Author's Note: Please note this chapter has mentions of torture and death (specifically asphyxiation) in it.

"Mekelu ays feh quket ren bemkeluh mahpeh fuh piami shaviaeh…"

Mordin's rapid-fire singing echoed off the metal walls of the tech lab as he worked, intently piping liquid from one test tube to the next.

"Korahin á hahd rah thekeluh salariai, bayor bemik niys bei qah…"

The singing slowed as he lifted the pipette, carefully sliding it into the next tube, then continued.

"Qah babemkeu rah kur kaytuk gaht á i…"

Again, the singing slowed; he set the pipette aside with care and slotted the test tube back in its holder before resuming.

"Bemkeu ga gaht…"

He paused as the comm crackled to life. He frowned; it was late, and unlikely people would be up unless there was a mission to be done. He quickly picked the test tube rack up and deposited it on the desk next to the small centrifuge.

"Mordin?"

"Shepard," he greeted. "Need something?"

"Yeah." A pause. "Can you, um… Could you come up here?"

He frowned deeper. "Problem?"

Silence. Then, "It's a long story."

"Can't sleep?" he asked curiously; he heard her shuffle on the other end of the comm.

"Something like that." There was another pause. "Bring the chess board?"

"Very well. Let me finish tests."

"Thanks."

Mordin hurried about the lab, fastening covers to the test tubes, refrigerating those that needed it, and cleaning up the pipette and protective covering across his worktable; then, he popped the display off its cradle and made his way to the elevator.

"EDI? Cabin, please," he stated.

"Permission granted."

He tapped his leg idly as the elevator rose; he stepped out as soon as the elevator came to a stop, and stood in the doorway, surveying the room.

Shepard sat on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping the opposite elbow. She gave a forced grin as he entered. "Hey."

"Hello," Mordin said neutrally, taking a hesitant few steps.

"You can actually come in, you know," she told him bluntly. "I don't bite."

He eyed her, as if suspicious, and took a few more steps. "Never been up here."

"Yeah, well." She sucked in a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle.

At that, Mordin approached, long legs carrying him across the room in a few steps. "Shepard?" he asked gently.

"Yeah," she managed.

He knelt; she raised her chin, her eyes red at the corners, and glared at him, as if daring him to say something. After a moment, Mordin said, "Ah," then stood. "Will be right back." With that, he deposited the display on the bed, turned, and disappeared back to the elevator.

Quickly, he took the elevator down to the galley, rifled through the small tea selection, picked a cinnamon blend for Shepard and a green tea for himself, and busied himself with heating up water. A few minutes later, he entered the cabin again, carefully carrying two steaming mugs.

"Mordin…" She sighed. "You didn't have to do that."

"No trouble," he assured her, holding out one of the mugs; she smiled, shaking her head, and accepted it.

"Well… thanks."

"Welcome." He rocked back on his heels. "Sit?" He gestured toward the couch, and she nodded.

Once settled, they both sat in silence; Mordin waited patiently for her to say something. After several minutes, she muttered, "Thanks."

Mordin tilted his head to the side. "For?"

"Coming up here. I know it's late."

"Visited me later," he reasoned, swirling the tea in his mug idly. "For chess."

She snorted, which turned into a cough. "Yeah, fair enough," she mumbled.

Mordin glanced at her. "Willing to say why?" he asked softly, and she made a noncommittal noise.

"Long story."

"Have time."

She met his gaze; he returned the look with a placid expression. "No," she said bluntly.

Mordin raised one brow, but didn't press the issue, and merely took another sip of his tea. "Up to you."

"It's a long story and it's a boring and unimportant one," she told him.

He shook his head. "Long, perhaps. Boring, cannot say. Unimportant, no." He looked at her squarely. "If it upset you, not unimportant."

"Easy for you to say," she grumbled, staring into her mug. "It shouldn't be important."

"Important enough to call me up here," he said neutrally, tilting the mug, watching the light play off the enameling.

She watched him examine the mug for a moment, then said sourly, "I could have just called you up here for chess."

"Could have come down for that," he replied blandly.

Shepard stood, setting her mug on the coffee table, and collected the display from the bed. "Chess." She held it out to him.

He didn't hesitate, taking the display and quickly setting up the board. "Want to go first?"

"Sure."

He handed her the display, and she sat back down, moved a pawn forward, then handed it back. "Feel like a challenge?" he asked.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked suspiciously, and he smiled.

"Chess. Difficulty to win."

"You're toying with me," she accused, and he chuckled.

"Just wondering how much distraction you need."

She groaned, rolling her shoulders, the display in her lap. "A fair amount," she muttered.

"Very well." She moved another pawn, and he moved a knight forward.

"Does that mean you're going to go hard on me?" she asked, crossing her legs, and he shook his head.

"Adaptive," he told her. "You play better, I play better."

"And I play worse, you play worse, I suppose." He nodded; she shook her head with a grin. "All right. Fair enough."

The chess game stretched on, with neither party taking a clear lead. Finally, Shepard sat back.

"What were you singing? I heard a tiny bit when the comm turned on. It sounded familiar."

"Brand New Day, in Covus," he offered. "Technically a patter song. At beginning, anyway."

"You really like patter songs, huh," she mused, and he inclined his head.

"Fun to sing. Challenging. Requires focus, practice."

"And you're never one to do something halfway - wait," she asked, turning to him with a deadpan expression. "Brand New Day. That isn't - is it? It can't be."

"Hm?"

"Tell me that's not from Dr. Horrible."

Mordin's smile broadened. "Know of it?"

"You were not singing Dr. Horrible," she said, returning the grin. "No way."

"Why not?" he wanted to know, and she began to laugh. "Technically a patter song; interesting character."

"You were!" she cackled. "You were singing Dr. Horrible!"

"Er - yes," he said, beginning to look bemused. "Why?"

"It's just not something I expected," she said, still chuckling. "It's so… you know, comical."

"Pirates of Penzance comical," he insisted. "Major-General - meant to be comical character."

"Yeah, but that's also, like… Shakespearian," she snorted.

"No - nineteenth century," he told her. "Curious time."

"Why's that?"

He hesitated. "Will tell you, but perhaps not best topic for tonight," he told her gently. "History not always best for hard nights."

Her grin turned to a grimace. "Ah."

"But - no matter right now," he said breezily, moving a bishop to capture her last remaining knight. "Keep playing?"

"Yeah." She reached for the display, making a face as she observed the board, then set the display down in her lap.

After a few moments of her staring at the board, Mordin reached forward; he didn't touch her, only reaching far enough to get her attention. "Okay?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, her voice quiet but grim, and he withdrew his hand.

"Don't have to say. Can always keep playing."

She glanced at him, then down at the board again. "Can't play all night," she said sourly.

Mordin shrugged. "Could, technically. No mission tomorrow."

"What if there's an emergency?" she wanted to know. "No. I need to sleep." She quickly moved her queen, then held the display out to him.

Mordin took the display and surveyed the board. "Here if you need me," he told her softly, moving his bishop away from her queen and handing it back.

Shepard stayed silent. They handed the board back and forth several times before she spoke. "It's really nothing."

"If nothing, then why not tell me?" he asked, his tone calm and measured.

"Because it feels stupid."

"Not stupid." He tilted his head to the side, thinking. "If would make you feel better, could tell you something of mine."

"Like what?" she scoffed, but he held up a finger.

"Personal."

She watched him for a moment, then sighed. "I don't know if that's going to make me feel any better. If it's actually a serious thing - "

"And yours isn't?" he inquired; she pressed her lips together, but didn't reply. "Not stupid," he repeated.

"It could backfire," she said sourly, tapping her fingers on her arm.

Mordin shook his head. "No obligation. Will tell you if you want; no obligation to tell me anything."

Shepard remained quiet for several moments, fiddling with the display in her lap. "If you're willing," she said eventually.

"Willing," Mordin affirmed, and leaned back, gathering his thoughts. Shepard sipped more of her tea, staring at the board. Finally, he rocked forward and placed the tips of his fingers together. "Not only one who gets nightmares," he stated. Shepard opened her mouth, but he held up a finger. "Wait," he told her.

Chastised, she shut her mouth and went back to toying with the edge of the display.

Mordin waited a moment, rubbing his wrist idly, then continued. "Remember mnahrrek?"

Shepard's hand flew to her mouth. "You said they didn't do that to you."

"Didn't," Mordin said quickly with a shake of his head. "Bad mission. Got out of hand. Not STG." He inhaled. "Someone else."

She lowered her hand. "Mordin, that's awful."

"Not the point," Mordin said carefully. "Nightmare is point." He hesitated, then let out a string of Covus, muttered to himself so rapidly and quietly that Shepard could hardly hear him. "Some classified," he stated, switching back to English.

"Mordin, you don't have to tell me - " she began, but Mordin began talking in the middle of her sentence, his voice soft and quick, spitting out the words as if the taste of them was bitter in his mouth.

"Nightmare about captured. Mnahrrek. Have information interrogator wants." He inhaled sharply. "Nightmare ends when I tell him."

She gripped her knees, the display forgotten in her lap. "Mordin… that sounds scary."

"Not the point."

She frowned. "Mordin, how is it not? Mnahrrek - that's also tantamount to torture." She rocked forward, leaning on her knees. "I'm sorry."

"Not the point," he repeated. "Point is, nightmares affect many people."

She sighed, raising one hand to rub at her face. "Mordin…" she began. "Are you going to tell me this wasn't some form of torture, too?"

"Not the point," he repeated again, carefully.

"No, that is the point," she said, her voice quiet yet forceful. "Mordin, this stuff affects you. You can't just gloss over it."

"Not the point," he reiterated yet again, rubbing his wrist. "How it felt, how it affects, not the point. Point is, nightmares not stupid." He shifted to face her more squarely. "People get nightmares. Everyone gets nightmares. Experience commonplace. No exception."

Shepard let him sit quietly for a moment. Finally, she slowly took the wrist he'd been rubbing; silently, she turned his hand palm-up, surveying the two dotted scars on his lower forearm. "Mnahrrek," she whispered, tracing her fingers over the scars. "Is that what these are from?"

Mordin paused, eyeing her warily; she returned his gaze, curious and sympathetic. Finally, he gave a single jerk of his head.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

Mordin pulled his wrist back. "Yes."

"Liar," she told him sternly. "Mordin - "

"Not about me," he told her seriously. "About you."

"You just told me something that clearly bothers you, Mordin," she reprimanded him. "Don't brush it off. Please."

"Not the point," he repeated. "Point is, nightmares not stupid."

"You can't just brush this off," she snapped. "Mordin Solus, some day you're going to have to actually address these things that happen to you."

Mordin watched her, expression stoic. "Not the - "

"If you say 'not the point' one more time, I will throw something at you," she threatened. "I'm saying, right here and now, that the 'point' of this conversation is for us both to get things off our chest."

"Curious human phrase," he murmured, stretching the fingers of one hand; Shepard could see the slight webbing between his fingers for a moment as he flexed.

"Do you want to talk about this?" she asked.

Mordin stared at his hand a moment longer. "No," he told her.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She remained silent for another moment, then said, "That does make me feel a little better, actually, if that makes you feel any better." She paused. "You can talk about this, you know. Whenever you like."

"Would prefer not to," he said. "And not the - "

"Shut up. Not the point, I get it." Shepard frowned, but shook her head after a moment. "All right. I won't push it. Won't do you any good if you're not ready."

Mordin raised one brow, but didn't reply, and let the silence hang in the air for a few moments. "You?" he asked.

"Yeah," Shepard said softly. "Yeah. Just give me a second." She leaned back, propped up on her arms; then, finally, she stated, "I died."

Mordin nodded, but didn't say anything, inviting her to go on.

"I died." She sucked in a breath and leaned forward again, resting her elbows on her knees, then continued quietly. "I got blasted out of my ship with a hole in my suit. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything, except flail, I guess." She drew another breath, harsher than the first. "And the last thing I saw was… well." She raised her head and eyed the large window in the hull.

Mordin followed her gaze. "Ah," he said quietly.

"I can't help it, Mordin," she admitted. "All that view reminds me of is losing air and suffocating. And they decided to put it right smack over my bed." She inhaled again, held the breath, then let it out at once. "I'll have a nightmare like - like tonight." One hand scratched idly at the couch fabric. "It wasn't even about that incident specifically, it was just about… I don't know, I was in the observation deck and the hull window was just gone, and I got pulled out into space, and I could feel the air leaving my suit…" She exhaled, and placed her hand flat on the couch cushion. "And it's panic. It feels like I'm dying. It feels real and it's terrifying, and then I wake up and see that, and panic all over again."

Mordin leaned forward, placing gentle fingertips against the back of her hand. "Panic attack?" he asked calmly, and she let out her breath in a harsh sound, her whole body tensed, before she nodded shakily.

"Before you came in here," she muttered.

"Happened before?"

She raised her head to look him in the eye, then let her head drop again. "Couple times, yeah."

He sat back. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well. I feel like I should just be grateful I'm alive."

Mordin frowned. "Went through a horrible experience," he said. "Okay to have complicated feelings."

"I feel almost guilty," she told him quietly. "Like I'm just taking up space, being all freaked out about… what, that I lived?" She let out a dry laugh that sounded more like a harsh barking.

"No. Died," Mordin stated, though not unkindly. "Experience leaves scars too."

"I'm not dead, though."

"Died," he repeated. "Know what that feels like, now. May be one of only people to know what that feels like."

"It's…" She bit her lip. "Vivid," she finished.

"Post-traumatic nightmares," he mused, then shifted a bit closer; she glanced up at him as he raised his arms, hands hovering over her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" she asked weakly.

"May I?"

She raised one eyebrow, but shrugged and gave a jerky nod.

Mordin let his hands fall to her shoulders, fingertips pressed against tense muscles. "Breathe," he told her.

"I am breathing," she muttered.

"Breathe slower," he chastised, then pinched the big muscle at her shoulders, rubbing his thumb in circles.

Her breath left her in a heavy sigh. "Hm."

"Okay?" he asked as he shifted his hands; she could hear a slight teasing tone to his voice.

"Jerk," she grumbled, though there was no feeling to it; she merely closed her eyes and slouched further as Mordin slowly smoothed the tension out of her shoulders.

After a moment, once he seemed content with her breathing, he let his hands fall to his sides. "Better?"

"Mm," she grunted, her chin still pressed to her chest. "Yeah."

"Too tense," he told her. "Not conducive to good sleep."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I've got a personal masseuse." She raised her head and placed one hand on her opposite shoulder, rotating the arm. "Thanks."

"No trouble." He sucked in a breath, then inclined his head. "Continue?"

"I don't know what else there is to say. That thing," she said, pointing to the window, "is an issue to itself."

He nodded gravely. "Lack of insight during construction," Mordin murmured, and she snorted, a dry, humorless sound.

"Lack of whatever it is, they're idiots." The two of them met each other's gaze for a moment longer, then Shepard dropped her head to stare at her lap. "Still. I'm the commander; I get the fancy cabin."

"Could sleep in bunks," Mordin remarked, but she shook her head.

"Not really," she mused. "I feel like that would be too awkward."

"Could nap elsewhere," he offered, but she shook her head at that, too.

"Where? Medbay? People will ask why I'm sleeping anywhere but here." She yawned, then added, "I should be getting back to sleep, speaking of which." She hesitated.

Mordin read her hesitation instantly. "But don't want to," he supplied, and she groaned.

"No," she muttered.

Mordin thought it over and crossed one long leg over the other. "Tech lab," he suggested.

She frowned. "I can't sleep in your lab."

"Have cot in there. Use it when doing round-the-clock experiments."

"Really?" she asked. "Mordin, you know you can get someone to help with that stuff."

"Know that," he said blandly, and she gave a wry chuckle.

"What, just go down there and kip on your cot? What if you need to use it?"

"Only need few hours of sleep - if even that," he reminded her. "Up, working most hours - if that won't disturb you."

Shepard frowned, thinking. "No." She crossed her arms and rolled her shoulders again. "Might even help, you know. Having someone, um… around."

"Possibly," he said with a knowing smile. "Welcome to."

She yawned, then nodded. "Yeah. I might take you up on that."

"Tonight, or other time?"

She paused, meeting his gaze. "You wouldn't mind me coming down there tonight?"

"Not at all," he assured her. "Will be separating fluids, though. Centrifuge. Bit noisy."

"Not a problem." She sighed and stood, stretching, then glanced at the forgotten chess game. "Oh - did you want to save the chess game?"

Mordin shrugged, but picked up the display, tapped the screen, and saved their progress. "Saved."

"Good." Another yawn; she swiped at her watering eyes. "Hm."

"Tired," he noted, and she nodded.

"I was up late, and then I woke up and called you up here," she said wearily, then glanced at the clock. "And it's - oh, goodness, Mordin, it's five-thirty."

"Already slept," he stated.

She let her arms fall to her sides, apprehensive. "I don't know, Mordin. I feel like I should just stay up here."

Mordin eyed her carefully, then stood himself and placed his fingertips together. "Will it help?"

She eyed him, then heaved a sigh. "Yeah, probably."

"Then, please?" he asked gently.

She stayed silent for a moment, then huffed. "If you're sure."

"Yes."

She hesitated, mulling it over; then, finally, she stated, "I'll grab a blanket and a pillow."

He inclined his head and turned to gather the two mugs. "Will take these to kitchen. Meet down there?"

"Yeah," Shepard answered, pulling a blanket off the bed. "I'll be done in just a moment, though."

Mordin turned to leave, balancing the mugs with one arm as he carried the display. "Will see you down there."

"Hey, Mordin?" Shepard called as he was about to exit the room.

"Yes?"

"I won't press the issue," she said quickly, shaking a pillow, "but I'm not kidding. One of these days, you're going to actually have to address some of these things that have happened to you."

Mordin froze, then cleared his throat and said with an element of forced neutrality, "Perhaps."

"Like I said, I won't press the issue," she promised, and began to fold the blanket. "But I'll be here whenever you want to talk."

He turned, an odd expression on his face; she couldn't quite read it, and it was gone before she could process it further, replaced by a gentle smile. "Likewise," he said graciously.

She paused, but decided not to say anything, and finished folding the blanket. Grabbing her pillow, she hurried after him. "Thanks."

The two stepped into the elevator; EDI automatically closed the doors and the elevator began to descend. Shepard exited at the tech lab while Mordin returned the mugs to the galley; when he came back up, Shepard was standing in the middle of the lab, the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak.

"Cot back here," he said, gesturing to the desk along the back wall; walking over, he ducked down, pulling out a small, yellow folded cot.

She shifted, bare feet cold against the metal floor. "Thanks for letting me do this, Mordin."

"No trouble," he insisted, unfolding it and pushing the frame until it clicked into place, then dragged it to the far side, closer to the window overlooking the drive core and away from the window in the hull. "Good?"

"Perfect," she told him gratefully, and sat down, wriggling to get comfortable.

"Say if you need something," he told her softly, and turned back to the lab.

"Thanks," she repeated.

"Welcome," Mordin said quietly, and picked up a test tube from the rack, popping off the temporary seal. "Will try to save centrifuge until you sleep." He raised the tube to the light, flicking it with one finger.

"I promise you won't bother me," she assured him, shifting on the cot until she was laying down. "I'm used to noise."

"Still. Will save until you sleep. Have other things to do."

She yawned again. "Whatever you like. I'm going to try to scrape up another hour or two. Wake me up at eight or so?"

"Will do." Mordin picked up the test tube rack and placed it on his work table again, then walked about, retrieving the used equipment to set it in the autoclave.

She pulled the blanket around herself, already starting to become drowsy, watching him. "You really didn't have to do this."

"No trouble," he told her gently. "Sleep."

"All right." Another yawn. "Goodnight, Mordin."

Mordin didn't turn around, but he smiled, balancing test tubes and a beaker in his arms. "Goodnight, Commander."

Author's Note: Taking a tiny break from all the Gilbert and Sullivan references! Yes, that's actually the first verse of Brand New Day from Dr Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, translated into Covus. You can actually sing it to the right rhythm, too, though it takes some concentration. Technically speaking, Mordin is right - it does start off like a patter song, like Scientist Salarian. They're typically sung very quickly with verses that are meant to sound good or even comical in rapid succession, though they take some definite skill to sing without getting tongue-tied.

(Honestly, in my opinion, it's not that much goofier than the Major-General's Song; that one is literally just an elaborate admission that he has zero military knowledge and boasting about "absurdly detailed" academic topics, meant to be seen as comical because, well, he's a Major-General in the military. The Major-General's Song was written in the late 1800s, though, so it sort of masquerades as still silly, but not as on-the-nose about it, I think.)