Sorry for the delay in the release of this chapter, a series of really irritating and unfortunate events pretty much shot my desire to write point-blank in the face, but I eventually dragged it kicking and screaming back from the edge of the abyss. Also I have no internet.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

- Isaac Newton's Third Law of Motion

He was aware that he was brooding. He was also aware that there was nothing in this situation he could do to help, and in fact quite a lot he could do to hinder were he to insist on helping anyway. He was a field medic, not a surgeon; the best way he could assist his team was by staying out from under foot and allowing them to do their jobs. He'd done his part, now it was time to let them do theirs. Of all this he was fully aware, but that awareness did little to alleviate the debilitating feeling of helplessness.

After the medical team rushed Shepard to the infirmary Alenko had hovered inside, getting in the way and terrifying his new staff until his XO had tactfully pointed out that Admiral Hackett would be expecting a full report of the events leading up to the first human spectre needing to have most of her hard-suit surgically removed – not that this was such a rare occurrence for Shepard, but the Alliance preferred these incidents to be well documented.

So, taking the less-than-subtle hint, he had removed himself to his quarters, where he'd spent the next few hours alternating between pacing the confines of the small cabin and staring unseeing at the bulkhead. The half-started report glowed sullenly at him from where he'd tossed it earlier, having given up all pretense of work.

Eventually he realized he needed a better distraction than slowly wearing a grove through his deck. At that thought he turned on his heel mid-stride and crossed the room to where Shepard's omni-tool lay alongside his incomplete report. He'd have much preferred to wait for her to walk him through the pertinent files herself, rather than casting about the hard drive trying to make sense of her filing system, but they were less than half a day from the Citadel and there was a good possibility the Thermopylae would make it to the station before the injured spectre regained consciousness. If she regained consciousness. Enough.

Picking up the deactivated band, he was surprised to note it was the same model as the one she had used on the SR1. It was obvious to him this was not the original, as that one had been nearly destroyed – half crushed along with the attached arm – by a hunk of Sovereign during the attack on the Citadel. He'd repaired that one for her – rather than point out that most people would have simply replaced it – a project that had taken nigh as long to complete as it had for the bones in her wrist to work themselves back into a cohesive unit. After weeks of careful surgery both arm and 'tool had been cleared for active duty, though neither were completely unmarred. This device bore none of those scars. He wondered what had happened to that band.

It was just like her to use an out-dated model. Probably never bothered to learn a new OS, he mused. Activating it he could see this one had been heavily modified in order to render it compatible with the demands of modern software. No doubt by Tali or Garrus; while absolutely brilliant when it came to explosives – be it their diffusion, distribution, or detonation - Shepard was rubbish when it came to electronics and software. That's why she had techs. That's why she had had him.

Reigning in his errant thoughts, he brought his focus back to the 'tool. So what else on here did she want him to see? Incriminating info on Cerberus was probably a bit much to hope for. He didn't get much farther than the main screen before the word Horizon caught his eye. He winced. On the list of things he'd rather not ever revisit, the conversation they'd shared on that colony ranked fairly high. Right above his psych evaluation post-Alchera and right below the funeral. The file was, of course, a message. Addressed to him. His hand hovered over the interface, throat suddenly dry as he stared at the file. Why now?

He knew he should leave well enough alone. He knew he had no right to prowl through her personal files like a jealous ex-boyfriend desperate for some mention of his name, some insight into her thoughts. But all those months without a reply... In his more forgiving moments he had begun to wonder if she'd even received his message at all. Maybe Cerberus was filtering her mail, or maybe she had been unable to respond. In his less forgiving moments he had begun to wonder if she just didn't care enough to reply. And now here it was, that answer he had longed for with one breath and dreaded with the next. He should leave well enough alone. She hadn't sent it, she didn't mean for him to see it.

But she was the one who had given him the 'tool. Yes, he thought scathingly, because this is exactly what she wanted me to deliver to Anderson. Long over-due replies to ambiguous maybe's and I don't know's. Brilliant.

Before he could over-think it any longer, he opened the log.

It was empty.

Seriously?

He stared a the empty screen in confusion for a moment before checking the meta-data. Last modified less than a week ago. Brows furrowed, he called up the entry again. Nothing.

Well that was anticlimactic. He was surprised by his disappointment. Well, what had he expected? She hadn't sent it, after all. But what was this? Why bother to respond months after the fact, only to save a blank document? Why would she keep an empty log?

Calling up the history, he saw it had been previously saved eleven days ago. Now thoroughly intrigued, he brought up the modification log. One hundred and twenty-seven changes. One hundred and twenty-seven? What is this? He keyed in the restore command and characters flooded the screen.

Kaidan,

We go through the relay in four hours. Last chance I may ever get and I still don't know what the fuck to say to you. Maybe saying nothing is best. Anything now would probably be too little, too late.

I know I asked you to come with me, but now I'm glad you didn't. Honestly, I don't know if we're coming back from thi-

-Message deleted.

Kaidan blinked. What the hell was that? That's it? He hadn't exactly expected a outpouring of emotion and tearful confessions, but he had expected something more than "I'm glad I left you behind." Something beyond... what? What was this? Resignation? Weariness? Frowning, he retrieved the previous log.

They took my crew.

Wait, what?

They took my fucking crew.

Waltzed right onto my own goddamned ship and snatched them right off my own goddamned deck. The men and women who counted on me to protect them, and they're not even safe on their own ship, in their own beds. What the fuck am I doing if I can't even keep my own people safe? I -

-Message deleted.

Dazed, he read through the draft again. Who were "they"? The Collectors? He'd read the report about the Collector ship, but it had only mentioned rescued civilians, he had assumed they had been the colonists. Her own team had been abducted? He let out a low whistle. No wonder she'd plowed head-long into that relay. No one threatened Shepard's people and lived to see the morning. Not even the Collectors, it seemed. He almost felt sorry for them.

Dear Kaidan,

Did you know the Collectors used to be Protheans? The Reapers fucked them up something proper, they look nothing like those status we found on Ilos. Ilos. Christ. I -

-Message deleted.

They were all like that. Message after fragmented message; some pages long, some barely started, and more often than not just a few scant words before the reply had been terminated. He poured over each one.

Hey Asshole -

Dear Kaidan -

Commander Alenko -

K -

Fuck off -

So -

Hey -

– Tell me, do you have to pull your head out of your ass to breathe, or do you have a secondary O2 line surgically implanted up your -

– memorial on Alchera at the weapons station. It seemed fitting, and it's in full view of my poor Mako. You'll never believe me, but the damned thing made it through without a single scratch. I shit you not. Even landed upright. Garrus wouldn't let me take it -

– Attached you will find a full report of all Cerberus activity I've unearthed in the Terminus Systems -

– Could really use you here about n-

– If I needed a self-righteous dipshit to judge my every move I'd talk to Udin-

– got them from Hackett, don't ask me how. It didn't feel right to wear them, not to mention a bit too prophetic, tags of a dead woman and all. I keep them on my desk next to my old helmet, speaking of morbid. Found that on Alchera. I guess it wasn't on my head when they -

– Look, I'm sorry -

Hours later his head was swimming when he finally surfaced for air. Letting the band slip through numb fingers, he leaned back to rest his head on the bulkhead, the heels of both hands digging into his eyes. I guess this explains why I never got an answer. At the time it had stuck him as odd, when he wasn't too busy allowing self-pity to skip stones down the chasm the destruction of the Normandy had rent between his life and his reality,that he had received no reply at all. She always had something to say. Even if it was the wrong thing, even if it made things worse, even if it was wildly inappropriate, off-color, or down-right offensive, rare was the day when Commander Fucking Shepard was struck dumb.

Now at last he had her response and he still didn't know what it meant. It occurred to him that maybe she didn't know what it meant either. Maybe it meant the unflappable Commander Shepard was just as conflicted about this whole mess as he. Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all.

Sifting through her recent history he found constant reference to something called the Lazarus Project. A quick search brought up a sizable data packet of the same name containing dozens of video logs and medical reports, the earliest dating back to mere weeks after the attack on the Normandy. Was this what he was supposed to find? I swear I've heard that name before. He opened a file at random.

They were charts, much like the ones he had found in the research facility, only these ones were dated much earlier. Almost three years earlier. Were these hers? Skeletal scans, circulatory, muscular, neurological; there were all here, but many were incomplete. No. Not incomplete. No records were missing. It was as though parts of the subject itself were gone.

Frowning, he flicked through them, pausing when he reached the bone scintigraphy as something caught his eye. The bones had been fragmented. Enlarging the image, he saw there were thousands of hairline fractures running throughout the entire skeletal structure as though they'd been pieced back together like jigsaw puzzle. Here and there entire sections were missing. Three years ago. Skipping ahead, he called up records from a month later. The fractures were gone and most of the gaps were filled in, a smattering of blemishes on the scan the only evidence of any trauma.

He moved on to the neuro reports, focusing on the earliest of the scans. There wasn't much to look at, just a few glowing holos of what looked like charred meat. He wasn't sure he'd have been able to identify them at all if one of the cross-sections hadn't been labeled "temporal lobe". Opening a later log he saw the subject was now unrecognizable from the desiccated husk the record claimed it to be a mere six months ago. The characteristic wrinkles of the cortex were becoming clear and the whole mass had doubled in size. The scans continued on, the subject slowly growing larger as recognizable lobes began to form. Finally, fourteen months after the first scan was dated, the brain was pronounced fully-formed. Alenko shook his head. No way. No way could this be what it looked like.

Calling up the scans from the research base, he placed them side by side next to the Lazarus report. The latter was missing that dark shape he'd noticed before, but aside from the one anomaly, they were identical, right down to the familiar scarring pattern on the occipital. No doubt remained that these were Shepard's; Dr. Chakwas had run a full scan on the commander's brain after the beacon seared its message directly into it. All three of them had gone over the results extensively, examining the damaged areas and analyzing the effects, Chakwas because it was her job, Shepard because it was her brain, and Kaidan because it was his fault. Ostensibly he'd attributed his interest to his medical training, suggesting any knowledge might be relevant in the field in the event that they ran into more Prothean artifacts, but both women were remarkably astute and he was pretty sure he'd fooled neither.

Ok. So what? Cerberus had access to the blueprints of the original Normandy, was it really so hard to believe they could have access to Shepard's medical records? Hell, they'd had access to Shepard herself for the three years; they could have taken these and mocked up this whole report at any point. But why bother? There's something here I'm not seeing, he thought. Or something you don't want to see, chimed in that irksome knot in his gut. He pinched the bridge of his nose. What's more likely? it persisted. That you and everyone around her were completely wrong about Shepard, that she faked her own death and deserted the Alliance to gallivant around the traverse with a boat full of murderers, mercenaries and malcontents, that she abandon the military that had been her entire life for over a decade to join up with the very people she had made it her mission to stop? Or that for the past three years she's been manipulated by a dangerous terrorist organization? Which probably has everything to do with this file.

Occam's razor, Alenko. Which hypothesis contains the fewest assumptions?

Sighing, he got to his feet and resumed his pacing. Let's review. Three years ago the SSV Normandy is attacked and destroyed by an unknown ship of unknown origin. While attempting to rescue Flight Lieutenant Jeffrey Moreau, Lieutenant Commander Shepard is thrown from the ship, as per Moreau's eye-witness testimony, but not before sealing and launching the final escape pod containing said pilot. Shepard is pronounced missing in action by the Systems Alliance Navy. One month later she is officially declared dead and services are held on the Citadel. At this time all visible Cerberus activities cease, excluding one puzzling attack on the quarian migrant fleet. Roughly two years later, Shepard's presence is confirmed on Freedom's Progress by Tali'Zorah vas Neema. Also confirmed are two Cerberus companions. Sightings of Commander Shepard increase dramatically, coupled with reports of her association with Cerberus. Cerberus involvement personally confirmed on Horizon, Garrus Vakarian and Cerberus operative present. Shepard admits to putting together a team to stop the Collectors from abducting human colonists,. Accounts afterward vary wildly, but all confirm that months later the Omega 4 Relay is activated and Shepard reported to have entered. Hours later the relay activates a second time; Shepard returns. All reported Collector attacks cease. One can only assume she was successful.

He stopped pacing and dropped back into a chair. Elbows on his knees, he ran both hands over his face again. And just what part of all that sounds like anyone other than Shepard is calling the shots? He had to admit, all of this did sound remarkably familiar. She got the job done, she always did. What exactly was he trying to prove here, anyway? That Cerberus didn't have Shepard wrapped around its little finger? For the first time since Alchera he was beginning to wonder who exactly was playing whom.

He picked up the 'tool again, opening up the video logs. Miranda Lawson. He vaguely recalled meeting her in person, but on Horizon he had been rather distracted. The first record had no accompanying visual feed and consisted of only of two lines:

"Commander Shepard has been recovered. The Lazarus Project will proceed as planned."

He scowled at the display. I'm not sure that can possibly be more ominous than it sounds. The next log began with a shot of Lawson addressing the camera.

"I was originally disheartened by the condition of the remains recovered by Dr. T'Soni, but upon closer examination we have been able to isolate several viable samples and more intact brain tissue than originally projected. As can be seen in the accompanying scans, the temporal and occipital lobes are amazingly well preserved. I believe we have sufficient tissue for a full reconstruction with minimal memory loss."

Liara? What? What had... The last time they had spoken had been after the services. Neither had been especially loquacious and they'd not done much more than exchange mumbled pleasantries. He hadn't been capable of much more, nor had been since the attack – or for quite some time afterward, if he was to be perfectly honest – and he had assumed neither had she. In retrospect, however, he wondered if what he had initially dismissed as shock had in fact been something else entirely. Anger welled up in his chest. Judging by the time-stamp of the file, Cerberus would have already contacted her for whatever it was they wanted. Recovery. God. She had given Shepard to Cerberus. His head had found its way into his hands again and the point behind his eyes had begun to ache.

In the background, Lawson's voice continued:

"The reconstruction process is painstaking, but we must move slowly for fear of damaging the delicate neural pathways. Our orders were clear: make Commander Shepard who she was before the explosion – the same mind, the same morals, the same personality. If we alter her identity in anyway, if she's somehow not the woman she used to be, the Lazarus Project will have failed."

The view shifted to reveal a broken form on a surgical slab. The remains of what had once been armor cradled the nearly unidentifiable shape of a human figure, charred flesh visible through cracked and missing plates. He watched, stomach churning, as the camera performed a slow, agonizing pan of the desiccated form. The blood drained out of his face as the view seemed to linger on the scorched N7 insignia. No. He shook his head furtively. I'm not buying it.

Dreading what he would find there, he jumped to a later log.

The shot began with a reading from a cardiopulmonary monitor. It chirped softly in time with the beat of an unseen patient's heart. After a pause a voice interceded.

"There. On the monitor. Something's wrong."

The graph spiked sharply and the rhythm increased in tempo.

"She's reacting to outside stimuli. Showing an awareness of her surroundings. Oh my god, Miranda, I think she's waking up."

The camera pulled back to show the room from before, the familiar form stirring. The view was partially blocked by a white-clad woman moving to restrain the prone figure; what could be seen of the subject was heavily bandaged with snatches of skin peeking through the gaps in the dressing, raw and pink like uncooked meat. A swaddled hand flailed clumsily as the woman in white swore at her companion.

"Damnit Wilson! She's not ready yet. Give her the sedative! Shepard – don't try to move. Just lie still. Try to stay calm."

The hand gripped the side of the table as the figure struggled to rise, panicked breathing joining the sounds of chiming equipment.

"Heart rate still climbing. Brain activity is off the charts. Stats pushing into the red zone. It's not working!"

"Another dose. Now!" snapped the woman, moving aside to reveal an achingly familiar face almost unrecognizable as it contorted in pain. As he looked on in horror, she convulsed once then fell back to lie still on the table.

Kaidan turned away, unable to watch further. The voices continued pitilessly as he squeezed his eyes shut and tucked his chin to his chest, curled in on himself to ward off the sounds.

"Heart rate dropping. Stats falling back into normal range. That was too close. We almost lost her."

"I told you your estimates were off. Run the numbers again."

The log faded into silence but he remained unmoving, head bowed and eyes clamped shut. Finally remembering how to breathe, he inhaled shakily and allowed his eyes to drift open. They immediately fell upon his desk display and he saw that it was well into the first shift once more. She would be out of surgery by now. Powering down the band, he got to his feet.

He was aware that he was being irrational. He was aware that if anything had gone wrong, if she hadn't made it, he would be the first one alerted. He was doing that a lot today, he noted distantly as he made for the door, disregarding perfectly good cognizance in favor of self-indulgent neuroses. Such introspection would be of more use were he in a more rational mindset. As it was, he was not, and therefore needed to see for himself that she was alive, rationality be damned.

Without conscious thought or recollection of how he got there, he found himself at the door of the medical bay. He hesitated as it slid silently open. The room was empty, save for the still form resting on the far bed. Feeling like an interloper on his own ship, he quietly crossed to the cot and its occupant. Her chest rose and fell all but imperceptibly and the EKG beeped in time with her slowed heart. Even in the dim light she was distressingly pale. The glow from the monitors cast long shadows over her face, highlighting the raised pattern of scars tracing delicately up one cheek. Without the obstruction of her armor, he could see the faint web of lines continued down her neck to disappear below her collar.

She looked so small, unarmored and exposed, dwarfed both by the surrounding equipment and the enormity of the expectations laid upon her. Did it ever occur to anyone to wonder if we are asking too much of one person?

She came to completely and utterly disoriented. This is getting really old, she thought peevishly. Awareness took its sweet time in returning, but eventually put in an appearance as she laid still, eyes firmly shut. She was in a bed, a medical cot judging by the plastic mattress and paper-thin sheets. Good, beds are good, and not often to be found in reactor cores or batarian prisons. The whirs and bleeps of machinery sang softly, accompanied by the deep resonance of an engine humming steadily through the decks. She smelled disinfectant. Shipboard med bay, she analyzed. Alliance? FTL engaged. No restraints, likelihood of being under arrest slightly dimini—

Her sit-rep was interrupted by the soft sounds of footfall.

With a blur of motion she was on her feet, seizing his wrist and spinning him around to slam into the EKG still cheerily broadcasting the now accelerated rate of her heart. "Ooof," he protested in surprise and as the air was forced from his lungs.

Behind him he heard her inhale sharply in what may have also been surprise.

His surprise had less to do with the fact that he currently found himself with his face mashed into an uncomfortably unyielding surface, one arm twisted painfully behind him while the other was pinned forcefully to his side, and more from the speed and efficiency at which these events had occurred. This coming from the woman who could barely walk a few hours ago, he mused wryly.

Her surprise no doubt had more to do with the realization of exactly whose face it was that she was currently mashing into an uncomfortably unyielding surface and less from the action's speed or efficiency.

After stunned second he felt her grip loosen and the pressure leave his back as she released him. He turned to see her stumbled back, eyes screwed shut with the heel of a bandaged hand pressing to her forehead like she was trying to keep its contents from spilling out. She swayed perilously and he caught her as she pitched forward, his chin narrowly avoiding collision with the top of her head.

"Easy," he murmured as he took her weight. His arms caught under hers in an awkward embrace as he took pains to avoid her injured side. Her skin felt hot and feverish through the fabric of the medical gown and he was suddenly very aware of how thin that barrier was.

"You know," she mumbled into his shoulder, "I'm getting really sick of waking up in foreign medical facilities."

Releasing a breath that had been pent up for far longer than just the past few hours, he felt the tension ease from his shoulders as he supported her. Unbelievable. The urge to kiss the top of her head was incredibly compelling. He settled instead for a chuckle, the puff of air sending her hair flying. "A hazard of the job, I'm afraid." So much better than the alternative.

"Beats not waking up at all," he heard her mutter, giving voice to his own morbid thoughts. His arms tightened around her reflexively. She lingered for a moment longer, head resting against his chest and breath tickling his arm, then sighed and straightened. She glanced down, appearing to only just now notice the flimsy gown doing its best to cover as little of her as possible, and then jerked her head up to scan the room. A look of something like panic flit briefly across her face before taking refuge behind a wall of resignation. She scrubbed her hands roughly over her face. "What day is it?"

"Day?" He swallowed his initial reflex to supply the date as he realized that wasn't what she was asking. He felt his chest constrict. What have they done to her? "It's been hours, Shepard," he reassured her. "You've only been out a few hours."

She let out a ragged breath and leaned back against the cot, hands braced on either side. Though steadier than before, she was still far too pale, the fine lattice of scars standing out in stark relief. The overall impression of the reanimated undead was not helped by the hollow cheeks or the dark circles under her eyes, nor by the fact that her hair was apparently taking advantage of her distracted state to make a mad bid for freedom. Noticing his gaze, she favored him with one of her lopsided grins. In that moment he decided she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "You look like hell," she said conversationally.

That smile was infectious. "Likewise."

"That good?" she asked glibly. "Because I feel like death warmed over."

Shattered plates pulled aside to uncover the blackened mockery of a human form. Face in ruins, familiar planes and valleys now virtually unidentifiable. Cracked remains of lips parted over teeth somehow undamaged, aiming the grotesque imitation of a smile towards the harsh overhead florescents. The sharp crack of snapping of bones.

Her face fell as he his own smile inverted and what was left of the blood in his face quit the field. "Ah, sorry, I –"

He shook his head and held up a placating hand. "Forget it Shepard. It doesn't matter," he decided. Not now. Not anymore.

They regarded at each other silence for some time, until the increasing slump in her posture finally caught his eye. Reluctantly he turned away and strode over to the supply cabinets. Rummaging through the shelves, it took a moment to find the bottle he was looking for. He selected two tablets and walked back to the now quiet curious-looking spectre.

She arced a questioning eyebrow.

"Sedatives," he supplied. "You need to be resting."

Frowning, she shook head and stepped back. "No. I think I've spent enough time unconscious in the past two days, thank you." She crossed her arms in front of her, not quite managing to hide the tell-tale waver in her stance.

He wasn't fooled. "Please, Shepard. You were in surgery for nearly six hours while they dug shards of your own hard-suit out of some very sensitive and difficult to replace organs. Even you need some time to recover from that." He reached forward and took her hand. She watched unresisting as he placed the capsules on her swathed palm and gently curled her fingers around them.

She regarded her closed fist for a long moment, face inscrutable, then her eyes flicked up to meet his. She held his gaze for a longer moment, then without breaking eye-contact placed the pills on her tongue and swallowed deliberately. "Happy?"

"Yes." He nodded to the cot and she obligingly sat down, pulling her legs up after her. He turned to leave, but a hand snaked out and caught his.

"Hey." He turned back to look at her, but her face was hidden by a curtain of unruly hair. "Thanks for coming after me," she said softly.

He gave the hand a gentle squeeze. "Anytime, Shepard."

Much later Alenko was wishing he'd taken sedatives himself. After staying with her until she'd fallen asleep, he had decided it was high time he followed suit and made his way back to his cabin. His subconscious, however, had other ideas. The images from the Lazarus Project flickered across his eyelids in grim slideshow each time he dared closed them and that dispassionate voice echoed hollowly in his ears. Finally abandoning his efforts to sleep, he turned back to his report for Hackett. Lazarus and all. Steeling himself, he brought up the files, starting from the beginning.

Log followed log as the detached narration persisted. He forced himself to watch as he knew she would have. He watched as the skeleton was painstakingly reassembled and reinforced, connecting tissue reattached and rejuvenated. After weeks of meticulous reconstruction, the sound of a heartbeat joined the emotionless voice, weak and slow at first, but growing in strength with each hard-won pulse.

The reports after that were a blur. He only half-listened as the operative continued, his mind reeling as it tried to reconcile the impossible. He felt numb. He felt sick. He felt -

The screen had become unreadable, wavering uncontrollably and he belatedly noticed it was his hands that were trembling. He let his head drop into them, the pulse pounding in his ears drowning out the clinical narration. The tempest in his head howled insensibly as he stared unseeing through deck.

Time slipped past unnoticed as he sat in quiet turmoil. The records continued, but he had long-since stopped listening. His thoughts spun themselves into white noise, but he had long-since stopped listening to them, too.

"Oh my god, Miranda, I think she's waking up."

"You probably don't want to watch the next part," a soft voice interrupted, "it's pretty grisly."

Startled, he looked up to find the real-life, flesh and blood Shepard leaning heavily against the open doorway. He shot to his feet. "Shepard -"

"Stupid of me, really," she continued, "leaving those on there. All the crap I have on Cerberus and of course that's the file you open."

"Shepard, you -" he started.

"Can't blame you for being curious, but you won't want to watch that one on a full stomach."

He took a step towards her. "I've seen it, Shepard."

"Ah." She looked down at her hand, grip white-knuckled around the raised door frame. "It's not fake. Not –" she took a breath, "not that bit, anyway. That part I remember."

"Shepard, I -" What? What, exactly? What could I possibly say? I – believe you? Yes, and? I – am sorry? Don't stop there. Wish none of this had happened? Know none of it should have? Keep it up, Alenko. Should have known better. Should have done better. Should never have left. "—'m an ass."

There was that contagious grin. "I know."

He ran a hand through his beleaguered hair. "That... probably went without saying, didn't it?"

The grin took on a rather smug countenance and spread a bit further across her face.

He checked a sigh. "Right. Yes. Without saying. Good. And speaking of things that should go without saying, you should not be up. You'll never recover if you don't get some sleep."

She shrugged, the flimsy gown rustling faintly. "I was cold. Besides, I don't sleep much these days."

"Don't, or can't?" he asked shrewdly, gathering up the cover from his bed.

She didn't answer as he crossed back to her, draping the fabric over her bare arms. He allowed his hands to rest on her shoulders, reveling in the impossibility of her standing before him. "Beacon nightmares?" he asked quietly.

A shadow crossed over her face. Eyes roaming the cabin, she shrugged again. "Sometimes. Usually just your average run-of-the-mill unpleasantness. My subconscious has had plenty of fuel as of late, Freud would have had a field-day. But you can't do what we do and see what we see and expect to sleep soundly at night. Or deserve to. I'd say I'll sleep when I'm dead, but that didn't work out so well either."

"Shepard-"

"Damnit, I'm sorry," she gestured in frustration. "Fuck, my sense of tact is even worse than it used to be. I don't... I didn't... I don't want it to be like this. Because this," she gestured around them, at life, the universe and everything, "this is shitty. And I don't know what anyone expects me to do about it. I'm one fucking person and I'm tired of dealing with the galaxy's bullshit. And what the hell are you grinning at?"

Instead of answering, he leaned forward and kissed her. After the briefest of pauses she reciprocated, her hands finding their way to his collar, tugging him closer and letting the cover fall away. Murmuring disapprovingly, he caught the fabric as it slid through his fingers and pulled it tight around her shoulders, holding it secure. He felt her lips twitch upwards against his in a grin to match his own. "God, I missed you," he murmured without breaking contact.

"I missed you, too," she sighed. "You'll -"

"Commander? We're ten minutes out from the Citadel." The helmsman's voice tore through the cabin. "I've got a message for you from Admiral Hackett and Ambassador Anderson is on the line."

Lips still entwined, Kaidan let out an exasperated groan and Shepard chuckled. He took a moment to mourn the impossibility of conducting the rest of his life thus engaged and with great reluctance broke away. "Acknowledged, Adams," he responded, failing to keep the edge out of his tone. What was it with pilots and abysmal timing? Shepard laughed again.

"Funny thing about ships, they don't run themselves," she supplied sagely, relinquishing her grip on his shirt.

"We'd be out of the job if they did," he sighed. "Alright, back to the infirmary with you. I have a boat to run and you can't wander around the Citadel dressed like that."

She grimaced. "Mmmm, tough choice; go pant-less or wear the Phoenix Armor. You know, it's not that cold out there, I think I'll take my chances."

"Out." He shooed her out of the room while making only a token effort to banish the image of the spectre stomping through the Presidium in Alliance dress blues and no pants. The day was looking up.

"You'd think Navy med bays would be more comfortable, given the amount of time they spend occupied," she observed as they moved through the corridor.

"And I suppose Cerberus infirmaries are more cozy?" he asked without heat, hand at the small of her back guiding her into the mess area. With the other he snagged a handful of protein bars in passing and pressed them into her hand.

"Much. Complete with posters of kittens encouraging you to hang in there. It also helps if you know where the doc hides her booze." She made a face, but accepted the tasteless rations without comment.

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, then I can see why recruitment is up."

"Actually," she smirked, "I hear it just took a substantial hit. Rumor has it the Illusive Man lost an entire boat full of crazies, not to mention his four billion credit science experiment. Too bad he can't report the theft to the Alliance." She nonchalantly twirled one of the bars through her fingers.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm not hearing this."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, spare me. TIM had all the psych reports in the galaxy warning him of what he was getting himself into, and you of all people should be familiar with my well-documented propensity for stealing ships. Just think of it like a severance package."

He sighed. He was doing a lot of that today. Had it always been like this? Probably. He eyed the former commander as she strode past curious Alliance personal wearing little more than an over-sized shirt as though it was a full set of armor. Definitely. "You mean to tell me that you stole a prototype warship from the most dangerous and spiteful terrorist organization currently harassing known space, and you're actually using it? To tool around the galaxy?"

"Yeah, well, they're more likely to just blow me out of the sky than to court-marshal me, so it's win-win as far as I'm concerned. At the very least it's less paperwork." She stopped as they reached the med bay door.

"And how do you know they didn't build some kind of fail-safe or self-destruct mechanism into the ship?" he persisted.

She waved dismissively. "If they had they'd have used it already."

"Not if you're still doing the job they brought you back to do," he pointed out, crossing his arms in front of him.

"Well," she replied, "I could use someone to give the SR2 a once-over, if you're offering."

He felt the corners of his mouth twitch. "Is this you being coy? I'll admit, I never can tell with you."

She scowled at him. "Spectres don't do coy. It's on the list of discouraged tactics. Right up there with precision orbital strikes."

He held up his hands palms first in an appeasing gesture. "My mistake, my mistake. I hope your crew has learned from your shining example, though I'd still be worried about leaving them unsupervised overnight."

"Yeah," she agreed, "you know how it is, leave the terrorists alone for longer than an hour and I'm likely to come home to a burned-out husk of a ship." She rolled her eyes in the universal gesture for "what can you do?"

"Well we wouldn't want that," he conceded. "I guess we'd better get you back before the whole station goes."

"Just like that, huh? I'm free to go? Not hauling me in? No court-marshals or finger-wagging? No fifty laps around the Citadel or two hundred push-ups? No paperwork?" She feigned disappointment. "Now I can't even get arrested in this town."

"Not today," he returned, "you're not getting out of saving the galaxy that easily." The grin faded from his face and he glanced away, eyes avoiding hers. "Look," he began, his fingers finding their familiar place buried deep in his hair, "I don't pretend to know where you've been for the past three years. I'm not sure I'm ready to believe this Lazarus report, and it kills me to think of you running around the traverse with nothing more than a couple of Cerberus goons at your back." He caught himself staring at his feet like a petulant child and forced his gaze up to meet her awaiting one. "But I know you, I know you're doing what you feel you have to. I just needed -" a smack to the head "- to remind myself that. That I know that you would never run from a fight. That I know you would never fake your own death, you would never join up with a bunch of xenophobic terrorists, and you would never desert the Alliance." Or me. "And I know that wherever it is that you've been, you were there because you needed to be." Reaching out he took her hand. "And I'll just have to trust your judgment."

Her throat worked as she stared down at their clasped hands, as though she were having trouble processing what she was seeing. Finally she managed to find her voice. "I... appreciate that, Kaidan."

Joker met them in the Normandy's entryway, face dour and posture defensive. They faced off in silence, his expression migrating through a myriad of emotions, hers an impenetrable mask, as the temperature in the small chamber dropped noticeably. Just when Alenko was beginning to wonder if he should go the pilot snorted and looked away, eyes flicking to give the commander a once-over. "You should have told me you were catching another ride home, Shepard. Mine's still nicer."

She narrowed her eyes, but her tone was even. "I was running late, I didn't want you to miss your curfew. I'd hate for you to have your allowance docked."

"I don't get an allowance."

"And you wonder why."

He gave another snort. "No I don't." With that he turned and trundled back through decon. "Oh yeah," he called, "there's a visitor for you in the debriefing room. Some admiral or other. Didn't catch his name. Might not want to keep him waiting, though."

"Pilots; can't live with them, can't let the state-of-the-art artificial intelligence fly their ship without them. Oh, wait, yes I can," she bellowed after him. Suppressing a grin she turned to Alenko. "Well Commander, it's been a pleasure as usual. Thanks for the lift." She hesitated a moment before the airlock, then nodded curtly and turned away. Reluctantly he did the same, slowly making his way back down the platform towards his own awaiting ship. He hadn't gone more than a dozen paces before her voice rang out after him. "Kaidan."

Pausing mid-stride, he glanced back to see her stopped in the hatchway, a hand on the frame and one foot already inside. She didn't face him as she spoke. "That offer doesn't have an expiration date," she called. "In case you suddenly decide you want to go tooling around the galaxy in a stolen terrorist warship."

His soft smile went unseen as she continued through the airlock, his murmured reply drifting across the docking port as the hatch closed silently behind her.

"Take care, Shepard."