Disclaimer: I do not own Mass Effect or any of its characters. They are products of BioWare, EA and certainly not me. This fan fiction is for entertainment purposes; no profit or intrusion of copyright is intended.
Special Thanks: To Sigyn2011 for the help to edit this chapter.
Author's Note: Thanks for all the hits and keeping with this story. Reviews are always appreciated.
Miranda stood in the mess hall leaning against the counter where the mess sergeant would prepare meals, had he not been captured by the Collectors. She broke apart pieces of a protein bar, absently popping a small bit into her mouth as she watched Commander Shepard speak with Admiral Hackett in the medical bay. The admiral's ship rendezvoused with the Normandy in the Sol system.
She was nervous. The Alliance knew their location and as Cerberus's top operative, her capture would be a great political victory. Only two Alliance soldiers boarded the Normandy with Hackett and waited for him in the hangar bay, a testament of faith on Hackett's part. She insisted that EDI constantly scan the system to ensure no other Alliance vessel approached or engaged. Miranda usually avoided contact with the Alliance and due to Shepard's multiple allegiances, she had more interactions with them in the past six months than she had in the last five years.
Her curiosity raged. What were Shepard and Hackett talking about at such length and with such calmness? Part of her training as an operative included lip reading, but Hackett always managed to position himself in a way that made it difficult for her to see his mouth. She wondered if Hackett was aware of her presence as she watched his interaction with Shepard.
Hackett clasped his arms behind his back as he faced Shepard. Miranda angled her head, squinting to focus on the admiral's mouth. 'All I know ... to break ... of prison, and now an ... I hope you can ... logic between ... events.' Hackett turned, his face blocked by the steel beam between the two medbay windows.
Damn it! She was out of practice. With the advanced surveillance on the Normandy, she relied on the microphones to keep abreast of situations with the crew. She resisted the urge to slip into her office and activate the security cameras and microphone in the med bay. When had that changed? She held no reservations using the on-board systems to watch the Normandy crew or the recruited squad, but she stopped observing Shepard months ago. A nagging guilt nipped, preventing her from listening in on Shepard's and Hackett's conversation. How annoying.
She trusted Shepard and did not worry he would betray her or the Cerberus crew to the Alliance. For too long, she depended on survival instincts, which included anonymity and caution. She excelled at her job and advanced within Cerberus because she was careful, exact, and thoughtful.
She prided herself on her ability to read individuals, to know a mark after brief interactions. She had little experience with Admiral Hackett in the past. Contacts within the Alliance offered information on his professionalism, sharp focus, intense demeanor, and devotion to humanity and the Alliance. They answered few of the questions she needed in order to best understand the man. The easiest way to understand a mark was to have a simple five minute conversation. So much information was gathered through observations like tone, timbre, body language, eye contact, and even breathing rhythm.
She finally witnessed some of those points and though she could not hear what was said, she learned much from watching the admiral through the medical bay window. The admiral stood calmly, back straight and stance proud. He was a man confident in his message, his body, and his decisions. The admiral's gaze never wavered from Shepard but instead focused intensely as if he peered through the commander, aware of all accomplishments, faults, and even thoughts.
It was a technique she often used when addressing someone with whom she was unsure what to expect. By displaying an air of self-assurance, Hackett exuded his authority. Anyone experiencing doubts or uncertainty would cave to the admiral's decisions or opinions.
When Shepard's eyes averted slightly from the admiral's and instead focused over his shoulder, she knew Hackett won. Whatever he wanted from the Commander, he got. Shepard did not fight, did not argue and accepted whatever Hackett said. She would have to be on her guard.
Hackett reached out and rested a strong hand on Shepard's shoulder. The admiral was not only offering support and trust in Shepard, but there was a commanding, paternal and expectant air to the simple touch. Hackett wanted more from Shepard, and the message was not one of 'Good Luck' nor 'Godspeed'. What else was the admiral trying to do?
Shepard sat stiffly, his eyes haunted. He was tired, worn, and weary. All to be expected considering the events of the last year. He never had a break, a chance to stop, to rest, or reboot his mind. She worried for him and hoped his mind was strong enough to see them through the end. He sought her on occasion and seemed to find peace in her presence. Though she knew he struggled with stress, he carried himself with purpose and strength; it was impressive.
The fatigue in his eyes was new. He kept that well hidden and it shocked her she did not see beneath the surface to his struggling. She had grown lax with her growing affections for him and more guilt weighed upon her. She should have paid more attention to his mind and struggles.
Hackett saluted and exited the medbay.
Miranda pushed away from the counter and moved to intercept the admiral. Hackett turned to her as she approached and he clasped his hands behind his back, a sign of fearless trust. "Ah, Miranda Lawson. Excellent warship you have here," he tilted his head slightly as if admiring the craftsmanship of the ship.
"We improved upon the original prototype," she answered calmly, calculating, and cautious. She crossed her arms over her chest. "It is better than the original Normandy in every capacity."
"Perhaps in construction. But the Normandy was a symbol of a galactic truce. Cerberus can replicate the ship and call it anything they like, but the Normandy was lost years ago." Hackett reached out, touching one of the beams of the hull. "Metal does not give the ship her heart, Ms. Lawson. Its design and construction can be perfected, but the heart of the Normandy stopped beating a long time ago."
"I would disagree." She glanced to the medbay. Shepard sat upon the medbay table, his head ducked, shoulders slumped and eyes closed. She addressed the admiral again. "It is under a great amount of stress but still beats strong. And true."
"Good point," Hackett agreed, following her gaze to the medbay. "I suppose you are my escort back to my ship?"
"To the hangar," she clarified. "We have some last minute preparations to make." She gestured to her right.
Hackett exited the crew's quarters, strolling down the corridor to the elevator. "I saw Jacob Taylor in the hangar bay when I landed. A fine soldier."
"He is," Miranda answered, cautiously. What was his game? Why mention Jacob?
"Shame he felt the need to defect to Cerberus. The Alliance saw his potential and would he have signed up for another tour of duty, I'm sure promotions would have followed." He clasped his hands behind his back, waiting patiently at the elevator. "Could say the same for you, Ms. Lawson. You would have ascended quickly and been compensated generously."
"Hmm, perhaps," she replied. "I'm surprised you didn't seek us out yourself, Admiral. Considering what happened in 2163." She observed him casually and felt the small inkling of victory at the slight tension that spread across Hackett's back at her poignant reminder of his wavering moment of weakness when he met willingly with a Cerberus recruitment operative.
The classified reports stated that Hackett's faith in the Alliance faltered after he discovered the illegal research into artificial intelligence, and he vehemently opposed the uncertain and potentially dangerous project. The Illusive Man seized the opportunity to recruit prized individuals when the chance arose, and Hackett was no exception. His defection would have been a great victory for Cerberus. In the end, Hackett did not defect, but the operative discovered vital information through subtle bug implantation. Cerberus found the AI research facilities, infiltrated, stole the data, and began their own research. Twenty years later, Cerberus successfully created AI and embedded it into a warship, though unshackled at the moment, courtesy of Joker.
When the elevator arrived, Hackett politely motioned for Miranda to enter first. She did not hesitate to enter but was curious to the gesture. He followed her inside and stood beside her. She signaled for the fifth deck and Hackett waited patiently. "The galaxy is a very different place now than it was then, Ms. Lawson. And I have found it unwise to dwell on actions of the past. It simply hinders your journey into the future. Would you not agree?"
Hackett turned to her at the question, intelligent and inquisitive eyes boring through her as if searching for an answer or a kink in the armor of the woman before him. Miranda remained guarded, uncertain at the probing gaze and quickly sorted through possibilities. The admiral was making strategically important statements as if he were gauging her reaction to them. What were his motives? What was he trying to accomplish? "I would agree, Admiral. However, just because we do not dwell on the actions of the past does not mean we do not remember them and their consequences. It is the only way to learn so that wise decisions can be made in the future."
"This is true," Hackett said. "Frankly, that is why I find you very confusing. I'm sure you read the Illusive Man's manifesto. Maybe even have it memorized. The very core of Cerberus is tainted, held hostage by the irrational and radical delusions of a madman. Any good work you do is forgotten and blackened under his leadership. You're intelligent enough and high enough within the organization to see this and recognize it for what it is. And yet you still remain with them."
The door to the elevator opened and Hackett motioned to the door. "Ladies first."
She resisted the initial response to protect her flank and not give an enemy her back. The notion was ridiculous. Hackett engaged her in a dance of wits, and she was determined to match him step for step. She stepped out of the elevator. "Why should anything I do fascinate you? I would think you have more important things to worry about, considering the delicate balance the Alliance stands in with the Council races after the Battle for the Citadel."
Hackett smirked and exited the elevator. He walked beside her down the corridor to the hangar bay. "A smooth deflection, Ms. Lawson. The politics are Udina's and Anderson's problems. Not mine. I have to defer to politics, but I'm concerned with military ramifications. If what Shepard said is correct and the reaper forces are coming this way, we need to be ready. This mission of yours with the Collectors is just a skirmish. The war has not yet begun."
"Cerberus has been preparing for the coming war since Shepard's first warnings. That is more than I can say the Alliance is doing."
"The Alliance cannot work in blatant disregard to treaties and intergalactic politics. And though the political elite may be ignoring the pending threat, the military is not. We are preparing."
Hackett stepped into the hangar. Two heavily armed Alliance soldiers stood guard outside Hackett's shuttle. Nearby, Grunt leaned against a large crate, holding his shotgun with the barrel resting against his shoulder. Jacob stood next to Grunt, his arms crossed over his chest.
Hackett ignored the tension in the room and stopped near the entrance for the shuttle. "Make sure you all come back from this alive. It would be a shame for humanity to lose so many brave fighters before the war is upon us. That includes you, Ms. Lawson."
She crossed her arms over her chest and responded, "I find it hard to believe the Alliance cares whether or not I return from this mission."
"On the contrary, some of us care very much. We're aware of some of your work. For example, Project Pinto and Project Poseidon."
How did they know about those highly classified projects? Keenly aware that Hackett watched her reaction closely, she showed no response to his mention of those projects. Instead, she motioned to the shuttle. "We all do great work for humanity. It is just the master who pulls the strings that differs."
Hackett chuckled. "Indeed, Ms. Lawson." He inclined his head in polite farewell then climbed the ramp onto his shuttle. The Alliance soldiers followed.
When the ramp elevated, Miranda turned and left the hangar bay. It was disconcerting for Hackett to know about the two classified projects. Cerberus was known for controlling leaks and preventing data from slipping outside the organization. For the Alliance to know about two of her projects was problematic. Their knowledge was all the more alarming since she served on the projects successively.
Project Pinto was the first project she was tasked with leading. Research began three years prior to her assignment and she entered to replace an operative deemed incompetent in 2173. Cerberus was attempting to create something for military personnel to accomplish increased physical performance with the focus on jump heights, jump distance, weight lifting, and run speeds.
Two concepts emerged from Project Pinto. The first was a steroid-like serum that doubled the healing time of muscle injury. The second was a skeletal implant twice as strong as the usual medical joints and bone stabilizers. When combining the skeletal implants with the serum, injured soldiers recovered at nearly triple the speed with minor adverse effects. The research was pivotal years later during the Lazarus Project.
Poseidon was a project within the research division of Cerberus attempting to create an environmental respirator that filtered existing atmosphere into a breathable atmosphere through only a facial mask. A daunting task, Miranda relished the opportunity to lead the research in a field in which she had little experience. She read voraciously, educating herself on all the science behind the prospective goal.
Despite her enthusiasm, the project stumbled at numerous blocks. In the end, they succeeded in extending the filtration of facial masks within a breathable environment by 72 hours, totaling one week on a single filtration cartridge.
Cerberus built research and military facilities within hostile environments to elude Alliance patrols and colonial expansion. The cartridges aided Cerberus in such circumstances. Despite the benefit to Cerberus operations, the accomplishment was far beneath Miranda's aspiration.
Alliance interest in the long-life filter cartridges was not surprising, but who was feeding that information to Admiral Hackett? Was the information widely known or was it only known by the elite and higher ranked officers? Her co-workers differed on each assignment, which meant that there was more than one mole within Cerberus. Was the Alliance following her or was their reach simply extensive?
Why did Hackett show his hand?
Miranda stepped into her office and slipped into the chair at her desk. "EDI, where is Commander Shepard?"
"Commander Shepard is in the weight room on the crew deck with Mr. Taylor."
She tapped her fingertips on the desk in reflective thought then opened a communications feed on her terminal and debated contacting the Illusive Man. She hesitated, never one to act rashly and without thought. She closed the communications feed and instead accessed the Cerberus main network, this time through encrypted protocols.
After leaving the medical bay, Shepard stood under the steady stream of hot water in his private bathroom. His shoulders slumped slightly as he stared blankly at the tiles of the wall, his mind drifting in absent thought. Steam filled the small quarters. Shaking his head as if waking from a daze, he picked up the bar of unscented soap and washed his body then his head. Placing the bar back, he stood under the stream again and rinsed, trance-like.
It was some time later when Shepard startled out of his thoughts and he looked around the bathroom, confused. White steam hung in the air and his back was burned and reddened from the pounding hot water. He turned off the shower and tore a towel off the hook by the sink. Drying his body, he tossed the towel over the sink and strode from the bathroom.
He tugged a pair of snug-fitting boxers from the drawer near his bed. Pulling them up, his brow furrowed in reflection. Did destroying the relay merely delay the inevitable? The reapers were coming and if they could not travel by relay, they likely would travel through dark space. He may have given the galaxy a few more months, at most, but was it enough for them to prepare? Would it even matter?
Picking up the Cerberus pants on his crisply made bed, he stepped into the legs. The galaxy did nothing in preparation since his death years ago and all of his warnings were dismissed as the rambling nonsense of a mentally traumatized soldier. Hackett and Anderson believed Shepard. But the support of two powerful military officers in the Alliance did nothing to rouse the urgency in the other Council races or humanity.
Shepard jerked the tight shirt down over his head and thrust his arms through the short sleeves. If the galaxy didn't care about the reapers, why did he? Why should he kill himself again and put himself and his crew through the stress and dangers of the battle if no one else wanted to fight or resist?
He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, pulling up his socks then tying his boots tightly. Anger surged through him. He continued to place himself in constant risk to stop the invasion of an all-powerful force for a galaxy that had no interest in its own survival.
Oh, parts of a reaper on the Citadel? That's just pieces of a geth warship, we'll just toss those away. There. Gone. See? Everything is fine. Did you hear that 'Terminus Wars 5' is coming out this weekend? You should check it out.
Shepard pushed to his feet and crossed the cabin to the elevator. He had not enjoyed a movie in years, gone to a concert, or had an evening out. The last social thing he did was dinner with his mother, which he would not describe as a fun, relaxing evening out. Instead, he dodged firefights, investigated colonist disappearances, and gathered evidence to combat the reapers. He risked his life and sanity on a daily basis. But in the galaxy, it was business as usual.
He exited the elevator on the third deck of the Normandy and strode down the battery tunnel. Cutting to the right, he descended the stairs leading to the darkened crews quarters. A frustrated rage seethed beneath the surface and Shepard knew he had to release the energy before engaging the collectors. He needed to be calm, focused and steady or else his team could suffer losses. Losses that would be his fault because he was unable to do his job.
But he wanted a break. He wanted to quit and to stop, to rest and let someone else save the galaxy again. A nagging displeasure pecked at the back corner of his mind, an anger directed at Miranda and the Illusive Man for resurrecting him. He saved the galaxy once, stopping Saren and Sovereign and giving the galaxy all the warnings and evidence needed to prepare for the coming invasion. When he died, his job was completed and they should have left him dead. But no, he was resurrected and for what?
Shepard paused outside the weight room, and his fists clenched in agitation. They resurrected him to play errand boy and savior yet again. To run a team into the center of a storm and hope they could survive. Why did the weight of so many lives rest on his shoulders? And why did he have to make the decision to kill 300,000 of those lives just to stop an invasion from happening? If he let the reapers through the Alpha relay, the galaxy couldn't ignore the dangers then. He wouldn't have been labeled a war criminal and be subject to the political venom by the ignorant masses.
In that moment, he wanted to turn against them all. He wanted to call out the Council and Alliance for their blatant mishandling of his warnings and the dangers to come. After flipping off the Council, he wanted to expose the Illusive Man for his shady business practices and mysterious, likely diabolical goals.
Due to her tenacity, Miranda refused to give up on the impossible task of resurrecting him from the dead despite the statistical improbability of success. At that moment, he wished she refused the job. Did the Lazarus Project even work? He still did not feel exactly like the same man. The problem was that he could not remember exactly what and who he was before his death to even identify what may have changed. Or maybe it was just the stress and frustration causing his doubts.
He possessed the same memories but was he the same soul? Did he have a soul? Was there a point or an afterlife? Miranda had placated him once and convinced him it did not matter because he should fight to be free. Perhaps she was right. But it was not about being free. He just wanted it to end and if that was with his death or the reaper's death, he no longer cared.
It had to stop. Everything accelerated so quickly and he was forced to keep pace. Shepard would not fall, but at what cost? He pushed himself beyond reasonable expectations and at some point, he knew it would be too much. Would anyone care then?
He stormed into the weight room and paused at the entrance, his eyes scanning the room. Jacob hung upside down from a long bar at the far end, his knees bent and ankles locked together. He was shirtless and sweating with arms crossed over his chest as his abs contracted and he sat up. "Commander," Jacob greeted, his breathing heavy. He sat up again. "Blowing off some steam?" He hung from his knees, arms dangling at the stretch.
"Thinking about it," Shepard said. "Maybe a run. Feeling up for it, soldier?"
Jacob grinned and sat up, gripping the bar with his hands so he could swing down. Dismounting from the bar, he picked up a towel on the floor and wiped his face then the back of his neck. "Hoorah, Commander! Let's do this."
Miranda exited the Cerberus network and closed her terminal. With a heavy sigh, she leaned forward and rubbed her dried and worn eyes. She always stared a little too hard at the screens, focused and unblinking as she quickly read and absorbed data at an inhuman speed. The speed-reading talent came in handy quite often, though the result was often achy and fatigued eyes.
Ceberus kept little about personnel from previous projects, a tactic that ensured nothing could be leaked to link individuals with any projects other than their current assignment. Miranda hoped her credentials allowed her access to more in-depth information on certain personnel, but she found her access blocked even to their educational records. Her ranking within the organization permitted her access to those records under normal circumstances. Why, suddenly, did they not work?
Was it her close and intimate relationship to Commander Shepard or was it an immediate response to the rendezvous with Admiral Hackett? Did the Illusive Man doubt her loyalty to Cerberus and could he be already engaging in the procedures to burn her? She could not afford to be distracted this close to the final mission. She hoped that Oriana was safe for the time being and it was only her paranoia - a learned trait - that caused these thoughts.
"EDI, have we started for the Omega Nebula?"
"Yes, Operative Lawson," EDI replied. "The Normandy will be at Sahrabarik in 13 hours 24 minutes."
"Thank you, EDI. Is Commander Shepard in his cabin?"
"No, Operative Lawson," EDI stated. "He is in the weight room on the crew deck."
"Still?" Miranda frowned and lowered her hands from her eyes. "Is Jacob still with him?"
"Mr. Taylor retired to his quarters 27 minutes ago."
"Is the weight room still in one piece or has he destroyed it again?"
"Everything appears to be intact," EDI said and the screen of Miranda's terminal flickered then displayed the camera feed of the weight room. Nothing was destroyed and Shepard was alone, running at a quick clip on the treadmill.
Miranda stood from her desk and left her office. Stopping at the mess sergeant station, she grabbed one of the water canteens from the cooling fridge and turned down the battery tunnel. She walked through the door of the weight room. Shirtless, Shepard ran upon the treadmill, his pace fast and steady. Sweat dripped from his body, his muscles relaxed as he focused blankly ahead. Tight pants hung low on his hips and his boots pounded with each stride, rhythmic. He licked his parted lips, panting lightly but did not slow his pace despite his obvious fatigue.
She slowly crossed the room, walking in front of him and around the row of treadmills. He showed no acknowledgment to her presence. She stepped up onto the treadmill beside him and leaned casually against the arm, studying his features. He was focused, trance-like as he ran, his mind in that zone beyond awareness. A stubborn bead of sweat dangled from his brow in front of his eye; he did not wipe it away.
She worried about him. It was unlike him not to voice his concerns, his worries, or his thoughts especially after something as drastic as what happened with the Alpha relay. She feared he danced a sharp edge, trying to stay balanced and not plummet into self-doubt, hysteria, and grief. She glanced at the counters on the treadmill. A little over an hour and a good start into his sixth mile. She knew he was tired and pushed to his near breaking point both mentally and physically. They only had one more mission and did not have the time he needed to decompress.
She needed to distract him. He could not afford to be exhausted, stressed, or obsessed with the past. "John," she purred his name, her tone laced with a sultry tease.
His head snapped to the side at the seductive timbre in her voice, though his pace never stuttered.
Her eyes slowly skimmed down his body, blatantly admiring the lean sinewy muscles of his shoulders, his arms and chest then dipped lower to his narrow waist and hips. "I see you're exerting a lot of energy." Slowly, she shifted her weight, leaning into her hip, acutely aware that his eyes darted to her hips at the movement. "And for some reason, you didn't have the courtesy to invite me."
He slapped the big red button on the console of the treadmill; the tread slowed then stopped. Panting heavily, he watched her with darkening desire and rested his hands on his knees, leaning over in exhaustion. "Wasn't sure if a two hour run … was your idea of a good time."
Her lips quirked just slightly at the corner and the tip of her tongue touched her front teeth. "Never had a problem keeping up with you for two hours before."
He watched the delicate lines of her mouth and that taunting tongue. He grinned. "Why, Ms. Lawson, I do believe you're flirting with me."
"Believe?" she chuckled and offered him the canteen. "If you only 'believe' I am flirting with you, I'm a bit rusty." When he took the canteen, she arched a taunting brow. "Perhaps, I should try harder?"
He twisted off the cap and handed it to her. "I'd love to see that." He drank deeply of the canteen then closed his eyes and poured more of the water over his head. Shaking like a dog, he scratched away the water from his hair and pulled his hand down over his face. He blinked away the sweat and water. "So please," he plucked the cap from her outstretched hand. "Do your worst."
"My worst? Don't you mean my best?" she questioned, flirtatiously. "I'm just not sure you can take it."
His blood pounded at her taunting hum, desire raging through his veins. His heart raced from both the exercise and her seduction. He knew she was using her wiles and training on him but he didn't care. He was more than a mark to her and her words were genuine. She was playful, coquettish, sexy, and confident. She was irresistible.
He twisted the cap back onto the canteen and placed it on the console of his treadmill. "I'm pretty sure I can take anything you can give, Ms. Lawson." He stepped across the small gap between their treadmills and placed his hands upon each extending arm of the equipment, effectively trapping her against her console.
Unphased, she openly admired his body. "I like this," she admitted and reached out, running gloved fingertips along his defined chest muscles then down over his carved abs.
His muscles twitched at the touch. "Yeah? Perfect human specimen?"
"Very much so," she affirmed. "I could think of worse things to stare at than your superior masculine physique. Shall we say you are … captivating?" Her palm splayed on his chiseled abdomen and slid along his waist.
He leaned into her touch. "And what do you find so captivating?"
"Well, the whole package is very nice," she replied and brushed her hand up his body to glide along his shoulder and the cut muscles of his arms. "But, I'm quite fond of this here." She slid her hand under his arm to touch his back. "And this back here."
"Yeah?" he stepped closer to her and his eyes traveled down her body. Her breasts were full, her waist, taut, accentuating the perfect hourglass figure. His favorite part? Her luscious hips meant to cradle a man, and he loved settling between those strong and toned thighs. His hands abandoned the arms of the treadmill and instead rested on her hips then eased down to her thighs. "I'm a fan of these here, myself. Leg man and all."
"I know," she teased her fingers beneath the band of his pants and traced around his waist to his front. "I've seen you staring at times. You're not very subtle."
He rocked forward when she tugged playfully on the waistband of his pants and he stepped closer. "Never been accused of that before. And now I think it's pretty obvious you're trying to seduce me."
"Mmmm, I'm glad you've noticed." She tilted her head and peered up at him with a calm searching expression. "Is it working?"
"Yeah," he answered with a slow nod, and he sighed, pressing his forehead to hers. His eyes closed. "It's helping."
One hand slid around his waist as the other reached up to cup the back of his head, keeping him close. "Are you alright?"
"No," he whispered. "But I don't have a choice. I have to keep going."
She hugged him, ignoring the sweat on his body and when he buried his head in her throat, she kissed his ear. "Just a little longer, John. This is it now."
His arms tightened. "I'm a war criminal."
"You are not," she vehemently defended. "That may be what the Alliance has labeled you but it is not what you are."
"300,000 Batarians are dead," he whispered. "How am I not?"
"You delayed the Reapers' arrival." She replied and eased him back to search his eyes. She cupped his cheeks, stroked the stress lines on his brow. "If you did not do what you did, millions more would be dead. Maybe tens of millions."
Reaching up, he pulled her hand down from his face and intertwined their fingers. "I told Hackett that if we survive this, I'd turn myself in."
She scowled. "What? Why would you do that?"
"Doesn't matter. The galaxy considers me a war criminal and I have to do this. I can't just run from it. Then they're pulling resources away from preparing for the reapers so they can hunt me."
"Not true," she replied. "Somehow, you've managed to convince yourself to fall on your sword for them and I really don't understand why. We have had this discussion before, Shepard. That sometimes you will have to sacrifice the few for the many." She jostled him when he opened his mouth to retort and her eyes narrowed in intensity to silence him. "And it is not supposed to be easy. It will weigh on you and maybe haunt you for the rest of your life, however long or short that may be."
He forced out a laugh and shook his head. "Baby, that doesn't change the fact that I chose to steer an asteroid to collide with a mass effect relay and obliterated life in an entire solar system. The batarians are just the ones we knew were sentient. How many others things did I destroy with that decision?"
"It doesn't matter," she said, sharply. "And you should not have gone alone. I would have gone with you, as would anyone on this ship. So why did you go alone?"
"I promised Hackett I would. Plus, you weren't ready," he shot back and paced away from her, yanking his shirt from the neighboring treadmill and fisting it tightly in his hand. "Neither was Jack and I needed to move fast and quick. The fewer, the better, or they might have killed Kenson. I didn't want to put anyone else at risk for this mission. It was a personal favor for Hackett and the Alliance and had nothing to do with stopping the Collectors."
"None of those arguments change the fact that I would have gone with you to rescue Hackett's scientist. And if you didn't want to take me, you could have taken Kasumi or Thane since you seem to think you are an infiltrator now."
His jaw tensed, muscles clenched, and he glared at her. "It worked. I succeeded."
"I'm not doubting you, Shepard," she said and stepped up to him without fear. "You are resourceful, persistent, quick-thinking and you always win. All I'm saying is that you carry all of this weight alone and without complaint. You're not alone and you never have been. We are all here to share the load with you."
He looked away from her and stared at his reflection in the mirror of the weight room.
She cupped his cheek, turning his gaze back to hers. "Your crew has always been here for you ... me, included."
He swallowed hard when she brushed a gloved thumb over his lower lip and he moved closer to her. She did that often, stroking his mouth, and he loved the sensation, as if the touch was a soft kiss. Sometimes, her biotics pulsed from her thumb at the gesture and his entire body trembled at the sensation. Oh, how she could weaken his knees with just a touch, and he savored every moment.
Hugging her again, he nuzzled her throat then inhaled deeply, his nose buried in her hair. Intoxicating. She had the faint hint of something fruity, clean, or maybe it was floral. He didn't know but he loved it too. "Mmm, you always smell so good."
"Thank you."
"It's different," he inhaled again. "New. I don't remember it from when our mission first started."
"It is new," she said and scratched at the shorn hairline at the back of his neck. "During our last shore leave, I thought that perhaps I should start trying to attract you."
He eased back and gazed down at her incredulously. "Wait, so you're saying that out of the … oh, seven months that we've been on this mission, you've only started trying to attract me over the last four."
She smirked playfully. "Mmm hmm."
"That's not even fair," he laughed. "You didn't even try and my tongue was hanging out of my mouth."
"Is that so?" she chuckled softly and affectionately traced his jaw.
"Yep." A smile slowly spread across his face. "I'm so god damned lucky." He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek.
"Yes, you are," she agreed with a coy smirk and slipped a hand along his waist. Her head tilted slightly and her lips brushed his fingertips. Holding his gaze, her tongue darted out to tease his finger tip.
His eyes darkened and his breath quickened as he watched her draw the tip of his middle finger into her mouth. She nipped playfully, taunted and teased. His mind raced far away from the implications of the last few days. He saw only Miranda's blatant seduction, and his body clenched as unadulterated desire tightened his core. The moment etched into his mind as she teased the tip of his finger and her eyes flared with hunger.
How could he be angry with her about the Lazarus project or regret his own resurrection when the most stunning woman in the galaxy was seducing him? She helped bring him peace, calm, and purpose, guiding him when he was lost in the rage, the pain, or the memories. She was the beacon in the dark mess that haunted and challenged the galaxy.
What a sap! He mentally scolded himself but frankly, he didn't care. He was crazy about her and she was the only thing keeping him from teetering into despair and madness. Even his friendship with Garrus would not pull him back from the brink of violence and anger if he succumbed to those darker callings.
Miranda would not let him fall to those enemies. She kept him focused and refused to release him. With her wit, her humor, intelligence, and whatever that was she was doing with her tongue. He imagined her mimicking that same skill on other parts of his anatomy and he could not hold back the growl from rumbling in his chest.
He fantasized of everything she could do with that tongue and where she would do it. He craved her touch and her mouth. A vivid vision of Miranda on her knees before him thrust into his mind and his pulse quickened. She was using every skill she learned as an operative to seduce him and he didn't care. As long as he was the only one on the receiving end of her gifts, he'd bask in them every day. Lips parted, he pushed his finger a little deeper into her mouth.
With seductive amusement, she obliged him and toyed with him, taunting him with what she could offer to other parts of his body. She watched him carefully, knowing she balanced upon a dangerous line and though she wanted him riled, she did not want him to lose control too soon. She released his finger and gripped his bicep with a firm touch. Leaning into him, she husked in his ear. "Engine room. Be there in five minutes."
He shivered and his mind raced to all the possibilities and everything he would do to her. He hissed when her free hand grazed over the front of his pants and he dared to arch his hips into her touch. But she stepped away and slipped under his arm. He twisted at the waist and his fist clenched as he resisted the urge to pull her back against him … to lift her, pin her to the wall, and tear the clothes from her body. Maybe with his teeth. He wanted to devour her.
She offered a playful wink and her tongue peeked from her lips to touch the corner of her mouth, her eyes scanning down his body as if she harbored her own fantasies. He'd fulfill every one of them. Five minutes? Not likely. Tossing his shirt onto the treadmill, he followed her.
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