twenty-seven
"Herschel is classed energetic. It flares all the time."
"Really, Wessel? Did you decide that for yourself? Is that your scientific opinion?"
The younger Kaufer scowled at the image of the older. Shepard examined the features of both men and found the older version to be more to his liking. Experience lined Jorge Kaufer's face. Disappointment and humour creased the skin around his eyes. He looked like a man who had weathered life. In comparison, his son's visage seemed artificially smooth. Characterless.
"I can collect data and forward you a full scientific report if you wish." Each word had a bitten quality to it, as if they had been forced from his lips half-chewed. Wessel's jaw tightened as he awaited his father's response.
"I wish. And, Wessel? Make a substantive effort to locate the two missing engineers. Document it."
"Substantive? Doesn't he mean substantial?"
"I don't think he does."
"A half-assed attempt gives Sunshine a better chance to stay undetected."
"Half-assed? Are we adopting Kat's terminology now?"
"If it fits."
It did. Shepard turned his attention back to the woman in question and noted she had found the shower. He could no more stop his mental gaze from tracing the lines of her naked body than he could pretend he could not see. Kat was a tall woman, and well built. Her limbs were long and lithe, the outline of hard-earned muscle obvious beneath her smooth skin. Her shoulders were broad, but not unnaturally so. They angled out over hips just as wide, but curved. The muscles of her thighs and buttocks flexed as she moved, turned to give him a view of her back side.
Shepard could look at her from the front if he wished. He could look through her skin and watch her bones shift, her tendons pull taught and snap back. He could watch blood pump through her veins, lungs expand and contract, follow the path of her small meal through her intestine. Instead, he watched the angled points of her shoulder blades move as she reached up to rub her hands through her short, blonde hair.
He wondered what her hair would feel like. If it would be soft, but still short enough to tickle a palm. He remembered what his hair had felt like. What Jack's hair had felt like when it defied her severe cut.
Unbidden, a memory of Jack surfaced. Him and Jack in a shower, one supplied with water that felt cool against the heat of their skin as they moved together, her pressed against the wall, both legs tucked around his hips. He remembered the taste of her neck, water splashed skin and the hint of something exotic. The tingle of eezo that always greeted his lips when he kissed her, the way her body seemed to buzz beneath his hands, just as his did for her.
Her shorn hair had felt like that. His, too. That tickle across the palm. Maybe that's why they had both favoured such a short cut—though the pony tail had suited her as well. Softened her without erasing the edge that made her Jack, the sharp beauty of her features, the graceful line of her neck.
Grief stabbed through his being, not softened by the memory, by the vague feeling of lust and satiety, need and fulfillment.
Shepard turned away from Kat, unabashed but filled with regret.