Chapter Text
Even now, when Shepard opened his eyes, he saw death. He saw death in great streaks of red, in the imperious monolithic voice of the machines. He saw death as she plunged off a cliff. They were dreams of course; God, of course that’s all they were. After all, the Reapers were dead, all gone.
But corpses and death have a way of following us even into our dreams.
John Shepard slid out of his bed. He grimaced when he stood up, his back wouldn’t ever quite be the same. The voice of his mother echoed dreamily in his head:
‘Stand up straight, John. Soldiers don’t slouch.’
Perhaps, perhaps not. But today, in the here and now, John Shepard slouched. He figured that he’d earned the right to. Besides, Admiral Hannah Shepard was just as dead as any Reaper, so the only place she could ever scold him was from within. He could control that. He should control that. But he didn’t…or was unwilling to. Maybe he just wanted to hold onto this last little bit of her, regardless of the price.
Huddling over the sink, his plans were blown out of the airlock when he saw his reflection. It was just a glance, but it was a glance of a retreating ghost with ebony circles engraved beneath each of his inhumanly crimson eyes. Shepard yelped in surprise, stumbling back against the cool metal wall behind him. He shook his head, and when he chanced to look upon the reflection again, crimson had been replaced with azure, just as God intended. Sweat licked down his forehead; he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
“Right. Get a grip, Shepard.” He breathed deeply and metronomically. He breathed until his thoughts had been evacuated with the rest of the refuse that swam around inside his head.
“Good morning, Shepard. You have an elevated heart rate and your blood pressure has spiked. Do you require medical assistance?”
The man ground his teeth together, his jaw overcome with tension. The medical VI that Chakwas had prescribed (and was irrevocable, he’d been told) did little more than remind him of all the things he no longer was.
“No, I do not require medical attention.” He pushed the words from his mouth like houseguests that have stayed long past their “best by” date. There was a pause during which the only sound was that of his steady, calm breathing.
“Very well. I shall remain on standby.”
Thank fuck for that.
The subtle glow that permeated every square inch of the Citadel annoyed him, like an itch whose epicenter was on the underside of his skin, attached like a bat and hanging from the inside. The glow was ethereal, unreal, artificial.
Artificial.
He winced at the involuntary twitch in the fingers of his quite artificial left hand. Thankfully, his coffee was held in the other so he wouldn’t have to pay for a replacement - something that he would be adamant about doing despite the protests he almost always received.
‘It’s on the house!’
‘No, no. Your credits are no good here. Not after everything that you’ve done.’
‘No charge, sir.’
He hated it.
The praise was just as fake as everything else was - like the lights, the gravity, the happiness, the normalcy of it all. How could everyone pretend like things were normal when it was anything but?
He passed the faces in the hall with a series of well-practiced nods. The names didn’t really matter, there were too many to recall. They smiled up at him every time he ghosted by. The smiles were full of life, and he appreciated the sincerity, but he found it so hard to reciprocate when there was so much of himself that felt hollow - as if someone had scooped out his insides and left the shell of a man that remained.
Sighing, he stepped into his office and raised the lighting to level three - just enough to read by while the windows that opened onto the promenade provided the rest. As was his custom, Shepard’s eyes were drawn to the photo of his old crew, posed and smiling on and around the couch of Anderson’s old apartment. The photo - from another time, another life - never failed to kindle that odd brackish mix of warmth, sadness, and that particular brand of melancholy that came with reminiscence of times and places and friends that will never be again. The photo pulsed with a synergy of friendship and love that had latched onto his heart and wouldn’t let go. Shaking his head, he shuffled to his desk to begin yet another day of unfulfilled promise.
John Shepard sighed as he reread yet another message from the Minister of Defense informing him that once again, the Blue Suns (who somehow managed to survive the War) were acting in the Traverse once again. He cursed under his breath. He read it again. He cursed again. This time not just under his breath, but loud and proud and well above his breath.
Of course a conflict that wiped out every artificial sentient lifeform and nearly two-thirds of all organic life in the galaxy would somehow fail to eradicate the vermin that had operated underfoot and in the shadows. He recalled that cockroaches had managed to survive the bombardment of London and thought that there was a parallel to be found there.
He just didn’t have the manpower to root them all out.
To be honest, sometimes he thought he preferred the roaches.
Otherwise, the day passed uneventfully, exactly as he had expected it to. Being the de facto CO of the newly reformed Spectres came with a whole host of responsibilities that he hadn’t been prepared for. Gone was his ability as a soldier in the field; gone was his natural ability to lead and react under fire; gone was his ability to inspire trust and bravery and confidence when the shit invariably hit the fan.
Instead, he was approving sick leave.
He glanced away from the display, casting his eyes to the model of the Normandy - the first one, his favorite - that stood elegantly to the side of his monitor. Within her sleek curves, he had spent the most fulfilling months of his life. That ragtag crew had become something akin to family, yanking affection from him (whether he wanted to or not, his desires be damned) that he hadn’t known he possessed.
“Deep thoughts, Shep?”
He immediately grabbed his sidearm as his eyes snapped to the source of the silky-smooth voice of an old friend. His heart felt like it skipped a beat, but otherwise remained just as placid as ever.
Few things measured up to staring down a Reaper and keeping your underclothes unspoiled.
Reapers, he amended.
“Kasumi Goto. You shouldn’t be here.”
Obvious, but then he always knew what to say. His eyes trailed her body. The corner of his mouth quirked up. He forced down a smirk. “A yukata? Really? When did you get so traditional?” She stood up from where she’d been seated on the couch with a sigh. The robe-like outfit was vibrant and colorful, floral patterns of pink, purple and yellow adorned it. She walked toward him with a practiced sway of her hips.
“Now now, Shep. Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Her mouth curved into a smile from under the shadow of a hood that matched the yukata. Something about that smile set him at ease. He holstered the sidearm.
He might have missed that smile. Too many smiles, really, but hers in particular because he’d always held a certain fondness for the most endearing criminal he’d ever met. That list wasn’t as short as it probably should’ve been, and he’d definitely preferred her to Zaeed.
“No, I suppose it isn’t. But normal friends tend to ring the doorbell, or at least warn me ahead of time.”
Her smile morphed into a grin. “Shep,” she began seriously, “when have you ever known me to be ‘normal’ about anything?”
He thought about it, searching for a retort. He came up wanting. “Fair point. I stand corrected,” he answered instead.
“Of course you do.” Her fingers played at the edges of her hood as she looked down.
They made their way back to the couch, sitting on opposite ends. An odd little silence settled over him, but Kasumi seemed nonplussed.
“It’s been a while, Kasumi.”
She glanced away before returning her eyes to his. “It has.”
Another few beats of silence.
“Nice place you got here.”
He shrugged. “’S’all right.”
Kasumi glanced around, appraising. “A little sparse though. No idyllic landscapes or waterfalls hanging from the walls? Just the Normandy on your desk and your crew on the wall.” She clicked her tongue and frowned at him. “I don’t remember you being this boring.”
The ball of tightness in his chest unraveled some. “I’ll have you know that I was always this boring, Miss Goto.” He gave her an up-nod. “I don’t remember you being this colorful.”
“Touché.”
For some reason, the small exchange settled him, and he allowed himself to relax as they exchanged the odd back-and-forth that came with long-absent friends being freshly reunited. The conversation itself was unremarkable; she inquired about his life, he gave her mundane platitudes but with an earnestness that belied the plainness of of it all. He asked about her, and she responded in kind. For its shallowness, he could tell that she was holding back, just as he was with her. It had been obvious, like they weren’t trying that hard to remain so guarded but needed to remain hidden behind their walls for the sake of keeping up appearances. It was a slow dance held at arm’s length, and they smiled at each other through it all. A thought struck him, interrupting the conversation.
“I have to ask: how long were you in here before you decided to show yourself?”
Another shadowy smirk. “Long enough.”
“Long enough for what?”
Kasumi stood up. “Well, would you look at the time.”
John grinned. He knew this game. He’d prodded just a bit too much. Instead of frustration or annoyance, he quite enjoyed the little evasion. “I have.” He rose as well, mirroring her and glancing down at Kasumi’s mouth - the most prominent feature she allowed to be seen - before meeting her eyes again. “We should do this again.”
A small laugh escaped her. “What, sit on your couch and make a show of masking what we’re not saying?”
He grinned back at her. “Well, yeah, of course. But we could at least do it over dinner. If we’re going to not-say things to each other, we should at least have good food to soften the blow, yeah?”
A curve of a smile appeared. “Are you asking me out on a date? How shameful - the head of the Spectres consorting with a notorious criminal like me!”
“If I was, what would you say?”
Her shadowed smile remained as she turned on her heel. “I’ll see you ’round, Shep.”
Her yukata flickered once before leaving her gray stealth suit in its wake. As she exited his office, her body disappeared in a flash of digital camouflage.
His subtle smile remained long after he got home.
The more days that passed between Kasumi’s surprise visit and whatever day "today” happened to be, the harder it was for Shepard to convince himself that the whole experience wasn’t little more than a rather unusually pleasant fever dream. Once, he had even reviewed the video logs from that day. You know, just to be sure.
John wasn’t at all surprised to find that for the hour or so that they’d talked, the footage somehow only showed him working diligently at his desk. He had laughed pretty hard at that.
Otherwise, his life passed as it always has since he became something other than a recovering hospital patient. He awakened, usually from a rather unpleasant dream (save for a few involving a knowing smile and a flowery yukata that he thought were perhaps a tad more pleasant), before he went through his usual pre-work routine. The work day would pass as uneventfully as the last, and each day somehow left as indelible a mark on him as a dry sponge. If he could collect these days like sponges, he reckoned he’d never want for cleaning supplies.
Currently, clear water lapped at Shepard’s toes while he leaned his weight into hands that pushed back against soft sand. It’s warm against his skin, the heat from the artificial sun sank deep into the grains of the beach. With a sigh, he leaned all the way back until the curve of his spine rested flat against the heat. He tugged at his shorts, straightening them over his thighs, self-consciously trying to cover the long scar that creased his left thigh. Then his arm was thrown over his eyes while he listened to the soft murmur of water rolling over the shore before it retraced its steps only to repeat the process again and again. He could relate.
Sometime later, the sound of sand crunching under a certain Turian’s boots awoke him. John didn’t open his eyes, nor did he move his arm.
“Just how long have you been out here?”
Garrus.
“Long enough to have fallen asleep. Why are you here?”
He heard his friend sit down next to him. “I’m here to see you, of course.”
John snickered. “You should get a hobby then.” He sat up with a grunt, the worn hinges of his body groaning with the exhausting task.
“Oh, and miss your incomparable company? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He frowned. “Maybe you should.”
A sigh drifted into the air. “What’s going on with you, Shepard?”
John scrunched his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He pulled his knees to his chest, pondering just how much he wanted to reveal. He thought about telling him of the times he woke up with a scream in his throat because Garrus had been turned into a husk, or when Liara’s hideously monstrous bulk stalked him and screamed at him like a banshee. Or maybe about all the times he was certain that Tali was dead, just like the rest of her people because they’d failed on Rannoch. Or maybe he could describe for him in exquisite detail what it smelled like as he waded through a sea of blood and corpses while he made his way through a ruined Citadel to parlay with the Reaper AI.
Maybe he should tell him about all the bedsheets and underclothes that had needed unexpected laundering.
“It’s hard to say. I just feel worn out, I guess.”
Or maybe he shouldn’t tell him.
When Garrus spoke, Shepard refused to look at him. “I get it. We all are -”
John squeezed out a breath.
“- but that hasn’t stopped us. The galaxy still keeps going.”
He was silent for a while, before he stood up and plastered a fake smile on his face. “You’re right, Garrus. Everyone needs to do their part.”
The Turian’s hand clasped his shoulder; he had to fight the urge to rip it off his body. “You’ll be all right. Maybe go talk to Michel? See if she can give you anything?”
Oh yes, he’d never ever thought about getting a prescription to sleep better. Sleeping wasn’t the problem, he wanted to say, it’s the shit that happened during said sleep that really fucked him up.
“Yeah, I might do that.” Garrus removed his hand, seemingly satisfied, and John could finally breathe again.
“Well, Shepard. I’m going to head back to C-Sec. I was on lunch anyway. We’ll catch up soon? Maybe drinks?”
“Yeah, yeah. That sounds good. I took the day off, so I’m gonna stay here a bit longer.”
Please leave me alone please leave please
“All right. I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah,” he muttered while hiding his relief, “see you.”
He immediately sat back down on the sand with a grunt, watching as artificial light shimmered off the surface of an artificial lake.
“See you.”