He wasn't Shepard.

But if the Normandy crew took a shot for every time they thought something like that, then even James'd be drunk by breakfast.

Hell, the guy had to deal with that one on the regular, what with…everything. James could still remember the time when his N7 tattoo was finally finished and he headed back from the Holding Docks to the ship. 'Yo, Esteban,' he'd said, not even swaying on his feet. 'Where's Commander Loco at? I wanna show him my new ink.'

'You're a little too late for that,' Cortez replied, checking some orders or whatever on a bleeping screen. James couldn't even see the time, squinting into the light. 'Commander Shepard has…left the Normandy. He's on a date. Might've been able to catch him if you'd acted sooner, though.'

'Nah, I'll just show him in the morning,' James said, then, 'wait. Seriously? On a date? With— Don't tell me he's stealing Joker's virtual reality girl. 'Cause that shit just ain't right.'

'Like I said…' Cortez shut off the touchpad screen and some of the whirring that filled the bay powered down with it. Everything was way too close to too dark and too quiet for James's taste, because nobody'd be able to see the tattoo in all its glory this way. Nobody was even looking. Meanwhile, the skin was still stinging under his civvies. 'You're a little too late, Mr. Vega. Hell—seems like we both are.'

'You in one of those weird moods? I get it,' James said. 'I get it.' He lifted his hand over his shoulder, then dropped off to bed, sleeping on his stomach that night instead of on his back.

Maybe he did get it and maybe he didn't. That was a long time ago, but when it turned out the date in question was Major Alenko, rumor around the Normandy—Daniels and Donnelly ran their mouths like crazy—was that they didn't get back until late had already turned into early.

One of those things James never said, as many times as he thought it, was Hey, Loco. Didn't know you were that crazy.

James shook out his arms, elbows jittery to his fingertips, on his way past the rows of cots, past the first few tents where the real bad cases were kept, then into the ICU—if you could call it that—where the doctors and their nurses worked round the clock until they needed some TLC, themselves.

For whatever reason, James hadn't been down that way much. He knew some guys… But everybody knew some guys. They'd get out, get on their feet again, show up to help the Turians screw in a light bulb, and the only thing James'd have say to that was, It's about damn time. These guys need all the help they can get.

Some of the cots had names.

Some didn't.

The thing was, they'd started labeling all the John Does and Jane Does John Shepard and Jane Shepard. The names that weren't names stared up at James as he passed by, doing his best not to bump into any of them or the cots they belonged to.

Cortez was still there at his back and nobody said hey to them, friendly or not, and nobody was shouting, and everything was quiet as wearing a helmet in an airlock—until the chinpiece cut into the throat and started to choke you. James knew he was breathing heavy; he was always breathing heavy. But when that was the only sound you could hear, not even a hum in the distance to keep you company, you got desperate for something, anything, a groan or a cough or a whimper or a screw you.

'It was just a hunch, Esteban,' James said, cracking his neck as they followed that Asari for what felt like miles of casualties. 'Not even a hunch. Just figured maybe, I dunno, somebody might turn up sometime.'

'Somebody,' Cortez repeated.

'Yeah, somebody,' James said. He remembered the night before, Cortez small and so damn spunky, words like sparring but still too much duck and weave. 'Why—you wanna make something out of it?'

'Kaidan Alenko.' The Asari came to a stop in front of one of the beds and James asked himself, did he help set that one up? What did it matter? Was it even something he owed Shepard or were all bets off because the stakes had changed—or were all bets still on forever because one of the players was MIA without settling the score?

Dead. Dead and gone. The only thing that could make one word lonelier was another word showing up to make it sound even worse. James let out one of his heavy breaths only to find Cortez was already moving, already at the bed, not fast at all—but nice and easy, steady and smooth, the way he flew. Or the way he used to.

'Major, you have visitors,' the Asari said.

Obviously.

James hung back so he didn't bump the cot. The name on the plaque had been crossed out, from John Shepard to Kaidan Alenko, something recent.

There was that damn grit again. It had to be the stuff they were eating. It just didn't go down, staying in the throat all day. And meanwhile, nobody could swallow.

'Don't…' Alenko's voice said, definitely his but definitely shaky, like protesting was part of an old routine.

Wake up; get called major; wince.

His face'd been patched with some bandages but it was still recognizable as his face underneath 'em. Nothing too bad, then, with some pretty serious bruising around the eyes, body propped up and sitting stiff against the backboard. One of his arms didn't look too good, all slung up, and he was covered with this clean white blanket, and there was always the chance they needed to be grateful for what they couldn't see. How bad it was.

So how bad was it?

'…The 'major' thing,' Alenko continued. 'It's not…' He had the grit too; James could hear it. And he had to go and focus on James first—not Cortez standing next to him—so James did something stupid.

Something real stupid.

He straightened his shoulders, standing to attention with an honest-to-god salute.

It was the only thing he could do, the only thing he knew how to. Maybe some of them had the wrong dog-tags but they still had something, the metal tinkling in the silence, the cot shifting, somebody clearing their throat, James waiting—because of the look on Alenko's face—for a screw you.

But Alenko looked away, down at his hand in his lap, his other one strapped to his side and swollen beneath a whole mess of medical tape.

'So,' Alenko said, his voice on the edge of the grit. It had to be him, 'cause nobody else talked like that. 'You two…made it.'

'So did you,' Cortez said.

'That's 'cause he's tougher than he looks.' James's elbow hurt when he unbent it. He had to lighten up those reps—or do more until the pain knew who it was dealing with and quit coming around. 'Isn't that right? One serious little motherfucker. Glad to see you're still kicking. Damn—Major Kaidan Alenko.'

'The 'major' thing,' Alenko repeated. 'If you could… Don't.'

'You know Vega.' Cortez found something close to a chair and pulled it to the side of the cot. He sat down easy, like unfolding his legs didn't hurt, while James stared at the back of his neck waiting to see the hair stand on end or the skin roll with a shiver. Or something. Or anything. But Cortez had experience with this shit, always talking to his guys or however he thought of them. Probably his guys. James knew the look. 'Would you believe he still isn't so good with taking directions?'

'I take orders,' James said. 'It's different. Way different. Not even in the same galaxy.'

Alenko coughed. It took James a minute to realize it was actually a chuckle, this dry thing scrubbed clean by all the grit. 'Yeah. I remember that.'

'He's hard to forget,' Cortez said. 'Sometimes I think he does it on purpose.'

'So long as he's not beating everybody at cards.' Alenko's bad hand twitched, movement James'd needed in Cortez but got in another place. Of course. Everything always came that way; the stuff you wanted was always the stuff that hurt. They called that irony, saying isn't that ironic? And James called it bullshit. 'I remember that too. So…' Alenko swallowed. 'How long's it been?'

James didn't feel like grinning. That was Major Alenko, all right, getting down to business, with a cool head on his shoulders. But maybe having the head on his shoulders wasn't enough, no matter how steady it sat.

He wasn't staring at his own hands anymore but at the far wall, where an Asari and a Salarian were comparing notes, talking in quiet voices about statistics—how many of their patients were gonna die by the time night fell and power got rationed out, just enough light to guide them all to their beds. And that didn't count the looters, the profiteers, the mercs, real people with real needs but no conscience, risking everything for a little something extra.

Now the grit was in James's jaw. He clenched it tight, muscles flexing over the bone.

'That long?' Alenko asked.

'Not that long,' Cortez replied. 'Since…the mass relays,' he added, all careful like a doctor himself, still able to get what navigating meant even when conditions were balled up and he was out of the zone, 'it's been a little over a month. You want the exact number? I can give you that.'

'No.' Alenko released a breath. James didn't. He could feel it swelling up in his chest like a pressurized airlock. '…No thanks, I mean. That's fine.'

'You being a model patient?' James asked. 'That Asari and me—we're pretty tight. And some of the guys in here get rowdy, Alenko.'

Alenko'd dealt with a whole lot in his time, more than James'd been there for. Not more than James'd seen, but a whole lot. These things didn't take guys like them by surprise anymore. They were trained for surprises, for rough riding and poison atmosphere, any kind of enemy they might come up against because might meant would, especially in the final hours. Whatever they were calling it. Some catchy name James didn't think about because the package was too neat. But whatever it was about James's attitude that made Alenko cough-and-laugh again was almost a surprise, and that was all right.

Alenko was all right.

He was alive, for one thing. Breathing enough to cough or laugh. He still knew what the sound was and he could make it on his own.

He had to make it on his own.

It wasn't like he had another choice.

James ground his molars together. He thought of the whole thing like a round of poker, one he wanted to win, to prove he could make a comeback or just plain beat somebody, show them who was who. A matter of pride not turning into wounded ego. It was his poker face; for some reason, he'd never thought about using it anywhere other than poker before.

So long as none of the usual stuff showed up in his eyes—You knew the Commander? and everything that came after, all the My Condolences and Sorry for your loss bullshit—then nobody'd have to think about it.

Not more than they already were.

It stayed inside, hanging with the grit, between James's throat and his chest. It didn't sink any lower, didn't rise to the top. And Alenko didn't see it—didn't cut off laughing suddenly, twisting his fingers in the bandage around his wrist, all the color draining from his face. As good as Alenko's poker face was, James already knew it wasn't the best.

'OK,' Alenko said. 'Yeah, Vega, I'm… Yeah. Being a model patient. Haven't given anyone any crap yet, if that's what you're asking.'

'That's all I'm asking,' James said. 'I'd better not hear anything, either. You got that?'

Alenko's mouth did this funny thing like it didn't know what it was doing, like he didn't know what to tell it to do. It got stuck somewhere between a smile and not a smile, some kind of nothing, like an old M29 Grizzly stalling out on rocky terrain. You couldn't be gentle with the old M29 Grizzly. You had to be rough to kick it back into the right gear again, and people were always complaining they had bruises after the ride was finished.

Alenko didn't look like he could afford to be bruised up any more than he already was, or like he'd be jamming any clutches anytime soon. He didn't look like he knew how to keep a grip on anything more than himself, and even that was shaky.

But he was managing it. For now.

'So, you know when you'll be out yet?' Cortez asked. His voice had this calm to it, this steadiness; he sounded like he was chatting about the weather, just saying hey and what's up. Wrong question, right question—at least somebody was talking and silence wasn't winning.

'Not yet. Soon, maybe. I don't know.' Alenko's expression had quit it with the almost and the sort of. It was holding steady, holding its own. He was looking at Cortez, focusing on his face, and that helped, too. 'You know, I'm starting to feel like I spend way too much time just waiting around in hospitals.'

'Piccadilly Memorial Field is one of the best there is,' Cortez said. 'And I'm not just saying that because of Vega's Asari friend over there. I mean it. You look good, Alenko. After everything… You look real good.'

'You're just saying that,' Kaidan said. 'But… I'll take it. Thanks. You look pretty good, yourself.'

Cortez's voice got warm without any warning. 'Yeah, well—Vega doesn't dent.'

'I seem to remember that, too,' Kaidan said.

'Well, however long it takes,' James said, 'you can bet this guy's gonna be bugging you the whole time. Esteban can't get enough of the place. Might be he hit his head during the crash and now he thinks he's some kind of doctor.'

'Me?' Cortez looked up finally, meeting James eye to eye. James held his gaze until he couldn't anymore, because one poker face could only stretch so far before it snapped. When he swallowed, he could feel the grit on its way down, scraping up his lungs, tearing up his gut. Enough reps, though, and he'd get used to it. Build up muscle on the inside, not just everywhere else. But Cortez held it, long after James looked away, long after James's dog-tags jingled with the movement. 'Never dreamt of it. I'm just a pilot.'