Her lips twist into a bitter smile. "We've been there already. You know how it'll end."

He reaches out for her anyway, and as his hands touch her shoulders she gives in, curling into him, shifting to be as close as she only can, hiding her face against his neck. Shepard bites her lip as he strokes her head tenderly.

"It's not a crime to feel," he mutters.

"Look who's talking," she retorts, and her voice almost does not waver.

"You're not on duty, Theresa. You don't have to be so guarded."

Shepard opens her mouth to protest, but no words come out as she realises he is right. She is so used to always being the tough one that she still perceives displaying feelings as weakness, and the prospect of anyone seeing her like that is scary. But... he has seen her like that, and never thought less of her, as she has never thought less of him in similar circumstances. Still, she is reluctant to speak of her feelings, for no sensible reason at all.

"Steve?" she whispers, suddenly at a loss. He can comfort her, but she is not certain how to ask. Up until now, he has always done that before she voiced anything. This is the next step; he is not the only one who has to learn to talk on some topics.

Even though the silence stretches out, he makes no move. Finally, he sighs quietly. "Theresa, if you really want me to go and leave you alone for now, I will."

"Don't!" The intensity of her voice surprises her even more than him. "Don't."

"Fine," he whispers, and it is a promise.

"Hold me?" she breaths out finally, her voice coming through so tiny she barely recognises it.

He does, careful, soothing, too gentle for her, because she is still not used to it. Shepard pulls him to her, her lips searching for his frantically. The deadline they agreed upon is past, but to move further now would be too early; it is almost the right time, but a hairbreadth away from it still, so she does not cross the boundaries set by clothing, and neither does he. But she needs to feel his body against hers as he leans over for another deep kiss, needs his arms to hold her to him, needs him to refocus her world onto him. She realises she does not want him to go, but knows he will go regardless, because he has to, and she would do the same. But before he will go, he can help her remember she is alive... and that it is a good thing, she thinks as she calms down and tumbles into sleep, safe and warm and alive in his arms though all he does is holding her.

...

"Don't go," she says, half in joke, still very sleepy. She is used to getting up early, but this is too early even for her.

"You know I have to, right?" He sits, the blanket pooling at his waist.

Shepard forces her eyes to open and glances up at him: his hair tousled from sleep, his face softer than his usual daily expression. "Five minutes more?" she asks, because she loves him like that, dishevelled and slightly untidy, the Steven Hackett that – she feels – belongs solely to her .

"Five minutes it is." He smiles at her, amused, letting her pull him close. "Never thought you're so, well, cuddly."

"What?!" She smothers the laughter into his shirt. "I'm not!"

"But?" he prompts.

"But... I like being close to you. Helps me relax."

"I'm not going to be away forever, you know."

"Now you're making fun of me. Of course I know. Just saying."

"Isn't it boring for you? Quiet life?"

"Very calm. Much more than what I'm used to. But... I like it, I think. I get up in the morning and can sit over my coffee for half an hour sometimes, reading. That... feels weird. But nice. And, of course, there's a certain Admiral..."

"Watch out, you'll grow into a flirt," he jokes.

"As if that was possible." She relaxes in his embrace, her mind still half-floating in the warm haze of sleep.

"Come on, sleepyhead. We'll eat breakfast together."

Shepard half-opens her eyes to give him a look speaking clearly his current state of mind leaves much to be desired. "Not hungry."

"I'll make coffee."

She sighs, knowing this battle is lost already, because no matter how tired she will be later, she is going to have that breakfast with him. "You know how to tempt a woman."

...

Liara keeps to her word, and when she arrives at Arcturus, Garrus is with her. It turns out Miranda has some free time on her hands, too, and decides to join them. So they all are now sitting at a table in what is currently the only club on Arcturus, sipping drinks.

Shepard smiles when she glances at the club name, Zocalo, written in fancy lettering over the menu – well, the list of planned drinks, mostly, until the owners get their hands on some more substantial alcohol supplies. The name, along with the music played here, some old rock songs which titles she does not remember – but her foot seems to have better memory, as it is tapping quietly to the rhythm – it all brings back memories. Her youth was rarely happy, but those few memories are: a haze of music and laughter, and the dim light of the old Reds hideout she remembers is almost the same as the soft light in the club.

"That's one thing that never ceases to amaze me," remarks Liara.

"Music?" Garrus suggests. The music is human, and must be slightly exotic for them both.

"I think she meant resourcefulness in finding alcohol, Garrus," Shepard says.

Miranda eyes her glass suspiciously. "Salarian. Didn't know they had alcohol."

"Yeah, of course. Every sentient species has. One of the laws of the universe," says Garrus, with absolute conviction, only to grin a moment later. "What is it?" he asks, turning his attention to the music.

"It's..." Shepard concentrates. "Damn, I know this... An old friend of mine used to listen to this..."

Garrus cocks his head to the side, listening. "Nice." He decides, his attention back on his drink.

"Dammit, I don't remember the name. Something beginning with "Spring". Twentieth-century rock, or something."

"Interesting." Liara glances at the scene. "A turian, an asari, a drell and a hanar, singing human songs."

"Oh, come on, a hanar on percussion? Logical," arguments Garrus.

"Yeah." Shepard, too, finds it somehow amusing. "They're just lacking an elcor and a volus on the team."

Miranda gives a measured smile. "Actually, they have a volus manager."

Garrus chokes on his drink, and eventually Liara has to help him using a biotic kick.

"Uh, thanks."

"You're welcome. Care for a dance?"

"Well, can't really refuse you now, right?" Garrus grins.

Miranda waits until they are off on the dancefloor. She takes a sip of her drink, then turns to Shepard, and there is a question coming.

"So, you and Hackett..." Before Shepard can voice any protest how she does not want to discuss her relationship, Miranda adds: "It's not really possible not to notice he's practically living at your place now. Well, anyway, impossible to overlook when I'm working with him this often. And I've spotted his cap on your desk that last time we talked."

"You're infuriating, you know that?"

"Doing my best." Miranda smiles again, but this time it is genuine, not practiced perfection. "So?"

"Apparently, you know everything already."

"Sorry, Shepard."

"Miranda! Not so loud... Besides, I have a first name, you know."

A young soldier comes over to the table, having caught her name over the noise.

"Whoa, you're Commander Shepard? Really?"

Miranda is quicker to answer, arching her brows in an expression of bored superiority. "Really, kid, has suddenly every red-haired woman turned into Commander Shepard? You've ever even seen her?"

"Hey, I'm pretty sure..."

"You're not the first to ask my friend this question, and I think she's had enough. And I'm fairly certain you're anything butpretty."

Someone laughs in the background, most probably the soldier's colleagues, and he leaves, humiliated.

"No preaching on me being too harsh," Miranda says to Shepard.

"Just wanted to say thanks."

"You're welcome." Miranda's face softens slightly. "So... Are you happy?"

"I think so."

"Not certain?"

"It's... complicated." Shepard smiles, slightly uncomfortable. "There are some things we must learn."

"I bet. You both like to boss around too much. I'd also bet the negotiations must be interesting."

"No comments on that."

Miranda swirls her drink. "Back before Earth, when I was saying goodbye to you... He was standing nearby, you know? Never even looked. Back then I thought: how stupid. He had to take into account that might have been his last chance to talk to you, and he gave it up, just like that. But after the battle, when we thought you were dead... I understood what an idiot I'd been."

"You knew? All the time?"

"I guessed, back then. If you had been just a soldier to him, he'd have given you one last inspiring line, at least. He never did." She pauses, then smiles, seemingly to her drink. "He's the most damn stubborn man I know. But sincere and honourable." Miranda looks up. "Guess I just wanted to say: good luck. You deserve that... Theresa. You both do."