Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.

- Senai Destr

Relationships seemed complicated, Shepard mused as he watched Kasumi turn the greybox over in her hands for the hundredth time. It seemed like she should be happy to have those memories back, but she looked grim, her eyes huge and hollow in the shadows thrown by her hood. Shepard looked down at his gauntleted hands before his lingering eyes became awkward for both of them. He couldn't think of a thing to say.

He wasn't a total robot, he'd cared about people very deeply in his life and he still did. He had relationships. But not relationships. That was uncharted territory, a wild blue yonder he had lived his life without ever once setting eyes upon. He didn't think he'd ever slept with the same person twice in a row.

He wasn't ashamed of it but it made him feel inadequate in a way, like something was missing. He couldn't be sure if it was a hole in his life or a hole in himself, and it was too late now to do anything about it. When he felt around that empty, insecure corner of his life his thoughts inevitably strayed to Alenko and that smouldering red anger would bubble up out of its dormancy under his more important emotions.

All in all, he didn't feel comfortable offering Kasumi advice on her feelings at the moment. It was a flashback to the days after Noveria, when he had slapped awkward comforts at Liara in the aftermath of her mother's death. He hadn't know what to say then, either.

He'd asked Alenko for advice, he remembered with a flash of red like a veil of blood pulled over his eyes. Shepard pushed the anger down, smothered it with will power as his fingers clenched tight against his armoured thighs. There were more important thoughts at hand than the rage he felt thinking back to Horizon and the betrayal that sat like a weight in his heart even now. No matter what Alenko was now, they'd been friends once, and he'd asked him for advice

Nothing he could say would be as bad as saying nothing at all, that's what Alenko had told him. It was good advice then, and it was good advice now despite everything that had happened. It had worked out for him, too. He had a habit of stumbling into things at the right angle.

"You know," he began, breaking the silence without preamble, "when I was a kid I always loved the ocean."

"Oh yeah?" Kasumi was polite, but barely looked up from the greybox nestled in her hands.

"Yeah. When things got bad, and they got really bad, I could run down to the beach and swim out, past the breakers and the waves, until I couldn't see the shore. I would face the horizon so it looked like there was nothing in the world but the ocean, just endless blue water everywhere with no Trinidad, or Cuba, or other people. All the blood and terror would stop existing for a little while and I would just float there and feel the sun on my skin. It kept me sane," he laughed, "sane-ish. Sane-like."

"Right," Kasumi was looking at him now, clearly confused. She didn't look annoyed yet, but she was getting all the pieces of it ready just in case their conversation kept going.

"It's been five, or seven, years since I saw that endless blue," he said softly; their eyes met across the shuttle. "And so much of it has been such a nightmare that sometimes I think I might actually be crazy. I miss the ocean so much it makes my skin itch like it's craving saltwater. I think that if someone gave me the means to relive those moments of clarity, that feeling of sanity and belonging... I don't think I'd be able to give it up. And that's just the ocean."

A sad smile touched her lips and she looked down at the precious greybox cradled in her slender hands. They sat in silence for a moment, and Shepard wasn't sure if she was thinking or if he'd made a total ass of himself and she was ignoring him.

"I should delete them," she said finally. "That makes the most sense and I'm only keeping them because I'm being selfish."

"Who cares?" Shepard asked, raising an eyebrow. "If you haven't noticed, the world is ending Kasumi. The Reapers are the only thing that really matters, not some bullshit Alliance political scandal, and when we fight the Reapers we're going to need everything we've got. Take strength where you can get it, and be as happy as you can, when you can, for as long as you can be. That's all any of us can do."

He shrugged.

"But, that said, I'm trusting you to keep that data safe. Political bullshit might be meaningless, but not everyone's as smart as I am so you can't expect them to understand that."

"You... I thought you'd react differently to this," Kasumi said after a moment. "Aren't you a badass?"

"I am badass, don't worry. But ever since Samara started teaching me to meditate I've realized life is a lot simpler than it's made out to be."

"You meditate?"

"Yep," Shepard grinned at her and she laughed. She sat up a little straighter and for the first time since they'd climbed up onto the shuttle she tore her eyes away from the piece of tech in her hands and looked at him. "She even gave me a mantra, though you're only supposed to chant it in your mind."

"That's unfortunate, it would be much easier to make fun of you if you said it out loud."

"The messed up thing is she didn't tell me it was supposed to be internal until I'd been doing it for like fifteen minutes."

Kasumi laughed again, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Shepard grinned at her and the heavy, bitter-sweet air hanging in the shuttle cleared a little bit. Shepard was congratulating himself, silently, and trying not to think about Alenko at the same time. It seemed like he was getting his old tricks back.

"So..." She said carefully when she'd quieted down and become aware of the greybox in her hand again. "You really think it's okay for me to keep it?"

"Look, if I had my way everyone would listen to what I have to say and use my words to run the galaxy, and I think you should keep it. So that's good enough for me," Shepard shrugged. "As for other people... well they don't have to know you have it. I'm certainly not going to tell anyone."

They smiled at each other.

"I like this you a lot better, Shep," she said, "even with the stupid haircut."

"You know I look good," Shepard grinned. "But thanks. I like this me a lot better too. Now let's hit the mess, I could eat a horse, hooves and all."

Appetite had been gone from his life for so long that Shepard had almost forgotten what it was like to actually enjoy eating once in a while. Buying Rupert real supplies had certainly helped that cause, and he'd found his stomach suddenly eager to make up for lost time. Just a few hours ago he'd inhaled a breakfast of oatmeal, poached eggs and maple sausage, but he felt like he hadn't eaten in days. His stomach rumbled audibly as he shrugged out of armour and peeled the hardsuit off, stim and medigel deposit needles pinching hard as they retracted from veins, hot sweat cooling to gel as the suits temperature controls went offline.

He was so hungry he just threw a clean uniform on and chucked his armour into the chute that would take it up to the armoury to be cleaned.

He watched the engineers scurrying across the deck through the high windows as he waited for the elevator with Kasumi. Everything seemed so urgent these days, like it had either six months, or two and a half years, ago before Virmire. Everyone could feel the end lurking for them somewhere near, drawing close like wolves on a blood trail. It made some people urgent, jittery and anxious. Most people actually, at least in Shepard's experience.

Not him. He felt serene, like he was riding a wave of white light. That would fade, he knew, as the triumph of overcoming his own darkness faded from the forefront of his mind but for the time he embraced it and enjoyed it. He tried to be as happy as he could be, wherever he was and for as long as was possible. He grinned to himself as the elevator arrived and carried them up to the crew deck.

The smell hit him as soon as the doors slid open, like a ton of bricks directly to the face, and it filled his mouth with saliva in a second. He gripped the hand rail and breathed deeply, smelling onions and green peppers, pork fat, tomato sauce and cumin, all the explosive flavours that had dominated Havana and even some of the less desperate areas of Trinidad. His stomach rumbled again, more insistent than ever, but Shepard was paralyzed for a moment, soaking in a wealth of fond memories he hadn't even known he had until that moment.

"What is Rupert cooking now?" Kasumi asked, she glanced over at him and gave him a puzzled look as she caught the look on his face.

"Congris," Shepard replied, smelling bacon and black beans. "I smell congris."

"Which is?"

"In a word? Delicious. Come on," he gave her a push toward the door, "I smell sofrito and plantains, brown sugar, chili peppers..."

"Really? Wow, I didn't know Cerberus had made you part blood hound."

"It has its uses, but that perfume you buy isn't actually made from real rose petals. In case you thought it was."

"What? That's what it says on the bottle."

"Nope," Shepard tapped the side of his nose knowingly, "you can't fool this thing anymore. Chemical perfumes smell like broken glass and barbed wire, and that is definitely chemical."

"Thanks," Kasumi rolled her eyes as they turned the corner into the mess. "Any other advice you can offer me?"

"Those boots really don't go with that hood."

"Shut up," she punched him lightly on the arm and laughed with him as he pretended to be grievously injured.

Rupert said it was a thank you for getting the crew some real food. There was indeed congris, rice and beans cooked in pork fat with chopped bacon, and ropa veija beef swimming in thick tomato sauce. For desert he had flan with caramel and plantains fried in brown sugar and butter. Shepard could never remember food having ever been this good. His cybernetic senses had amplified all the worst parts of food before, but now it felt like every flavour was exploding on his tongue.

He took his time. The mess hall was basically empty and Rupert was getting ready to clean up when he scraped the last traces of flan off the tray and licked his spoon clean. He surveyed the ruin the crew had made of the delectable lunch and an idea occurred to him. He had Rupert put together a tray from what was left and carried it to the elevator and down, to the engineering deck.

"Look who it is," Jack was reclining on her cot with her legs braced up against the wall, her nearly naked torso stretched out so every muscle popped under her pale skin. "What smells so good?"

"Cuban food," Shepard announced, setting the tray down on her desk. "Gardner can actually cook if he gets his hand on actual food."

"Really?" Jack cocked an eyebrow. "I wouldn't think you'd like Cuban food."

"Why not?" Shepard stole a handful of plantain chips and settled back in the chair as Jack pushed herself to her feet and examined his offering before sitting down on the desk and balancing the tray in her lap.

"On Pragia we ate rations nearly every day, but once in a while, when the supplies came in I guess, there'd be fruit. Not fresh, I only got any when it was about to go bad. Mushy bananas, dry old apples, a few chunks of soggy pineapple, it was all great at the time but now..." She made a face. "If it's not fresh it makes me sick to my stomach, literally. I would have thought..." She trailed off and covered herself by trying the ropa veija.

"Well old fruit isn't exactly like fresh plantain chips," Shepard said, crunching appreciatively on his pilfered handful. "But I get what you're saying. There are some things that have the same effect on me."

"Like what?" Jack wasn't looking at him, it was like she was having the conversation with her boots. Shepard thought it probably made it easier for her to pretend he wasn't there, so he just settled back, crossing his ankle over his opposite knee and thinking for a moment.

"People with knives scare the shit out of me," he said honestly. "Cerberus erased them when they brought me back, but I used to have scars all up and down my sides from knife wounds. Even when I'm in full armour every time someone pulls a knife on me it feels like I'm getting stabbed all up through my guts with icicles. I feel the same way when I see drugs, or people using drugs. It makes me dizzy and nauseous, like I can't breathe."

Jack looked up for a second, he caught a flash of blue eyes before her chin ducked in again and she returned her attention to her boots.

"I didn't have you pegged as a junkie," she said.

"I was. Red Dragon, heroin and red sand in a hypodermic. I popped myself until my veins were shot, I'd show you the track marks, but Cerberus took care of those too. I'm not sad about that, I hated always wearing long sleeves," he rubbed self consciously at the veins on the inside of his elbows, an old habit from when they used to hurt all the time.

"Fuck. That's... fucked up. You seem so normal," Jack shook her head and laughed. "Well, not normal. But not fucked up like that."

"I was really fucked up," Shepard swallowed around the ball of difficult emotions brewing in his chest, "for a really long time."

"But you're not anymore?"

Shepard sighed, working bits of plantain out from between his teeth with his tongue as he considered his answer. Ever since the incident on Pragia Jack had seemed different, less aggressively abrasive and defensive. Shepard was beginning to get the impression that there might be a real person in there, somewhere, if not an entirely well-adjusted or normal one. Very few interesting people were normal, in his experience.

"I'm not normal," he said finally. "You were right about that. I was six, or maybe five years old the first time I saw someone die,m it's one of my earliest memories. I was eight the first time I killed someone, and I was twelve when the Reds picked me up and threw me into the pit. I was never innocent. There's no normal way to react to living through that, Jack. It's too intense and insane for anyone to go through it and come out the same as everyone else."

"I get that," Jack snapped, sounding annoyed. "But you've got it together, Shepard. You aren't totally fucked."

"Maybe. Maybe not," Shepard shrugged. "I don't know. But I survived that, I pulled myself out of it with my bare hands. And if I can survive that... I can survive anything. And if I can survive anything, then I don't have anything to be afraid of."

"I'm not afraid," Jack snapped, looking up at him with her eyes smouldering.

"I'm not talking about you," Shepard replied, cocking an eyebrow at her. "You asked me about me."

Jack glared at him.

"Right. Okay, maybe I'm beginning to get what you said about us not being so different. But I don't know how you got through all that and wound up being you," she glared at him, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her gaze was intense, almost angry, and she crossed her arms across her chest defensively as her lunch got cold. "How does a junkie become a war hero?"

"By being smart," Shepard said honestly, "and finding something worth living for."

"Like what?" Jack asked. Her voice was softer than before, less angry. There was a hunger in it, a deep, painful longing that Shepard recognized from his memories of himself just a few years ago. Just a few days ago, in truth, while he had still been reeling from an entirely different sort of struggle.

"Being alive. There's so much worth seeing in the galaxy, alien oceans full of beauty to swim in, good food to eat, good jokes to laugh at... being alive is great. Take it from me," he shrugged and laughed helplessly, "I died. You'd much rather be alive."

Jack stared at him for a moment, blinking, and then looked down at her food. She tried the flan and made an approving noise, gathering up a heaping spoon of creamy vanilla and caramel sauce.

"This is good," she said after she had swallowed. "You're a weird guy, Shepard."

"I take that as a compliment," he assured her, wiping brown sugar off his hands and standing up. "Now I have to go read up on Quarian customs. We've got one last stop to make before we get that Reaper IFF and launch ourselves through the mouth of hell. So you'd better enjoy that flan while you can."

"Right sir, commander sir," Jack rolled her eyes. Shepard turned to go when she called out to him one last time.

"Hey, Shepard," she said, licking a spot of caramel off her thumb. "When you died... what did you see?"

It was a question everyone else had done a pretty good job of dancing around, no doubt expecting him to offer the information if he felt comfortable enough to do so. Not with Jack, the woman had the same reckless lack of understanding when it came to social situations that he did, but slightly less of an instinct when she tried to engage in them anyway. It made talking with her difficult, and that black question was no exception. Not because he didn't know what to say, but because he didn't know whether he should lie or not.

"It's hard to remember," he said, starting honestly, "it gives me headaches when I try. Like there's a hammer on the inside of my skull pounding out of those memories every time I try to take a look. But lately I... I think I remember most of it. It was like... like riding a roller coaster in the dark, everything always rising and falling, folding into itself, spiralling down into this penetrating black cold..." He trailed off, the image of it rising in his mind along with one of the headaches he had just described for her.

"There was nothing," he said finally. "Just freezing blackness stretching into eternity." He looked at her and shrugged, helplessly. He felt empty after saying it. "There was nothing."

"You know," Jack sighed, "I almost find that comforting. At least no one's getting any kicks out of watching me fuck up."

Shepard laughed.

"I find it comforting too," he said. "But not for the same reason."

Every moment, every breath, every heartbeat while he was still here and alive rather than wrapped in that cold was worthwhile. It was worth all the fighting, all the pain, all the burdens he had to bear to spend one moment laughing with Garrus or trading math jokes with Tali, or even talking to Jack. If this was all there was, Shepard intended to make it count and enjoy the memories, like running drunk through the ward alleys, like swimming in the ocean, and blowing up volus action figures on the Presidium.

There was so much worth living for, and so much worth dying for. How could he ever be unfulfilled?