Just a short chapter this time. Sorry I've been MIA. I moved cities only to discover that the accommodations I set up were... well, let's just say they weren't what I discussed with the landlady prior to my move. Things are going to be a little bit hectic over the next while, but I'll try to update when I can.

Chapter Four: Ashes and Wine

I don't know how you got this address or why you're writing to me. Shepard and I grew apart a long time ago. Commander Shepard is probably as big a mystery to me as she is to you.

Kayleigh Shepard, on the other hand – her I knew. Not well, but you don't go through basic with someone, don't get posted together without becoming friends. It's a whole other level of trust, having another soldier watch your back. She was harsher back then, more angular. Her lines hadn't become quite so blurred by hearsay and rumour. But even then she shone. Even then she was different.

Good luck.

Josiah Toombs

o-o-o

James didn't know when the Normandy became a glorified errand boy, but he wasn't complaining. With that stealth drive, it meant that they got to see a lot of action – and it also meant that they got to come to the Citadel on a fairly regular basis. It wasn't that he didn't like the ship, but it was nice to come to the station and schmooze with likeminded individuals. He was bred for war, and he was good at it, but that didn't mean that he didn't like some R&R every so often. Well, that and the drinks were better.

Plus, the view was better. He leaned against the bar in Purgatory, tilting his head to get a good look at the wonderful ass on an asari dancer. It was hermosa, and even though asari weren't really his thing, he could get on board. He needed something to get him back on track. After enough drinks, he might be ready for anything.

He wished his squad were still alive. He and the guys had always had a blast at joints like this one. Course, that's before they ended up dead. Jesus, what he wouldn't give to have even one of them here with him now. Sure, there'd be some ribbing once they realized that he had a thing for Shepard – hell, there'd been ribbing before he even met her, back when he was just a hanger-on like everybody else – but maybe they would've had some good advice too. At the very least, they would've been able to distract him.

Another drink was pushed down the bar. The salarian bartender pointed at some of the Alliance grunts at the other end, who raised their glasses in toast. James picked up the drink and tipped it in their direction before tossing it back. A nice, fuzzy haze was beginning to gather at the edges of his vision. Maybe, just maybe, if he got drunk enough, he'd be able to sleep properly. Tomorrow, they were headed back to Tuchanka. That Mordin guy had finally gotten the genophage cure prepped, and every nerve in James' body sizzled at the idea of some more action. And since he hadn't blown all his poker money on booze, well, he could stay a little longer.

It was all because of Shepard, the drinks, and he knew it. Part of him, a small part, felt a little guilty that he was accepting drinks on her behalf. If he knew her, she wouldn't approve. But it wasn't like he was asking for them, or even discussing his place on the Normandy. He was just a guy, minding his own business.

God, even in the bar, he couldn't get away from her. And speaking of which.

James turned in time to see Shepard striding towards him, eyes taking in every corner of the club. It wasn't idle curiosity. He could tell from the way her brows were folded together. No, she was checking for tactical advantages, for potential threats, for, hell, probably all the things she had to deal with on a daily basis since becoming a Spectre. But then she stopped on him, the lines on her face ironing themselves out. Even over the bass of the club, he could hear his own heartbeat.

"Hey Commander," he said, in an attempt to try and keep things all professional like she liked. "Nice to see down here in the dirt with the rest of us grunts."

She rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow. "You think I don't like getting dirty?"

And just like that, boom, she shattered all his efforts. He bounced up and down, grin on his face, and those drinks made his tone way more flirtatious than he intended. "Whoa now! Come on, I didn't mean anything by it, Lola." Although now that he was thinking about it, was it hot in here or was it just him...?

"Uh huh," she said with that unimpressed tone pasted over her laughter. "What did you mean then?"

He gestured her over and she came to lean next to him on the bar directly across from all the Alliance patrons. With an incline of his head, he said, "You see all marines over there? Not a one of them is an officer – they're all just regular soldiers fighting the war."

Shepard blinked slowly. "Yeah, and?"

He pointed to his empty glass. "They been buying me drinks the whole night. You know why? The same reason they got all quiet and serious when you walked in." It was true. Just prior to her arrival, the group had looked like a rowdy college frat party. Now they were mostly calm, shooting Shepard surreptitious glances from behind their drinks.

The change in Shepard was nearly imperceptible. She ran a hand along the back of her neck, and was clearly thinking hard about something. After a moment, her gaze slid towards him. "Is that how you see me?" Then, before he could answer, she chuckled to herself. "No, what am I saying? You don't seem intimidated by me in the least. In fact, you could use a little more deference."

She really had no idea. James was intimidated as hell by her, but not for the obvious reasons. He wasn't about to correct her though, because there was something unsure about her first question, something almost hesitant. "I've fought with you. I've seen you in action. You're good – probably one of the best."

Shepard whirled on him. "Probably?" she echoed in disbelief.

"And you fill out a uniform like nobody's business," said James, voice low as he leaned in. "Just sayin'. But I know you're human. Just like me." Which was his own special way of reassuring himself that he and Shepard might not be so far apart as it seemed. Unlikely, sure, but a man could dream. Kinda sad when the only thing in his arsenal was hey we're both human, but there it was.

He didn't mention any of the personal stuff from Earth. So far as he was concerned, that was all in the past. He could pretend like he didn't know shit about it. Shepard went quiet, but she didn't turn away from him. If he didn't know any better, he would have said she looked... sad?

"But they don't?" she asked.

"Nope," said James. "Hell, I still remember the day they made you the first human Spectre. Watched it on the vids like the rest of them. But to them, you're still larger than life."

"And because you've seen me almost naked, I'm just a regular old marine, huh?"

Now there was a memory he'd cling to until his dying day. Shepard emerging from the shower, clad only in a short robe that clung to her body, water running down her legs. Man, he'd walked funny for a few hours after that particular encounter.

"I wouldn't say that," he said quietly, folding his arms onto the bar and studying her face.

She fidgeted slightly. "I've seen a hell of a lot, but I'm still just a soldier. I'm still one of them."

The way she was watching those marines, yeah, it was definitely something close to sad. It made all James' protective urges kick into overdrive. "Sure," he said with a nod, "but they don't know you. They just know what they've been told." He glanced over at the marines again. "Listen, you want them to see you're one of them, right?

Mirroring him with her arms on the bar, Shepard said, "Maybe," but it was filled with more uncertainty than before. Was she nervous?

"Then buy them a round," he suggested.

She mulled it over, nodding slightly with a subtle smile on her face. "I like the way you think, Lieutenant."

The use of his rank was a little depressing, but the rest of it was good. Shepard didn't make a move though, so James pushed himself up, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Compadres," he called, prompting the attention of several marines, "the Commander would like you to have a drink. On her. So here's to us!"

Bolstered by this show of camaraderie, the marines approached. They saluted. "Who's like us?"

Shepard materialized by James' side with a salute of her own. "Damn few – and they're all dead."

Those marines, they came up to Shepard then and started talking about what an honour it was, and how they'd kept up with all her exploits, and how they wanted to be just like her – like she was Santa instead of a military officer. But, in her own way, she was better than Santa. Santa never blew up a Collector base. Santa never stopped a Reaper invasion. Santa was just a story parents told their kids to make them behave. Shepard – Shepard was the real deal, but the skin on her face was pulled too tight. That Commander these marines saw, she was different from what James saw. Too bad. He liked his version better.

They left, and Shepard slouched back against the bar, shaking her head. "There was a time when I could've fit right in with any group here. I could've out drank them, out cursed them. Now? It's like I don't know how to be around people anymore."

"You seem to be doing okay," said James, plopping down next to her.

"That's sweet," said Shepard, even as she handed her credit chit to the bartender to pay for the round. "I know you're just humouring me though."

"No, I'm not," he said. "I think you could get just about anyone to like you."

"James, when did you become my personal cheering section? I feel like I'm in a daytime infomerical." But she was smiling at him like she hadn't since they left Earth. "I might need to increase your pay if you keep this up."

He shrugged. "Won't hear me complaining." He pulled out his own chit. "You want a drink, Lola? My treat."

"Trying to butter me up?"

"Maybe," James confessed. Her short hair was messy on the top of her head, and James wanted to run his fingers through it. When her hair was long, it had been heavy and soft. He wondered if it was the same now. "But seeing as how you're the one writing my cheques, it's sort of an empty gesture isn't it?"

Shepard laughed. "You sure are a sweet talker, aren't you?"

"I try. So – drink?"

"Just a beer," she said.

The bartender returned with Shepard's chit and James bought their drinks. Shepard was back to surveying the room, but it wasn't nearly so clinical anymore. Some of the tension had leaked out of her muscles. It was the most relaxed he'd seen her in, fuck, ages. Since they left Earth. She sipped at her beer and didn't say much, but James didn't mind. He just liked being in her company. His eyes skittered over to the dance floor.

"We should dance," he said.

Shepard's eyes went very wide, her bottle halfway to her mouth. "That would be a bad idea. I haven't had nearly enough to drink for that."

This was too much. "You saying you can't dance, Lola?"

"Oh, I can dance," Shepard assured him with a nod. "I just can't dance well."

James threw his arms up in the air. "Hallelujah!"

She nudged him with her elbow. "What the hell is that for?"

He regarded her plainly, his face close enough to hers that he could almost feel her breath. "There's something you're bad at. I was starting to think it was a myth."

"There are lots of things I can't do well," said Shepard with a frown.

"Name two."

"Dancing," said Shepard, counting on her fingers, "and cooking." She looked remarkably pleased for someone who just admitted to incompetence in certain areas.

"No shit," said James, but he filed away that information for whenever he might need it. "You learn something new every day."

Mouth open, Shepard was ready to make some undoubtedly witty comeback but they were interrupted by a timid marine, hands bunched tight in front of him. "Commander Shepard?" he said.

"Yes?" Shepard was wary, and her centre of balance shifted slightly. She was ready for a fight, if it found her, and not for the first time, James couldn't help but wonder what the hell sort of situations she'd gotten herself into in the past, that she should be prepared even when confronted with another Alliance marine.

"I'm – I'm Corporal Richard Clarke," said the marine. "I'm, uh, Anton Clarke's brother."

Every bit of Shepard's body was at attention now. She set down her beer and held out her hand. Her face was younger, somehow, than James had ever seen it. She shook this Richard Clarke's hand and said, "Nice to meet you. I haven't seen Anton in, fuck, years. How's he doing?"

Clarke's eyes dropped to his shoes. "He – uh. He was with the Second Fleet."

Shepard's hand stayed around Clarke's for a touch too long before she let it drop. That youthfulness, that vitality, it vanished in an instant. James did his best to pretend like he couldn't hear them, putting himself a few feet away. He had no idea who this Anton guy was, but he and Shepard had obviously been friends. Second Fleet... Shit. Every soldier in the Alliance knew what happened to them. Left at Arcturus to buy the other fleets time to escape. Not a single fucking survivor. The call hadn't been made lightly, everyone knew that, but still – James was glad Hackett was the one in charge and not him.

"My – my condolences," said Shepard quietly. "I didn't know.

The corporal shrugged slightly. "Don't worry about it. And thanks." He paused, edging from foot to foot. "Anton always said you were the best. He was real proud when you got made the first human Spectre. When everyone thought you were dead he, well, he didn't take it well. He wanted to visit you on Earth, but he was Captain of a freighter and Hackett..." Clarke didn't seem able to finish his thought. "I just, I thought you should know."

"Thank you," said Shepard. Clarke nodded and moved on, but Shepard stayed ramrod straight, her hands opening and shutting at her sides.

James wasn't real great with words. He said, "You okay?"

Shepard just shook her head. "Anton is – was – one of the oldest friends I had left. We went through the N school together. I got my N7 designation for saving his sorry ass." Her voice was soft, nearly inaudible over the music. Her face was perfectly blank, though her eyes were a touch too bright.

"Sorry, Shepard," said James, knowing anything he said would be hugely unhelpful.

"He asked me to marry him a few times," she offered, like it was some sort of throwaway trivia. James couldn't help himself from jolting. "I thought about it. He was good looking. Good soldier too. You remind me a little bit of him, sometimes."

Did that make him feel better or worse, to be compared to some guy that had obviously meant quite a bit to Shepard at some point? "You didn't marry him – why?"

She was quiet a long time. "I didn't think I could be what he needed." One hand moved to cover her eyes and she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry Lieutenant. I have a shit ton of work to do. I'll see you aboard the Normandy. We set off at oh five hundred hours." She pushed through the crowd without ever once looking at him.

If he could, he would go after her. He'd hold her. Instead, he picked up her abandoned beer and took a swig, trying hard not to think about the fact that only minutes before, it had been her mouth on the bottle.

Next Chapter: James and Shepard deal with the fallout after Tuchanka.