Chapter Sixteen

Shepard walks into the bar, his head in a daze, and then takes a look around and instantly reverses his trajectory. He backpedals, trying for a tricky mix of stealth and speed, but it's too late.

"Commander!"

Shepard groans inwardly, but stops his cowardly attempted escape. He attempts a surprised grin and achieves a weary grimace. "Miranda. I see everyone's enjoying themselves. That's... good."

Miranda strides towards him through the throng of happily drunk people, dark hair flowing behind her like the war-banner of an invading army. Shepard draws in a breath through his nose, forcing the travesty of a smile on his lips to look happy to see her. It's not that he doesn't like Miranda, but this part is... awkward. It never gets any easier. Why, he wonders, do I have to be so damn attractive to the kind of women who won't take no for an answer?

"Yes, in your absence I gave them permission to become thoroughly intoxicated," says Miranda. She's very close now, and Shepard's augmented sense of smell detects a faint cloud of perfume over the tang of nervous sweat. "I trust your meeting with the Counselor went well?"

"Well enough," says Shepard, remembering the whistle of the bullet passing by his head. "I'll brief the team later. I need to sit down first, get a hold on events. You'll hear it all soon enough, trust me."

"Of course." Miranda's usually authoritative tones falter a little, hesitant. "Shepard, you have seemed a little tense lately. I hope it wouldn't be unprofessional for an officer to buy her commander a drink, would it?"

Do it like a man, dammit. You know she deserves it. "I don't drink," says Shepard. "But I do think we should talk, Miranda. Please sit with me for a moment."

Shepard turns away from Miranda's questioning eyes, leads her to the bar. They settle into two empty stools, Miranda siting rigid and poised. Shepard waves the barman away and looks into Miranda's smoky brown eyes. In that moment he sees through the crisp, slightly arrogant military officer to the woman beneath, unsure, nervous. He takes a deep breath.

"Miranda, it seems to me that you have feelings for me. And if I am mistaken, please accept my apologies, but if I am not, then it would be cruel and unprofessional of me not to tell you that I cannot reciprocate them." He pauses, and his eyes want to tear away, but he keeps them fixed on hers and pushes on. "It is not because of you. I value you greatly as a friend, and as an officer. I'm gay, Miranda. I'm sorry I did not tell you sooner."

Miranda holds his gaze for a second as her eyes widen, then she looks down. "Thank you, Shepard," she says finally. Her voice hardens almost imperceptibly, as she seems to draw back into herself, and looks back up at him. "I apologize for my inappropriate conduct."

Shepard shakes his head. "No, Miranda, the fault is mine. You have nothing to be sorry for."

She nods, then stands up a little too quickly. "Very well. I think I will go back to the Normandy now. I have work that needs catching up on."

Shepard watches her go as the party churns on, happy and vulgar and oblivious to the dark-haired woman with her arms drawn in and her head bowed, walking quickly away into the gathering darkness. He sighs, lets out a long, slow curse. The lights of the dance floor sear his eyes and the throbbing, senseless music mocks his heart beat and he feels his legs pick himself up and carry him to an empty table in a shadowed corner of the room.

He falls into the new chair and his head falls into his hands, and those collapse too and he's leaning against an arm, barely holding on to the table at all as the events of the day surge around him. The assassin. The fight in the wards. Anderson's office. The failed mission, the trap. Too many pieces, too many edges that don't line up.

And what of the Batarians that had attacked the team, brought down the shuttle and nearly killed them all? The data Legion brought back was encrypted. EDI is working on it, but for all Shepard knows it could have self destructed, or be entirely meaningless. He remembers the trapped soldier, the anger and fear in his eyes, the crash of the gun as it threw the Batarian's head in tiny pieces all over the console. That took a lot of dedication to a cause, but what cause? At least he could rule out pirates or mercenaries. Groups like the Blue suns had never commanded that kind of loyalty.

Batarians. How did they connect to the attempted assassination on the Citadel? Shepard tries to force the pieces together, but they just don't fit. He shifts gears, moves on to the incident with the Asari. That itself didn't make sense. First of all, why such an awkward method, with the killer disguised as the waitress? Why go as far as to draw fake markings on her face when putting poison in his drink would have been so much easier? The whole thing was sloppy, any trained killer would have realized it had practically no chance of success. Unless they didn't want it to work... But that didn't make any sense either. Whoever had been responsible for the attack in the Shrike abyssal had clearly intended him to die, and done a thorough job of it, too. He couldn't dismiss it as a coincidence though; It was just too much to believe, that it had happened right when he had been on the verge of discovery and it had been a coincidence.

So someone wanted him dead. Someone had broken into Anderson's office, and staged a fight outside to cover their tracks. Talek said he saw Udina…

Could Udina really want him dead? Shepard conceded that the man would definitely be happier with him gone, but would he really resort to murder? He might have a motivation. Udina had never liked Shepard, and Shepard and Anderson had invaded his office two years ago, to steal the codes to the Normandy. Shepard had proved a thorn in his side at every turn, now that he came to think of it. It wasn't because I wanted to be, though. He was a bureaucrat, too concerned with his petty power plays to listen to sense. Another thought floats into his mind. He could have been counselor, but I picked Anderson…

Udina never agreed with the way Shepard ran rashly into things, either. Was it possible he would think the human race would be better off in the galaxy with him gone? Possible. Likely? Shepard doesn't know. Sly, underhand dealings are certainly Udina's style. Not only that, but as Anderson's assistant he would have had ample opportunity to copy a set of door keys. And if he was noticed, he could always mutter something about bringing something up from the counselor's old office for him. But then why wouldn't he have used the terminal in Anderson's new office? The old office would have been empty and secluded. Shepard supposes it would appeal to a paranoid nature like Udina's.

Shepard feels himself slipping, and wonders when the last time is he slept, truly slept, not briefly napped or been knocked unconscious. Sleep induced by collision with flying shuttles or Garrus's fist was, surprisingly enough, not too restful.

He tries to push away the muddled confusion of the mystery at hand, but that's no good because as soon as his mind's empty it fills with thoughts of his recurring dreams, and that's worse. The darkness seems to fuzz up and draw around him like static, and his thoughts flicker like a bad transmission. He is suddenly incredible thirsty, and he feels his legs move him again, and he lets them.

…

Garrus wakes to the pulsing hum of the engine core, and a softer beat, closer to him. He opens his eyes muzzily, and his heart fills with joy all over again. He had always thought that a fanciful expression, but he truly feels as if his heart is expanding, filling him with a sweet sort of pain. He closes his eyes again. Tali shifts in his arms, murmuring in her sleep. The steel wall of the engineering room presses uncomfortably against his back, but warmth of Tali's body, even through her suit, is more than enough to make him forget about it.

He nuzzles gently against her neck, breathing in her scent as best he can despite the layers of protective fabric. It must be morning by now, in so much as it matters on a ship. Still, the Normandy runs on Citadel time, and by his reckoning it must be two or three in the morning. He had nearly forgotten the way time blends and loses its meaning like this.

They had talked. Talked about things that were important, and things that did not seem so important now. The words had probably not even mattered then; Words were an unwieldy tool to describe the huge breadth of emotion they had shared that night. They had fallen asleep together, out of a mutual unwillingness to part for even a moment, an unspoken fear that they might be pulled away from each other again.

Garrus sees her now, so peaceful in his arms, and he smiles, and he knows that was a foolish fear. Nothing can part them now. The force of a thousand universes would not be enough. He runs a hand lightly along her forearm, the last two years already fading into a kind of bad dream in the back of his mind. He feels himself drifting off again, warm and safe and whole once more.

…

Shepard sets down the glass and stares into the table. The brushed metal fails to offer up its secrets, so he grunts and takes another swig. The drink burns his throat, warms his stomach, and throws his internal antenna a little further out of alignment. That's was what it is, isn't it? A bad fucking tv show, and what the hell is it all about, anyway? None of it makes any sense and right now Shepard doesn't care. When has it, any of it, ever made any sense? Did it make any sense when Sam died? Was that a logical plot development? Shepard drains the glass, gestures for another.

Bloody Udina and bloody Talek and the bloody, bloody world. Universe. World. He hiccups and glares at the table. Where the fuck did he get off anyway, the sergeant with his eager, earnest enthusiasm and his ever-so-shiny buttons. "Goddamn prick," mutters Shepard, still staring angrily at the counter top. Udina, too. Conniving bastard. He never should have trusted him. Never trusted him. Never should have…

He reaches for the glass, tries again, almost knocks it over, picks it up and swallows half the liquid in one go. The fire intensifies in his belly, then ebbs off into the dull roll he's been feeling for the past couple of hours, like the roll of a ship at sea. Fucker. It was a fucker. All of it, he didn't care. It can all go to hell. The damn universe can figure its own damn self out for once.

The table top swims before his eyes and all of a sudden it's very close, hitting him in the face in fact, when did that happen? He blinks, going cross eyed as he tries to focus on the counter pressing against his forehead. Better this way. Something solid. Everything was moving too damn much anyway.

…

Legion's feet make a little clacking sound as they settle onto the deck. It waits patiently for the airlock to open, then stalks out into the Citadel's artificial night. Someone had decided somewhere along the line that it would make sense to dim the lights every half a day cycle on the giant space city, saving power and preventing organics from going insane in endless daylight. As it is, the darkness is far from complete. The low-level gloom is broken by evenly spaced lights mounted in the wall, dim yellow orbs casting dirty halos over the scene.

Legion steps hesitantly forward. There wasn't really a plan so much as an undeniable need to find Shepard. Somehow the man was the key, the beacon that would guide Legion through its inner storm. Find Shepard. Everything will be alright.

Laughter bounces down the hall, followed by two figures supporting a third between them. Legion waits, and Yeoman Chambers and Jack come into view, half-carrying Joker between them. Legion's plates raise in concerned inquisition. "Is Mister Moroe hurt, Yeoman Chambers?"

Kelly stares at Legion for a moment, then her eyes seem to focus. "What? Oh, nahh, he's fine."

"He'll have a helluva headache tomorrow morning," snorts Jack. "I've never seen a Human beat a Krogan in a drinking contest before."

Drinking alcohol. A bar. A place of social interaction. Likely that Shepard was there. "Are we correct in assuming you came from a bar?" asks Legion.

Jack squints at the geth. "Probably. Why do you care?"

"We are looking for Shepard-commander. Was he there?"

"No, I don't think so," says Kelly. "He doesn't drink. What're you looking for him for anyway? He'll show up." She giggles, tickling the pilot's nose. He smiles benignly at her. "It's not like we're going to fly his ship away without him!"

Legion's plates arch in perplexity. Why do they willingly do this to themselves? What is the purpose of damaging one's mental faculties with fermented liquids? It doesn't ask though; Such a ridiculous question must have an incredibly obvious answer, and Legion feels rather silly for not being able to think of it.

Instead, it turns away from the intoxicated creatures and strides down the corridor. The hallway winds and bends, filled at times with clots of party-goers. They shrink back, chatter turning to hushed whispers as Legion passes. It comes to the top of a flight of stairs, registers the pulsating orange logo above the open doorway. Inside the club organics mill around like insects within a hive, ebbing and flowing to the pounding of incomprehensible, bass-heavy music blasting from unseen speakers.

Legion fights back a wave of distaste, body heat and sweat and adrenaline forming a miasma of almost aggressive organicness. It steps one foot over the threshold, pauses. Despite what Yeoman Chambers said, Legion has to start looking in here. It doesn't know where else to find Shepard, or where else to start. Find Shepard. A clear enough directive. It steps into the club.

…

Shepard lies with his head resting against his arm. The music and the shouting of the crowd and his own heartbeat mix together to form a pulsing, sickening lurch driving through his body. All the alcohol seems to do is turn up the distortion.

As if I need any help to be fucked up, he thinks. His mind, mooring line cut, drifts freely without anchor. Complete fuckup. What amIgoingtodo about. Udina? Shit. Do nothing. Why not? Whatyou're. Best at. Sam. Didn't do anything then, did you? Didn't do. And now he's gone. Gone. Didn't do. Fuckup. What you're best at. Fucking everything up. Could've. Could've. Could've done. Gone. And you'll never know if he if he if he he loved you. Never even know if he even could if he even. Now he's gone.

Congradu. Lations. Could have at least told him. Gonna wait till after Akuze, gonna be fucking heroes. Gonna ride off into the fucking sunset. How hard would it have been? Sam I l-. I l-. I l-I'm-I l-.

The words stick in his head the same way they stuck in his throat the night he and Sam lay together on the hillside, looking up at the stars. The uncertainty holds him just as still as it had then, and he suddenly fills with rage.

How do you know HOW DO YOU FUCKING KNOW you loved him. You don't know SHIT. What do you know about love…

And then the anger drains out of him, and his head flops back to the table. You really mess everything up, you know? I really hate you sometimes. All the time. Sometimes. Just. Just. Just, nice job. Nice job with everything. Can't even do a shingle ting a single thing shingle... Can't even do one thing right. Can't even be sure of anything, even once.

…

Legion pushes through the press of bodies, which don't seem to notice the geth in their presence. It catches a glimpse of a slumped figure at a table far in the corner of the room, instantly familiar. Legion pushes harder.

…

Shepard's mind spins, the sea of his thoughts now a frightful hurricane of memories on which he bobs without tether. This stuff with Udina, just another fuckup in a long line of fuckups. It should have been obvious, just like everything else. The sea of wrongness and failure presses in like the sea on dam walls, creaking, threatening to break. He needs something solid, something right, something to anchor himself to. Something to hold on to, someone to hold him or he knows he will drift away. With the last twitch of life in his muddied consciousness, Shepard raises his head and opens bleary eyes. The edges of his vision blur, and he blinks, and suddenly before him, haloed by the dust and the falling light appears a visage with a single eye, faceplates turned out in an expression easily speaking of concern and other comforting things and Shepard smiles a crooked smile and when he tries to stand and falls strong arms catch him gently. He breathes out in a gust of relief as the waves' rushing fades away. He feels his legs lifted from under him, and thinks this is good, I'm floating, as he drifts away.