The day after Shepard's birthday James stood in the CIC alone, lost in his thought. Seven months ago - a deserter hiding on Omega on a self-destruct course. Now - a senior officer on Commander Shepard's ship. Fate sure was a fickle bitch.
His life had changed in the last month alone. In Vancouver he'd learned a lot about Shepard, Joker, the Normandy, EDI and their beliefs, struggles and achievements. Now he had full authorisation to access all mission logs. For a while now he was self-educating by watching EDI's highlighted compilation of important missions before his time. He'd found the one about David Archer and had to admit that he understood Shepard's reaction. What the poor guy had had to endure... She had been right, too, when they'd met David at Grissom Academy: he seemed remarkably well-adjusted for a man with such a trauma in his past.
Besides watching those reports, James tried to be as useful as possible. He still helped Esteban maintain the arsenal because Shepard simply had no time for that kind of work, but she was relentless when it came to preparation for a mission. She always checked her armour and each gun before using them and heaven forbid she found something wrong with them. However, James was also making time to try and help her in any way he could. How else could he ever elevate himself from the heap-of-muscle status and show her what he could do? He had observed enough of her daily work to know that most of the time she was either reading reports, writing them, or on the QEC with important people who wanted something from her.
That was why he'd volunteered to take care of the fuel network project for her. It would be a lot of tedious work, but nothing that required her particular skill set. He could do it. He had no idea how, where and why, but there was one thing he knew: such questions never stopped Shepard from volunteering for missions. She found a way because she was not afraid of hard, unknown work, and he could do it as well.
Once he took charge of the project, however, he realised that pretty much everyone on the ship had their own projects running that Shepard didn't even know about. Scars consulted his entire government and the Primarch in particular, bringing them up to speed on Shepard's achievements and pushing them to help out when needed. His was not a quiet voice for his people, it seemed. When he demanded evacuation for some colony about to be hit by the Reapers, the turian generals saluted and sent forces. In addition he served as a liaison to the krogan government, namely his old buddy Wrex.
Doc Chakwas was coordinating medical supply distribution to and from many outreach posts they were visiting. Prothy was in constant contact with Project Crucible, translating and explaining Prothean writing to them. When James remarked on that, the ancient man seemed a little uncomfortable. James realised that Javik hadn't exactly volunteered for the job but had been volunteered by the rest of the crew. Ever since he'd started working with the scientists it had become plain to him of how little use he was in this cycle. Translating was not the same as contributing ideas to the project. Rodney, Campbell and Westmoreland were in charge of gathering news and reports on the crew's families and friends from Earth. Traynor was intercepting and decoding SOS messages coming in from all over the galaxy, sometimes directing Shepard to nearby points.
Whenever Joker wasn't training Esteban to be a pilot he'd trust Shepard with, the two of them were working on tracking down Reaper progression in the galaxy, on the Council races' progress or lack thereof, evacuation of colonies, establishment of new ones and their attempts to hide from the Reapers. They also filtered as many reports on indoctrination, Cerberus and sleeper agents as they possibly could, though both admitted that Udina had been a surprise.
EDI was devoting most of her processing power to help out everyone with their projects, though it seemed that Liara had most of them running. It bugged James' mind when she casually revealed to him that she was the Shadow Broker. Not only did she run search for missing persons, looked up tech that could help Shepard, delivered resources to Project Crucible, tracked every rumour about Reapers' vulnerabilities that could help them, every myth about their origins and how they worked and every hint at what the Catalyst might be, but she also served as an ambassador to her species.
James sure had missed a lot in the first weeks of his life on the Normandy. Why? That was the reason why he stood alone and lost in thought right now, looking at the flashing warning signs on the galaxy map in the middle of the room. He'd realised soon enough that no one dared to step up to that map or onto the little bridge leading to it. That was Shepard's privilege.
Shepard. She was the reason he'd missed everything else around him. James kept telling himself that he was observing her to learn as much from her as he could. Once they were out of the brig, Joker's prediction came true and she'd turned into a whole new person. The soft, accommodating girl was banished to after-work hours. When she was in work mode, even her lover and best friends eagerly asked how high when she said 'jump'. The power of her personality was overwhelming, staggering, and yet through all of this she seemed like a normal, real person. A woman.
It was that woman who wouldn't let him sleep at night, who inspired guilty episodes in the shower, who occupied his every thought and made every fibre of his being sing. Last night, as he watched her doing body shots with Joker, James finally really stopped lying to himself or trying to convince himself otherwise. He was damned and doomed because he was in love with her. It was not admiration or hero worship anymore. He'd met his role model, got to know her, and fell for her hard.
He knew she would make him crash and burn soon enough. He knew he would live through more heartbreak than humanly possible if he stayed near her. Still, leaving was never an option. Even when it tore him apart as he watched another man touch her. Even if his fists itched to break every bone in Joker's fragile body. Even if he couldn't understand why she was so convinced that the pilot was the perfect man for her. He would suffer all of it in silence as long as he was the one she took groundside with her, as long as she gave him the chance to save her life, take bullets for her, keep enemies off her back, as long as she relied on him. Needed him. And who knew, maybe one day she'd realise that there were things he could give her that Joker couldn't. Maybe. Even this little hope of a chance was more than enough to keep him at her side like a loyal dog.
Yes, as long as Shepard needed him, James would gladly be a dog at her feet, listening only to her commands. A vicious, scary and a ready to die for her dog. She was more than worthy of that kind of loyalty and he saw how several males acted like her loyal dogs and were proud of it. Garrus, Joker, Wrex and Grunt, to name only a few. Especially the krogans were the ones who basically lapped her hands and waggled their metaphorical tales whenever she was near. Belonging to her as a part of her pack was a matter of pride and he couldn't have seen it better than last night when Major Clusterfuck had appeared out of nowhere.
The man was now locked in Starboard Observation with Campbell as his guard. She was armed and thoroughly instructed not to take any orders from him, no matter his rank or history with Shepard. James personally made sure she understood how important Shepard deemed it that Major Clusterfuck couldn't do any more damage than what he'd already caused.
Last night James had drunk a little more than he should have. Watching Lola and her lover was hard on his heart. Yes, his mind told him that Bones was not some pitiful jackass, that he was a hero and a veteran and that Shepard wouldn't be with a man if he didn't have something real to offer her. But his heart wouldn't stop aching. He'd tried to numb the pain with tequila, but all he achieved was a ghost of a taste in his mouth left by the image of Lola's bare skin on top of the bar counter, the liquid gold trembling in her belly button with each breath she took, the spread of salt between the heaven of her breasts and those perky, pert little nipples. He'd stood there and watched, downing one shot after another, unable to look away in some masochistic pleasure, imagining how those nipples would feel in his mouth, how that scar-crisscrossed and perfect belly would flutter as he went down on her. He, not Joker.
That kind of thinking wouldn't get him anywhere and would only bring more pain, but James realised he didn't mind the pain. At least it meant that he still had a heart that was able to feel love, to skip a beat, to break and heal.
However, it was time to stop fantasising in the middle of the CIC with all the navigators around him and get back to his project. He'd picked Prothy's brain the other day about the ways his people eluded the Reapers for centuries in his times and after the initial disdain and snarkiness bounced off James without making a dent, Prothy finally started talking and gave him a few ideas. Now James was compiling a report and trying to figure out whom to contact.
That was when he realised that he was not the only one who would need the QEC for his project. EDI helpfully forwarded him a roster where everyone who had a scheduled appointment blocked a piece of time on the coveted communication device. Allers had regular slots, so did Prothy, Doc Chakwas and Garrus. Most other people like Traynor and Rodney jumped in whenever they could find a free minute. Obviously, everyone vacated the premises when Shepard had an incoming call or needed the QEC for herself. The rest of the time - literally, the entire rest of it, day and night - was clogged by Liara. Either the asari never slept, which James could very well believe, or she simply put her name on the whole list to keep others away from the QEC in case she needed it.
James shook his head and went down a level to talk to her. It turned out that no one else had dared to talk to her about her overuse of the Shadow Broker excuse, but when James failed to fall under her charm she relented and cleared the schedule. She also offered him any help she could provide, for which he was indeed grateful.
He browsed a console Glyph was maintaining for Shepard for helpful contacts and found several salarian STG labs that specialised their efforts on long range scanners and alternative cloaking devices. He also remembered Shepard mentioning Liara's former base, so he looked it up. Compiling information in usable reports and making contact across the galaxy on behalf of Commander Shepard, Shadow Broker and in the name of galactic cooperation would have seemed a tad out of his league only a few days ago, but one thought drove him on: Shepard had no time to do that and he would do anything to make her life easier.
Thus he ended up on the QEC with Admiral Hackett later on. The elder man seemed surprised to find him there instead of the gorgeous blond, but quickly turned his attention to James' project and ideas for forwarding critical intel to fuel companies. He expressed careful optimism and gave him the contact data for a General who was responsible for this kind of work on his end.
By the end of the day the stone slowly started to roll and James was happy to have used the day well. They were still docked on the Citadel, awaiting food, medical and ammunition shipments that got delayed in the Cerberus chaos from the day before. Still, all this unfamiliar work (Shepard called it diplomatic work but he didn't feel like a diplomat yet) made his skin itch for some action when dinner was over. He went to his bunk in the cargo bay and started with his usual round of fifty pull-ups to chase away the stiffness in his back and shoulders. Usually he found the exercise relaxing, but now his mind kept going even as his body found its rhythm.
He was almost done with the first round when his omnitool pinged, signalling an external incoming message. He finished the pull-ups, wiped off the sweat, opened his omnitool, read the message. Read it twice. Read it thrice.
Then his guts slowly started to shake as a cold shiver crept up his spine. His throat went dry and his lungs started burning. He still stared at the message, desperately gasping for air and his hands shook so badly that he couldn't see the words. You're hyperventilating, his brain informed him. Breathe calmly. In. Out. The training sat deep, but the message said: Interplanetary Combatives Academy. Survival instinct was strong, but the message said: Invitation.
Slowly, as if afraid to break his body of glass, James reached out and put the omnitool back on the work bench. Breathe, Jimmy, his brain tried again. You can't die now.
Ten minutes later his breathing calmed down enough to attempt other movements. His hands still shook but he could read again.
From: Interplanetary Combatives Academy
To: Lieutenant James Vega
Re: Invitation
Mr Vega,
you have been selected and are hereby invited to join the ICA for the first training course. If you succeed and gain the rank of an N1 agent, the invitation is extended to every following training course. Report at Vila Militar on March 8th.
Regards
It arrived over a month late, James realised after reading it again. It was not signed with any name. It gave no information whatsoever. Was this how ICA usually conducted their business? They just took for granted that he knew where to find Vila Militar and that his superiors would give him leave and provide transport?
Wouldn't they? How many people in the galaxy have ever received this message? The honour to be invited at all would pass down to his kids, should he ever have any. Every commanding officer in the Alliance would jump through hoops to get him to Vila Militar. And hey, there was not a soldier in the Alliance who didn't know where to find it.
But it was April 12th. He'd missed the appointed time by over a month, though not by his fault. Considering what was going on on Earth he couldn't be sure there even still was a Vila Militar. Considering how many times the message had been forwarded by now according to its history he couldn't even write back and ask for instructions.
Assuming this was not a prank, he had to seek counsel from the one person who would know for sure.
When Vega asked Jo for a few minutes in private, Jo didn't know what to expect. They'd had six months in private in Vancouver, but since the Reapers hit Earth Vega stepped back gracefully and let her be who she needed to be without asking for anything.
Now Jo had some time to spare because Joker and the techies were running tests on the main battery while still docked on the Citadel, so she invited Vega up to the loft. When he did show up a minute later, he seemed somewhat distracted as he looked around the room and took in the interior. Unlike his usual cheerful self, he was pensive and serious as he dropped the question that sent a shiver up Jo's spine:
"What did you do when they asked you to join the N7 program? I mean, was it a no-brainer for you or did you think about it before you joined?"
"The ICA is a big deal," she said carefully. "And it's a big commitment. You get the best training, best equipment, best assignments."
"And they expect the best in return?"
"Yes, they do. Why are you asking?"
He showed her a message on his omnitool forwarded through several channels and institutions, and explained that it was dated the day the Reapers arrived on Earth.
"Someone somewhere managed to track me down and forward an N7 commendation."
Jo grabbed his wrist, looking closer at the message.
"Sit your ass down and don't move," she ordered him with a gesture towards the couch, as she copied the message to her own omnitool. He obeyed, looking bewildered and a little intimidated when she went to her own computer, logged into a system protected by multiple passwords and personal identification requirements and forwarded his message along with her own request:
"Verify."
For a little while everything was quiet in the room and Vega craned his neck, looking up through the glass of the model ship case at her, as she waited.
"You don't believe it's the real deal?" He asked carefully.
"You're talking about my family here. It is a big deal and comes with a lot of strings attached. I can't talk to you about any of it until I know for sure that it's real. Invitations to ICA are quite rare."
"You don't think I deserve it?" He tried for a lighter mood.
"It's not about what I think you deserve. If this is a fake, I need to track that clown down and decapitate him or her. If this is real, then someone far more skilled and experienced than me considers you worthy. Let me find out which it is, and then we'll talk."
"Are you in contact with the N7 command?"
"It's the IC Academy, Vega, and what this institution does among other things is recruit people and put them through ICT, Interplanetary Combatives Training. There is no such thing as an N7 program or N7 command. When you're done with ICT, that is the training, you're still a part of ICA, the academy, and that's who gives you the best missions, provides you with your armour and weapons and the best medical care you've ever known. Don't confuse the terms. It's like a school and classes. You go to school as an institution to attend classes to learn something, so ICT and ICA are not the same. But yes, I just sent a request to the ICC. That's Intelligence Command Centre. Intelligence can verify this quickly."
If she knew anything at all about the person called Intelligence at ICA (and she prided herself on knowing quite a lot about him), he would answer her request within three minutes.
In fact it took less than two minutes for her computer to ping. Jo hadn't been in personal contact with ICA's Intelligence for a long time. Agents like her worked alone most of the time. It felt almost surreal when she opened the classified message and it contained only a plus, four numbers and a little smiley face. Jo grinned at it. No matter how many years they kept silent, Intelligence would always be real family.
"Well," she said to Vega, logged out carefully and joined the young soldier on the couch. "Looks like it's real."
"Back to my question, then. Was it a no-brainer for you when you got invited to the Academy?"
Jo leaned back and crossed her arms on her chest, looking at Vega and taking him seriously for the very first time.
"Look, Vega, I don't want you to get your hopes up too much. The Academy is recruiting heavily right now." She opened her own omnitool and showed him the message from Hackett, where he explained that the Alliance was giving mercs the honorary title of "N7 Spec Ops". His face fell immediately.
"So, anyone can get in right now?"
"Pretty much. The ICA abandoned a lot of guidelines for recruitment in the last few months and is focusing on building an army of capable soldiers to fight the Reapers."
"In that case this doesn't mean a thing," he waved his hand at his omnitool. He looked devastated.
"Not necessarily. Those mercs get an honorary title if they work with real N7s. What you have there is a genuine invitation. It's entirely up to you to prove yourself above the simple need of war."
The look he gave her spoke volumes. He wanted to believe her but still had doubts, and yet was adamant about proving himself more than a merc who could hold a gun. Jo knew he would need some time to think about all this, so she continued to give him some information to chew on.
"Now that you are an official N1 recruit, I can have a free and honest conversation with you about what it means. I just told you, there is no such thing as an N7 program, it's what wide-eyed soldiers and ignorant civilians call us and we allow it because it sounds mysterious. You can't be invited to become an N7, you can only get an invitation to enter the N1 course. There are only six courses and you can't skip even a single one. Only - and I mean only - if you show yourself as an exceptional agent through each and every N course can you be suggested by your instructors for an N7 rank at the end of your courses. So, for right now, you're an N1 recruit. Once you pass your N1 test, you may call yourself an N1 agent, or Junior Agent. If you get to the N3 or a higher course and pass, you will be called Field Agent in Training until you return to active duty, in which case you are called Field Agent. Now, if you show exemplary conduct, become an N7 and return to active duty then, you will be called a Senior Field Agent. That's what I am. Junior Agents and Field Agents often work together, training each other and pooling resources. Senior Field Agents work alone because we have the authority to gather and train our own teams if we find worthy recruits."
"Is that what your crew on the Normandy is?"
"Yes. Now, if a Field Agent or a Senior Field Agent decides to go back to ICA as an instructor, then that's what she or he is called. The only level higher than that is to become the leader of the whole ICA and that's a whole different kettle of fish. Not everyone is cut out to even get as far as N6, and only the greatest, toughest, most successful, most solid ones actually get an N7 badge."
"You sure love yourself, Lola," Vega was caught between laughing at her pathos-filled words and feeling thoroughly intimidated.
"I'm not talking about myself. I'm talking about my brothers and sisters, some of whom never went beyond N3 and are fantastic at what they do, some of whom went through things you can't imagine to become an N7. It's a connection by blood, tears, harrowing trials and the purest joy you'll ever know. You can't become an N7 by working your ass off. It's a calling. We aren't made or trained, we are born that way. Whether you are one of us already and you just don't know it yet, or if you get only as high as N6, well, that's what we'll have to find out.
"All right. So... This message is a month old. I missed the appointed date. The Reapers are on Earth. I'm here with you. What happens now? You say I'm an official recruit, does that mean that you'll be training me?"
"I'm not an instructor. Under normal circumstances I don't have the authority to grant you an N rank. But since these are unusual circumstances and the Leadership sent you this invitation knowing that you serve under me, I suppose I've just been granted the authority of an instructor."
"Serve under you? You were in the brig under my watchful eye when this was written."
"Did you seriously just say that?" Jo raised an eyebrow. "Don't make me doubt your judgement, Vega. Not now."
He narrowed his eyes at her and cursed in Spanish.
"Mr D said you could have walked out of there at any given moment, right? He knew you wrapped the whole HQ around your little finger, too. He knew we'd been sparring."
"You served under me even then, you just didn't know it. But you have to know, Vega, that I'm extremely hard to please. I like you and you make a great member of my team, but that will just make it harder for you to get ahead with those N courses. I'm extremely demanding and won't tolerate anyone in my family who isn't worthy by my standards. Up until now I've considered you a regular marine under my leadership: skilled and talented, but still basically one step away from a civilian. This commendation means I'll be applying a different frame of reference to you and I'm probably a lot harder to work with than the regular ICA instructors. Why? Because I've learned to accept weaknesses in civilians, but within my N family I have zero tolerance for weakness. Zero."
"That's why your approval is worth getting. It's not easily given. So, tell me about the training. When do we start?"
"We started the day you stepped into my cell in the brig. I wasn't applying hard force of the real IC Training to you, but I taught you a lot of what you'll need to know to pass the tests. But we're getting ahead of us. When a recruit arrives at Vila Militar, they have a two day orientation course and I'll need equipment before I start on the real training with you."
"What kind of equipment?"
"Your armour, some machinery, lots of software, some sort of a handbook for instructors, drugs, implants, maybe even some torture devices. Oh, well, I guess Ken's blow torch will do in a pinch."
He opened his mouth and quickly closed it again. She was being serious.
"Torture?"
"Absolutely. Remember you asked me if my leg has really been cut off with a chain saw? Part of the training. But again, we're getting ahead of ourselves. Let's start with basic orientation. You and I are the only ICA members on this ship and we will have a lot of practical training, but all our conversations and theoretical training will happen in complete secrecy. You will never, even under the threat of your child's and mother's death, reveal any trade secrets. Anything I tell you is considered a trade secret unless I specifically tell you it's not. You will never start a conversation about your training during dinner. You will never reveal intel to a lover, a spouse, a friend or a trusted ally. Only a senior agent like me or a member of ICA staff has the authority to decide what's critical and what may be revealed. That's why I may sometimes tell Joker stuff, but you may not. And here's ICT's first rule: if you do anything wrong or don't meet my expectations in training, I will murder you myself. It's a common practice, death rate among recruits is about 18% and I will make no exceptions for you."
James nodded. He believed her. This was it, he realised and his stomach turned once more. His role model was about to teach him the secret handshake of the most elite group of Special Forces in the galaxy. He was one of them. He had better take her seriously.
"Here are your new guidelines. I will say them once and you will remember them for the rest of your life, live by them, breathe them, eat and sleep them: you never reveal any intel about your family. You never bring trouble home. You do not harm innocents unless there is no other way. You do whatever it takes to finish the job. You only trust yourself. You take responsibility for your every action. You never stop, never quit, never give up, you survive and keep moving, whatever it takes. You give your life for the cause freely. You never engage civilians in a hand-to-hand or close range weapons combat because you're too dangerous. You do your job not because you want prestige, commendations and fame, but purely out of the goodness of your heart. And finally: you never stop using your own head, even if you work with another member of your family. Even we have rotten eggs among us."
"Like Kai Leng?"
"Indeed. Now, your first assignment: memory training. You may not write down any of what I tell you, but I will ask you to repeat the guidelines many times in the future. Remember my words, repeat them until you can say them in your sleep and think about what they mean."
"Understood," James nodded, even though his brain was already hurting. If he was not to write anything down, maybe EDI would be helpful? Apropos. "Shepard, if any of this really is such a big secret, doesn't it defeat the purpose if EDI is listening and recording every damn thing?"
"EDI isn't here right now. When she gained her free well, we made a deal. When certain key words sound on this ship, she stops listening and recording. She knows better than to cross me on this. Her survival instinct is quite strong."
"Neat trick," James nodded. He knew that with his first assignment he was basically dismissed, but he wasn't ready to go just yet. Now he and Shepard had something between them that even Joker wouldn't be a part of. And since this wasn't a typical ICT initiation, he felt a little... left out. He wanted his two-day orientation. He wanted everything other recruits got. "Tell me about how this usually happens. Tell me about the day you arrived at Vila Militar."
Shepard leaned back on the couch and smiled to herself.
"Vila Militar isn't exactly what you think it is. There is no obstacle course in the front yard and no squads are running along the park step in step. Still, recruits arrive in batches of twelve, the training is not solitary. Mind you, at least one from the batch will be dead by the end of the course, another four or five will fail the initiation and the rest won't be tough enough to pass N2. Every two weeks another batch arrives and begins their training. Only one or two from every second or so batch get to the next level."
James nodded. It sounded just like what he was expecting.
"When I arrived, they took a DNA sample, voice and retinal scan to make sure I was who I said I was. Then I was directed to a barrack to claim my bunk and unpack. Each of us arrived at sunrise, no one was willing to miss any bit of that first day. Each of us felt how different the atmosphere was compared to our first days at boot camp. We were all between twenty and thirty years old, but none of us was fresh and naive. We didn't need to beat our chests and show bravado. We knew we were selected to join because we were already the best of the best. The only thing that divided us was that nine of us applied and three got invited."
"You were invited, of course."
"Yes. That made me more distinguished than applicants who had to fight hard for this privilege, but it made me more determined to become the best. After breakfast we had our basic orientation. First we spent seven hours doing file work. There were shitloads of forms to fill out and sign. Non-disclosure agreements of so many kinds that your head will implode. Agreement to the possibly fatal outcome of the training. Agreement for physical modifications, implants and possible experimental technology to be used on you. Many other dubious agreements. Then there were forms about the new pay grade, benefits and pension, about full disclosure of all and any information about your person to the Academy. Forms for each member of your family and each friend, enemy, school friend, teacher, neighbour, extranet sex buddy, and every other person you've ever met. Then forms about your habits, likes and dislikes, preferences, phobias, passwords to all your accounts and even your online shopping list."
"Why?" James was not surprised by all the non-disclosure agreements and health care forms, but presenting all the intel about himself on a platter like that? It seemed extreme.
"So that Intelligence can check out if any of the people you're in contact with are working against us. To know who to put protection on in case you land your ass in a hot spot. To determine your personalised training course based on your likes and fears, and to erase you from digital existence to create a new identity for you. That new identity will run under the same name and list your family and address, but it will be cleaned of everything else that could be used against you."
"So basically you sell yourself to the Academy with your guts."
"Yes, James, you do. You sell yourself, body and soul, not because it's a good deal. You do it because you believe in the cause. Because you believe in what you are about to train for, in what you will stand for once you're done. You join a family and it will own you like your blood family does. In return it will do anything for you because once an N - always an N. Even if you end up like Kai Leng, you will be a family member until the end, and family takes care of its own. Which sometimes means putting the bad ones out of their misery. So tell me, do you believe from the bottom of your heart in this family you're about to join? Are you willing to forsake friends and blood relatives for us? Are you willing to bleed, to sweat, to endure and administer torture for us?"
A shiver ran up and down James' whole body. The words she spoke crept under his skin and unsettled every nerve, uprooted every certainty he'd ever had.
"Will I get anything in return?" He dared to ask the most important question, but only in a whisper.
"You will get a whole bunch of people who would do the same for you. Anything for you. Even if they don't know you personally, your membership will be enough for them to lay down their lives for you. I will be one of them. You know what I can do. Would it be a compensation enough for your loyalty, knowing that you have me at your beck and call?"
James couldn't breathe. He froze, his jaw slack, and couldn't breathe. She sat there, a small, compact body, small hands folded in her lap, small feet tucked under her, a single stray strand of her beautiful hair escaping the bun and caressing her temple. He'd never seen anyone so beautiful, so angelic, so... divine. The things she was offering him were everything he had ever wanted. But now that it was there in front of him for the taking, he was more scared than ever. Scared he didn't deserve it. Scared that he would never be good enough to meet those incredibly high expectations.
"Don't think I don't know how scared you are," she said quietly. "I felt the same that day when I had to make a decision to sign those forms or to walk out of the door. Go now and think about it. When you're ready, you'll make the choice that's right for you."
And that was when he felt it. It. The unconditional loyalty to a family he desperately wanted to be a part of. He knew then that he would never be the same.
