Disclaimer - I'm not affiliated with BioWare, don't have any claim to the Mass Effect universe or its characters, and don't receive any compensation for writing this. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

A/N: So thus begins another work. Sometimes my mind travels to strange places, and this is one of those times. This is the prologue and frame of what will eventually be my "Mosaic Project" - a series of non-narrative, stand-alone vignettes framed as interrogatories and written in a variety of structures (some more lyrical than others). It's about Ash and Shep coming to know each other in all the mundane and wonderful ways that two people can share, and it was that silence and complete lack of sharing that struck me so about the relationship in ME1 and ME2. They love each other, know each other – but do they really? And will they be copacetic with all that they learn? As it's a memory mosaic, each piece will be color-themed, and I am going to publish them separately – it's designed to not need a frame of reference, beyond this prologue, and I don't want to be confined to chapters (that whole non-narrative, non-linear thing). A conversation ebbs and flows and goes strange and unexpected places; so shall Mosaic, I foresee, as I write. And I'd really love to have suggestions of what to explore - you know, if anyone reads this. I don't know what the future holds, but I do know it holds Shepley. :)

Background now: Ash and Shep have reconciled and she's on-board the Normandy, though something is still rotten in the state of Denmark, so to speak. Shep is a Colonist, War Hero, and Vanguard, and is such a syrupy-sweet Paragon that those around him are at risk of getting cavities.

She lightly dragged the point of her knife across the firm flesh beneath her, pausing only as she reached the edge, and viciously and deeply jabbed the tang completely through to strike against the surface behind it. Levering her other hand to steady her blade, she repeated the motion, delighting silently in the warm, seeping blood as it formed a puddle beneath her target.

A deep, throaty chuckle brought her attention to the man sitting across from her at the table. "For all that it's dead and grilled, I almost feel bad for your steak."

Shepard studied her curiously, deep blue eyes dancing with obvious amusement. He added gently, "Are you going to tell me what's bothering you? You don't usually torture your dinner."

Though there were many ways to relieve frustration in life, for a person of few words, violence could prove strangely and satisfyingly cathartic.

"It's nothing," Ashley grumbled, still stabbing her steak with slow, vicious thrusts. "It's stupid, really. I'm just … irritated."

"I can tell," he replied evenly, the tiniest hints of a smile creeping across his lips. "Well, I'm glad you're torturing the steak and not me." He set knife and fork down with a heavy clank against his plate as he lifted his elbows to bring to rest atop the table, hands folded, chin leaned against them. "I'm listening."

Oh, but how she was torturing him!

Through laced fingers, he sneaked a quick glance at the plate in front of him: he delighted in the sight of the enormous, buttery heap of mashed potatoes (light and delicious – like a tasty, pristine mound of fluffy cloud), the generous slab of perfectly-cooked meat (and the crosshatch of grill marks already there, to provide a guide by which he would gladly cut), and the pilings of salted and peppered broccoli (little trees covered with ash and snow, standing proud on a porcelain plateau just waiting to be chopped down and eaten). Keeping any man from enjoying a well-prepared dinner was difficult; keeping a very hungry biotic from enjoying one was almost criminal.

It was their familiar pas de deux – she would gracefully dance about the issue for a movement before leaping grandly, and he would catch her – though it tried his patience at the moment. She had finished the first dance, her entrée, and he had met her in adagio, now beginning their variations before the blissful coda – after which he could finally eat.

Shepard had long since recognized that Ashley Williams was not the type of woman to prattle on about wants, needs, and feelings – something he greatly appreciated – but when she wanted or needed to talk, it was something that warranted his full attention.

Dinner would have to wait.

She quietly grabbed the bottle of Cabernet sitting in the middle of their table and refilled first her glass and then his. What she had to say needed wine? His eyes widened. Oh, glory – dinner would be waiting awhile.

Noting his reaction, she sighed and turned to stare at the massive fish tank spanning the far wall.

"Ash, please don't stab my fish," he pleaded gently, the laughter returning to his voice. "I have a hard enough time keeping them alive as it is."

A scowl was her only reply.

Sighing, he lifted his head from where it rested and collapsed his hands. Carefully reaching across the table, he brushed a large, calloused fingertip against the top of her hand, persuading her to loosen her grip on her favored utensils of destruction. "Now, will you tell me what's going on?"

Noticing those deep brown eyes still locked on the happily swimming fish in the tank, Shepard stole another small peek at his dinner. He longed to jump into that mountain of potato, to ensconce his tongue in sweet, starchy, buttery...

She complied, dropping knife and fork at his fingertip's persuasion. Turning to face him, Ashley suddenly felt an unexpected pang of guilt. She had expected to meet his eyes, features perfectly arranged into one of his patented charming and patient "Commander Shepard is listening to you" looks; instead, her gaze fell squarely on the top of his head.

Of all the times to be consumed by her own insecurities and acting selfishly … She cursed silently, pulling Shepard's hand completely into hers. The morning's mission had required an unexpectedly heavy reliance on the two biotics who had gone ashore, and, unlike Jacob, Shepard hadn't a chance to eat anything more than a quick snack of peanut butter and celery before being drawn into a seemingly endless series of debriefs. Jacob would have depleted all of Rupert's food stores had Miranda not scolded him and dragged him away from the mess; Shepard must've been starving.

She laughed as the man snapped abruptly upright, color rising to his cheeks.

"You should eat," she instructed, giving his hand a firm and affectionate squeeze before releasing it.

"But, something's bothering you, and I want to listen."

"You can listen and eat."

"… Is this a trap?"

She ginned and lifted her fork once more, hefting her plate with her other hand as she gently scooped some of her mashed potatoes onto his pile, already three-times larger than hers. "Skipper, I don't lay traps."

Taking that as a cue, he grabbed his fork and dug into the now-enhanced mountain, his hand moving greedily. "That's true. So … I'm eating. You talk."

"It seems really stupid now."

Shepard was making quick work of the potatoes. Between bites, he mumbled, "If it is really stupid – and I don't think it is – at least we'll get a good laugh." He paused to cut his first bit of steak, knife perfectly tracing along the hatch marks left from the grill.

"You know, Ash," he began thoughtfully, hands and eyes still occupied, "if you keep burying things, sooner or later you run out of room in the backyard."

The corner of her mouth tugged upward into a small, involuntary grin. "I really hate your fortune cookie logic. But, you're right."

She set down fork and plate and drew a long swig of her wine, fingers gently wiping away the small dribbles gathering at the corner of her mouth. She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes steady on him. "The crew treats me as a walking Encyclopedia of Shepard just because we're, you know, sleeping together … or something. And I hate it. I really hate it."

Did she really just say 'sleeping together or something?' The next bite was almost to his lips when he froze. "I'll make them stop it – but, 'sleeping together'?" He frowned, shaking his head. "Ash, you know it's more than that. You make it sound like you're just another conquest … or something."

She sighed, lifting the wine glass to her lips again. "I feel that way sometimes," she admitted quietly, looking at the fish again. "I haven't even been on the Normandy that long, and it's like everything that everyone's ever wanted to know about you, they just think that I'll know. And I -"

She shook her head furiously, slamming her free hand down on the table. Plates clattered angrily with the motion, Shepard's wine lapping over the edge and running down the side of his glass in a single, red rivulet.

Just that morning, Jacob and Miranda had wanted to know 'embarrassing stories' about Shepard, and Kelly had wanted to know if he'd like a surprise party for his birthday, and Rupert had wanted to know his favorite type of cake, and Joker had wanted to know if Shepard had forgiven him, and Grunt had wanted to know if 'Shepard's female' was fertile as she had not yet borne him offspring (Ashley was not particularly fond of that one at all), and Jack had wanted to know …

They all had things that they wanted to know about Shepard, herself included. But why had they expected her to be the source of all answers, the wellspring of knowledge of the man? Their time on the Normandy had been precious little, and the two year gap still loomed between them in many respects. She was bound in many ways to a man she didn't know, and it ate at her as viciously and voraciously as Shepard intently consumed his dinner.

"I don't! I don't know anything! Your favorite color, if you played any sports, your fears, your hopes, your dreams – none of it. I don't know you, Shepard, except that people do what you say and follow you blindly. I am tired of being blind."

Shepard leaned back in his chair, responding only with a short, low whistle.

Silence – long minutes of silence.

"That came out wrong," she finally whispered, voice soft, brows knitting. A knot immediately formed in her throat, a deep regret settling over her. She nibbled on her lower lip before grunting, "I think I ran out of room in the backyard."

He reached for his own wine glass, indulging himself in a large gulp. "It's true, Ash – I don't like to talk about myself. I like to get to know my crew, but there's more important things to do than sit around and tell stories of my youth, and what if something they learn about me does more harm than good? You should know: theirs not to make reply; theirs not to reason why; theirs but to do and die."

This was not the response that she had needed. "You're quoting Tennyson at me?" She grabbed the wine bottle again and refilled her glass. "Shepard, you scold me for what I said earlier and then lump me in with the rest of the crew. What am I supposed to think?"

She frowned, eying him carefully. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," she snapped, accenting her quote by pointing the nose of the bottle at him. "Old Time is still a-flying: and this same flower that smiles to-day, to-morrow will be dying."

If Shepard had said that any of this sudden interest in the fibers of his humanity had anything to do with his two-year absence, his death and subsequent rebirth, he would have been right – but he knew enough not to say it.

Relationships were odd and messy at times, two parties clinging to some united truth, some overlapping sentiment. Years ago, after the Blitz, he had learned that no one held much interest in Shepard, the painfully human – delighting only in the larger-than-life escapades of Shepard, the hero, the Commander. But there was no room for the hero at that dinner table.

Was hers really so awful a proposition?

Whatever easy bond they had forged so long ago had not required more than the superficial and brief; but, like so much else in this second life, things had changed – though he would argue that this new development might be one of the only to have changed for the better. After all, what else was love but a meeting of two minds, but of finding someone else to stand by side when stumbling through life?

He grabbed the bottle from her with his right hand, reaching to twine his fingers through hers with his left.

It was an odd thing to feel so much affection for a person about whom he truly knew so little, and who knew even less about him. They each were intimately acquainted with the other's thoughts, the greater whole of who they were – but they each knew nothing of the mundane minutia, the little bits of event and preference that composed and comprised a person.

He set the bottle down, taking fork in hand again. "Do you know why I like broccoli?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, curiosity alighting dark brown eyes.

He grinned and stabbed a spear, twirling his fork between thumb and forefinger. "When I was a kid, I refused to eat vegetables. My mom convinced me to eat broccoli by telling me that it made me look like I was a giant eating trees. Broccoli makes me happy, makes me think of being a kid, and I like feeling like a giant."

Didn't Shepard know that he was a giant – the closest thing to demigod or Hercules that humanity had ever conjured? Perhaps this was why Shepard was so keen to remain quiet. She had always recognized his mask of the hero as a façade, designed to placate those who never desired to think he had another dimension. And what was that hidden depth – the playful spirit of a boy, interrupted by tragedy and thrust forth into greatness?

When he had died, she had realized how little she truly knew of Shepard, what few and scant detail she could recall to think about him. She had appropriated things, made feeble associations, but the lack of concrete stuff had been both utterly and profoundly infuriating and tragic in one.

Now she had broccoli.

And a knowledge of a strange and insecure humility.

She laughed, raising a brow. "Shepard, the Savior of the Galaxy should not need broccoli to make him feel like a giant."

Shepard shrugged and slipped the captive floret between two rows of waiting teeth, accenting the motion with a loud crunch. "I may be a hero to some, but I'm just a man, Ash … I'm only a giant when I'm consuming my little trees here."

Through all the time they had spent together, through the days and evenings they had shared, Shepard had never mentioned anything of his mother or his childhood. A giant eating trees … Ashley liked that. Mother Shepard sounded clever, kind, and a little wicked, but in the best possible way – so very much like the man sitting across the table from her now.

"Anything you want to know, Ash," he said gently, his thumb tracing light circles on the inside of her wrist. "I'm an open book as long as you respond too."

"Sounds fair enough," she mused, picking up her wine glass again. A wolfish grin spread across her lips. "Anything, huh?"

He laughed, nodding. "Anything you also want to answer."

She pursed her lips, her nose wrinkling. "Well, you should know that doesn't limit much. I have no shame."

What strange and fascinating creature was man – nothing but a sum of his parts, a tapestry woven from threads of thought and experience, a mosaic of mettle and memory.

And though they both knew well the picture formed of tesserae, the true fragments of sin, beauty, and self were in the details – hidden from all but the very few allowed close enough to view them.

So began the slow construction of the mosaic: green, the color of broccoli, of the man who didn't believe that he was a giant.

Poems referenced:
Tennyson, Charge of the Light Brigade
Herrick, To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time