If it hadn't been for the encryption and triple-verified authentication code on the messages from Garrus, Kaidan would never have believed the correspondence to be real. He was a friend, would always be, but it still didn't explain how out of the blue the contact had been. Turians, even the likes of Garrus, weren't exactly known for their sentimentality, and so the reason of catching up hadn't exactly sat well in the pit of his stomach. Maybe if it were Tali or Liara, Kaidan would have bought the excuse, but for Garrus… there wasn't something quite right. It wasn't that their friendship included animosity, just that there had been something off between them in the past year, and Kaidan always suspected that it had much to do with his treatment of Shepard back on Horizon.
He'd done his best at avoiding the faces of the friends he'd made on the SR-2 and SR-1 since they'd all finally parted ways all those months ago, and this behavior was strategic, not just a circumstance of work and time complications as he may have wanted to lead others to believe. Sure, with the clean-up of the galaxy and tensions still running high nearly a year out he truly was busy beyond words, but even Kaidan knew no one would fault nor discourage him taking a breather every now and then, everything else considered. The truth was that he didn't want to face them, didn't want to see people that knew him the best because there was wear and tear around his edges, the same kind that had been there after Shepard—the first—had died, and Kaidan just wasn't sure he could plaster on the smile, nod and dismiss their worries. He was fine, he'd say. Carving out a new place for himself. Getting by, when the reality was that every night, every single damn night, he shut his eyes and barely slept because behind his closed eyelids all he saw was both of those women he'd known by the name of Shepard, and all the horrible ways in which they likely died.
He'd hesitated at accepting the proposal from Garrus, had even typed out a message to turn him down, but then he'd taken a glance at the galaxy clock on his omni-tool and been reminded of just how much time had passed since the end of the war. It really was nearly a year—his body clenched at the realization that it had been a year since he'd seen her alive—and part of him could recall that broken expression Garrus had worn when they both moved independently and silently in Shepard's quarters upon the news that she was, with almost absolute certainty, dead. They both took pieces of her that night, Kaidan looking for the things that were both of the women he'd cared for, and in the back of his throat he could still feel that near painful lump when Garrus had handed him those framed dog tags, the ones that had belonged to the first, and then gone back to shuffling through Shepard's belongings, desperately looking for his own pieces of her to cling to. Maybe, Kaidan thought, after a year from when they'd lost her, Garrus was reaching to him because he needed the companionship, the ability to talk to someone about the woman they knew, because unlike the rest of their friends, the two of them were the only ones who knew the truth when it came to who the woman behind the mask really was.
So he'd deleted that first message and written a new reply. They would meet, and whatever ugly emotions came of it… he'd deal with that later.
Stanley Park, it had once been called. If you looked on a map, even one of the new ones that had been generated in the aftermath that showcased the new city limits as well as ongoing repairs, Kaidan was sure the swath of green was still indicated by the formal name. To those that were repopulating downtown Vancouver, however, it had taken on the new name of Memorial Park. Though there were other priorities when it came to reclaiming and settling Earth and the rest of the galaxy—things like food and shelter and healthcare—citizens and enlisted alike had taken to restoring the urban oasis that bordered the former metropolis and the sea to something of its former glory.
The trees, decades and centuries old, were mostly gone—there was nothing that could be done about that amount of destruction—but foliage had returned to the once trampled and charred landscape, bathing the dirt in greens and sprinklings of other colors as the flowers died out and gave way to autumn. He knew if you walked along the perimeter and down to the shore, the beach had been made equally as beautiful through the hard work of volunteers as they combed the sand and water for shrapnel and detritus, offering families a small relief in these still tragic times. As for the parts nearest where the city center had been, there were even benches among the cracked walkways, children and adults milling about, and at the center of the hustle and bustle was the reason why the park's name had colloquially changed at all.
He hadn't seen it, only heard the rumors of its existence, and witnessing the small structure with his own two eyes felt surreal. A short stone wall, marble, maybe granite, curved and sloped downward from the peak of only a few feet at the middle, and across its face were words he didn't have the heart to read. Loss, he knew it would speak of. Loss, life, perseverance, remembrance, courage. All the words that would inspire those who could freshly recall the experience, and would serve to remind those in the future who were spared witnessing the massacre firsthand. But that wasn't the interesting part, wasn't what had everyone's interest captivated. No, that belonged to the holo playing along the top ridge of the wall, a repeating loop of images. Gone were the gore and horror of the war from the cycling clips, instead replaced by moving pictures of soldiers pulling others from the rubble, a shot of the might of all the galaxy's ships moving together in defense of Earth. He felt a punch to the gut when Anderson appeared, looking younger than Kaidan ever recalled.
Then there was another hit, this one worse than the first, when he saw the vision of Shepard, alive and like she was still breathing as someone filmed while she spoke to a group of soldiers, seasoned warriors and new recruits together. He couldn't date it, couldn't figure which woman it belonged to, and for once, it didn't matter. He touched his finger tips to the cool stone ahead of him, brushing over the engraving May we never forget.
Beside him, a woman spoke, their shoulders nudging the other's. He almost didn't hear her at first, lost in his own grief, but there was something about it that cut through the ringing in his ears and the other voices around them.
"She was impressive, wasn't she?"
"Yeah," Kaidan grunted.
"Too bad I don't look much like that anymore."
The sheer construction of the sentence confused and baffled him, so much so that he forced his tightly clenched eyes to open, head canting to the side to get a look at the woman. He didn't recognize her, though the scars she wore on her left side were significant and distinctive as they traveled from her cheek down her throat, disappearing beneath the collar of the long sleeved sweater she wore. The stranger looked dead ahead, watching the holo as it looped endlessly, playing again for all those who had yet to see the memorial monument for themselves.
There was some kind of disconnect, synapses firing in his brain but not interfacing properly, because deep in his bones he knew that voice, knew the comfort he felt just at this unknown person being near, and yet he couldn't comprehend it. That was, until, the woman turned her head to look at him, the unmarred side of her face coming into view, bright eyes reflecting back at him, even the short chopped hair falling across her forehead. It was a ghost. He was seeing a ghost for the second time in his life.
"I'm not," she said, seeming to know where his thoughts traveled.
Which, if he had to say, was only more convincing for his argument. Maybe not a ghost then, but definitely losing his mind. His eyes watered, not because he had feared finally snapping after all this time, but because he'd been waiting for it, hoping for it, and finally… that blissful break from reality had come.
The woman blinked, stared across at him, but said nothing else, and though he'd imagined this a million different ways, never before had the mirage been silent. Something wasn't right.
She smiled, softly at least, sadness in the creases at the corners of her eyes, and finally spoke. "Hi, Kaidan." Shepard touched his cheek without apprehension.
The dream of her had never done that either, never touched him and felt real. She was warm, and he could even sense the slight tremor to her hand. His eyes widened in disbelief and he was as solid as concrete, unable to move, barely even breathing.
"I… it's me," she delivered without eloquence. For all the time she'd had to prepare, the words were still missing.
"Shepard?" He only just got out, lower jaw hanging slack, lips divorced from one another as he looked to her.
She visibly relaxed, even if it was only an inch when she needed a mile, and nodded. "Yeah. I'm here. And very much real."
It was like an avalanche after that, everything all at once. Kaidan launched himself at her, wrapping her within his arms, afraid she would evaporate if he didn't have a grasp on her. He wanted to close his eyes but he couldn't, could only press the sides of their heads together as he held her, tears streaking down his cheeks as he wept with eyes open and in silence, his fingers caught in the cropped lengths of her hair.
She was alive and warm and breathing—he could even feel her inhale and exhale and the sensation was marvelous—and her fingers were pinching at his sides and back as she gripped him with just as much fervent need as he did. She trembled with her own tears of sadness or joy, he wasn't sure but it didn't matter, and as the crowds moved by, they became a stationary beacon among all the other moving points. Oh god, he could smell her, her scent so rich despite the foreign complexities of a different soap, a different life, so strong he felt he was nearly being doused in it, every single memory of both of the women he'd known to be Shepard hitting him all at once. From the first time they'd met on the Normandy, to a wound he'd bandaged for her on a mission, a shared cup of coffee on shore leave, the taste of her kiss after she'd just trailed her mouth over every single inch of his body. She was real, she was here, and Kaidan… he could do nothing but hold her tight.
"Where did you go?" He whispered against her neck as he dropped his head down to her shoulder. "Where have you been?"
"Around—I…I've been busy," she gasped and pulled back, not far as he still clung to her. Shepard had to nearly force his hands from her though they resisted, finally lacing their fingers together as a substitute for what he couldn't have. "We should go somewhere quieter," she said, her eyes darting from left to right, a reminder of the crowd they were part of.
Kaidan fixated on her until she tugged at their connected limbs, and then he hurried, never wanting to be far behind. Their hands were folded into one another, but he needed more than that, their shoulders, arms, hips touching as they walked, slipping through the empty spaces among the bodies around them. They didn't cover much ground, stopping only when Shepard spotted a newly vacated chunk of blunt rubble, probably once a piece of a building that had been dragged there and now doubled as a seat of sorts. She pulled him down with her, knees turned in his direction, and immediately pressed her cold palms to either side of his face, thumbs smoothing at the dark spots under his eyes.
"Let me see you," Shepard requested, and like she was performing a cursory mid-battle check of an injured comrade, she tilted his head gently from side to side, looking for new scars instead of fresh bruising and blood, seeing in all the ways the last year had changed him. The grey hairs were still there, perhaps more numerous than she recalled, the creases around his eyes and across his forehead more severe. His eyes, just as amber in color as she could recall, watched her loyally, following her every move, and Shepard couldn't help but think of the baby she'd born with the same shape to his own eyes and brow. She nearly broke at that, but kept herself together, at least long enough to draw herself back to him, kissing the patch of salt and pepper hair, lips lingering against his scalp.
She'd known he was safe, known he had survived, but until now, Shepard hadn't felt it. As sure as she could feel the scrape of stubble from his beard against her palm, Kaidan really was alive.
Her hands fell away, and in the next instant Kaidan was repeating her actions, maneuvering her head, first the good side and then the one that was decidedly more damaged. Shepard shut her eyes, could almost confuse the way he touched and looked at her for the same way Garrus had done when surveying the scars, allowing Kaidan the time to come to terms with what the war had done to her. He traced the line down to her jaw where perfect skin met uneven, healed scar tissue.
"What happened?"
Shepard's eyes opened, meeting his, and for all the seriousness the situation called for, she raised a single shoulder and shrugged. "The Citadel."
Kaidan didn't return her humor, reminded of the fact that Shepard had, in fact, made it up to the Citadel at all. They'd lost contact with her, or that was the story the public had been fed and what Garrus had reiterated to her from what he knew. They'd lost contact and after that the war had ended, presumably due to what she'd done. Just what had occurred up there wasn't for anyone to know but herself, and Kaidan's expression was wrought with the pain of knowing now for certain that she had walked into hell itself for the sake of all of them.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" He asked, dragging a hand down her left arm like he could simply feel the damage beneath her clothes and skin.
"I'm okay," she reassured him, palming the back of his hand with the one from her opposite arm. His movements stilled. "Hurts some days—" Shepard shook her head, "no, every day. But I can manage it."
"Have you seen—I need to take you to a doctor, get you checked out—" Kaidan's words rushed from his mouth.
"I'm alright," she said again. "I had care. Not the best, but enough. I'm okay, Kaidan. Listen to me, I'm okay."
He blinked away the hysterical panic that had edged its way in, taking a deep, calming breath as he stared across at the image that was most definitely not a ghost after all. His brows furrowed as he tried to process the information, the very knowledge that she'd somehow made it through alive. His head shot up sharply.
"Did the Alliance—did they have you somewhere this whole time?"
"No," she said with insistence, shaking her head.
"The Council? Batarians?" And then, the more disgusting thought hit him. "Cerberus? The Illusive Man? No one's heard from him since everything happened, did he—?"
"Kaidan…" she looked away, forcefully finding his hands again and twining their fingers back together. "He's dead."
"Dead?"
A cringe of pain flitted over her features. "Yeah. I—I made him… he killed himself." Garrus had asked on more than one occasion about the events that had transpired in the Citadel. Shepard had been decisively mum about the details, however, and though she'd let slip this one piece of information to Kaidan's ears, that was where it would end. That was behind her, she told herself, even if the nightmares still persisted, and she wouldn't give the past any more power over her than it already had.
Kaidan sensed the delicate nature of her words, keeping quiet. The silence wasn't out of mourning over the man that had caused half their problems, but out of respect for Shepard, for the things she must've seen and done that wouldn't be easy on anyone. Not even her.
"I don't understand," he said, returning to his earlier question. "Who—"
"It was my choice," Shepard answered with haste.
He faltered, drawing away as though he'd been hit by her, that line between his brows more pronounced than usual as he tried to give understanding to her words. "You chose to let us think you were dead?"
Shame ran through her, felt in the warmth of her body, seen in the pink skin as blood rushed to the surface. Shepard let go of his hands and pulled hers back to her own thighs, head hung as she looked down to her palms and relearned the grooves worn into her skin. "I—" She opened her mouth to speak, but Kaidan was louder, cutting her off.
"Was it because of what I said?" He wasn't angry, wasn't accusing. If anything was there in between the lines, it was turned back in on himself. "Because of the things I said before… the way I treated you?"
The quickness with which he spoke clued Shepard in on just how long he'd been thinking such things. She'd thought long ago that to hear his worry over his prior actions would have been healing to her, a balm to her soul where he'd carved her apart. But being on the receiving end in the present wasn't like she envisioned. She just felt guilt.
He didn't deal well with her reticence despite how good he'd always been with it in the past, and when Shepard didn't respond right away, Kaidan turned his body outward, facing the courtyard of the park rather than her directly. Blankly, his eyes followed the life that thrummed through the park, listening to the laughter and chatter, the happiness people shared at being alive. Shepard, he knew, was the reason for that.
Kaidan dropped his elbows down to just above his knees and slunk forward. "I was sure," he began, that husky voice deep and quiet, "that the reason you didn't survive was because of how I was to you that last day."
There was truth to it, but Shepard wasn't about to interrupt. Even if it had been a reason, even so recently as ten minutes before, she couldn't bear to say the words that would serve to further hurt him.
"I kept thinking," his eyes shut, hands rising in the same position as he pressed his fingers to his eyelids. Tears didn't show, but from the quake of his voice, it was apparent to anyone who knew him that he was only just reining himself in. "That I'd ruined what reason you had to come back alive. I'm not… so full of myself to think that I was the most important thing in your life, I know you've had friends that have been with you through more than I have, that have always had your back without question, but I couldn't stop thinking it. The things I said to you, even when we were saying goodbye in London… They have a recording, you know, from when you were talking to Hackett up in the Citadel. I've listened to it a thousand times, if not more. The way you sounded, I could hear your life slipping away. My god, Shepard, until five minutes ago I thought I'd killed you myself, done so much as put the bullet in your chest that ended your life because of the shit I said."
Desperately, she wanted to turn away from him, but found that she couldn't no matter how hard she tried. They'd both played their parts in their last day or two together, the two of them left to deal with the fallout from who she was and the details that had been concealed, and though he was guilty of some of the things he'd said, Shepard knew it had been a confusing time for both of them. To expect him, a man with such a complicated past when it came to the women of her name, to simply accept and cope within a twenty-four hour period of receiving such devastating information… she had to admit it was asking for too much, especially when something as complicated as grief came into the picture.
She hadn't seen what had happened to him after the first Shepard had died, had only heard of the toll it had taken on him secondhand as well as been witness to the treatment he'd dealt to her afterward. This, however, this right here in front of her, was only a glimpse of what she'd imagined he'd lived through now not once, but twice. For so long she'd thought that staying away was the merciful thing for both of them, and while it had provided her with a modicum of comfort when it came to avoiding the real world, it had not only left him broken, but her as well. She'd made such a horrible mistake.
"Why would you do it?"
Garrus had asked a similar question to her those months before. She still didn't have an answer that she believed could justify what she'd done.
"I know I don't even have a right to ask or question or—just anything," he sighed, exasperated. "But all I've done is think since you've been gone, Shepard."
"Why do you call me that?" She asked softly, but genuinely curious. "Before—you tried not to, like I didn't deserve it."
Kaidan winced and then slowly, eventually, sat up straight and looked back to her. "Because you're Shepard." His words were simple as though painfully evident, but before she could protest he was speaking again. "What you did and sacrificed for everyone—Earth—the galaxy—you deserve that name just as much as she did."
Shepard wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, looking away. Moisture was smeared across her cheek bones, the majority of it cleared away but still some remaining. In her chest, she suddenly felt as though a vice had gone slack, releasing the tension it compressed into her heart, a pain she'd carried for so long now that she'd nearly forgotten it was there at all, or that was, until she'd felt the overwhelming relief.
"It didn't feel right to go on living as someone else," she explained. "I go by Katherine now, after my—"
"Your grandmother," he replied for her, "I know."
Shepard's eyelids and lashes flickered through her thickness of tears, and for the first time in a long time, she looked at him with a bit of amazement in her eyes. "You remember that?"
"You told me about her back on our shore leave one night, after Saren. I remember."
There was no hesitation or shift of his words when he talked. No correction of she versus you versus her that had been versus the one that lived. It hadn't been her back then, not really, the memory was from the first Shepard, and yet he chose not to see it that way.
"You don't have to pretend," she started, "not for me—"
Kaidan's head shook. "You and her… I know you're not the same. I know that. And it would be wrong to you and to her to pretend like there's no difference. I don't know when I started to think it—a few months ago maybe. You're different, but you're not, and all of this, it doesn't make you any less real than she was." His hand dropped from her scalp down to her chest, palm slightly off-centered against the top of her ribcage. Shepard startled at the touch. "I know you're real."
It was a conclusion she'd come to on her own, one that had only been reinforced by the people she'd surrounded herself with, by Garrus' reappearance into her life, and by the son she gave birth to. But it didn't make it worth any less to hear it from him.
"I never said I loved her," he said as his hand released. "I felt it, but never got a chance to say it. I said it to you though, and for so long I thought it meant I betrayed her in some way I couldn't even begin to understand. I thought I lied when I said it to you, but I didn't. She gave you a good start—but I cared about you because of you."
Time, they said, healed all wounds. They were both still gaping, bleeding out from the injuries they carried and nursed on their own, but maybe, just maybe, she could feel that light-headed dizziness from the bloodloss begin to fade more everyday.
Shepard leaned into him and across the tiny gap of space that separated their bodies, hooked an arm about his waist as she burrowed her head against his shoulder and neck. It was familiar, and for that fact alone, it was perfect. As Kaidan soothed a hand over the back of her head, their bodies only just barely rocking together, he offered a gentle hum of reassurance. It reminded her in so many ways of how Garrus treated her son when he needed that extra inch of comfort.
"Kaidan—"
"What have you been doing all this time?"
"I—" this hadn't been the plan. The plan included seeing Kaidan and getting him to meet his son and then running away from the damage. She'd hoped for the best, but not prepared for it, and his kind, genuine curiosity was something she didn't know how to deal with. Shepard, like always, went with her gut. She told the truth. "I've been helping civilians—friends," she amended. "Adapting some of the things I learned as a soldier for families instead. Helping them learn how to grow their own food so they didn't starve when their rations didn't come through or weren't enough." She coughed, words caught and voice painfully tight. "You know, I know about farming."
Kaidan kissed her brow and whispered, "I know."
"But… this isn't why I came here."
He stiffened slightly, but tried not to let it show.
Shepard counted to ten. One, two, three… taking careful, measured breaths. When she reached ten she would say what she'd come here for. She wouldn't delay, wouldn't give in to cowardice where she'd so rarely done before in other areas of her life. Nine. Ten. She lifted her head from his shoulder.
"There's something I came here for."
"Is there something you need? Help? Credits? They're not worth a whole lot anymore but things are slowly starting to return to normal…"
Her head shook, trying to derail his train of thought. Shepard pressed her fingers perpendicular to the wide cut of his lips, effectively silencing him.
"I don't know how to say it. I have to show you." Her hand abandoned his lips to instead brush through his thick hair, soft and downy like the mop of it that was atop her son's head. It had thinned some since his birth, but what had been lost had grown back, just as dark and prominent as the man he shared half his DNA with.
Kaidan gave her a skeptical eye, and she could nearly see the refusal there, but it never came. "Then show me."
Her lips flattened out into a tight line together, a terse nod given to him to at least acknowledge his words. She stood, but before he could join her on his feet, she turned back around, hands to his shoulders, holding him where he sat. "I need you to…"
"To what?"
"Whatever happens, I need you to understand something. I need you to understand that I thought I was doing the right thing at the time, but I was afraid, and I'm here… I'm here because I want to make it right."
Kaidan hadn't the faintest clue what she was talking of, but all at once an anxiousness pumped through his veins. The way she was speaking with solemn seriousness left him fearful, but also hopeful, and the most outlandish thoughts ran through his head. Had she somehow figured out a way to bring Shepard—his Shepard—back to them? The thought was ugly and disgusting in so many ways, especially since he knew Cerberus had failed at it years earlier and what little had been left of the first Shepard had been blown to bits back in the Chronos Station. Still, some quiet part of him throbbed with the possibility of that excitement, however outrageous it was, that maybe on the other side of the park a woman looking just like the one before him would be standing, waiting for him. If anyone, he tried to convince himself, could somehow make it possible, it would be this very woman in front of him.
But at the same time, Kaidan knew it couldn't be true, and instead his head returned full of fear of what Shepard was leading him directly towards. He was a soldier and Spectre, a good one, and if he'd been half in his right mind, he would have called for back-up, let someone know what was happening especially when the savior of the galaxy returned from the dead a second time, but he couldn't. He just didn't care. Kaidan nodded up to her, and when the pressure of her hands eased from his body, he stood and started to follow.
Her gait was different from how it had been only fifteen, twenty minutes before when she'd brought them to that seat, her face coming into view as she nervously peeked back at him from over her shoulder, like she was certain he would change his mind. They left the main spread of the park, back to where the sounds of the city, even as torn apart as it still was and would remain for years, buzzed by. Stores, mostly selling the essentials, filled what shops had been repaired, reconstructed, or just shockingly spared in the attacks, and construction was in full bloom. A row of skycars lined the street that edged along the boundary of the park and Shepard's footsteps slowed the nearer they came towards one of nondescript origin.
Kaidan reached for her hand, tugged her to a halt when they were a few feet off her intended destination. "If it's something you don't want me to know… you don't have to," he assured. There was no obligation between them however certain of it she felt, and he wanted her to know of the fact, although mostly he was terrified of what revelation she could make, what truth that could make her as nervous as she was.
She blinked rapidly for a moment, almost considering the way out he'd given her, but Shepard dismissed the idea with a shallow shake of the head after another second's thought. Her lips, the same lips he'd kissed so roughly and so much in the past that he could still recall being swollen and red from his attention, pulled into a forced half smile, off-centered at one corner of her mouth. "No, I need to show you what I've been doing while I was gone. Stay… stay right here."
Shepard didn't go much further, just towards the front of the car and away from where Kaidan lingered by the tail. Her fist rapped on the tinted glass and in response the top rose up towards the sky, the hiss of hydraulics sounding as it did so. From where he stood he couldn't see much into the vehicle beyond part of the empty driver's seat as Shepard put one foot in towards the back of the car to brace herself as she leaned in. She was talking to someone, he could hear enough to know it was dual flanged and that meant turian—he'd forgotten about Garrus he immediately realized, and then in the next thought he understood. Garrus was the stranger in the car, and this had been why he had wanted to meet him. It had been for Shepard.
In his moment of panic and then comprehension, he had missed the transition of Shepard's normal speaking voice into something much more delicate, the words mostly muffled by the auxiliary noises and the car itself that was between them. He'd heard her speak in a number of ways, from commanding officer to lover and everything in the middle, but still there was something different about the tone her words carried. It was soft, gentle, calming. She sounded, he realized, at peace.
Then that beautiful, ethereal voice was broken up by something else: a sharper sound that existed for a second, a whimper that followed, a high-pitched and ungraceful whine. Shepard reacted in time with it, humming and cooing, and the disturbance quieted down, allayed in an instant. Kaidan craned his neck, and just when he could almost catch a glimpse of what it was that she was doing, Shepard stood back up, planting both her feet on the sidewalk, the car door closing behind her. In her arms, she gently bounced a child. No. A baby. She had a baby.
His throat just about closed up at the sight, blanket half falling from her arms as it was loosely wrapped over the child's back and bottom, bare feet sticking out and barely visible. Tiny feet and toes, he marveled, smaller than he ever imagined. It wasn't that he'd never held a child or seen one, just that it had been so very long since he had. Children of a few years old and on up had been orphaned by the tens of thousands by the end of the war, and even Kaidan had interacted with a number of them. But babies… not babies. It was only recently that he'd even heard the interesting fact that maternity wards were starting to become full again as people returned to their normal lives of having children and starting families where they'd been unable to before on a Reaper occupied Earth. Shepard, she was one of those women now, she was a mother.
More fascinating than the feet was the way Shepard was in tune with the child, temporarily ignoring his presence altogether to favor the baby. She kissed its brow, cheeks, nose, and it earned her an appreciate and approving sound. There were sweet little nothings she cooed, a caress she gave to the baby's back, and the way the baby pawed helplessly at her skin, her clothes, even trying to reach some of her hair without much luck. Happy, though. That was the only word he could use to describe mother and child. Happy. And he was too, happy for her, happy that she'd found something that suited her even more than being a soldier ever did, yet still he felt his eyes moisten with tears, trying to hold them back.
"You really were busy," he said, and it sounded far smarter in his head than it did aloud.
Shepard looked up, like she'd almost forgotten about him from where she stood, and that easiness between her and the baby faded a little with a reminder that she wasn't alone. Still, she smiled, this time without a struggle or having to try to hard as she gently rested her cheek against her child's head. "Yeah."
"I'm happy for you," he said a little too quickly and all at once. "That you've found someone, that you're a mother."
His words seemed to wound her slightly, and Shepard just shook her head as the weight shifted between her feet, hips rocking side to side in an effort that calmed both her and the baby that fussed in her arms. "I have someone," she acknowledged with her eyes flicking towards the skycar then back to him.
Kaidan repeated the movement her eyes had done, though it took him a minute to understand. "…Garrus? You and…?"
A tilt of her head was all the acknowledgement she gave before moving on. "But he's not… he's obviously not the father."
Oh. He felt sick. He wasn't sure if he was following her correctly, but the assumption that the father wasn't in the child's life for a specific and unsavory reason, the possibility that such a baby resulted from someone—no, he stopped, placed a steadying hand to the car. Not to her.
Shepard approached him fast enough, reaching out to touch his forearm. "No," she said resolutely. "It's not what you're thinking. Nothing like that."
They made eye contact and that nausea in his gut quelled, though he remained as unsteady as he'd been a moment before.
"Do you need to sit down?"
"No… I'm fine," he lied, leaning up against the car for a little more support while he watched her. The baby in her arms rested its head to her shoulder, tiny little eyes glancing back at him when Shepard's body twisted enough.
"I really think you should," she insisted, but Kaidan just waved her off. Shepard turned slightly and the child's view of him was no longer clear, forcing the baby to lift its head more proactively to eye the stranger. She noticed, and accommodated the child's curious nature, providing a better angle for which the baby to study him.
"Boy?" He asked. "Girl?"
"A son."
Kaidan took in the details of the baby's face, chubby cheeks, a roundness to his soft skin. Eye color like Shepard's, he decided, but not quite the same shape. And that hair, oh that hair, there wasn't an ounce of Shepard in that kid's hair.
Shepard cleared her throat and when Kaidan raised his eyes from the baby to her, she spoke. "Your son."
"What?" He replied without even thinking, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
She withdrew on herself, letting go of his arm to wrap it back around her son, nestling him in close to her as she kissed his scalp, breathed in the clean scent of him. Shepard had been sure of herself half a breath ago and now she wavered where she stood, like his one simple word had been enough to shake her to her core, derail her from where she'd been. "I..," she stammered, "he's yours, Kaidan."
He wished he'd taken that seat she'd offered him. His legs felt boneless, his skin hot all over as he tried, even on the most basic and fundamental level, to make sense of what she was saying. "How—I mean—" Kaidan stopped, the rest of the world gone dark around them. "How old is he?"
"Almost five months."
It didn't take a genius to do the math in his head, to understand that it wasn't some virgin-birth miracle or trick of Cerberus or anything else. The one year anniversary of her supposed death was nigh, and no matter how early or late that child had come still meant his origin, his conception, was in the middle of the very worst of that horrible war's end.
"I didn't come here to force you…" Shepard was rambling, already retreating at the first sign of defeat when it came to the matters of the heart. "I came here because I wanted you to know that you were—that you're a father, that you have a son."
"Please—just stop," he pleaded with her, a hand waving between them mindlessly. "I need to… think."
She did as asked, silencing herself, even giving him the benefit of looking away, eyes distant and unfocused on the people that filtered in and out of the park. A pair of children chased each other on the grass. An older woman—their grandmother, she presumed—watched on. A toddler clung to her father, perched in his arms, giggling. Nathan, in hers, made a neutral gurgle at her, and Shepard came back to the present, looking to her son as she heard the uneasy sounds coming from Kaidan. Shepard ventured a glance back towards him, and his face was hidden mostly by his large hands, a deep shudder shaking through him.
"Did you know… before?" He asked her.
"No—not a clue, not until after."
"And this was why you stayed away?" Wiping the tears from his face, his eyes were red, blood vessels discoloring the white of his eyes. "Because you were pregnant?"
"It wasn't just that, it was knowing who I was and wasn't, not being able to look ahead to the rest of my life pretending to be someone I know I'm not. And when it came to you, I didn't know how I could tell you I was pregnant, especially with how we left things. I thought it would be the best thing for everyone if I just disappeared." Even to her, the words sounded hollow now. That scared woman, alone in that field hospital tent, wounded and broken in so many ways—Shepard hardly recognized her anymore. She wasn't the same person and she liked to think if it had happened now, she would have chosen differently.
"Is he healthy?" Kaidan managed. "Is he okay? With everything we went through and you must've—is he alright?"
She nodded just as quickly as she could. "Kaidan," a beat, and then deep, motherly joy, "he's perfect."
The floodgates opened for them at her last word, both of them seeking the other out and meeting in the middle. His arms wrapped about her and her son—their son—and Shepard returned it with one arm. The baby, with the two adults around him blubbering, fussed at the intrusion, and then sensing on some level that something was inherently wrong, his own face contorted and wibbled, lips upturned dramatically, quivering as a cursory cry was let out. His mother tried to comfort him through her tears, but the baby was having none of it, only growing louder.
"Shh," she hushed, wiping away his tears but not bothering with her own. "It's alright, you're alright," she reminded him once again with that gentle tone of voice she'd used earlier. "Do you know who this is?" Shepard's head nudged in the general direction of Kaidan, even in their close proximity. And then, with much pride, she looked back to the child's father. "This is your dad."
A child that young, there was no understanding or recognition on his face, just vague curiosity through his sadness even as it waned. Kaidan brushed away his own tears, not wanting to look at his son through blurry eyes, and those features that before he'd seen as simply not Shepard's, had changed. They weren't just not hers. Now… now they were his.
"Hi," he said, then glanced to Shepard for approval. "Can I hold him? Will he be okay with that?"
She nodded, beginning the process of transitioning the baby out of her arms and to Kaidan's, the blanket nearly falling to the dirty concrete but Kaidan caught it within his grasp, saving it from being soiled. The child fussed at first, animated and loud as he came to settle for the very first time in his father's arms, but Shepard's influence worked wonders. Her hand comfortingly stroked his back and she moved just enough so she was in constant view of the boy at all times, offering him the safety and reassurance she brought. For Kaidan, it was new and strange, and the moisture that had pricked at his eyes before now returned, spilling as he held his son.
"Perfect," he whispered, repeating the word from before as he looked his son all over, from the tiny fists that alternated between extended fully and balled up, to even the layers of clothing he wore, soft and comfortable. "He's really mine?" He asked Shepard, but it wasn't with the accusation that anyone else could have fathered the baby in his arms. Rather, it was a question of disbelief. "He is," he answered to himself, kissing along the child's forehead and hairline. "He really is." A thought overcame him. "What's his name?"
"Nathan," Shepard replied.
"Good name," he said approvingly, then echoed it on back while looking at and talking to his son. "Nathan. It fits you. You look like a Nathan. God—he even smells perfect."
She laughed. "It's a rarity, I've learned," but she didn't go on, not wanting to spoil the moment with tails of spit-up and diapers and the other, less-friendly things that came with parenthood.
"Tell me about him," he requested, running his fingers down Nathan's arm to one of his hands. "I know he's young, but what's he like?"
"He learned to laugh a few weeks ago, hasn't stopped since." It was strange to think that people were born into the world without all the usual things. Forget talking or anything as complicated as that. But smiling, laughing? Only as of late had Nathan become better able to express the contentment that swelled inside his chest, rather than just his displeasure. "Happy, I'd say. Not a great sleeper, but we manage."
A sudden, horrified thought occurred to him as he caressed down the back of Nathan's skull. "He's not—did you have him checked for eezo exposure? Tumors, biotics?"
"Against all odds," and it wasn't just all the things she'd lived through in the weeks she'd been pregnant but not yet known, but also the fact that she and her son had survived at all, "he's normal. Boring, safe, and normal." She didn't say for now, didn't dare think of the possibility in which her baby's future could change from one day to the next. He was fine, and forever, she believed, he would be.
Kaidan shut his eyes at the relief her words gave him, already feeling at home with his child in his arms. Where Shepard found heaven months before beneath the night sky with Garrus above her and then once again when her son was born; where Garrus had found heaven when he came home to Shepard and her newborn and cradled the two of them in his arms; Kaidan found his version of heaven too, with Shepard—the second one, though that acknowledgement didn't bring the same kind of pain it used to—and his son clutched to his chest. Yeah. It was heaven.
Shepard sniffled, continued to soothe her son by rubbing his back, and then, with a small voice, posed the question that had been hanging off the tip of her tongue. "Why aren't you mad? All the ways I imagined this would happen—it wasn't as good as this."
Forget the guilt he had, the pain that was still vibrant and strong in his chest, forget all of that. Kaidan shifted Nathan, keeping him close but at enough of a distance to look to his face, to study the features and behavior of his son while he spoke. "I woke up this morning like I have for the last year. I woke up and both you and Shepard were dead. I was alone, drowning in work and barely keeping my head above water. I haven't talked to any of our friends in almost half that time, have barely even been down to see my parents when I was nearby. But when I go to sleep tonight… I know Shepard's still gone, she's always going to be—but you're alive. And together… together we have a son. I'm a father. I'm a dad." He allowed his eyes to jump back to her. "From today on out, I'm not alone anymore."
Some of the empty spaces in her life had been filled by the people she'd met, the reappearance of Garrus, her son's face. But there had been some lingering spots that remained unfilled, barren and waiting. Kaidan gave her the hope that maybe she wouldn't have to learn to merely cope with those vacant chasms any longer.
"My parents—can they meet him?"
"Yeah, of course—of course. He should meet his grandparents."
He read her mind. "Yours would be proud of him, of you."
"I think so," she agreed. "I like to believe that even if I'm not really… I don't think they'd turn me away."
Kaidan smiled at her, genuine and warm, and that was all the refuge Shepard needed.
"Tell me about when he was born. Every day between then and now."
There, as the sun shined down upon them in a park in Vancouver, a park where children played on a memorial built for those that had been lost, Kate told Kaidan everything he wanted to hear. And finally, she let the other woman go.
