A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who read and reviewed! We're officially winding down Skin and Bone – two chapters left! But not to worry, because I'm already hard at work with the sequel which will take place during ME3. Please enjoy this chapter and drop a message if you like, telling me what you think. :)
Chapter Ten: The Child's Cry
Shepard's like one of those Russian dolls where every time you open one, there's another smaller one inside. James cannot figure her out. The woman is a goddamned mystery. First, she's all, let's stay professional – something she hasn't moved from too much, except that now she's acting like they're old mates and let's face it, they're not. Hell, she's the one who never used to say much and now he's catatonic – her words, not his – when he clams up for a bit? If he weren't so damn intrigued, he'd be ready to smash somebody's teeth in.
The question is, which one is the real Shepard? Fuck if he knows. He just brings her meals. That's it.
Yeah, he thinks. You just keep telling yourself that, amigo.
That vid was hands down the worst thing he's ever seen, and he saw an entire colony get raped by the Collectors. He was sure that whatever little crush he had on the Commander would be gone after seeing that – and even now, it's still lurking in the back of his mind, waiting to pounce. But then she came out in the bitty robe (okay, not that tiny, but his mind kept cropping it shorter and shorter every time he thought of it) and, well, fuck. She just breezed past him like he wasn't even there, and even though it's not like James hasn't worked with female marines and done the whole co-ed thing, somehow, this was different. He was definitely attracted, damnit.
But really, it was seeing her tinkering on that omni-blade electric fork thing that impressed the hell out of him. Sure, they'd told him she was a techie, but he hadn't really believed them. Then, hell, she had a conversation with him like they were both human beings and it was friendly and way too nice. It's a fucking pain, knowing that she could be that open if she wanted to, but that she won't let herself. He's sure he's never going to get to see that openess again. She was just thrown because of that business with her mom. That, more than the robe thing (which was, to be fair, some pretty substantial proof), made him decide that whoever was in that vid, it wasn't Shepard – not really.
Damn, but if he can't still feel her hand on his arm. Why do things got to be so messy?
He's collecting her mail when he notices a group of people huddled around a vid screen. Lumbering over, he opens his mouth to ask what he's missing, but notices that the tribunal in charge of Shepard's trial is up there. Their faces are grim, and each sits with his or her hands clamped tight in front.
"It is the ruling of this tribunal that Commander Kayleigh Shepard is guilty of crimes against the batarian hegemony. For the interim, Kayleigh Shepard is to be stripped of her rank and confined to house arrest pending further examination of the case and discussion with the hegemony."
Someone shouts, "This is bullshit!" and when everyone turns to him, James realizes it was his voice.
Higgins says, "Can they do this to her? I mean, she's a hero."
Some Private says, "You think? Because in my books, destroying a whole colony does not a hero make – even if they were just batarians."
There are so many things wrong with that statement that James doesn't even know where to begin, so he jumps straight into anger. He's not thinking of Commander Shepard from the vids anymore, he's thinking of the woman who, a few nights ago, shared with him a real fear. He's thinking of the woman who joked with Anderson. Fuck, he's thinking of the woman who came out of the shower shamelessly and then bullied him into talking.
This is an anger he knows well. He used this anger to club in the faces of those batarians on Omega, so unless he wants to join Shepard down the shitter, he better remove himself from people. He does, upset that he has to deprive his fist the joy of breaking that Private's nose.
At Shepard's door, he jams a fist into the interface and marches in. She's standing in the middle of the room, hands behind her neck, staring at nothing. There's no indication that she's seen him at all, so he drops the datapads on the table to get her attention. One of her eyebrows raises, but otherwise nothing changes.
"Have you heard?" he asks.
"Yep," she says.
James waits for – well, anything. Several beats pass, and he says, "Well?"
She shrugs, the movement barely perceptible.
He can't stand it. He slams his hands down on the table, and feels some dark satisfaction at Shepard's unconcealed surprise because at least that's an emotion and not some robotic front. Now who's catatonic he wants to ask, but holds back. He's scratched her surface, and he can see that she's not as unfeeling as she looks. Emotions, he can deal with, one way or another. They're why he beat on all those batarians back on Omega and they're why he enjoys the sound of blood pumping behind his ears now.
"Aren't you angry?" he demands. "They just stripped you of your goddamned rank! They just announced to everyone that you're a fucking war criminal, when you only did what you had to!" He doesn't know when he started gasping for breaths, but he's doing it now and if he were into that psychoanalysis shit, he might think that he's not really talking about her at all, but no, damnit, he is.
The surprise slowly ebbs off Shepard's face. She's barely breathing from what he can tell, but she maintains that one cocked eyebrow. She seems to be considering him carefully. "First of all," she says, voice so low he can barely hear it, with an edge that makes him think, this, this is Commander Shepard, "my rank doesn't make me who I am. Is it a large part? Yeah, I guess it is, but unlike everyone else in this fucking galaxy, I don't think of myself only as Commander Shepard. I existed before I joined the Alliance – maybe not well, but that's not really the point – and seeing as how I haven't snuffed into oblivion right here, I think we can both conclude that I'm capable of existing without it now."
James tries to come up with something to say, something real smart, but all he can do is growl in annoyance. It isn't directed toward her, though, because like it or not, she has a point. No, this is all for him, and it must be written all over him because she takes a few steps forward and puts a hand on his arm for the second time, and he swears she can probably feel his heart thudding just from that touch.
"Are you sure this is really about me?" she asks.
So she really must be a psychic, because that hits a little too close to home. He pulls himself away and goes to stand at the small window that overlooks the courtyard, arms folded in front of him. He doesn't answer, can't answer, but says, "Don't you worry they're going to use this as a chance to wipe away your warnings?"
She moves up next to him and snorts. "What, about the Reapers?" Here she puts air quotes around the name. "Haven't you already heard? They've dismissed that claim. Hard to discredit an idea nobody believes." Shepard sucks in a huge breath. "But, well, Anderson's on my side, and Hackett, so they'll do what they can."
"Me too, ma'am," he says, and at her puzzled glance, "I'm on your side."
Her face softens and it's like she's this whole other person that nobody ever gets to see, and James decides she's right – she is something more than Commander Shepard. These sentimental thoughts are not usual, and he has to push away the urge to touch her, because nothing good lies down that path. Huh, looks like some of her wariness is rubbing off on him.
She shoos him away. "Go on, get out of here. Tonight's your night off, right? Go have some fun – for both of us."
If he could, James would totally take Shepard down to this seedy little bar he loves. He'd buy her all the shots she wanted, maybe challenge her to a game of pool, maybe see if she can dance as well as she can fight. But that's not possible, and they both know it. That's why there's that ring of nostalgia about her.
"I – Yeah, okay," he says, and then he salutes. Just because she's not officially Commander Shepard doesn't mean she's still not the biggest damn hero he's ever met. He makes it to the hall before he hears her jog after him, and can't decide if he's going to help her or not should this be an escape attempt.
But it's not, because she stands just inside the door. "Lieutenant," Shepard says, frowning. "Just for the record – I'm fucking pissed."
She closes the door then, and James decides that if ever someone asks him exactly when it was he started to fall for Shepard, it would be this moment, staring at that door.
o-o-o
His abuela once said that one of James' greatest failings was that he just didn't learn. He'd stick stubbornly to the same tactic until someone poked a hole in it. Even as a soldier, he kept up the practice – just not on the field. In battle, he could adapt, he could change. It was everywhere else that remained the same. Picking up girls? Check. Making friends? Check. Beating up random bar patrons because they insult Shepard? Double check.
That's how he ended up with a black eye, a split lip and a throbbing nose. In the mirror, he's pretty much the same as always, with the addition of a few ego points at the expense of whatever beauty he ever head. He can live with that.
The night before, he'd been sure he could hold back, that he could have fun like Shepard asked him to. It had degenerated quickly when a few political types drunk on too many Bellinis – something James was convinced was Italian for vagina, but whatever – started slandering Shepard. And not just her actions or lack of them, but her. James wasn't about to win any awards for the most PC person of all time, but hell if he was going to sit by and let them throw around words like whore and cunt when they were connected to Shepard.
However bad he looks now, he's sure those cocksuckers look ten times worse. He hopes they have to explain to their bigwig bosses exactly what went down.
He enters Anderson's office and salutes, standing to attention. Anderson takes in his Lieutenant's appearance, an eyebrow raised. "Do I even want to know?" he asks.
The Admiral hadn't been displeased, exactly, when he found James kicking the shit out of the batarians, but he hadn't really been happy either. Knowing that James did the exact same thing once again, only on their home turf this time, well, James keeps his mouth shut on the matter. He just shrugs his shoulders and says, "Probably not."
Anderson waves it away. He holds up one datapad, which James takes. "Bring that to Shepard, would you? And keep it quiet."
"More mail?" says James. "Jesus, she gets more than I do."
"You're not an infamous celebrity," says Anderson with dark humour.
And since James can't argue with that, so he salutes and leaves.
Shepard's on her stomach on the bed, knees bent and kicking at the air, reading a book. A smile touches her face as she turns towards him, then promptly falls off. He doesn't look that bad does he?
"What the hell happened to you, LT?" she says, sitting up and tucking her legs underneath her in one smooth motion. "I told you to have fun, not bash your face into it."
James shrugs. "I'm an all-in sort of guy."
"Clearly," says Shepard dryly.
"Got this for you," he says, tossing her the datapad. "Anderson made me bring it special – very hush hush."
"Maybe it's an escape plan." Shepard's hands flew over the keys, and James saw the message pop up. She scanned the contents, her brows getting lower and lower on her face. Finally, she sighed. "Did you read this?"
He's almost annoyed, before he realizes that it wouldn't exactly be the first time he went snooping where he didn't belong. He holds his hands wide. "I'm innocent."
Somehow, this doesn't comfort her. She drags herself from the bed, tossing the datapad on her pillow and marches across the room. Seeing as how it ends about five meters after it starts, she doesn't have far to go unless she decides to walk the extra two steps into her bathroom. She turns on her heel and marches back to the bed, practically thrumming with energy. "Fuck," she whispers.
"Problem?" he asks.
Shepard recalls he's in the room with her. She shrugs. "I – uh – well, no, not by the usual definition." She sits back down on the bed, but that lasts all of two seconds before she's up again.
James hesitates. "This about your mom?"
What about his statement earns him that befuddled glance, he doesn't know. Shepard's lips twitch, and she chuckles slowly to herself, running the back of her hand over her forehead. He can't help but notice that her hair has grown about an inch since they shaved it, small strands stuck to her forehead.
"I'm not meeting my mom," she says.
"Then I – what? I don't get it," says James, crossing his arms. Had he imagined the whole conversation? No, he hadn't. She'd been all sorts of upset.
"It's uh, well," says Shepard, and this is the first time James has ever seen her embarrassed, eyes downcast. She musters her inner strength and says, "It's my daughter," as if daring him to say something.
But what the hell is he supposed to say to that? That she was a mom was curiously absent from only all the fucking vids and records ever. And even owing for stress and resurrection and shit, she can't be that much older than him. Few years, at the most. If she's a mom, she certainly fits the MILF label to a T – but she must've popped that kid out young, real young.
"Oh," he says. Lieutenant Vega, ladies and gentlemen. Shit.
She's way too entertained by his fumbles, but at least she tries to hide it. "She got in contact with the Alliance. All she had was my first name – God knows how she even got that much – and she wanted to find her birth mother. I guess – I guess I'm it."
"Wow," says James. "That's – heavy."
"Tell me about it," agrees Shepard. She folds her hands on top of her head. "Anderson is arranging a meeting soon." Her whole body sags and she has the biggest oh shit expression on her face he's ever seen. "Damn, I don't mean to lay all of this on you, Lieutenant. You're my keeper, not my damned therapist." And would you look at that, he's got Shepard embarrassed for the second time in minutes. Got to be some sort of record.
"No worries," he says, waving it away. "Expect you don't have many people to talk to, no?"
"Not here, no," she replies. "Still. Professionalism."
"Well, this could be an upside to being a civilian now? You can act however the fuck you want without people getting mad?"
Shepard let out a bark of laughter. "You've got funny ideas about civilian life, Lieutenant."
"Or," he continues on as if he hasn't heard her, trying to act all casual and shit despite the fact that he's sure he's sweating right through his shirt, "you could call me James." It's a risk and he knows it, but hearing Shepard laugh in the face of well, some pretty personal shit, he's prepared for a little risk.
The statement sobers her. "I'll think about it," she says, which is about a million times better than he was expecting.
He's going to leave, really, only now that those barriers are finally coming down, he can't help but ask, "So, there some Mr. Shepard I should know about?"
Shepard snorts. "No way. Can you imagine being married to me? It would be terrible."
James isn't too sure about that one. Half the marines he knows would give both balls to call themselves Mr. Shepard. "I dunno. Could be okay with the right guy."
"What, you volunteering? We gonna elope? You'll reform me from my life of crime?" jokes Shepard, arms crossed.
"I, uh," stumbles James, because really, that was not what he had in mind. Getting hitched? Him? Even to someone like Shepard, that seems a little far fetched. Okay, Vega, let's get real – especially to someone like Shepard.
"Uh huh," says Shepard. "Get out of here." She points a finger out the door, but she's all lit up like the fourth of July, so he's done something right.
He grins at her, saluting. "Aye aye, ma'am."
Goddamn, though, if that Mr. Shepard doesn't resemble himself the longer he thinks about it.
Next Chapter: Anderson shares something even the tribunal can't ignore.