After the briefing, Myla was sure to check in with each and every member of her team. They'd holed up in their quarters for now, preparing themselves as best they could. None of them had wanted to wait, to take more time before mounting the assault, and they were all spending the travel time to the relay by contacting loved ones or immersing themselves in the personal rituals that every fighter develops.

Shepard walked through her ship, her home, painfully conscious of the way her footsteps echoed. So alone. A frigate of Normandy's specs was meant to house at least forty, maybe fifty at a time. Now there were only fourteen.

She ran her hands along the metal walls, feeling the cold hum in the Normandy's bones. So empty. She fought a sudden wave of sorrow. This was only temporary. They'd take out the Collectors and bring everyone back. She'd promised her crew, her team, herself.

She'd meant to go up to her cabin, to spend the spare hours polishing armor, cleaning weapons, to get her mind focused on the job, nothing else. She'd even laid everything out on her bed before making her rounds, but when she'd finally finished and got in that elevator, she found herself pressing the button for the command deck. She'd talked to every member of her combat team, but she'd neglected her pilot. Maybe she'd been subconsciously avoiding the inevitable emotional fallout.

Joker… Shepard hit her head softly against the elevator wall. She'd wanted to defend him against Miranda, but the words just hadn't come. He'd saved the ship, made it possible for Shepard and her team to stage the coming attack, but if only he'd left her when that monstrosity dropped out of FTL. If he'd just taken the Normandy far away from that damned ship…

No. She'd seen the logs, seen the scans that EDI had run automatically as the Normandy's crew were dragged screaming and bloodied — she shook her head. The sheer mass of the Collector ship that close to the planet's gravity well would have ripped the Normandy apart if she'd tried to jump. There was nothing he could have done. Just like the first time.

If anything it was her fault. She should have made EDI double- and triple-check that IFF, should have insisted on some kind of testing before it was installed. Instead she'd gone gallivanting off on some little training exercise. It was her fault the Normandy got hit, at least partly. These cockroaches kept catching them off-guard. They had thought ahead, had planned for this reckless suicide mission, and almost succeeded in snuffing out the resistance before…

It's our turn. Her regret solidified into resolve. This would be it.

She'd recruited the motley bunch TIM had wanted, she'd scraped planets bare of resources in half-baked attempts to reinforce the ship or squeeze a few more drops of efficiency from the Cerberus mechanizations, hell, she'd been in dozens of backwater systems at the behest of her high-maintenance team's personal issues. They were more than ready. She believed—had to believe—that if they struck fast and hard so soon after what had clearly been an attempt to end her, they could wipe out that sordid race of puppets and get the crew back to boot.

Right.

She straightened, letting the weight of her responsibility settle over her shoulders. It was a familiar load, and the knowledge of her purpose made it comforting. She didn't have time to whine about what had happened—the past could not be changed, but she sure as hell had a say in her future.

The doors opened, and Shepard strode forward. He had to know it wasn't his fault. He had to know she still believed in him, still trusted him, still… Memories of his green eyes, bright with his usual wicked humor and not dead with grief as they had been just an hour earlier, sent a shiver of heat down her spine to pool pleasurably in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't let him sit up in that bridge for two hours, alone, to think about whatever horrors he'd seen.

The walk to the cockpit felt longer now that there were no nav assistants cracking jokes or scrambling to minimize their extranet windows as she passed. She jogged, suppressing the uneasiness at the alien sight of so many empty chairs, at the absence of human sound. Only temporary, she thought, fixing her eyes on the pilot's seat. We'll get them back.

He heard her coming, of course. Her footfalls pinged out, echoing tinnily in the silence. He swiveled his chair to face her, but again he avoided looking her in the face. The sight of his shoulders slumped so dejectedly, of his brow furrowed in utter guilt, made her stop short.

"Commander." His voice was small, and the reedy quality that she had always loved made it break easily. She wanted to stop whatever was so clearly paining him to say, but again her words failed her and she could only watch. "Sorry about the crew and…"

It's not your fault, she wanted to say, but she hesitated. She'd never seen him so broken—when he'd told her about his torment in the years of her death, he'd still had that slight edge, that intangible energy that rejected pity. This…this was something different, something awful, and she didn't know how to make it better.

Her dismayed silence roused a measure of defiance in him, and he shifted in his seat, glaring up at her suddenly.

"You know what? I'm not sorry!" The anger seemed to give him strength, and she took an unconscious step back against the outburst. "What the hell were you doing leaving us out here where Collectors can work us over?"

He was blaming her. Her loyal pilot, her fellow soldier, her old friend, Joker was blaming her. It wasn't that she didn't accept responsibility for the stupid oversight that lost them so many, but she had never expected to be outright accused, least of all by—

"Because you know what, I should… I should just go." He must have seen the hurt on her face, because his gaze slipped guiltily away. His words slowed, thickened with bitterness, but they didn't stop, and each one felt like a slap in the face. "Next port…I should just get the hell out of here."

Where was this coming from? She felt tears coming, but swallowed them, defensively shutting down the part of her that was vulnerable to his attacks. She didn't need this right before a fucking suicide mission—he had to get his act together. Shepard opened her mouth to let him have it, but a smooth and pleasantly feminine simulated voice beat her.

"You don't mean that Jeff." EDI's absurd holographic avatar bounced up from her console. Was she trying to soothe him? Myla bristled. She could take care of herself, and she could damn well take care of him. Besides, Joker wasn't exactly fond of the little—

To her surprise, he sat back sheepishly, darting an apologetic glance up to her before addressing the softly glowing blue figure. "I…no, but it…it felt good." He shook his head, blowing out a heavy sigh as if ridding himself of all the guilt and pain that had prompted the uncharacteristic rant, and flashed a weak half-smile up at Shepard. "I'm sorry Commander. Okay, I'm ready, I'm good. I'm ready to save the day."

Surprise turned to indignation. Why the hell did he listen to EDI all of a sudden? And did he really think she'd just let that go?

"Are you sure? There's nothing else you want to get off your chest?" She snapped, hating that stupid smirk. "Feel free to speak you mind, Lieutenant."

He frowned again, "Look, I'm just sick of getting blamed—"

"I wasn't blaming you!" She felt stupid, standing here. She didn't know what to do with her arms, so she folded them, glaring at him. "You're right, it was my fault. I don't blame you at all. Miranda wasn't thinking, and everybody knows we're lucky you were able to take back the ship."

"Okay, yeah…I'm just under a lot of stress—" He looked away again, and it enraged her.

"We're all under stress! We're all pissed and scared, Joker." She wanted him to look at her, wanted him to see how much she needed him to be Joker, not whoever had threatened to abandon her. "We've got to do this, and you can't just flip out on me!"

"I know, okay?" He gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white. "We're going off on another impossible mission that no one expects us to come back from—it's like a walk in the park for you. This is what you do. This is what you live on."

He reset his cap, fingers slipping in his agitation, but the anger in his expression was turning to desperation. "You'll go in and I'll just sit here and wait for you to finish saving the day. I'll just sit and watch like always while you and those crazy bastards you call a team go into hell and try to come back."

His voice lowered, the brim of his cap shadowed his face. "I'll sit. And I'll wait. And I'll watch. Up here, alone, until you're done shooting all those creepy-ass bugs and bring Chakwas and Chambers and everyone back."

He raised his head, eyes finally meeting hers, and she saw the fear in them. "You know, if…you…"

The anger drained away, and she felt tired again. "I know." She couldn't promise to come back. She couldn't promise to save even one crewman. She couldn't even promise that they'd make it through the relay.

She thought of how it would be for him, up here alone and unable to help, forced to watch the helmet feeds. The ship would be silent around him, bare and empty, the vast spaces would echo the utter nothingness until it filled his head, pressing against his shoulders, as he watched his friends die. Maybe she'd go down. Maybe he'd see it—she could be crushed or shot or, or…If their places had been reversed, could she do that? Watch the people she'd been pledged her future to, the people she'd—Shepard shook her head, feeling a hot tear slip down her cheek. It would be easier to escape and try not to think about it, to spend every day telling herself they'd made it out just fine and that they wouldn't want to see her anyway, just pretend that everything turned out like the vids.

"Joker…" She couldn't think of anything to say, but he could see that she understood, and the knowledge was raw and painful between them. The silence in the cockpit, in the ship, was deafening.

She needed to touch him, suddenly, to know that he was real, that he was there, and placed her hands on his, at first tracing the lines in his palms, then moving up the pale skin of his forearms. He leaned forward, gently clasping her shoulders. She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded once.

Myla sank down, carefully straddling him, and knocked her forehead against his. Her eyes closed. She felt the hat push up and away, and felt his body heat mingle with hers. Instinctively, she turned her head and kissed him softly, just savoring his taste and proximity. His hands ran down her back, settling at her hips and pulling her more snugly against him. Her pilot's touch sent shivers of warmth down her spine, and she was acutely conscious of how their bodies were separated by only a few centimeters of Cerberus uniform.

She gasped softly in surprise when he slipped a hand under her shirt, fingers splayed over her ribs, and opened her eyes. His gaze was level, and his mouth twisted in a sad smile. Green eyes asked for permission, and she kissed him again in response, harder, insistently, feeling the sick giddiness again in her gut. She pushed against him, reaching down to untuck his shirt, reveling in the trails of fire his hands left on her back.

Maybe this wasn't what she had imagined, but she needed him to…to what? Have something to remember her by if she didn't make it back? To be her anchor to humanity, the last sweet instance of physical contact before diving into chaos? Myla shuddered in pleasure as he traced a finger over the vulnerable skin behind her ears with the softness of a whisper. This was more than lust, but was it—We may not have time for more.

She'd made her decision, and grinned, letting go of her last inhibitions. She shifted for a better position, and pushed his hat off with one hand, running her fingers through his surprisingly soft dark hair. He winced at the same time as she found a swollen knot at the back of his head.

"What-?"

"I'm fine." He shrugged, grinning.

"Are you-?"

"I'm sure!" He leaned forward, silencing her with a kiss, and she dropped the subject, pushing back to take her shirt off. They didn't have a medical doctor at the moment—she didn't feel comfortable asking Mordin anything health-related after he'd mentioned the liver-thing—and if he said he was fine—

She heard him hiss in pain, and glared at him critically.

"If you're hurting, I can find some medigel."

"No, I—" he shook his head, and shifted his weight in the chair, and a spasm of pain flashed across his face. "Shit!"

She eased carefully off of him, clenching and unclenching her hands uncertainly. "What is it? Did I…"

"Mm, not you." He tried to smile, but winced again, and she folded her arms. Her initial disappointment was quickly replaced by concern. "I think it's my ribs. I landed pretty hard back in the Core."

"Idiot!" He should have said something—you don't mess around with ribs. One stupid move, and you could puncture a lung, or—she stopped that train of thought cold. "How bad is it?"

"Vital scans would indicate hairline fractures on three pericardial ribs." She'd forgotten about EDI, and flushed. Having an AI watch your awkward attempts to—

"See? It's fine." Joker's protest was only half-hearted; he could see she wouldn't risk hurting him.

"EDI?" Shepard picked her shirt off the floor, trying to reclaim her "command dignity". "Is there anything we can do to treat the Lieutenant's injuries?"

"Oh, so now we're pulling rank?" He muttered, reaching for his hat. Myla snatched it up before he could get it, and put it firmly on her own head.

"In the case of subjects with Vrolik's disease, rib fractures can lead to actual breaks with little inducement—"

"It's mainly my legs," he mumbled bitterly, swiveling the chair to look out at the blue ripples of FTL travel. Myla stood behind him, and put a hand on his shoulder. Of course she wished it hadn't happened, but that couldn't be helped. She'd never thought less of him for having Vrolik's, and this was just a…speedbump.

The AI continued, at a slightly softer decibel level which made her sound gentle. "A nano-injection of medigel directly into the fracture site is the typical procedure, but as no one aboard has been trained in such operations for humans, I would not recommend it."

"Listen to her, please," he mocked desperation, gripping Shepard's hand with a grudging playfulness. "Don't go all independent and stick me. I hate needles."

"Anything we can do, EDI?" Myla repeated, pinching his ear and smirking.

"Rest is highly advisable, Shepard," the AI said primly. "Jeff should avoid agitating the fractures further. I would caution against further sexual advances, Shepard."

"Yeah, but what does she know, right?" He grinned sarcastically up at Shepard, and she leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Later, when you're healed up."

He snorted, and she tapped his nose sternly with a finger. "I promise."

"Really?" He tried to get the hat back, and she made it easy on him, plopping it down on his head affectionately. He still seemed depressed.

"I'll drag you upstairs myself, if I—"

"Shepard, I have intercepted an anomalous transmission."

"What is it, EDI?" Shepard sighed. The ship e-mail didn't even filter spam, and now the AI was interrupting her time with Joker for what was probably another Prothean chain—

"It is a recorded vidmessage."

"From Liara? Who'd send me a vidcall?"

"The transmission was coded for Doctor Solus's personal communication channel. I judged the contents to be…inappropriate to relay without your approval."

That got her attention. Since when did EDI have the…autonomy to decide whether a message reached its intended recipient? She realized with a chill just what a threat an unshackled AI could constitute—a force that had control of a ships systems, capable of cutting off all contact with the outside world, of opening a few airlocks and flushing out the pesky organics, of…no. EDI would never. She'd proved as much with Jeff, and she'd never indicated any—Message. Right.

"I'll take it in my quarters, EDI. Thanks." Jeff started to protest again, but she gave shot him a stern glare and he let it go. She squeezed his shoulder gently in goodbye, mentally promising to come back after checking out the vidmessage, and jogged back down the walk, past the empty seats, past the unattended Galaxy Map, and into the damnably slow elevator.


A/N: Yes, the title is a reference to the cheesiest line in the new Spiderman movie. Sue me. Anyway, glad to be back, and I missed you. Hope this is a good fix for everyone who wanted more Shoker-the next is, as you probably guessed, very Billy-centric. Originally, I was going to have it as the same chapter, but given the...very different content... I decided to split it up. Next coming very soon. As always, I hope you liked this, and if you have any questions/comments/advice, please feel free to post it in a review or message me. I can't bite over the internet.