Shepard wished she could sprint, but there wasn't enough left of her to do it, so she made her slow, painful way to the terminal and fumbled with the display until she opened the Ward arms. Then, she made her slow, painful way back to where Anderson lay, hoping she wasn't too late, ready to administer what medical care she could provide. She worried it wouldn't be enough; it had been so long, as these things went, between the injury and help. But Anderson would have been the first to remind her that getting the Ward arms open was the priority.
"Anderson? Anderson, are you still with me?" she demanded shakily.
Anderson shuddered. "Canteen," he whispered.
Shepard straightened him out on the floor, opened her canteen, which was easier to reach, and poured a trickle into his mouth.
"Thanks," he rasped, holding up a hand to indicate when he'd had enough. "That's-that's better."
Shepard nodded, producing the last hypospray of painkillers from her web gear and sticking him with it, then doing her best to seal the wound and stop the bleeding. As she did so, she knew in her heart of hearts, and it made her sick, that anything she did now was pointless. All she could really do was make him comfortable…and wait.
Anderson permitted the ministrations, but something about the way he did it told her he already knew she was wasting her time. He just wasn't hard enough to tell her so.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"You've got nothing…to be sorry for. Help me sit up."
Shepard obeyed, then helped him stand, and let him guide her to the viewing window. The two of them collapsed in front of the terminal, which gave them a splendid view of Earth, so bright in the darkness, while pops and flashes indicated the battle still raging. Shepard leaned back against the terminal. Her shoulders ached, her head ached, her whole body thrummed with pain.
She still wasn't sure where on the Citadel they were, but it was a prime seat for watching the Crucible glide through the opening arms and presumably into position. Once it passed, she had that spectacular view of Earth again. It wasn't home, but it mattered.
Shepard closed her eyes, realizing just how tired she was, knowing that she needed to open her eyes again or she risked going to sleep right here. It was quiet for the moment, but it couldn't be depended upon to stay that way. The Reapers had to know by now that someone had made it to the Citadel, someone had opened the Ward arms…someone had to be dealt with.
"Jalissa? You still with me?"
Shepard jerked away from the edge of sleep. "Yeah…I'm still here. We did it. How-how are you holding up?"
"We did it," he agreed, ignoring her question. She knew that tone in his voice, felt her throat begin to lock up. That tone, and the thousand yard stare told the tale: Anderson's life was counting down in seconds. He exhaled slowly. "…feels like years since I just…sat down…" he admitted, the exhaustion evident in his tone.
"Lean on me. I think you've earned a rest." The words almost brought the rush of tears out of her eyes, but she held them back. She wouldn't contaminate his death with distress when it sounded like, for him, it would just be going to sleep. He deserved a quiet passing, and it was her duty to ensure that he got one.
Anderson gave a pained chuckle, then grunted as he raised an arm and slipped it about her shoulders, tugging her to him.
Shepard's impulse to cry strengthened. She remembered her own father doing the same thing. She reached up, wrapping her hand around his.
"You did good, girl," Anderson said quietly.
Shepard squeezed her eyes closed, leaned her head so it rested against his shoulder.
"You did good. And I'm…so proud of you." He sounded it, proud and fond. Shepard couldn't pretend they'd known each other well, or that they'd been especially close…but here, at the end of all things, maybe they'd been close in a nontraditional fashion. She certainly felt like someone was trying to rip her heart out with an ice cream scoop.
She didn't want to tell Khalee Sanders—who had an overnight bag at Anderson's place—that he was dead. She didn't want to tell Khalee's kids, who obviously knew and liked him, that he was dead. She didn't want to tell anyone that he was dead because she was the one who pulled the trigger, against her will or otherwise.
The tears slipped free, coursing down her cheeks. "Thanks, Dad," she mumbled, but wasn't sure he heard her. His posture had gone slack, and she knew the exhale of death when she heard it.
Shepard drew her knees up and leaned forward, burying her head in her arms and wept, aware of the blood seeping from her earlier injuries, aware that she really ought to do something about the bleeding…but unable to make herself do, because she was alone, because her mentor was dead beside her, because he hadn't blamed her for killing him even if she fruitlessly blamed herself. Suddenly, it was more than Shepard could handle.
At least, it was until her radio coughed, static preceding a broken, desperate-sounding call.
"Is anyone there?! Dammit, Citadel team, please respond!" The voice belonged to Steven Hackett, but she'd never heard him that distressed, that desperate.
Shepard's mind revved back into action, even if the tears didn't stop falling. She tried to dash them away and only really succeeded in leaving blood and gunk on her face. She was tired, exhausted, on the edge of collapse…but she was the only one here, the only one left. That meant there was only one thing to do. "Shepard here. I read you," she answered as firmly as she could, unwinding Anderson's arm from her shoulders because she had to get up.
She had to.