Chapter Nineteen

A point. A single point, coordinates set just outside the Batarian Hegemony.

Shepard lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He closes his eyes and bleeds quietly onto the covers.

A countdown. Two days. Nothing but atoms…

He shifts himself, pushes up from the mattress and strips off his shirt with sore arms.

The Batarians are going to do something, in two days. Something big. The Citadel…

The shirt falls to the floor and Shepard plods into the captain's cabin's minuscule bathroom. The mirror greets him with the face of a stranger, beaten and haggard. Shepard begins to scrub off the blood.

EDI told us the soldiers carried no ID, nothing to affiliate themselves with the Hegemony. Secret agents? Some kind of splinter cell? That was military-grade tech they had…

A violet pool spins down the drain, running clear as Shepard scrapes off the last of it and closes the wounds with medi-gel. The face in the mirror mocks him silently.

Scrub all you want, John. The real bloodstains aren't gonna come out. They never do.

He turns away and strides back into the cabin. His mind should be full of bombs and Batarians and keeping everybody alive. He should care, should be remembering the spray of blood in his face as Talek died, should feel horrified. He should feel something.

John Shepard feels cold. He tries to push his thoughts forward, tries to plan. Everyone's counting on him. But his mind pays him no heed, pulling him back into another world far away, so long ago. The pages turn, and John sinks to the deck. Maybe it is time to read the story. He leans his back against the wall. Maybe it's time to remember what really happened. Time to stop telling stories to himself and read the one that was right in front of him all along.

He once loved a man. He had a fearless laugh, bright eyes that sparkled in the darkness, golden hair that was always falling in his face and being brushed away. John used to imagine tracing that same motion with his own hand, moving aside the golden strands from the line of the jaw and the smiling lips, looking into those beautiful eyes.

It was everything. He was everything. The moment John pushed himself off his bedroll in the dark of morning, to the second he dropped back on it battered and exhausted, he was never far from John's thoughts.

In the heat of battle, his steady voice was in John's mind, his hand firm at John's back. Through the smoke and the fire and the bursting grenades, through the bullets and the blood and the sweat, John had a singular focus, a purpose, to live, to see that face again. Those times were easy.

The quiet times were a thousand times worse than the dogged single-mindedness of the battlefield. It was the quiet times, when John would brush against his bare shoulder, sending electric shocks racing throughout his body, or catch sight of him smiling, laughing at something, so carefree and happy, those times that filled John with the most bittersweet pain at holding his mouth closed, and not having the words to speak anyway.

Why didn't he speak? Why, with this cataclysmic, roaring flood of emotion stuck within him, did he remain silent? Because he was afraid. Because at every one of those electric touches, at every stolen glance, the words came back to bounce like bullets off the walls of his head. Faggot. Queer. Freak. Words that didn't hurt anymore, a wound long sealed. But to have them spoken from those lips, to hear them in his voice, to see hate in those eyes, so bright and full of spirit…

It would have been too much. And so instead of risk the unimaginable pain of hatred and rejection, he chose the very real and far worse pain, the wound that never closes, opening fresh every day at the sight of the one he loved. And he never said a word.

…

"I hope you're not making this a habit," says Tali. She flicks off the torch and straightens up, flexing her stiff back. "Everything looks fine now. Just try to, uh, not get smashed up anymore? Damn. This is why they don't have Geth doctors."

Legion moves its arm, putting it through its full range of movement. "Yes," it says. "The Geth are unversed in physical combat. Shepard is going to teach us."

"Really?" says Tali, surprised. "Well, he's definitely good at it. Less patch-up work for me then."

Legion gets down from the impromptu operating table. It steps away from Tali apace, looking at nothing. Tali stays silent. A pause like this usually means some serious thinking is going on in that metal head. She busies herself with putting away her tools, awaiting the inevitable question.

After a few moments, Legion speaks without turning. "Tali'Zorah," It says. "We are unsure whether our question is appropriate."

Tali rolls her eyes. "Legion, a Quarian just finished operating on a geth. There is nothing appropriate about this situation. Ask away."

Legion pauses, then says, "Do you love Garrus Vakarian?"

Tali opens her mouth, astonished. How did the damn thing... No, it couldn't be that obvious. Just a lucky guess. She flounders for words, an explanation, some sort of condescending dismissal, but she draws a blank and says simply, "Yes."

The geth seems to process the information. It doesn't move much, still facing away at the wall. "Even though you are of different species? How can one love a being it has no biological connection to? It is not logical."

Tali walks around Legion, looking it in its eye. It stands stiffly, faceplates huddled together around its single eye. Something is going on in there, she thinks. There's a reason it wants so badly to understand. I wonder if I'll ever know? Her heart breaks a little bit, seeing a creature so obviously lost without a map.

She reaches out, taking Legion's hands and forcing it to look at her. "No, it's not logical," she says gently. "It doesn't make any sense at all, and you can't make it fit into any sort of quantifier. I... I love Garrus. Shepard has loved other men. And I don't know what's going on between EDI and Joker, and it probably breaks just about every law of the universe, but for all I know that could be love, too. There's no reason to it. If there was, it wouldn't be love."

Legion looks intently down at her, seeming to stare outwards and inwards at the same time. "We think we understand, Tali'Zorah," it says slowly.

Tali laughs and breaks away. "No, of course you don't! Nobody does, and that's the magic!"

Legion's plates rise a little bit. It stands still for a beat, then lets itself out of the room.

…

Shepard's eyes bore into the locker. Maybe he had thought the truth would help, would shove him back to reality and out of the past, but instead he feels as if the callus has been stripped away, leaving him raw to the world. The door of the locker is closed. Open it.

You started again. You're fucked anyway.

Just take the guitar. That's all you want in there. Just open the door and... Take it.

But what if it's not enough this time?

Something inside John knows that it won't be, and it doesn't care. He begins to reach for the door handle.

Suddenly he remembers. Legion! I said I would spar with him! Fuck! And with a great rush of relief, Shepard pulls away from the locker and jogs for the door, doubling back to grab a fresh shirt from his wardrobe.

…

Legion and Shepard meet in the hangar. The wide floor is empty save for the scarred bulk of the Mako, sitting with the shuttle in one side of the cavernous room.

Shepard strides across the cleared deck towards the geth. He rolls his head, dispelling the post-combat fatigue. Legion stands ready, nodding to Shepard as he approaches.

"Shepard," says Legion. "We are ready to begin."

Shepard nods in reply, pushing up his sleeves. "Okay. We should start with the basic things first, and you can build on it from there."

Shepard shows Legion through the motions of the jab, cross, and hook, holding his hands in the air for the geth to punch into. Legion picks up the motions fast, committing each movement to memory without needing repetition or practice. They go on for five minutes before Shepard stops suddenly.

"Freeze!" he commands. The geth stills in the middle of a strike. Shepard walks around its extended arm, pointing to its shoulder. "Your punch is fine," he says. "But it's nothing if you don't have your hips behind it. You've got to turn into it, pivot your back leg a little."

Legion tries twisting, its arm moving stiffly like a sail boom.

Shepard shakes his head, moving behind Legion. "No, keep it aimed straight forward. Your feet add power, not direction." He leans into Legion, reaching forward to position the geth's arm. He stretches out, his shoulder pressing into Legion's back, and as he takes hold of the machine's arm, a strange feeling floods through him, an inexplicable sense of heat and closeness that can't be coming from the metal body he presses against. He takes hold of Legion's elbow, moving the aim of the arm. He tries not to feel the quickened tempo of his heart, the prickle of nerves running along his arm from the contact. What is this? What are you doing?

He pulls back, steps away, enervated. He tries to clear his thoughts, heart thudding in his chest. "There you go," says Shepard. "Twist your hips, push forward with the punch." He watches as Legion throws a few more crosses. The moving form of the geth stands out in his vision, seemingly filled with an aura that draws his eyes. The curve of Legion's synthetic muscle as he throws the punch, the almost organic nature of the body under the armor, the way his curving neck pulls back slightly with something approaching exertion, these things demand his attention a thousand times more than they had a moment ago. What's wrong with you? It's a machine, not a he, an it!

Shepard swallows, but the dry feeling in his mouth won't go away. He runs Legion through blocks, more complex strikes, and a few combinations. The geth consumes the lessons insatiably, performing each move almost perfectly after just a few repetitions. For his part, Shepard goes through the sets cautiously, almost nervously, skirting around direct contact with Legion. Every touch is electric, sending shivering, disconcerting warmth through him. Shepard's mind does flips and his stomach does back-flips, dizzying him and occasionally earning him a whack as Legion punches in before he's ready.

Finally Shepard disengages, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. Everything else aside, the geth is one hell of a fast learner. He paces back, shaking his head in admiration. "You're doing well," he says. "I've never seen anyone pick it up so fast."

Legion's plates raise, and Shepard realizes it's a smile,and then he realizes he recognnised the expression without thinking. "It seems you have never taught a platform of the Geth before, Commander," says Legion.

Shepard frowns, a though suddenly dawning on him. "Wait... Did I just teach the entire Geth collective those moves? Do you have that kind of communication?"

Legion shakes its head. "Not at the present time. We have not had the opportunity to synchronize recently. The extranet channels are far too unsecured for Geth intercommunication. For the length of this mission, we will store our own memories." The plates twitch again. "We believe the expression is 'flying solo.'"

Shepard looks at the geth, standing a head taller than himself. There seems to be a change, a difference in manner from their first meeting. He can not put a finger on it, but there is definitely a significant difference.

"Alright," he says. "You think you're ready to try some sparring?"

Legion nods. "Nonlethal combat for practical purposes. Yes Shepard, we are ready."

Shepard backs away, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "Yeah, nonlethal is the key word, Legion. Just try to remember I'm not made of metal, okay?"

"We will remember." The geth circles out with him, keeping its eye on Shepard's.

Shepard raises his hands, Legion mirroring him from across the floor. Shepard holds back, waiting for the geth to make the first move.

Legion darts toward him, surprisingly agile, throwing a quick jab to Shepard's jaw. Shepard picks lightly, dodging away on his toes and catching Legion's following cross more heavily on his other arm. The two disengage, dancing around each other on the hangar deck.

Shepard steps inside legion's guard, feints with his left hand and delivers a right uppercut into the area approximating Legion's chin. He follows through with his left elbow, pushing the geth back. Just as he begins to retreat, Legion comes back at him with a strike to his stomach and another Shepard catches with his shoulder.

Shepard spins away, gasping for breath. He bends over, acting more winded than he is, and sure enough Legion steps forward with a low roundhouse kick to Shepard's chest. Shepard is ready, and he catches Legion off balance, snagging its other leg and shoving with his upper body. The geth collapses with Shepard on top of it, both of them falling heavily.

Shepard swings his leg swiftly across Legion's torso, straddling the geth in full mount. He plants on hand at the geth's throat and raises the other, as if poising for a killing blow. "Gotcha," he pants.

"That was a fair blow, Shepard," says Legion. "But unexpected. We will not fall for it again."

Shepard lowers his arm. "Good. First thing you learn in a real row is that fighting's not about rules, Legion. Expect everything."

"Most of the things you do are unexpected. We are learning all the time."

Shepard laughs. "Maybe I'm good for you, then. Means I'm useful for something, at least."

Legion moves its neck slightly. "Indeed. Shepard, you seem to be on top of us."

Shepard jumps off legion's chest hurriedly, ears reddening. "Right. Ah, sorry."

Legion gets to its feet. "There is no problem, Shepard. We thank you for the lesson."

Shepard nods, backing away. "Sure, no problem. I'd better get back to the cabin though, uh, you know..." He turns and rushes off as fast as he can without actually running. The hangar door shuts behind him and he turns down the hall and stops, slamming his fist into the wall. "God damn it!" he yells. He reaches down, rearranging his shorts to accommodate the uncomfortable bulge pressing against his undergarments. What the fuck is going on here? Are you just fucking insane, is that it? Or are you actively trying to fuck your life up now? What the hell?

He storms off down the hall, trying to ignore everything and failing at ignoring anything. The fact is, the very thing he is trying to forget is nagging at his brain, becoming painfully obvious.

…

Legion turns slowly to the door. It slides closed with a swoosh, shutting off the sound from the outside. Legion paces aimlessly across the floor. Internally, it is in agony. John was near, so close, his hands all over Legion's body, heat and the moisture of his sweat, the cloying touch of his breath so achingly tangible on the back of legion's neck. But there was no happiness in the contact, no joy in being so close when Legion could feel the whole time that John was drawing back, shying away, unwilling somehow.

What is happening? These are not the thoughts of the Geth! But the questioning thoughts are dragged down, lost, desperate reasoning pushed aside by the new pilot of Legion's head, this new emotion. And it hurts less, too, to ignore the logic and act on feeling. The logic is still there, still guiding almost everything, but its cries of protest are muffled now.

Legion feels its faceplates drawing together, and an urge to violence pulses briefly within its chest. Why did he seem so afraid? Even seventeen seconds ago, when he left so suddenly. Why was John so anxious to leave us? We want him to stay, and he goes. The urge to hit something increases. It feels its fingers curl into a fist, and with some effort, consciously unfolds them. Legion recognizes the feeling as frustration. It has seen mentions of it in its brief studies of organic literature.

This thought brings a realization, so obvious that Legion had never devoted any thought to it before. The Geth have no literature. Legion turns again, stalks back to the middle of the hangar. It is physically unable to become tired, yet it suddenly feels the urge to take the weight off of its legs anyway. The constant input and feedback of pressure from its joints is just too much to process in addition to everything else. Legion knows that is a fallacy too; its atomic processors could calculate that data to the billionth power and still have plenty of room. That doesn't stop it from dropping to the floor in the middle of the hangar though. It pulls its knees in to its chest, clasping its arms around them.

It is true. The Geth do not create, not for creation's purpose alone. We are a cold race, steel and wires, not fitting company for an organic being. What would a synthetic have to offer Shepard? Legion stares into the deck. Even if it could be with Shepard, if such a thing were possible, Shepard would never accept an invitation to something... Something more than what they had now. He would be shocked, disdainful.

Legion looks at the brushed steel of the deck and its body seems to fill with cold. Shepard was the reason why it began to feel things. He opened an amazing and frightful spectrum of senses to the geth, happiness and anger and frustration and.. Love. The words Tali said in the engineering bay come back to it. Was love between a synthetic and an organic really different from love between a Quarian and a Turian? Could beings love each other without genetic inclination?

Legion is aware of the mechanics of physical attraction among organics. A male and a female draw each other in with hormones and pheromones so as to produce offspring, reproducing their genetic code. But if that was the case, the cause and sole cause of attraction, then why does Legion find itself so drawn to the gentle lines of Shepard's body? Why does the moschate, intriguingly masculine odor of the man, sweat and cologne and earthy organicness, so excite Legion's senses? It has no genetic code, no reason to desire reproduction, yet when it looks at Shepard there is a pull, a deep need for something more than just looking.

Legion feels almost ashamed at the thought, knows it is wrong and horribly un-Geth, but it feels right. It knows it is Geth, an extent extension of the core, nothing but a shell containing the same being that is in every other Geth body in the universe. It knows it is Geth, and feels pride to be a part of something so great, would never dream of disconnection from the Geth. Disconnection would be death. But Legion also knows something else, with equal certainty. It knows that it is in love with Shepard, and if this simple assessment of fact makes it a failure, then it is not the fault of its own judgment. For logical conclusions based upon evidence are at the very core of Geth operation, and indeed, to ignore such blatantly obvious signals would be the truly illogical thing.

Legion stands up, servo's in its knees whirring. The cold despair melts, ice turning to warm and turgid water, boiling up inside its chest. And the sadness is replaced by nervousness, but it knows it cannot stay here. It's time to move, not to sit still, lest it rethink its new certainty.

…

Shepard doesn't even know how the bottle got out of the locker, but here it is, sitting on the table before him, staring him in the face. Its curves catch the light, tempting a plunge into its amber abyss. That is a hole you will not climb out of. Here you are at the edge. Do you throw yourself in?

There had been two times when the answer had been yes. Both times he had been too late; too late to save his mother, too late to show her she still had a son. The drink had destroyed her long before he found his way back home. Perhaps if he had been there…

The second time, too late to save something that could have been beautiful, and beauty died before it was born, and instead of gaining a lover he lost a friend. The pit had beckoned then, welcomed him in to its dark embrace. The shadows had come eagerly, wrapping around him to shield him from the coldness of the world outside. And as they shielded him they wrapped him tighter, and they ate him from the inside out. He had stopped drinking for Sam, left the bottle behind to free his mind for more impotent adoration. Kaidan drank with him. Instead of reaching up and out, Shepard had grabbed on to him on the way down and dragged him deeper, exultant in not caring what he did or who he slept with. Kaidan didn't seem to care. Shepard supposes that somehow, somewhere in the frenzy of self-destruction was a call for help, a plea for someone to care, to do for him what he couldn't do for himself. It was never answered.

After Cerberus rebuilt him, he had thought he would stay clean. There was a mission, clear-cut enough. Old friends and new faces, company everywhere but still the same old emptiness inside. It was back, the dreadful all-consuming apathy. And the bottle was back too, wax seal an arm's reach away from him. A little voice whispers to him. It's never enough. It never helps, you know. He looks blankly at the frosty glass as the voice answers itself. But nothing does. Nothing ever helps, and no-one cares, not even you.

Shepard blinks. Maybe it's true. Maybe nobody does care. He sluggishly closes his eyelids. Tell me. Is there anyone? Is there a reason not to throw myself in? The shadows claw at the edge, anticipating the comfort of my demise. Give me a reason not to give myself to them. Tell me they're not the only ones that want me.

Shepard's hand inches closer along the table. His fingers move with a mind of their own, his own thoughts powerless to stop them. He feels the sickening lurch of the universe moving around him, the awful feeling of being shunted into the path you knew you would take but hoped that you would somehow avoid. Fickle bitch, hope.

There comes a sound from the hall outside his cabin. Shepard's fingers halt in their path, his whole body listening intently. The digits itch, waiting for the interruption to be over, longing to finish their task. The sound comes again, a light tapping on the metal door. "Come in," says Shepard without opening his eyes.

There is a pause. The door unlatches and the segments spin and it opens, and Legion stands in the doorway. The geth strides into the room, stopping before the table Shepard is seated at. Shepard keeps his eyes closed. He feels the perfect equilibrium of forces between his hand and the bottle of spirit, wavering, as if the slightest disruption could shift the balance. He breaths out slowly. "Legion."

He hears the geth sit down slowly in the seat opposite him. The air is silent between them, somehow charged and dead at the same time. Shepard is acutely aware of the muscles tensed in his hand, tendons flexed but frozen. His finger twitches.

And then his hand relaxes. Warm pressure encloses it. He opens his eyes, sees Legion's hand reached across the table clasping his own, synthetic fingers pressed as gently against his organic ones as they can be. Slowly, Shepard feels his hand retreat back to the edge of the table in Legion's grip. The call of the bottle ebbs, losing its hold on him, beaten back by the geth's quiet strength.

Shepard's hand reaches the end of the table, he feels Legion's grip begin to slacken, and the icy pull of the shadows yell in victory and they surge forward and he suddenly tightens his hold on Legion, and the geth's fingers respond, closing around his own. His other arm shoots out, grasping Legion's forearm, unmindful as the bottle is knocked aside. His knuckles go white, clutching desperately. Seconds pass with a wave of nausea that tilts the insides of Shepard's head like a ship's deck.

Then the sea calms. Shepard's grip loosens a little, still firm inside the solid warmth of Legion's hand. They hold each other in silence as Shepard feels the last of the waves crash against his hull, breaking against it but no longer rocking him. The clouds begin to part. Shepard looks up into Legion's face, unsurprised to find he can read every emotion painted on the geth's circular face. He smiles a little, and murmurs softly, "Oh angel, what a strange creature you be."