Standard Disclaimers: I don't own Bioware or Mass Effect.

Note: Some swearing in this chapter.

Weeks later:

She'd smelled of lavender and patchouli, an odd combination that must have come from her perfume being one scent and her skin cream something else. He'd be running by the couch, toy spaceship in his hand as he made 'pew pew' sounds for attack, and she'd reach out with surprisingly deft arms to gather him up and close.
"Every day is a new chance, Jacob," she'd tell him, "You hold on to that. Every day will bring you something new, whether it be trials or triumph. You take them one at a time and enjoy it all, you hear me?"

He never thought about it at the time, but once he'd grown up he wondered if that was his grandmother's way of trying to help him cope with a father that was never around.

It didn't matter. She'd always done right by him. His father, when he was there, had done the best he could.

Ah, but he didn't want to think on that any more. Acting Captain Ronald Taylor had done what he thought best at the time and soldiered through his problems even up until it led him to a jail cell. Jacob knew in his heart that he would not have done the things his father had done on that beautiful planet of decay. Sometimes the line between strength and weakness was very fine, but Jacob still figured he'd know the difference. But, as that poor woman had said, he did share the man's face. Shared his blood.

But it was over now. Things didn't get done by dwelling.

He looked up from his place sitting at the mess table. It was late. Most of the other crew had long ago sought their bunks. He was only down here because a mission had brought the team in well into third shift. Not that he'd been on the team, but he liked to keep up on matters.

Not that he'd gotten much information.

Commander Shepard was in talking to that assassin again. Fine. Her choice. Jacob couldn't help but feel a little ancy that it was always the same trio heading out lately when it came to mission choice, though. Garrus, Krios and Shepard. There was no denying they worked together well. Damn well, in fact. They covered ground and racked up a body count with almost inspired grace.

If Jacob was towing the party line, he'd say that what bothered him about it was that Cerberus wasn't represented. Their fate was being left up to a woman brought back from the dead and two aliens.

Truth was he didn't give a shit about that.

He was loyal to Cerberus because they gave him a paycheck and a chance to help fight to keep innocent people safe. He was loyal to Shepard because, despite everything, she'd been there for him. Finding out about his father. Watching his back. Talking with him late at night and dangling in his face the promise of some of those good things that the universe supposedly offered.

Been there. Talked. Promised.

Past tense.

Yeah, well. Things happened. It wasn't as if they'd done more than talk or flirt. It wasn't as if he'd been in love with her. He wasn't that easy to take down.

Besides, he wasn't sure who it was that he'd of been in love with, anyway. He knew Shepard, cool Commander, and he liked her. He liked having someone he could trust at his back because she could do her job. Competency wasn't an option for him, and the league Shepard danced in when it came to that was definitely nice.

He'd thought he was getting to know Shepard, teasing siren and sly conversationalist. She set off nearly every alarm bell in his head, but he didn't join the Alliance and then Cerberus because he disliked playing dangerously.

He'd liked her too. A lot.

But he'd noticed something, something seemed to have started when Garrus came aboard and only got progressively more evident until, when Tali arrived, it was as clear as day.

Shepard smiled at Jacob. She talked to him. She gave him cover when he was under fire and she showed him genuine concern when she thought he might be upset.

But those shoulders of hers never relaxed around him.

Her voice never gave him the soft tones that she used to address the drell or the light ring of the joyful banter she threw out to Garrus.

It would have been a bad idea.

To try and make something between them.

He liked to keep things light if he could. Especially after Miranda. But there were some women that you didn't go light with and some women who could inspire you to throw caution to the winds. Shepard was his Commanding Officer. She was a legend. She was...

… someone he hadn't figured out and, now, probably someone he never would.

Which he thought was a shame.

He stood up and took his tray over to the trash.

"What the hell are you doing up?" the low rasp to the feminine voice, as well as the rather illogical irritation to it, marked the speaker as Jack even before Jacob glanced over.

The woman was leaning, casual, against one of the struts by the table, acting as if she'd been there for some time. The dimmed lighting slid down from her shorn scalp, along her shoulder and then down her arm. Those arms were crossed over her chest and she was looking at him with her patented "I'm bored, you fuck-tards need to do better" look.

"Putting this tray away," Jacob returned, unbothered. "You want something?"

Jack shrugged one shoulder and looked off to the side. "To get off this ship, find a decent bar, crack a few skulls and blow their money on whatever I want." Her voice twisted to mock lightness, "You know. The usual."

"Good luck with that."

He set down the tray and turned to walk back towards berthing. He didn't try to avoid Jack in doing so, even though there were two ways back into that hall. Giving her space was like giving room to a half-tamed dog. It was a sign of weakness and he knew she would mark it as such. She watched him as he walked by and shifted her weight uneasily.

"Hey, drone," she barked out unexpectedly, before he'd gotten more than a couple yards beyond her.

"Excuse me?" Jacob stopped and then turned to look at her.

She grinned at him, unrepentant, "I'm bored. You are awake. Let's do something."

Yeah. Do something. Right. He wasn't in the mood to deal with a psychotic woman who had all the impulse control and socialization skill of a two year old.

Still, there was something in the way she was watching his face. Demanding, yeah, aggressive, of course, but also protectively wary.

Jack may have felt that keeping her distance from the rest of the crew was safer, better, and in the grand scheme of things, she was right. If you didn't get involved, you could always get out easier. But she had been given even less to do than he in recent missions, and that sort of inactivity would start playing with anyone's sense of equilibrium.

It must have been really getting under her skin if she was driven to asking him to "do something".

"You favor that shotgun of yours pretty heavily, right?" Jacob said, finally.

"Yeah, why?" Jack shot back as she began to saunter over, a lazy sway to her hips.

"Come on up to the armory. Find out." He turned again and started for the elevator. The lady could use a lesson in asking nice.

"Fuck you, Jacob," Jack drawled in return. A response, but not a retort. By the time the elevator reached that deck, she was stalking inside with him.

Every day was a new chance. An opportunity for triumph or trial.

...

Yeah, Grandma. But some days I'm still wondering what the hell that really means.