Part of a series - Observation & Engineering, John, Oblivious, Solace, Loved & Lost - but can work as a standalone. Bit angsty, this one - the aftermath of Shepard's death.
Two-parter, so expect the conclusion on Monday.
Belonging
1
-Tali'Zorah vas Neema-
There is no body at the funeral that she can barely bring herself to attend; she stares at the coffin that she knows is empty.
Joker nods to her in acknowledgement, and she does likewise. She looks around for Adams for a few moments, then remembers.
Adams is dead.
She sells the black enviro-suit, the one she wore to the engineers' funerals, Shepard's funeral, and to her mother's - she intends to make sure she will never wear it again.
They call her vas Neema - her ship - but she does not belong here.
The corridors are too dark, the engines too loud, and no matter how many times she tries to become used to it, paces the corridors, it is never quite right. She is never quite right.
She belongs on the Normandy, with Shepard, and in the mornings she wakes up thinking she is in Engineering, until she remembers that there is no Normandy, no Shepard, anymore, and there is nothing she can do to stop the tears that fall, unseen, inside her helmet.
She hears the rumours, knows that there are those that talk about her never quite being the same "since that human's ship went down", but no-one realises why. He was a human, an alien, she a quarian - of course she couldn't have had... feelings for him.
Tali'Zorah sits in the darkness, the dim light of the omni-tool sending a glow onto her face; the atmosphere has been properly adjusted, and now she has taken her mask off.
He never even got to see me smile.
The thought sends more tears running down her face, and, seeing the others of the crew sleeping around her, she tries very quietly to muffle her sobs.
For months, she tortures herself, looking up endless reports of the crash, reading the death toll over and over, and it is always when she reaches his name that she has to look away before she crumbles.
The pain fades, eventually - it has to, otherwise how would she function?
Not completely - there is an ache in her heart for him, right next to her mother's, and she knows from experience that it will never quite disappear - but the crying stops, and the dreams stop.
She misses the dreams - they're the sweetest kind of torture; she is always back at the crash, always, and this time, Joker does get in the escape pod, and so does Shepard. They are safe, he is with her, and, even with the ship crashing and burning behind them, all is right with the world.
She always used to wake up just as she was about to speak to him.
Even after the dreams stop, when she works in Engineering in the Neema, she always half-expects to hear armoured - but gentle, always gentle, in an attempt not to surprise her too much - footsteps behind her.
Expects his voice, calling in a favour, asking her to fix something he's inevitably broken; expects the smile that he still gave her every day, never knowing whether she was returning it - it was the highlight of her days, but, of course, she didn't tell him that, because she was a quarian, and he was a human, and the kind of smile she wanted was one he'd never be able to give her.
She expects the extra protein paste he was always so careful to stock, knowing she needed it, admitting it was disgusting and promising her that one day, he'd take a look round the Citadel and get some proper food that they could both eat. Her heart soars at the memory, dropping to the floor as she realises that she'll never hear that promise again.
Then, one day, she stops expecting, even half-expecting.
She knows that she is seen as an adult now, has a ship, and that she should really sell the enviro-suit she's had since she was sixteen, the one that she served on the Normandy in. After all, she has a new one waiting for her, they need supplies, and it is pointless keeping it because of some kind of foolish... attachment.
So, the next time they stop on Ilium, she does.
The dull ache is still there, but she lives with it; it fades into the background, he fades into the back of her mind, always there but not all she thinks of anymore.
The ache turns sharp, however, when she sells the enviro-suit, and there are still nights when she stares at the ceiling, thinking.
Thinking of him; basking in the memories, memories that make her smile before she realises that they are remnants of a past long gone.
The dark corridors become comfortably lit, and the loud engines become quiet background noise (how could she ever have slept in the Normandy's near-silence?). She isn't quite sure when this happens.
Her father congratulates her on seeming to have recovered, gives her orders like the Admiral he is. He has never asked what Shepard was to her, and she knows him too well to expect him to.
They try, standing awkwardly on three-toed feet - Not five, she thinks, quickly quashing the thought - with suggestions of visiting their ships, sometimes gifts, and almost every time she knows it is because her father is an Admiral. Often it is because they are obvious enough to question her about his health straight after her own. She dismisses them, making clumsy excuses.
She pretends that the dull ache doesn't turn sharp every time they try. She pretends not to remember that even Shepard was impressed - "You're royalty?" - before she hastily corrected him.
Still, she turns them away, pretending that it isn't because there is no space in her heart for anyone else.
Not yet.
It has been two years, and sometimes the memories are fuzzy - she can no longer remember the Mako's numberplate, or Kaidan's favourite film.
Whenever she thinks of Shepard, they snap into focus, however, as if they were yesterday; she denies that it means anything.
She is given short notice about the mission, and her father is all-business while standing with the Admiralty Board, barely giving her a nod before sending her to this strange new planet.
Freedom's Progress.
A small, ridiculous part of her believes that nothing bad can happen down there. The name is... hopeful, somehow.