Ch. 13: One Bad Call
Joker
I knew she would make her way up to see me eventually. When things went to shit, it was like she couldn't help herself: she had to spread it around. Shepard would go to Garrus first, especially if she needed a drink. She'd try Chakwas if she was looking for unconditional acceptance. Finally, she'd come to me. Shepard and I, well, we'd both had a lot of practice in what to say on days like this, even if it was just to say nothing at all. Not to mention, her first two options weren't really available at the moment. Understatement of the year, actually.
Shepard's theme of the night seemed to be a lot of ranting, punctuated by gaps of awkward, tense silence. She agitatedly paced the cockpit, tight movements in a figure eight around the chairs, spouting seething comments and general noises of frustration. Her eyes were still all wide and crazy from her dash onto the ship, and her hair still matted against the side of her head from her helmet. Some of the clips on her armor were loose from where she started to take it off but had gotten sidetracked by something else instead.
Shepard alighted on the edge of the co-pilot chair but launched out of it again within seconds to resume pacing. Of course, by then Shepard had already managed to get a blood stain on the chair. Well that's just great. Thanks for that, Shepard, I cringed internally.
"It was just one bad call," I tentatively tried to console. A scowl formed on her face so quickly, it was like I'd physically hit her.
"And you'd know all about bad calls, wouldn't you?" Shepard snarled as her neck snapped around towards me.
All the breath went out of my lungs. Of course, of course, it would always go back to That Day with us now. I thought I could get away from it, those two years of guilt and suffering. I thought she'd forgiven me that first day when she'd hugged me and been so relieved that "at least she had managed to save me." But, no, somewhere in that first week on the Normandy, she must have looked at the Cerberus logos surrounding her and her new, scar-free arms and realized what had happened. She realized who to blame, the same person I'd been blaming for the past two years: me.
Shepard was right to blame me. I was the reason she died. I just had to stay with the ship; I made the wrong decision, and Shepard paid for it. Those thoughts had been eating me from the inside for a long time now. But now that Shepard was alive, the thoughts could eat her too.
The lure of easy conversation and similar history, the old times, brought Shepard up here again and again, but she turned on me just as easily as she said hello. I'd become the family member that she loved because she had no choice and hated because of everything else. I just wonder when she'll stop looking at me like that.
Shepard seemed to deflate at the look on my face, halting her pacing and watching me steadily.
"Was the helmet audio on?" she asked, words forced out through gritted teeth before she asked what she really wanted to know, "Was the crew listening?"
"I kept it off," I admitted. "You know I hate listening: all that huffing, puffing, and drama."
I tried to lighten the moment, but she didn't seem to appreciate it.
"I turned it on when things started to look really dicey though. Then EDI and I had to coordinate with Miranda and the shuttle pilot," I continued, watching the way Shepard's face closed off little by little.
The silence stretched further between us.
"You should go talk to her," I tried. Shepard needed no elaboration on who I was talking about; she was already shaking her head.
Then, she sighed with a pained grimace and rubbed at her forehead in defeat.
"I know," Shepard allowed. She slumped into the chair before standing straight up again and heading for the door, leaving behind nothing but a silent cockpit and a small bloodstain on the edge of the chair.
XXX
Garrus
Several hours earlier…
It was hot.
EDI informed us that Korlus was volcanic. What she hadn't mentioned was that, even with protection, it would feel like we were inside a volcano. I felt like my skin was blistering inside of my armor, even though my brain told me the environmental controls on my suit wouldn't allow for that. The temperature on Korlus was well within the range that our equipment could handle, as much good as that knowledge did me when my underarmor suit was soaked through with sweat. For once I was grateful for my armored gloves—usually a hindrance that I'd take off for a challenging target—because otherwise my rifle would've slipped right out of my hands.
Once we were inside the complex where our target, a krogan named Okeer, likely resided, I thought it might feel better. I was wrong. The complex was maybe a only a degree cooler but far more stifling. We were operating inside an oven.
We hit Korlus with almost all hands on deck. The ground team members—me, Miranda, Jacob, Zaeed, and Mordin—moved with Shepard to sweep the ground floor of the complex and work our way up to where we believed Okeer's lab was. Yet, we had never imagined the numbers the mercenary group could muster against us. It was a fight to gain every meter.
For my part, I quickly stopped my internal monologue of suffering when I assessed Miranda's condition after an hour into our assault. Due to the heat of the planet, as well as the high CO2 and toxin content in the atmosphere, everyone was forced to don full hardsuits. Kasumi had been forced to stay behind since there was no suit on the Normandy for her size. Shepard had originally decided on Miranda staying behind as well, but the woman had angrily gone to the armory and put on the second (the first being used by Jacob) Cerberus assault armor that was stored there.
Granted, Miranda had been practicing in the armor during our training sessions at Shepard's request. Or perhaps it was more like an order. After her injury on Lorek, Shepard was adamant that Miranda have more protection. The same, she said, was going to apply to all of her team members who believed they could go into a firefight in just their skin.
Miranda had come out of every practice session exhausted, hurting, and starved for air in the suit. No matter her abilities, the suit was simply not made for someone her size, and it was far, far too heavy for her.
To her credit, not one complaint passed her lips, not even now on blistering Korlus as she so obviously struggled for breath next to me, and I, for one, was definitely glad Miranda had stubbornly come along. Perhaps her movements were slower than usual with the extra armor. Perhaps she couldn't compete against the raw power of an asari commando. But Miranda's biotics were dominating the field today with her mind for efficiency.
When a heavy took aim at the group, instead of putting up a large barrier to cover all of us, Miranda constructed one small barrier—directly in front of the nozzle of the rocket launcher. The rocket exploded back into the face of its owner, and he fell to the ground screaming. Another time, Miranda broke a vanguard's leg by performing a biotic pull right at the joint of the knee. It cost her barely any effort, not like pulling a whole person, and the vanguard lay helpless and writhing on the ground until I made the easy shot. She even managed to crush a man's helmet around his head, leaving him alive but panicked and choking on CO2 until we got close enough to shoot him. If Miranda hadn't been staggering under the weight of her armor in the crazy heat of this place, I'd say she wasn't even breaking a sweat.
My glowing accolades could not be applied to the rest of the team. In fact, they made me cringe with how little effort they were putting into applying what we practiced during our sessions on the Normandy. While Shepard, Miranda, and I had been working together seamlessly (maybe because of our outing together on Lorek), our three other members were out of sync. We were still too many bull-headed individuals, used to working alone. When Zaeed was ordered to take the left, he would swing too far out. It was great for a sniper, but not great when there was a huge gap in the middle of our group that the enemy could take advantage of. Mordin tried to support Zaeed but still left us with the problem of the empty middle. Jacob proved to be the most frustrating of all. Though commanded to reinforce the left with Zaeed, he continued to drift over, sticking to Miranda's hip like a bur.
We finally made it to the last level to clear out; Okeer's lab lay just above our heads. Shepard ordered us into position, and just like before, Zaeed swung too far out, Mordin followed, and Jacob didn't go where he was supposed to.
The mercenaries flooded forward, however, not taking the middle and splitting us up like I had expected. Instead, they hammered into the weaker left side, pinning Zaeed and Mordin down with the four of us in the wrong position to help them.
Shepard gave a long-suffering sigh and analyzed the field grimly. Finally she turned her gaze on Miranda and gave an order, "Lawson, to the left. Help them get out of there."
Miranda nodded, throwing a glance at the mercenaries' backs before scrambling up. Shepard's hand darted out quickly and shoved her right back down as a rain of bullets whizzed past.
"Don't go that way," Shepard said unnecessarily. "Can't flank them. There's at least three targets behind that slab of concrete there waiting for you to move that way. Go around instead, and take Jacob with you. Garrus and I will cover. Just give Zaeed and Mordin enough breathing room to retreat over to us, got it?"
"Understood, Commander," Miranda confirmed.
Shepard and I kept a careful handle on the enemies to our front, while giving as much support to the left as we could from a distance. I wasted a lot of my clip just shooting at concrete to keep the mercenaries' heads down, but enemy reinforcements never had the opportunity to hinder Miranda and Jacob.
The two Cerberus operatives were successful: they bailed our other two teammates out. It just wasn't fast enough to stop the bullets that shattered through the remnants of Zaeed's weakened kinetic barrier and cracked through his armor at the top of his chest.
Shepard's hand was quickly at her ear, the motion activating the communications.
"Lawson, how's it look?"
Miranda was crouched carefully at Zaeed's side along with Mordin, the both of them having shuffled into the protection of a metal wall.
"Medi-gel deployed, but the reserves are now completely empty. Bleeding stopped," she said, gingerly examining the edges of the fused medi-gel with her fingers. Miranda gave an anxious sigh that echoed over the speakers. "Shepard, he's in no condition to continue. Zaeed is stable now, but one more injury could send him into shock or kill him."
Shepard swore angrily.
"Mordin, stay low with Zaeed and keep him safe. Miranda and Jacob, move in a bit closer, and then we're gonna hit them hard and take that cover they've got in the middle. When they retreat to the back of the platform, we'll split and hit them on both sides. We need to move fast and clear this level. Then we'll be safe enough to take care of Zaeed," Shepard ordered, words coming low and fast with anticipation. "Let's go!"
The muscles in my legs screamed as we all launched forward together, shooting at what parts of our enemy were visible behind their cover as we scrambled into the safety of more walls or crates a few meters in front of us. Another signal from Shepard and we were moving forward again, advancing and advancing until we could finally get close enough to take a real bite out of the mercenaries.
Our group gained the middle, and I found a good spot to hunker down for the few seconds it took for my sniper rifle to expand all the way. We were now in a large squared area whose middle was cut out to see the level below. The cut-out was hemmed in with low retaining walls that the mercenaries now used to hide behind at the back of the platform. I had taken my place directly opposite them on the square cut-out, balancing my rifle on the wall as I scoped out shots. My assault rifle lay within easy reach next to me, and I switched easily between the two as needed.
"Nice spot, Garrus. Stay there and keep 'em down," Shepard said, her back already turned as she moved away . "Lawson, Taylor, there aren't many left. We're charging in from the sides. You two go in from the right; I'll take left."
They split apart quickly, but Miranda hesitated and ducked for just a split second, looking back over her shoulder. She glowed blue, and, with tired movements, constructed an extra biotic barrier around Shepard before moving to follow Jacob. Only then did I see Miranda reinforce her own barrier.
I furrowed my brow in thought. Damn, I wonder how often she does that. Has Shepard even noticed?
A blaze of cerulean erupted across my vision: Shepard finally charging in. Biotics blossomed out spectacularly as they exploded against the warp Shepard had timed ahead of herself. I managed to get a few shots in, but Shepard, Miranda, and Jacob crushed the remaining four adversaries between them easily without much of my help.
The only moment of worry came when the last mercenary didn't go down as expected. The man struggled to his feet just behind Miranda, toting his gun into his arms to take the shot. I shouted out a warning, but it proved to be unnecessary when Miranda whipped around faster than I'd thought she could in her heavy armor. Miranda knocked the tip of her attacker's gun away from her with her forearm at the same time as she smashed her foot into his ankle. There was an unpleasant crunch and a wail of pain when he crumpled to the ground. Miranda shot the man's visor once to shatter it and a second time into his head.
All was quiet but for the hum of machines as we all stared at her in surprise. Miranda stared right back.
"What?" she demanded, looking at Shepard in particular.
"Let's just go check on Mordin and Zaeed," Shepard replied, already trotting away and expecting us to follow.
Zaeed was sitting up and talking when we got there, but one scan with Miranda's omni and she was already shaking her head no. Shepard sighed in resignation.
"Taylor, get Zaeed back to the ship. We've got to keep going," Shepard ordered, rubbing at her helmet like it was her forehead.
"All due respect, Commander, but you can't go with only three other teammates on a mission like this. It's not safe," Jacob asserted. Shepard scowled at him, her small chin twisting up with the motion as well.
"You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do. Not to mention, we've been at this all goddamn day. We all leave and who knows what kind of reinforcements they've got hiding around the corner. We'd have to force our way back in again, but with a man down," Shepard explained. I couldn't help but agree with her. We had been moving at the pace of a one-legged volus, and that was with starting the day fresh. To do this again tomorrow, exhausted from today's fighting, would be hell.
"So move out when Zaeed is ready, and get him to the ship as quickly as you can manage," Shepard ordered again, her tone revealing her impatience.
Now, in my time with C-Sec and subsequent traveling on the Normandy, I quickly learned that human body language could manifest itself in rather explosive terms or very minute terms. This situation was one of the latter. If I hadn't been watching closely, I wouldn't have seen Jacob's head turn just that slightly towards Miranda, as if checking for approval. It was an understandable movement, at least: Jacob had, in fact, been working under Miranda for two years. Miranda, to her credit, kept a carefully neutral expression, and Jacob finally saluted to Shepard and stepped away to Zaeed.
Were I a different turian, I might have thought the situation resolved. As it was, I saw that Shepard had somehow managed to deepen her scowl even further, lines forming at the edges of her mouth, and that Miranda's face was somehow too calm, falsely relaxed but in a way that couldn't hide the lines of anxiety that formed at her eyes.
The silence stretched until Shepard finally turned on her heel and headed to the ramp that would take us to the next platform. Miranda followed, and Mordin and I, the two aliens amongst humans on the Normandy, shrugged at each other before trailing after as well.
XXX
The humans have a saying: when it rains, it pours. A more apt expression I couldn't find for this day. We had faced a small army of mercenaries only to discover we would need to fight krogan and a YMIR mech as well. And, naturally, the one krogan that was actually sympathetic to us and might help us fight, Okeer, was too busy doing some nonsense with a test tube. Of course, he had spouted some business about the genophage first in order to convince us to go get ourselves killed so he could save his work. Ditching the test tube krogan he'd grown was apparently not an option.
I'm pretty sure, at that point, Shepard and I had both considered how likely it was that we could bodily haul Okeer off the planet. The odds weren't looking in our favor either way.
So, here we were, pinned down on the back platform and forced behind slim metal sheeting to shield us from the YMIR mech's absolute shredding of anything that moved. Krogan came in close on both sides while some crazy woman named Jedore rained missiles at us from a distance. I was tired. We were all tired.
"Wow, I'm getting flashbacks from the Krogan Rebellions," I said with a wheeze.
Shepard's response came crackling over the helmet communicators. "Garrus, you dumbass, you weren't alive then."
"Call it ancestral memory," I joked. I gave a cheer at the same time when I managed to finally take a chunk out of Jedore's shoulder.
"I'm sure if Mordin were here," Miranda's voice sounded next, heavy and out of breath, "he could explain all the different ways that that kind of ancestral memory is a completely ridiculous theory."
Mordin had been sent back to the labs to make sure Okeer stayed alive, the whole reason we were here, when the lab alarms went off. So we were down to three. Shepard was our heavy hitter, taking the right side of our vertically narrow platform. She placed me in the middle, better protected and with orders to use that extra freedom to take out Jedore. Miranda was left to hold the left side which, with little room to maneuver, had quickly turned into something of a fist fight. Normally, I'd wager her biotics against any of the krogan, but her exhaustion was obvious for anyone to see.
Shepard's plan wasn't bad necessarily, but I figured I could have handled the left side much easier with my assault rifle. It seemed the only reason she hadn't given Miranda the middle was because it had the best vantage to lead the fight. Shepard would have to trust Miranda to give out orders, and, stubborn to a fault, it was something Shepard wouldn't consider.
Maybe I should've argued harder against the decision. We've got to get Miranda out of there, I found myself thinking. Yet the problem was how.
Shepard was far off. By giving me the middle, she'd given me the better view of our battlefield, and she clearly hadn't noticed the struggle of the Cerberus operative on the far side of the chamber. She had pulled out her own missile launcher and was focusing on the mech, but it seemed like the targeting was damaged because the missiles kept going wide. I was currently out of clips for my assault rifle, leaving only one precious clip for my sniper rifle.
"Shepard, we're in some real trouble over here," I spoke into my helmet.
Shepard checked back and cursed.
"Garrus, abandon the middle. I'll keep the mech distracted over here," Shepard said. She pulled her shotgun off her back, took the clip out, and tossed it over to me. "That's my last clip. Pray one of these missiles actually hits that junk pile, and go get Miranda out of there."
It was like they sensed weakness, two krogan charging on Miranda at once. I took a jump at one krogan's back, managing to hook a finger into the back of his helmet and yank it off. The krogan gave a yell and charged forward to dislodge me, but I already had my talons ripping his crest up so I could jam my gun into the sensitive area beneath. I squeezed the trigger, and the krogan fell with one shot. I rolled back to my feet. The kill had given me extra room to move, but the same couldn't be said for Miranda.
While she had managed to knock the shotgun from her enemy's hands, he had adapted, not by going after it like she'd expected, but by grabbing her with his newly freed hands and slamming her against the wall. Miranda's heavy armor was protecting her from the shattering of bones that would've been the case otherwise, but there was sure to be heavy bruising. I could see the blood dripping from her nose; her biotics were exhausted. I ran to her.
I heard an explosion and a shout of triumph as Shepard managed to take down the YMIR mech, then a blue cannon ball blowing past me as Shepard surpassed me in the attempt to save Miranda. It worked, too, until I realized that all three of us presented an easy target.
Jedore's rocket hit me in the back.
XXX
There was a strange ringing in my ears, constant, jarring. I couldn't think, couldn't move. Was I...floating? No, there was a body underneath me. Carrying me. I glanced down and saw a field of white splattered with blue. Blood? Was that my blood? My chest ached and now I could feel every laborious step the person underneath me took. I should know who they were...dark hair, white, so much white. How did I get here?
"Give him here, Lawson," I heard Shepard order. I felt the head underneath me shake. And, wow, that little movement hurt like hell. I heard a groan. It must have been mine, and the movement below me stilled.
"I'm stronger than I look, Shepard. The path out of the complex is clear, for now, and Joker can send the shuttle for us. You need to get back to the labs," Miranda asserted.
"We already sent Mordin when the alarms when off," Shepard argued. The head shook again and I gasped.
"And now he isn't answering. Think of the mission, Shepard," Miranda growled.
I heard harsh footsteps moving in the opposite direction.
Reality was coming at me in pieces, blurs of color. Miranda's hands were slick against my armor, fighting to gain purchase. I could feel her slim shoulders cutting into my side. I was impossibly big above her, but she was moving forward. Step, step, readjust. So much blood. I thought I could hear it dripping against the concrete when we moved. That probably wasn't real.
I didn't realize I'd passed out until a sharp pain in my arm brought me back. Big blue eyes hovered over me, but I didn't understand what she was saying. Human words. Human? My translator was out, I realized. I noticed I could see Miranda's bare face: her helmet was off. I glanced around. We were on the shuttle, but it wasn't moving.
Everything started spinning again, then another needle was jammed into my arm. Stims. Miranda was hitting me with stims. Her arms moved above me again, and I saw her pour medi-gel into the gap in my armor. The medical interface in my armor would have injected all my reserves, but Miranda must have found more on the shuttle.
An impossible amount of my blood seemed to be outside of my body; I couldn't stop staring at it. It was even in streaks across Miranda's face where she'd accidentally rubbed the back of her hand. Miranda's face looked worried, and she was talking some more, but I was finally feeling less pain. She slammed her fist a few times on the wall to tell the shuttle pilot to take off.
When I opened my eyes again, there was more white. This time there was no more blue, no more Miranda. I felt a bed underneath me. The medbay. We were back on the Normandy.
"Shepard, I want you out!"
Shepard protested. I heard a large crash against a wall.
"I just want to help," Shepard tried, her voice impossibly small. I'd never heard her speak to Chakwas that way.
"You're a distraction. So out!" Chakwas asserted. Her words sounded so loud bouncing around in my head.
"It's my fault. Oh my God, it's all my fault," I heard Shepard cry, before the sounds became muffled. They must have shut the door on her.
I shut my eyes again.
XXX
Miranda
This area of the Citadel was darker, back lit by the neon signs of various nightclubs and restaurants. Blurs of light also streaked across the backdrop from the constant stream of cars zooming by to various destinations. It was noisy. It was chaotic. And I sat above, watching it all.
From my balcony, I saw a group of soldiers stumbling out of a bar just a few meters down the road. They were so obviously fresh on shore leave, faces carefully shaved and pulling subconsciously on the casual clothes that didn't fit quite right after so long in uniform. It felt so weird that I'd been on a ship long enough to be able to notice something like that.
There was an asari making her way slowly through the crowd of people, resplendent in a gown of silver that had just enough class for the kind of clubs she was making her way towards. I saw her pause occasionally, straining her neck to look behind her, and I imagined she was searching for a friend or a lover who had missed their meeting time. A large krogan walking with, of all people, a turian trailed just behind the silver clad asari, gaining about as much attention as you would imagine. The animosity between turians and krogans had never really died down enough to be considered old history, but these two walked close together, hands brushing slightly while they both glanced nervously at the people staring at them. I knew them not at all, but I envisioned a reluctant romance, the kind where you don't realize you've fallen for your enemy until it's already far too late to back out.
I was just another face in the crowd, a blur of eyes and lips and cheeks that was easily forgotten by the passersby, and I reveled in the anonymity. I hadn't realized how absolutely trying the cramped quarters on the Normandy had become until I had been released, and, though the circumstances of the impromptu shore leave were unfortunate, I felt like I could finally breathe where before had been all tightness in my chest. I had spent two years on the small Lazarus station and thought myself prepared for the conditions I'd find during a long term cruise on a spaceship. But on Lazarus, I'd had a private suite I could retire to, and I had worked with a slightly different staff from day to day. There had been space; I could be alone.
There was no retreat on the Normandy. I had one door, the door to my office/bedroom, and the dangerous combination of a commander who had no problem opening said door whenever she wished. I saw the same people every day, and I knew way too much about them. Hearing gossip was inevitable, and I knew who was sleeping with whom and how so-and-so was worried about his family because they were on such-and-such colony. It was exhausting. I didn't want to know so much about these people. Even more, I didn't want these people to know about me. We were professionals, and there were lines. Yet, I'd woken this morning to a coffee just the way I liked it sitting hot on my desk.
It was that small gesture that had been too much. I'd left the ship without even getting breakfast, desperate to get off after the tension-fraught, two day trip between the Imir System and the Citadel. We had finally docked, Garrus was transported to the hospital, and I'd finally disappeared to this corner balcony of a restaurant. Here, I didn't have to think about what would happen if Garrus were no longer fit to come with us on the mission. I didn't have to think about how my back and my arms were still screaming at me from my carrying, though it had been accomplished with a little biotic help, of a couple hundred pounds of injured turian dead weight for over a mile. I didn't have to see the haunted look in Shepard's eyes as she basically camped out between the med bay and the mess hall, refusing to go too far from her injured friend.
I especially didn't think about the worrying message I'd received about Oriana this morning. It wasn't serious at the moment; the warning flags could be nothing. Only the nagging worry wouldn't go away, and my mind churned with the things I would have to take care of if her security actually was compromised. I'd have to move her, uproot her family, and damn my father for ruining everything.
Sitting on this darkened balcony of the Citadel, I was given a moment's reprieve. The commander was safely far away at the hospital, and I hadn't left a location for anyone to find me. The tracking was off on my omni, though the Normandy could still call in case of an emergency. Barring that, I had declared myself off duty. To sit here. And watch people walk by. And nothing else.
"If I'd wanted to be bothered, I would have told you where I was going," I said with a disgruntled sigh when I heard the familiar, measured steps sound behind me.
I didn't even bother to turn to confirm the identity of my visitor. The heat of her was so very there next to me that it was impossible to mistake her. I shifted uncomfortably.
I reached across the small table and turned the extra wine glass over, a gesture that Shepard understood to mean 'sit down.' It was a relief for her to move away from me but, at the same time, a disappointment, and I hated the rainbow of emotions that tittered and roared within me.
"I suppose it's my fault for not directly ordering EDI to withhold my location. No doubt she helped you," I muttered. Shepard gave an ambiguous shrug and set an unmarked box on the ground before she lowered herself into the chair. I bit my lip and managed to keep from asking what was in it. It was probably some new armor piece or gun mod, something completely necessary. Shepard wouldn't overspend so quickly after the last incident. I forced myself not to check the mission accounts on my omni-tool, instead forcing my eyes to stay on Shepard.
For once, Shepard was wearing normal clothes, not armor or a uniform. She had on straight cut jeans and sneakers that I had never seen before. Her auburn tresses were hanging loose and messy around her small, angular face. It was all very low class for an establishment like this, but Shepard hardly seemed to notice, her eyes not even meeting mine. Worn underneath her usual N7 jacket, I noticed, was a spare blouse of mine, gone missing from my drawers almost a week ago: the latest in a long list of personal items to disappear from my room. When was she even finding the time to steal my belongings?
I frowned, but said nothing. Shepard did these things in a childish attempt to irritate me, and any complaint only seemed to egg her on. More importantly, I focused on my irritation in order to furiously beat back the flush of heat that settled low in my stomach and closed my throat when I thought about Shepard wearing my clothes.
Luckily Shepard hadn't noticed my staring—which had, in fact, been happening for at least a full minute—while she did nothing but fidget with the stem of her now full wine glass. I cocked an eyebrow. Shepard wasn't one for fidgeting.
"Shepard," I said lowly but sternly as I prompted, "You must be here for a reason."
"I needed to speak with you," Shepard gritted out, still looking disgruntled to be here.
"Surely, you'd rather be at the hospital waiting for Garrus," I said, sipping my wine gently.
"Yeah, I was, but they said he'd have a few hours before he woke up. And this is important," Shepard said, finally meeting my eyes. I sat back in my chair and waited for the rest. "I came to apologize," Shepard admitted.
I almost choked on my wine.
"Look, I've worked with a questionably-sane krogan mercenary, I'm close friends with a turian who has a very loose interpretation of galactic law, and I even allowed the daughter of my enemy to join my crew. And now? I've recruited a mad scientist salarian and a tank bred krogan, and we'll soon be going to get an actual convict locked up on an actual prison ship," Shepard launched into a speech that sounded mildly rehearsed.
"I'm familiar with the dossiers. Are you going somewhere with this?" I cut in, and Shepard scowled.
"My point is that you barely rank when it comes to some of the things my other crew members have done," Shepard explained, and I bristled at the implication.
"I wouldn't underestimate me," I snapped, and Shepard rolled her eyes with a huff.
"What I mean is that, besides being part of a horrible organization—"
"An organization that brought you back to life," I corrected.
"Let me finish!" Shepard barked, and I acquiesced by drinking from my wine again instead of talking. "Like I said, besides being part of Cerberus, you personally haven't given me a reason to distrust you. And I have treated you unfairly, despite your proving time and again that you are an asset to the team. If I had realized this sooner, I would've placed you appropriately on the field, and Garrus wouldn't be in the hospital right now."
Her words were stiff and awkward, like they tasted bad coming out of her mouth, but, still, she said them. Her mouth puckered comically with her distaste, and, if it weren't such a delicate moment, I might have laughed.
"I just...needed to thank you," Shepard confessed quietly. "Chakwas said that if you hadn't traiged Garrus in the field, he never would have survived."
"I'm sure I only bought him minutes, at best. Chakwas did all the work; I know very little of turian physiology," I contended.
"And then you carried him. Garrus is so much larger than either of us; I'm not really sure how you managed on your own," Shepard tried to continue her apology, and my mind flashed to the excruciating minutes of maneuvering with Garrus slumped along my shoulders. Blue blood had dripped to the ground behind us, trailing down my back and my arms. I had been tired and uncomfortable. And Garrus was heavy. I decided not to tell Shepard I had almost dropped him at one point.
"I used my biotics to help," I answered. "Look, it was nothing. I was just doing-"
"Don't," Shepard warned in a low growl. "Don't say that, and stop treating this like it meant nothing. It was everything. You saved him. And then didn't even protest the detour to get him to the Citadel."
I looked at her in astonishment.
"You thought I would argue to let him die?" I demanded. "Surely even you don't think that little of me."
"I don't know," Shepard said, shaking her head. "Garrus might have argued. It's all about the greater good with him. These extra days on the Citadel could be days where the Collectors attack another colony while our backs are turned."
"Or they could attack a colony anyway," I pointed out. "It's not like we know where they're coming from yet. And Mordin still needs time to protect us against the Collectors' swarms."
"Still. I needed to say thank you," Shepard said, and, for just a moment, I saw a glimpse of a different Shepard. She was warm. She was gentle. And she was looking at me like...No, stop, I wanted to tell her. Don't.
But then the look was gone, hidden back behind Shepard's careful walls. Though, those walls might not have been as high as they used to be.
"I think we should...restart. Or something. A blank slate," Shepard pressed on, face deliberately closed off. "We're a team, and it's time that we acted like it."
The warmth that had sprung from Shepard's gratitude was trampled easily under my pride as it stirred slightly in my chest, an easily awoken animal that resented the insinuation that this was somehow my fault as well. I reigned myself in, but still the feeling sat deep and rankled.
"What exactly does that mean?" I asked cooly.
"No more secrets. We get everything out in the open, and then stop lying to each other," Shepard proposed, meeting my eyes earnestly.
"You mean I stop lying to you," I snapped. It came out harsher than I intended. I closed my eyes briefly and took a breath before continuing, "It's not like you have anything I don't know already."
Shepard's eyes blazed at my small outburst, but she showed nothing else besides a slight thinning of her lips. We both had too much pride for our own good.
"I want to trust you, Lawson," Shepard said softly, but, for all her words, the fact that she still used only my last name spoke volumes. "We don't have to hate each other."
"You seem to be speaking for us quite a bit," I disagreed. "I have never hated you."
That horrifyingly soft look blinked across Shepard's eyes again as she looked at me in genuine surprise, like that was the last thing she expected me to say. Her brows pulled down in consternation as she searched my face, and suddenly I found myself feeling raw and open, vulnerable. I hated the way her eyes seemed to cut through me, and I quickly looked away. Then I hated myself for looking away: never, ever break eye contact during an argument.
"There are some things I'm not authorized to tell you," I pointed out, drawing Shepard's attention back to our discussion.
"Has authorization ever really stopped you?" Shepard asked, and I clenched my jaw as I regarded her.
"Fine," I said, the word clipped and short. "What do you want to know?"
Shepard's lips twitched into something like a pained smile. Maybe she caught that I was careful to promise nothing, careful not to say I wouldn't lie. That didn't mean I wasn't going to try. There was a small list of things that I really couldn't tell her. Barring her asking about those directly, I didn't see why I couldn't fill her in on anything she wanted to know.
"Have you been blocking my correspondence?" Shepard prompted, and I barely restrained my exasperated sigh. Of course she would start with that. Don't choose something easy, Shepard.
"Yes," I answered.
Shepard growled in irritation. "You're not a genie where I have to be specific with my requests. Yes or no is not going to cut it."
"Did I not answer the question? How much more do you want?" I demanded cheekily.
"Funny, here I thought you might participate without making this difficult. My mistake," Shepard grunted.
I sighed in defeat. I'd be damned before I let Shepard turn this into my fault. "You've actually received most of it by now. I started letting the harmless ones through—against orders, I might add," I admitted. After Garrus guessed what was going on, I mentally added. She doesn't really need all the details, right?
"And the 'harmful' ones? You still have some of them?" Shepard asked, and I nodded. She took in a breath before asking shakily, "From Liara?"
I nodded slowly, feeling my face pinch up in anticipation.
"You've read them," she stated, not even bothering to phrase it as a question. "Where is she?"
"Illium," I said quickly.
"Illium," Shepard repeated, voice twisting slightly in disgust. "Damn it; Aria mentioned...what was she talking about? What has Liara gotten herself into?"
"Liara didn't exactly choose a holiday resort. Most dealings on Illium tend to be distasteful," I warned. "Nothing I've heard has been good. She's begun working as an information broker, though doing quite well, I'll add. Likely, that would've been the end of it, but Liara has developed an unhealthy interest in the Shadow Broker."
I tried to keep contained the shudder of disgust and anxiety that mentioning the Broker caused me. I must not have been very successful because Shepard fixed me with a strange look. I held my breath in worry as Shepard kept her eyes on me.
No doubt she was thinking of her next question, and there were a number of things that I didn't relish explaining. For example, why Liara happened to be going after the Shadow Broker. Shepard fiddled with the cuffs of her jacket with a look that bordered between longing and anger, and I was so sure her next question was going to be the exact question I didn't want to answer.
"Anyone else?" Shepard asked.
All of my explanations dried up in my throat, and I let out an awkward coughing noise as I tried to change tracks.
"You don't-?" I tried to ask, but Shepard cut in quickly.
"I don't want to know," Shepard said sharply. "It hurts less...just—I don't want to know. Don't even send the letters on. It won't change anything."
"But-," I tried, but her look cut me off instantly. "Alright, the second letter is from your mother. Would you-?"
Shepard stopped me again.
"You can keep that one, too," she said harshly. "Let me guess: was it about the money?"
"I'm sorry? What money?" I asked in confusion.
"So, not that then, at least. Anderson managed to get most of my money sent back to me. The paperwork finally cleared," Shepard explained. I caught her eyes flicker briefly towards the package sitting at her feet. "Considering that the money had been sent to my closest living relative, my mother, I would've thought she'd be trying to get it back."
I tried to keep my poker face, but apparently not well enough because within seconds Shepard was adding sarcastically, "Don't worry, Lawson. Next time I overspend, it won't have to come out of the mission money."
If I were someone else, I might've giggled at her joke. Instead, a smile snuck its way past my guard and onto my face, and, surprisingly, Shepard tentatively returned it. I fought to hide the hitch in my breathing.
I broke eye contact first.
"So, I'll, ah, keep those tucked away for you. In case you change your mind," I stated, folding my hands in front of me in an attempt to look more put together than I felt.
"Wait, did you say 'second letter' earlier? As in, they both only sent me one message? It's been over a month," Shepard burst out, frowning.
Shepard didn't even really need my answer. Her face was growing harder by the second as her mouth twisted in an angry grimace, and her jaw jutted out stubbornly. Yet, for all the anger that her face showed, I didn't think I'd ever seen Shepard look so openly devastated. And as one of her fists balled up in the extra material of her jacket pocket, something finally clicked into place for me.
I realized what Shepard had meant by calling herself an orphan that morning when we were in her cabin. She had just never been wanted. She was an orphan whose mother happened to still be alive, a mother who thought one message was enough when her only daughter had been miraculously brought back to life.
And there, there was a face I intimately recognized, the one that had seemed perpetually etched onto mine throughout my childhood. It was a look I left behind when I left Father and promised myself that he would never have that kind of power over me again.
Shepard's situation may not have been exactly the same, but they were dangerously similar. Shepard's mother never wanted a daughter, and Father never truly wanted a daughter either. I was a legacy, a thing to be replaced when I eventually didn't live up to his standards. Father wanted his genetic copy, modified to be obediently perfect. Perfection to him sat quietly by the window while everyone her age played joyfully outside. Perfection to him trained eight hours or more a day to be everything that he wanted. Perfection to him pretended, even in the little things, to be perfect. Perhaps it would have been better to be ignored completely by my parent, like Shepard, than have only the things that made me an actual person be willfully overlooked. Or maybe, I thought looking at Shepard, they are both bloody horrible.
Yet, somewhere with that revelation, one of my careful walls faltered, and my heart gave a painful squeeze of sympathy. Before I thought better of it, I reached to cover Shepard's hand with my own on the table, but she had already wrenched her hand back quickly like she'd been burned. My hand was left hovering awkwardly in the center of the table, and I hurriedly slid it back in my lap, careful to keep my face blank so Shepard wouldn't see the hurt ripple across it.
"You forgot about the letter you kept from Ashley," Shepard finally said, breaking the silence.
"I was going to bring it up next," I said defensively. I wasn't; I'd completely forgotten about that one. Does that count against the no lying rule? Bloody hell. "How did you know?"
"Garrus mentioned that he ran into Ashley on the Citadel. According to her, she sent me a message trying to meet up. A message I conveniently never received," Shepard said pointedly.
"That...is accurate," I admitted, grimacing slightly. "I was—and still am, for that matter—under orders to keep you from any distractions."
"And you always do what you're told, is that right?" Shepard challenged.
The anger in my chest positively burned at her accusation. I was not some lackey to be ordered about.
"Of course not," I snapped. "But I agreed with the order. You have to admit: you would have gone shooting off into the horizon at the first hint of getting one of your old crew back."
"That might explain Liara, but Ashley came to me. Why keep me away from her? She'd never leave the Alliance to join me, but it would've been nice to simply talk to her!" Shepard exclaimed. "Garrus said she was planning on meeting me after the Council meeting. When Ash didn't show, he told me about her plan. I looked for her all over the place, damn it. And you...you just walked off and said nothing."
"I was doing my job. You can't fault me for that," I demanded. Shepard's eyes narrowed.
"What exactly did you do to her?" Shepard interrogated, and I let out a harsh bark of laughter.
"I intervened," I replied smoothly. "Don't worry, Shepard. I manage problems with tactics other than just shooting them."
Shepard caught the barb immediately and managed to make rolling her eyes seem hostile, but her reply was slow in coming. The silence stretched as her fingers played with the condensation collected on her water glass. She now seemed at a loss for questions.
My heart beat sped up in the silence because I knew, knew that now was the time if I was going to tell her about Elise. I could tell her exactly why I made sure Ashley was gone as soon as I knew the extent of her knowledge on the subject. Because, as it turns out, Ashley had been telling the truth. I'd done my own research, looking through Cerberus data, and anytime I typed in 'Elise Nissa,' the files were blocked. That had been the worst part. I had hoped my research would turn up nothing, but instead I was saddled with even more questions. However, there was one thing I could be certain of: Elise had been employed by Cerberus.
If I told Shepard now, I would have to watch as the betrayal sank into her, a feeling I'd imagine she'd had too much practice learning to shoulder, but at least she would know the truth. It was her right to know. And, yet, just like Shepard asked me to keep her letters from her, I knew it would be easier for her to remain ignorant. Then my window of opportunity was rushing closed as Shepard fidgeted in place and started to reach for the box she'd brought in with her.
"Was there nothing else you wanted to know?" I asked quickly, buying more time to decide.
Shepard watched me levelly, hands paused mid-reach.
"There was nothing else that I could think of that you might be keeping from me. I'm not interested in company secrets, just as they pertain to me. I'd ask more about the Lazarus project, but I doubt I'd understand half of what you were talking about," Shepard informed me cooly. "But you would tell me if there was something I needed to know."
The last part was said half like a question, half like a challenge, and my face froze. Tell or don't tell? Is it truly lying to withhold information out of compassion? But it's not my right to decide for her. I'm going to tell her.
I opened my mouth to do just that, but what came out instead was, "Of course, Shepard."
Bloody hell.
Shepard gave a small nod, and then fully reached down to grab the box and put it up on the table. It was a plain box and rather large, but I could see nothing about it that might tell me what was inside it. However, Shepard was already pushing it over to me.
"A gift for you," Shepard said needlessly.
In a loss for words, I just nodded numbly as I pulled open the tabs to the box. Inside was something very sleek and very black, and, as I pulled a piece out and into the light, I realized it was a brand new hardsuit.
The section I held was part of the torso, similar to Shepard's but with more mesh for extra movement. I couldn't help but reach in again and again to take out each piece and lay it in front of me. Every part of the armor felt like a feather compared to the armor I had been wearing on Korlus, yet I could see that it would still provide full environmental seals and medical support.
It was gorgeous, elegantly designed from the top all the way down to the matching, reinforced boots. And on the left side of the chest, where the Cerberus logo belonged on every other uniform I owned, there was a small stylized version of my initials, ML. I touched it and felt trapped in an ocean of emotions I didn't even want to try and identify.
I saw the manufacturer's label and gasped. This had not come cheaply.
"You need actual armor. To be honest, with the amount of money Cerberus seems to have, I'm surprised you don't have something already. Well, besides that monster piece of Cerberus armor that was already on the ship," Shepard continued.
"Lazarus Cell wasn't originally a combat cell," I rasped out. My throat was curiously tight, and I coughed to try and get rid of it. "With the quick exit from the station, much was left behind. I hadn't thought to try and requisition…" I trailed off, trying to get a hold of myself.
"This is custom work," I said slowly, staring at the armguard that easily clipped around my forearm like a second skin. "How did you..?"
"Easy. I took scans of you, and uploaded them for the armorer," Shepard related, like it was the simplest thing in the world to get full body scans of someone without their noticing. "I used a cash advance from Anderson and ordered it the first time we stopped on the Citadel. Gave a little extra for the rush job."
"Our first stop on the Citadel?" I confirmed in disbelief. "You hated me then, Shepard."
"Maybe," she acknowledged, "but that doesn't mean that I wanted you dead." I tried not to read into her use of the past tense, that she didn't correct herself and say that she still hated me now.
Shepard shrugged, and then continued seriously, "Look, Lawson, this doesn't mean I like you, and it doesn't make us friends. Let's just call it a peace offering at best."
I traced a finger along the lines of my new armor in appreciation and looked up to see Shepard watching my movements intently. Her eyes burned into me, and still that tightness in my throat was not going away. I wanted her to know how much it meant, that she thought of this, that she cared even an ounce about my wellbeing when everything else she'd done indicated otherwise. But the words weren't coming, and I found myself nodding slowly instead.
XXX
Our conversation had ended quickly after that. Shepard left to go and check on Garrus in the hospital while I stayed a bit longer to finish my wine before making my way back to the Normandy. I stored my new armor and brushed my hands along the pieces once more in wonder. From there, it was comforting to fall back into my usual night routine: make-up off, shower, brush teeth, robe. After a quick check of my computer, I happily tucked myself into my waiting bed with a sigh of contentment.
It was strange: this feeling sitting heavy on my chest as I snuggled into my blankets. I could honestly say that Shepard's offer of peace brought me an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. It's not like I actually did much to earn it, but it was something more than I'd ever imagined a month ago.
And, yet, here I was setting myself to screw everything up. Shepard was finally transitioning to tolerating me, and I'd been given the perfect opportunity to reveal what I knew about Elise with the minimal amount of fallout. But I'd faltered. Now, whatever trust she builds with me would be like building on sand: I'll forever be waiting for when it washes out from underneath us.
I rolled over and willed myself to sleep, but I needn't have bothered. I could only have been asleep for a few hours when I was woken again by a harsh knock sounding at my door. A hushed voice spoke right on the other side, followed by a much louder and much clearer one.
"Don't worry; I have authorization," I heard Shepard murmur.
Disoriented, I barely scrambled out of the bed and into my robe before the door opened, flooding the room with the harsh lights. Shepard's darkened figure slumped against the door frame while a crew member kept a hand at her elbow.
"What in the world is going on here?" I rasped out drowsily.
"I apologize, Miss Lawson. I ran into the commander a few minutes ago, and she was very insistent that she come see you," the crewman explained. I recognized him immediately as Crewman Mills, one of the few whose rank allowed him on the second deck with the CIC.
"I don't understand. You said you were staying with Garrus in the hospital tonight," I said, directing the unspoken question at Shepard.
"She said…" Redmond Mills started to answer for Shepard, but he quickly found a clumsy palm clasped over his mouth.
"Shh," Shepard hissed at him, not moving her hand. "I can speak for myself. They kicked me out of Garrus' room. Said that visiting hours were over and only blood relatives could stay. I tried to convince them that I was his sister, but they didn't believe me."
I squinted at her, trying in vain to see her face with the light shining behind her head. There was something off, but I couldn't place it with my brain still only at half speed from my rude awakening. The lights in my cabin were finally waking up with the movement in the room, though, and I could then see a glassy eyed Shepard making her way towards me on unsteady feet. It was eerily like the start of all the dreams I steadily denied having every night, right up until she smacked into me with a soft 'oof.'
"You're drunk," I realized as the smell of her crashed over me. What a nightmare.
"Of course I'm drunk. I almost killed my best friend," Shepard slurred into my shoulder. She was draped heavily on me, her arms wrapped around me in what could only be described as a very tight hug.
I looked over at Crewman Mills in a panic. "Did anyone else see her like this?"
"No," he reassured me. "She seemed normal, right up until she disappeared into the lab and tried to get to the third deck through the engineering ducts instead of the elevator. I went to investigate when I heard her fall, and, since we're on skeleton shifts with the Normandy docked, there was no one else around to see her."
"I couldn't take the elevator," Shepard defended. Then she was nuzzling her face into the side of my neck, and oh. I attempted to break out of her embrace, but she was surprisingly strong in her state and not letting me go. "Miranda would have seen me if I'd taken the elevator."
I rolled my eyes at her drunken logic and snarked needlessly, "Yes, I definitely would have seen you through my closed door and closed eyelids."
"C'mon." I motioned at Mills to join me. "Let's get her up to her cabin."
"I doubt…" the crewman tried to say, but was cut off by an angry Shepard again.
"I'm not going up to my cabin," she disagreed vehemently.
"...she'll be willing to go," Mills finished apologetically, running his fingers anxiously through his greying hair. "She was determined to come here instead."
I sighed impatiently, finally wrapping an arm around Shepard's back to distribute her weight better. I eyed the crewman warily over Shepard's shoulder; I wasn't sure I liked how he was looking at the two of us.
"You smell so nice," Shepard sighed into my hair, and I could feel the flush creep all the way down to my collarbone.
"I will take care of this," I determined, dismissing Mills with a motion to the door before calling him back. "Mills, I trust you realize this is not something the rest of the crew should know?"
I merely meant Shepard's drunkenness—it wasn't exactly the kind of behavior I wanted the crew to know about—but then Mills got that look on his face when he nodded in agreement. I looked at the position I was in and then back at him and realized the double meaning that could be read into my request. And I should have called him back, corrected him, but he was already gone quickly from the room and towards the elevator. Damn it.
"Shepard, you should go to your own bed. You'll be much more comfortable," I reasoned, but Shepard shook her head 'no' into my shoulder. Hours ago she flinched before I even touched her," I thought dryly, and now she won't let me go. The irony.
"I don't want to sleep in that big room alone," Shepard confessed.
At that, the stupid squeeze of sympathy was back, so much so that I found myself leading the drunk commander over to my bed. With my arm wrapped around her lower back, I sat her down gently and pulled off her sneakers before tucking her firmly under the covers. Bloodshot emerald eyes blinked at me, struggling under the weight of their eyelids until they finally fluttered shut, and Shepard gave a sigh of contentment.
It was like the days had rolled backwards and we were once again on Lazarus station with the commander lying prone in front of me. I'd almost forgotten how very young she could look, how small. Yet, now there was a new little scar above her left eyebrow, and Shepard scrunched her mouth up slightly and twitched with her dreams instead of lying passively. Also, she was on my pillow. That was new.
But old habits die hard. So, I did what I had always done back then: run one last scan with my omni and softly brush her unruly hair out of her face.
Then I grabbed my spare pillow and a blanket from the closet and made myself comfortable on the couch, breathing out a huff of anxiety into the fresh pillow case. Shepard is in my room. Shepard is in my room, and she's going to wake up tomorrow and freak out. What if this breaks whatever small peace we gained today?
I tossed on the couch, which, though aesthetically pleasing, was rather uncomfortable. The leather stuck to my skin, so I scrambled up for some sweatpants and a shirt before lying back down. It wasn't helping much.
Shepard gave a whimper in her sleep, and I turned my back to her, trying to ignore. The room felt suddenly very small, like I could hear even the twitch of Shepard's fingers wrapped around the pillow case. When the whimper came again, it rang in my ears like a siren instead of the soft sigh it really was.
Shepard moaned a third time, and I was up like a shot. I perched carefully on the edge of the bed and reached out a tentative hand, afraid. I wondered what horror was stalking her dreams, if it was the same worries that plagued her waking hours as well. I stroked Shepard's hair, and she stilled.
"What happened with Garrus, it wasn't all your fault, Shepard," I whispered. Still, her hands clenched white against the covers. I gently pulled at her fingers until they released, rubbing at her knuckles tenderly. I remembered what Shepard had said, that night when she confessed her nightmares to Garrus over pancakes. So I whispered the words again, the ones from when she'd first woken up: "Shepard, you're okay. I'm here."
I didn't hear another sound from her for the rest of the night.
Apologies for the break there. I have no excuses besides being a slow writer, discovering the wonder that is Witcher 3, and hating to write action scenes. On that note, how are the action scenes turning out? Because they're my least favorite to write, I always worry that they aren't very good. Constructive criticism on that point would be very much appreciated.
As always, thank to everyone for all the encouragement you guys give me in the form of fav's, follows, and reviews. Of course, big thanks also goes to AblatedCrayon for being such a wonderful beta reader and dealing with all of my nonsense.