Disclaimer: I do not own Mass Effect or any of its characters. They are products of BioWare, EA and certainly not me. This fan fiction is for entertainment purposes; no profit or intrusion of copyright is intended.

Note: Special thanks to Sigyn2011 for the help to edit this chapter.

The engine room

Why would Miranda clear the engine room? With the crew gone, the only two she had in the engine room were Tali and Jack. Would Tali just abandon her post in the engine room? Perhaps to sleep. With EDI unshackled, the AI had full access to all Normandy. Most of the crew weren't even necessary to run the ship anymore.

When she whispered her destination in his ear, he shivered at the seductive lilt to her voice. A tease, a taunt as if she challenged him to meet her. Did she think he wouldn't? They had been together in his cabin and hers countless times. Why would she avoid it now? She obviously wanted him. The whole show in the weight room plus the sway of her hips as she walked away from him was a big hint. If he were totally oblivious to that, by some odd turn of events, the coy smile and playful wink made her desires blatantly clear.

What exactly made the engine room the best?

Shepard stepped off the elevator onto the engineering deck. He explored the immediate area near the engine room. Jack was not in her usual place beneath engineering, and Tali was not at her station. Miranda stood at the console nearest the drive core. He paused and smiled, his eyes trailing down the long sleek line of her back before settling on her perfectly rounded backside. Damn, she was fine. And those legs.

His gaze continued down, admiring the contoured muscles. She looked delicate, maybe even slender, but it was an illusion. There was nothing soft about Miranda Lawson. There was strength and power in her, especially those legs.

He crossed the grated causeway to her and stepped up behind her, molding to her as his hands slid around her hips. She jumped at the content then sighed and leaned back into him. He smirked and playfully peered over her shoulder. She turned her head slightly to glance at him and teasingly shifted her weight to brush against him.

"Tease," he growled as blood surged to his groin. His hands tightened and he turned her quickly. She spun to face him, gripping the edge of the console and lifted up slightly to meet his lips. He kissed her hard, sound and taunting. She knew she teased him. She always did. He pressed her firmly against the console, and his lips traveled along her jaw then to her throat.

Easily, he lifted her so she sat on the edge of the console and he stepped between her legs. Her hands abandoned the console to grip his shoulders then press firmly along the muscles. He gazed up at her and licked his lips. "Why here?" he gruffly asked. "Engine room?"

She stroked his throat then cupped his cheeks, kissing him softly. "He can't hear us here."

He pulled back enough to look up at her with a furrowed brow and thoughtful expression. "What?"

"There are no microphones." She glanced back over her shoulder at the engine core. "The drive core," she answered. "It interferes with microphones. It's the closest thing to privacy we will ever get onboard."

He squeezed her hips and when she faced him again, he kissed her. She sighed, leaning into him. The console beeped three times and they broke apart to look down. Chuckling, he lifted her and her legs clamped around his waist. Spinning on his heels, he pressed her against the nearby wall.

She arched her hips against him for balance and reached behind her, running her hands along the wall for leverage. When he tried to pin her, she pushed off the wall. His eyes widened and he stepped back then lost his balance. His knees bent to cushion his fall and he grunted when he landed on his back.

She braced against him at the impact then planted her knees at his side as she pushed upright, offering a circular grind against him. His abs contracted slightly, shoulders lifting off the floor. He paused when she released him, watching him with hunger as she unbuttoned the top flap of her catsuit. She bit her lower lip and slowly unzipped the suit to the waist. Reaching up with both hands, she pulled open the front, shrugging it off her shoulders.

Exposed from neck to waist with shoulders bared, she pressed her hands into his abs as she shifted her balance upon him. His eyes darkened with lust at her exposed body, so perfect and pale against the contrast of her black lace bra. He sat up and kissed her chest, her collar, her throat. Hands sliding up her back, he gripped the fabric and tugged, pulling it further down.

She sighed when his bare hands splayed on the skin of her back. She pushed at his chest to force him down again, but he didn't release her and she fell forward. Hands spread on his chest, she kissed him hotly once then again before pushing up. Fingers raked down his chest and tickled along his abdomen to fiddle with his belt.

He rubbed his palms over her thighs and up her sides. He tugged on her suit, freeing one of her hands then the other. Once freed, she ran her palms along his abs and his eyes fluttered, head falling back at the sensation.

He deftly flicked the clasps of her boots on her thighs. "Off," he rumbled. She pushed on his chest, rocking forward then back onto her feet as she stood. His eyes opened as she moved, and he tensed at the sight. She stood over him, feet planted to either side of his hips as she worked free the various clasps of her boots. Her knees locked and back flattened as she moved lower. What a sight.

She took two steps back, leaning against the wall as she tugged off one boot then placed it carefully at her side. Her gaze focused on the front of his pants, dark with hunger. His blood surged at her stare, and he winced.

He jerked at the buttons on the front of his pants as she removed the second boot. She turned slightly then, peeling the suit down her body. Provocative and alluring, she slowly stripped away the white fabric, offering him a tantalizing profile view of her body. His hands stilled, enraptured at the sight. He swallowed hard when she sauntered to him, glorious as she straddled his thighs, a foot to either side. She wore only that lace black bra and sleek high-hip panties. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to tear away the last obstacles to her succulent flesh.

In truth, he loved the view and the give and take game they often played. If she wanted to be perched above him like some Valkyrie goddess, he was more than happy to indulge in that fantasy. His eyes raked every inch of her body, and when she dropped to her knees, sitting on his hips, he groaned, arching up against her.

She pressed her hands into his chest, lifting up off of him onto her knees. Biotic tendrils flared from her hands, hovering over his body then sliding up along his face. He shivered at the cold and electric change to the atmosphere. She braced her left forearm across his chest, and he watched her curiously. Her right hand slid down his body and lower over his abdomen.

Her hand stilled just below his navel. The biotics lashed out over his groin, and his eyes rolled back into his head as the tendrils wound around him, sliding over him, stroked him. It was cold, firm, and every cell tingled as if injected with seductive stimulation. His hips arched into the energy, unable to resist.

He clenched his teeth, his back and shoulders tensing as he fought back the racing rise of pleasure. Forcing his eyes open, he peered down at her. She rested her chin on her forearm on his chest, watching him with a calm expression. When his eyes met hers, she grinned wickedly and increased the pressure of her biotics, slightly.

A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat. "Tease."

"You like it," she purred and her fingers brushed lower.

"God," he gasped and his hips bucked. "Ah, yeah. Yeah, I do." He unclenched his fists and forced his gaze to focus on her. When her hand twisted slightly and the biotics shifted, he groaned, eyes fluttering. He squirmed a little then suddenly reached between them and his hand cupped her, slipping beneath the fabric, and his fingers teased at her sensitive flesh.

Her biotics trembled then lost their focus, and a surprised moan slipped from her lips. She ducked her head, forehead pressed to her forearm, and he felt her quick exhale of breath against his chest. He eased his fingers within her, exploring and testing. He was gentle at first with a slow, easy rhythm. She pressed down on his hand and he smiled, eyes closing as he pulled up into her. His hand guided her, coaxing her, and his thumb sought her most sensitive point.

Her legs trembled and her body clenched as she tried to maintain her position. His free hand slid along her calf then gripped her thigh. She pressed harder down upon him and when his touch intensified, she quaked and released a shaky sigh. He smiled triumphantly at her pleasure as he continued through the heady high, his fingers relentless.

Her back bowed a little, almost cat-like. His hands abandoned her to reach between them to free himself. Her palms splayed upon his chest and she pushed up, eyes dazed with sex and satisfied relief. He growled at the sight and his back arched when she didn't hesitate to sink upon him, joining them.

He muttered a low curse, the muscles along his back tensing from shoulders to toes. She lifted up a little and kissed him deeply before pressing back and sitting straight up. He watched her as she moved on him, and his hands tightly gripped her thighs as he held her to him. It was a heady and erotic sight to watch her grind and ride him still dressed in those tantalizing undergarments.

He clenched his teeth, bucking and moving with her. He tried to clear his thoughts, to extend their time as long as he could, but it was impossible. He could not wipe away the image of her or the incredible sensation of being with her. She pressed on his lower abdomen, angling him, and he grunted. Her head ducked forward, eyes squeezed tightly closed, and only when he saw and felt her quiver did he release her thighs to instead grip her hips. He quickened, hardened his movements, and after a few seconds of frenzied abandon, he found blissful satisfaction.

When realization returned to him, he relaxed against the cool metal grating of the floor. Miranda was atop him, sprawled over his chest and they were still joined. It was absolute perfection. He slid his hands up her thighs to rub over her back. She stirred then and shifted just a little so she could peer up at him from under a few strands of dark hair. She arched a brow. "Well, don't you look pleased with yourself?"

He laughed, "Why wouldn't I be?" He couldn't suppress the small groan when she separated from him. He refused to release her, forcing her to lay down on his chest again. "You ok?"

"Mmm, perfect," she hummed and nuzzled his throat, pressing a kiss to the tendons near his collar.

He stroked down her back then slowly up again, fingers tickling along her spine. "He really can't hear us here?"

She shook her head. "No. Cameras still work so if they had someone who read lips, they would still know what was said."

"I see," Shepard answered then ducked his head a little. "So it's the only place on board where he isn't between us. Sort of."

She hummed her affirmative answer, and her hand slid up his chest to cup his cheek. She shifted a little to whisper in his ear. "He hasn't been between us for a while."

He jerked back swiftly, gazing at her with wide eyes. The admission stunned and thrilled him. He kissed her deeply, savoring her taste and tantalizing tongue.

When she pulled back, she stared at his mouth and brushed her fingers over his lower lip. "Don't be so happy. I haven't been forced to choose."

"Yes, you have," he corrected and slid his fingers through her hair. He lifted up a little and kissed along her jaw to whisper in her ear. "The chip. You said so yourself." His mouth trailed down her throat to nibble at the sensitive tendons.

She shook her head. "That's not the same."

"Twelve hours until Omega Relay rendezvous," EDI announced ship-wide. "Next notice at four hour mark."

"It is the same to me," Shepard answered and tilted her head back, his lips seeking hers. "Come back to my cabin."

She sighed and nodded, returning his kiss. Too soon for him, she pressed her palms into his chest and pushed up and away.

Miranda slowly roused. In sleep, she had curled into Shepard's side while he remained on his back. Her head pillowed on his shoulder, her hand on his chest and he wrapped his arm around her to hold her close. They slept in that position often lately, and she found herself enjoying the unusual, vulnerable position. It left her back exposed and her body trapped to him. Sometimes her leg slid over his or her hand gripped his side possessively as if to hug him close. She should be uneasy and anxious in the position, but instead, she felt comfortable and safe.

A few hours ago, Shepard had coaxed her to wake. He roused her gently, soft words in her ear and a tender teasing touch on her body. Once she woke, he stared into her eyes as if searching for something, desperate to say something. He kissed her deeply before letting her sleep again. He never showed this sweet and nurturing side before. She wanted to hate it, to shrug it off as unnecessary but a small part of her – a very small part – loved his gentle attentions.

She prided herself on her ability to read people, to understand them, and predict them. Often, she knew more about them then they knew about themselves, but Shepard was harder to predict. Just as easily as she could predict something about him, another action would surprise her. She always enjoyed a mystery, but Shepard's variables proved more frustrated than intriguing. She felt disarmed, blind, and uncertain. She did not do well in those conditions, used to certainty, predictability, and a sure course.

Granted, she was forced to improvise when she worked in the field, but that was over a decade ago. She was rusty. The Cerberus employees she oversaw on various projects were far easier to gauge than international spies or special ops forces. She'd grown lax in the years, her pointed skills unchallenged, at least until her pet project awoke.

During the two years on the Lazarus Station, she tried to maintain a professional distance from her patient. She was determined to succeed at any cost, and watching him change from mangled corpse to physical perfection was a miraculous experience. They said it could not be done, but she refused to fail. Failure was never an option on a project so important. Humanity's future depended on her absolute success.

The galaxy was at a pivotal moment of their time. Yes, species constantly struggled with wars and conflicts, but nothing matched the magnitude of the threat posed by the Reapers. History would remember Commander John Shepard, but how it would remember him remained to be seen. Regardless, she believed completely in him. She did not before, and if she were honest with herself, she may have doubted it even during the Lazarus Project. How could Shepard rally a galaxy against such impossible odds? Could one man truly swing the balance in favor of their survival?

The answer was a whole-hearted, resounding 'Yes'.

Since his resurrection, Shepard's influence on her had grown, though he would deny it. He had carefully, and quite craftily, removed the blinders she wore at the sides of her eyes. She did not like to think of herself as heartless or cold, but some of her decisions solidified the labels that followed her through her career. She was called relentless, ruthless, driven, and unfeeling. A wall of ice-coated steel. It was all true.

Of all the names, Ice Queen was her favorite. It flattered her that the 'peasants' elevated her to the status of royalty. It was certainly better than bitch. That was the second most common name. She found the labels tiresome, but she had more important things to worry about than what the maintenance worker who scrubbed the floor thought of her. There were important projects to lead, results to be gained, and advancements to be made. If humanity wanted to play on the same stage as the salarians and the asari, they needed to catch up.

During the last month or so, Miranda found herself reflecting back on her previous projects, though now, she peered through a different colored lens. Courtesy of Shepard's growing influence on her, no doubt. However, she struggled with what she saw. She did not regret any of her choices. To do so would lead to guilt, depression, and perhaps insanity. She was too disciplined to succumb to the horrors of her past, and instead, she compartmentalized her actions, rationalized them.

All of her choices led to a greater good, so she thought. She refused to take away the breakthroughs in technology, medicine, and research that occurred under her guidance. It did not make all of those decisions easy to live with, especially those that bordered on unethical extremes. She willfully and gladly crossed that border many times during Project Lazarus.

Miranda focused on Shepard's profile and his strong stubble-covered jaw. He appeared so peaceful in sleep, as if the strains of war rested as well. She enjoyed watching him sleep, savoring the relaxed expression on his handsome face.

A few shallow scratches still marred his cheeks, a pulsing orange glow illuminated beneath the skin. No amount of cosmetic surgery could hide every scar, especially if he were freshly injured. The skin would heal again, and it should hide the orange glow, but he would never fully escape the perpetual reminder of the synthetics inside his body.

*Flashback*

Miranda leaned forward on the sleek desk in her office upon the Lazarus Station. She examined the three datapads on the desktop, pondering over the reports. She flicked a switch at the terminal and when a swirling tiny glyph appeared on the holo-communicator, she stoically addressed its camera. "Results continue to show promise. Skeletal structure is at 100% completion. Muscular structures at 87%. At this rate, subject will be removed from intubation within the month. Physical nervous systems are fully responsive. Muscle growth continues to respond to biotic manipulation. Facial structure is completed, however, full skin growth is proving far more complicated."

She swiped her fingers over the second datapad. "Tissues grown in the lab from the subject's intact skin cells is slow, therefore progress is stalled until we can grow enough skin cells for a full tissue graft for parts of the torso and thighs. Grafting, however, will not be possible for the facial area as there is too much risk for scarring and facial deformity. Full facial reconstruction begins tomorrow with a procedure combining Shepard's somatic stem cells and biotic manipulation to increase growth rate. Only a very small amount of multipotent stem cells were available as the patient was too far degraded. By creating the perfect growth environment, we hope to create skin cells for implantation. With biotic manipulation, we will transplant these cells onto the subject's face. It is a long shot requiring exactitude. But if we want him to look like Commander Shepard, we have no other choice."

She turned off the recording then sat back in the high-backed swiveling chair. With her elbow planted into the arm of the chair, she leaned to her side, the backs of her fingers brushing her lips in thought. Though biotic manipulation worked to stimulate nervous and muscle tissue, she wasn't so confident it could be used to ensure skin cells properly divided. Biotic massage required an exact touch, ensuring that the perfect temperature and infusing pressure were used. Too much and the muscles and nerves would tear, ripping violently apart or even causing blood vessels to burst. Instant death. Could it actually work on the cellular level?

Did she have enough control to use the tendrils of her biotics on his face? Delicate blood vessels, muscles and nerves covered the area and she would have to be even more cautious and exact than usual. Perfect. Was there ever a time perfection wasn't demanded of her? No. And failure could have catastrophic consequences.

Resolved, Miranda stood from her desk, left her office, and walked through the long corridors of the Lazarus Station to the reconstruction deck. She entered the decontamination room and began the long arduous process. She pulled on the white sterile scrubs and tucked her thick hair under the cap. Hooking the mask behind her ears, she pushed on a pair of yellow-tinted glasses. With no part of her body exposed, she stepped into the surgical room.

The patient lay upon the medical table. Months ago, he was a pile of decomposing flesh, only modestly identifiable as a human form. Now, his skeleton was completed and most of his muscles stretched tautly over his body. Some of his skin regrew. His calves and back were completed with only small mottled pockets to hint at the cybernetic tissue beneath. Skin covered half of his chest, abdomen, groin, and thighs.

She was pleased with the speed of his regeneration. Years ago, she headed a project where Ceberus developed a serum that increased regeneration rates of soft organic tissues. The moment she was assigned to the Lazarus project and the magnitude of her task was realized, Miranda thought that the same serum should work. Though the patient was no longer living, Cerberus still intended to regrow organs, muscles, bone and skin. There was no reason to think the Maxim Serum would not work with Patient Lazarus.

Luckily, she was right, and Patient Lazarus regenerated at a rate nearly two weeks ahead of schedule. Though regeneration stalled at the moment due to the complexity and exactitude required in the current stages, she was confident they would succeed.

She reached towards his one thigh, her hand hovering just above the exposed quad muscle. A thin sheen of biotic energy extended from her hand and danced over the muscle. His thigh clenched and released involuntarily, responding to her gentle manipulation. The biotics extended down his calf to his feet then up over his groin and abdomen, continuing their stimulation. She was pleased with his response. All stimulated muscles contracted then released. With continued stimulation, she hoped to see his muscle strength at peak levels so that upon waking the subject, physical therapy would be minimal.

Sweat beaded at her brow at her concentrated efforts, and her hand moved to his opposite thigh, calf then up to his chest, shoulders, and arms. She repeated the process, effectively manipulating his muscles for almost an hour. After the third pass, she pulled her hand back and released a slow controlled sigh. Thirst dried her mouth and hunger rumbled her stomach, but she ignored their call.

His muscles continued to twitch as if some electrical current spurred his nervous reaction. It was a common side effect to her biotic manipulations. Would the same procedure work on his face? She leaned closer over him, head tilted to peer inquisitively at his features.

His jaw was broad and strong, well-defined with delicate muscles outlining his jaw, cheeks, and brow. Doctors attached the tube-grown cartilage for his nose a week ago and results were promising. Due to their exacting dedication to only using the subject's stem cells and existing tissue, his body did not reject any work done. By using his own tissue in addition to synthetic enhancement, the patient would not need a perpetual regiment of anti-rejection medications.

His brow was well defined and his skull had recently been fully repaired. Growing bone proved much more difficult for his skull and titanium plating resulted for a quicker solution, a solution necessary to protect the delicate tissues of his brain. His brain was mostly intact, somehow spared from the deterioration that rotted his other organs. She did not question their luck. If his brain were damaged in any way, countless variables would have come into play during the resurrection process.

The most eerie thing about the patient at the moment was his lack of eyes. The organs had deteriorated beyond repair and required full reconstruction. The sockets were bare with tiny muscles lining the insides, muscles that would eventually control the eyes Cerberus implanted. They already began preparations for the implantation. An orange glowing synthetic material with a thickness less than a millimeter coated the back of his eye sockets. It would replicate the exact and delicate receptors necessary for his retina to pass signals to the brain. To ensure sight, the retina also needed to be synthetically enhanced.

She hoped it worked. Complete eye implantation worked with rats, monkeys, and vorcha. The current patient was the first human trial. Eye growth was almost complete with sixteen different specimens available for implantation. In two weeks, the first implantation would occur, but Miranda was skeptical about how to test for vision. The patient was still intubated and comatose. How could they test for eyesight without waking the patient?

She concluded it was too dangerous to risk waking him in the next few months. Eye implantation would continue as planned and additional ocular specimens would be saved. When the patient was stable, they could increase stimulants to wake him enough to see if he responded to light. Full vision testing could commence at a later date. The eyes could be replaced if necessary at that time. Out of the sixteen growth samples, two had to work.

Cerberus experimented with eye enhancements and implants for months. Improving retinal and brain communication was key to ensuring the patient saw when his eyes opened. Despite all the research, she was still skeptical of advanced sight capabilities. Just because rats could navigate a maze did not mean a human could aim down the sights of a sniper rifle.

She turned from the patient and left the surgical room. In the decontamination room, she removed her surgical gloves then the cap, mask, and glasses. More research needed to be done. If Patient Lazarus could not see when he awoke, the project failed. A failure Miranda was unwilling to accept.

Removing the rest of the surgical scrubs, Miranda exited the surgical wing of the space station and activated the communications device on her omni-tool. "Jenson, it's Operative Lawson. Status?"

The omni-tool crackled and after thirty seconds, a woman in her mid-fifties appeared through the holo-communication device. Jenson wore a white lab coat and a high-colored blue blouse beneath. Her blonde hair was tied back in a drastic bun, her eyes focused and cold as she answered Miranda's call. "Operative Lawson. Fourteen of the ocular specimens are growing at normal and acceptable rates. Two of the specimens have been destroyed due to abnormalities. We are in the process of growing an additional four to make up for this loss."

Miranda scowled. "They will not be ready for the first attempted implantation scheduled for two weeks. Unacceptable."

"I apologize, Operative," Jenson replied, "and take full responsibility for the error."

"What happened?"

"Abnormal growth in the retinal tissue cannot guarantee at least 20/20 vision upon implantation."

Miranda nodded. "It is good to have them weeded out now. Jenson, I'm still not convinced with the results of full sight capabilities with the eye implantation. Bring up subject …" she tapped along her omni-tool, searching the database. "15988 and try the implantation again. I want to see if fine sight skills are retained. Distance sight is top priority."

"Yes, ma'am," Jenson answered. "That is the last vorcha subject on the space station. Shall I place a request for more?"

"I'll handle that," Miranda said coolly. "You get started immediately with the implantation. I want to see the results within the week.

"Yes, Operative," Jenson stated and disconnected the feed.

** End Flashback **

With eyes closed, Miranda curled into Shepard's side, her head pillowed on his chest as she listened to the strong rhythmic beating of his heart. Her hand slid along his waist to pull herself closer to him, embracing him as she struggled through the harsh memory. How different she was now?

A year and a half ago, she did not hesitate to sentence vorcha prisoners to medical experiments in order to accomplish her impossible task. She rationalized the decision because the vorcha used were captured criminals, murderers, and mercenaries who killed without cause and were a plague upon the galaxy. But did that sentence them to the experiments she subjected upon them?

For her entire career, she focused on the goal with a modicum of regard to minor consequence, side effects, and collateral damage. She admitted to Shepard when he questioned Cerberus goals that the organization pushed the very line of moral, ethical, and legal behavior, often crossing it if the goal was just and worthy. Commander Shepard's vision was top priority and worth any risk or experiment.

The memory of the vorcha stretched upon the medical table unconscious, eyeless, and intubated haunted her. At first, she compartmentalized the experiment but in recent months, the vision raced through her dreams, waking her in a cold, nauseating sweat. The vorcha always regained sight in the end, but to put them through the process and to see how they reacted when awakened at various stages was cruel and unnecessary.

Wasn't it? They needed to know the full extent of the process so when the implantation began with Shepard, they knew with confidence that it would work. They could not make a mistake. They needed 100% success.

Was she any different than the monsters who experimented on Jack, on the Rachni? Was she no different than her father?

Miranda squeezed her eyes tighter as she tried to will away the horrid nightmarish thought. How cold she was to think of Shepard not as a man, but as a project. She blocked any compassion for the human person and instead focused on the experiment. After all, he was Project Lazarus … Patient Lazarus and nothing more. Distancing herself from the man allowed for her to witness the unusual and often bizarre procedures required to bring life back to a corpse.

In the months that followed the Lazarus Project, not only did she befriend her project but opened her mind and heart to him. In only seven short months, he managed to tear away her carefully constructed walls and open her eyes to solutions both just and fair in the face of horrors and selfish greed. His methods bordered on the extreme at times, but he always defended the helpless and fought valiantly for a solution to benefit the greater good. No longer did she coldly and calmly calculate the most efficient response, but now multiple variables always hung in the balance, variables she never used to consider.

She had changed.

"You know," Shepard interrupted her train of thought, his eyes still closed. He grinned when she startled at his voice, jerking against his side, and he hummed, rubbing a hand along her bare back. "You can stare all you like. Makes me feel like the best looking guy you've ever seen."

She smiled at that and willed her searing emotions to return to dormancy. She shrugged, casually. "Top twenty, perhaps." A colossal failure; she heard the hitch in her voice, the soft trembling. Shepard surely would notice.

He shifted against her, tucking his chin into his chest to look down at her. He heard the emotions trembling in her voice and wondered if she had a nightmare. How long did she lay awake and struggling while he dozed? Her head remained ducked against his chest and he reached towards her to gently coax her head back so he could see her face.

She shook his hand away and eased up from him, blinking a few times before looking at him.

He watched as she desperately tried to hide whatever thoughts raced through her mind, and whatever they were, must have been pretty harsh. "Hey, Baby," he slid his fingers through her hair and leaned up a little to kiss the corner of her mouth then the corner of her eye where the slightest bit of moisture gathered. "What is it?"

She forced a smile. "Nothing. Just a crisis of faith. You know, the perfect thing to face now when we have the Collector base in a few hours."

"I've been having one of those for a few months now," he admitted deeply and lay back, head on the pillow. He released her hair, opening his chest for her and the hand on her waist stroked absently. "A crisis of faith about what?

"You … me," she admitted, easily. "And how everything has changed so quickly."

"How so?"

She trailed a hand along his chest, watching the movement intensely. How his skin depressed slightly at the contact. How warm he felt to her touch. How when her hand rested over his heart, it beat steadily, rhythmic and strong. "When they first brought you to me, you were unrecognizable. Your armor kept you together for the most part but everything beneath it was …" she trailed off and closed her eyes, brow furrowed at the memory. "You were an icy, rotting corpse. Decomposition and juices everywhere and the smell." Her eyes popped open and she shook her head tightly. "I will never forget that. I can't."

She swallowed hard as if to keep the bile down from the phantom sensory memory. "And Wilson thought it was hopeless. Most of the medical staff didn't think we could get your body functions working again much less your mind. It was impossible, Shepard. Truly, it was." She searched his face. "A part of me doubted it too, but I wasn't used to outright failure. And I didn't plan to start with you. I would succeed at any cost."

He gently brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. He loved how her head always moved slightly at the touch, as if to nuzzle his fingers as a cat would crave the touch. "Do you think of it often? What that was like?"

"I can't help it," she answered and pushed back from him. Gathering the sheet to her chest, she lifted up onto her knees, the action drawing the covers away from him, exposing the length of his nude body to her eyes. She examined him with a concentrated professionalism and as one hand clenched the sheet to her, the other brushed down his chest to his abs. "Most of this wasn't here. Soft tissue degenerates quickly. Plus the vacuum of space tore apart your cells. They just burst, your lungs collapsed, your heart exploded," she trailed off and her hand stilled as her mind traced back through the memories. Again, she shook her head, clearing away the thoughts. "Sometimes, I can't believe that you're actually here. Alive and breathing. I do wish that I knew you better before the project. I knew what dossiers and reports said but to know you would have helped to guarantee this project truly worked. Especially with your thoughts, how you acted, your memories."

"I feel like me," Shepard said. "I have all of my memories, I think. I have all my best traits and my worst." He reached out, resting a hand against her thigh, stroking through the sheet. "I was angry earlier today. With you and the Illusive Man for bringing me back for this whole mess." He sighed when she soothingly rubbed his chest, no judgment or anger in her eyes as she comforted him despite her own struggles. She always put him first and he felt he did not deserve her, never could. He rubbed her thigh. "But blaming you for all my shortcomings isn't fair. It's not your fault that I'm struggling with nightmares and having trouble sleeping."

"I've done what I can to help you. Did you talk about these concerns with Dr. Chakwas or Yeoman Chambers?"

"Chambers?" He scoffed. "What, so she could hug me and make it all better?" He slowly shook his head and scratched near his ear. "Look, I'm sure she's perfectly qualified, but I wasn't going to talk to her about this. I suppose, I could have tried Dr. Chakwas or Mordin. I trust them, you know, but they're not psychologists. Rationally, I know the nightmares are horrid memories, and my brain is just trying to process these last few years."

She leaned towards him, splaying a hand on his cheek. "I know you struggled and had moments but," she sighed and shook her head, angry with herself. "I'm sorry. I should have paid more attention. John, if you didn't trust Kelly Chambers, we could have brought another doctor on board of your choosing. Don't you see that your health is important to us, to me?"

"Yours is important to me too," he said. "I should have noticed that you were battling your own demons. I'm here for you, Miranda. I don't know if that's what you need and I don't really know what to do or say but …" he shrugged. "I'll listen. If that helps."

Her expression calmed at his clumsy admission and she leaned over him, kissing him softly. "Thank you, John. That means a lot." After another kiss, she pressed a firm hand into his chest and sat back. "That doesn't change the fact that we could have had another psychologist brought on board."

"I couldn't risk that," he whispered and smiled sadly. "If I admit to a psychologist that I'm having nightmares and feeling enraged and frustrated and that sometimes when I'm alone, I find myself drifting away. Then suddenly I realize what I was doing and a lot of time has past and I have no idea what I was thinking about. Do you really think that I would be proclaimed 'Fit for Duty' and allowed to continue?"

She frowned, brow furrowed in thought. He chuckled and shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I can't afford to be struggling with these things. I've got a job to do. The Collectors are here and we're going to stop them. Then the Reapers are coming. I can't just stop. I want to. I want to stop, to give up and just rest. But I can't. It's not in me to give up so I have to keep going. I can't admit defeat. Maybe I have angry moments of weakness, but that's all it is."

Reflective, Miranda stroked a gentle hand along his chest. A thin sheen of biotics emitted from beneath her palm, tickling his skin. His muscles twitched and he shifted, humming contently at the chilling sensation. "Maybe that's what this is," she whispered. "A moment of weakness and not a crisis of faith."

His hand tightened on her waist, offering comfort and his eyes fell half-lidded at her ministrations. "Why would you say that?" He husked; he could not hide the pleasure of her touch.

Meeting his gaze, she wrestled with her thoughts as the biotics receded. "I crossed countless ethical boundaries to resurrect you. But when I sit here and see you … touch you," her hand skimmed along his chest then up to his neck, hovering over his throat. "I don't regret it."

"You brought me back from the dead. The dead, Miranda. Think about that for a second." He reached up, gently wrapping his fingers around her wrist and pulled her biotically pulsing hand down to his heart. "And not just recently dead. Really dead."

"And here you are," she said, softly.

He brushed his fingers back and forth on her hip, trying to sooth her. "Here I am. Because of you." He studied her carefully, dancing through the minefield of her doubt and uncertainty. Something bothered her, nagging away at a part of her mind. He knew what that was like, to have an action of the past needle until in absolute frustration, the flood gates opened. She needed to share, to release the tensions that weighed upon her shoulders. She just did not realize it yet.

He was on the verge of a breakthrough with her. He could feel it. "Miranda, what did you dream about?"

She absently traced a figure-eight pattern along the cut lines of his abs. Her rhythm stopped at his question, and she peered up at him. She hesitated to answer him, but at his unwavering patience, she admitted. "The Lazarus Project."

Shepard nodded slowly, struggling to control his body's reaction to her teasing ministrations. Now was not the time for a raging erection. He exhaled slowly, and he abandoned her hip to entwine his fingers with hers. He clasped her hand, holding it still against him. "I can't imagine what you had to do over those two years."

"It wasn't easy."

Shepard inwardly cursed. He was losing her. He sat up, cupping her cheek to force her eyes to his. "What is the last thing you remember from your dream?"

She reached up to pull his hand away from her face. "It doesn't matter now. It's gone."

"It matters to me. Tell me," he pressed and squeezed her hand. His lip quirked in a boyish smirk. "Shock me, Ms. Lawson. I can take it."

"I don't think you could," she replied, simply and smiled sadly, shaking her head.

"Try me."

She raked a hand through her hair, tugging on the tangles and averted her eyes from him. "You want to know the last thing I was thinking?" She shook her head again, a pained expression on her face. "I can't tell you that. I know what you think of Cerberus, what our rogue cells have done, and what you think we stand for."

"And what you tell me will validate my thoughts?" he concluded. "If your insight could combat it, you wouldn't hesitate to correct my assessment. So what you're going to say is along those same lines, isn't it? Like the rachni queen? Like Jack?"

"No," she vehemently denied. "It's not like that. What we were doing to you … what we had to do was vital to ensure the project succeeded." Sighing, she reached for him, brushing her fingertips along his cheek under his eyes.

His eyes fluttered closed at her touch, and he turned slightly into the grazing fingertips. "Just tell me, Miranda," he whispered.

She licked her lips and quietly admitted, "I watched as one of our scientists stretched a vorcha out onto a table, intubated, him then removed his eyes. And after we implanted the synthetics on the backs of his eye sockets, I didn't even flinch when we woke him up to see what would happen." Unblinking, she watched him, waiting for a reaction. Her touch stilled on his cheek, awaiting his rebuff.

Shepard bit back the initial response of disgust. Again, another example of Cerberus experimentation and monstrous practices, this time delivered from the lips of the woman he loved. She actually admitted to being a party to such a despicable act. He resisted the urge to call her on the atrocities, to rail against Cerberus and tear the logos from every uniform in his quarters. But Miranda finally opened to him about her past, though drastic and horrifying. He needed to keep calm.

He released a slow and steady breath then asked, "Why did you do that?"

"It had to work," she answered, softly. "It had to." With a sigh, she ducked her head. "When you came to me, you had no eyes. Among many other things but your sight … it was vital. I wasn't convinced with the data we had and there could be no mistakes. We had a limited number of organs and …" She trailed off, noting the radiating tension in his shoulders and the closed expression on his face as he wrestled with her admission.

She pulled back from him, offering him space. Easing towards the foot of the bed, she gathered the sheet around her. She paused, her eyes catching the glint of the deteriorated, old N7 helmet on the near shelf.

Shepard rubbed his hands over his face. He knew his eye color had changed. He noticed the difference the moment he first looked in the mirror after his resurrection. He woke on the Lazarus station to hours of fierce combat and non-stop movement until finally, aboard the Normandy, he could relax. After relieving himself, he walked to the sink to wash his hands and froze, transfixed at the altered sight. He had leaned close to the mirror, looking to one side then the next, searching for some kind of lens implant or contact lens that would cause the color change. But none were there. His eyes were blue. Were they even his eyes?

There was a startling minute of panic as he stared at himself in the mirror and stripped away his clothes to inspect his body, searching for other discrepancies. Everything else appeared fine, though he could not remember the exact dimensions of his muscle mass or if that mole was on the back of his thigh. Maybe it was a little lower before?

Closely following the realization that his body was intact, he suffered a second panic due to the fact that he was resurrected from the dead.

Shepard sighed and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Striding the few feet to the aquarium, he paused at the foot of the stairs. Locking his hands behind his neck, he stared into the tank in reflection. His last fish bobbed belly-up at the top of the water, its once vivid colors dulled and faded. He hoped it was not an omen.

That first night after being brought back to life, he sat on the floor of his private bathroom, stunned. He spent hours thinking about the hows and whys of his resurrection but was unable to resolve any of his thoughts. Joker prompted him incessantly every ten minutes for a destination and soon the on board AI began inquired as to his well-being. Shepard compartmentalized the concepts of the Lazarus Project and had not revisited them in great detail since that first evening. Miranda's admission reopened the door.

How many died or suffered so that he would live again? What else did Miranda do to achieve her goal and breathe life into his ravaged and frozen corpse? His fists clenched, and his jaw tensed. He waited, pushing away and sorting through the racing anger, fear, and uncertainty that resurfaced with her frank admission. He turned to face Miranda.

She sat on the edge of the bed wrapped in his linen sheet, one hand clutching the sheet to her breast. Her legs were crossed and her feet peeked out from under the fabric. She was looking to the side in haunting profile from the low light. Her elbow rested on her knee and fingers absently brushed her lips as she stared at the N7 helmet on his small dresser.

She was lost in the past, her gaze fixed but mind far away from his simple quarters. He swallowed hard. "Baby, what am I?" Was he actually human? Was he truly alive or was he moving, breathing and thinking because internal synthetics willed it?

At first, he was not sure she heard him, but her head eventually tilted and her intelligent gaze scanned his form, highlighted by the bright fluorescence of the nearby aquarium. She perused his body, professional as if judging him. After nearly a minute of silence she shook her head with a sad smile. "A living legend."

He scowled and descended the stairs. She motioned to him with a casual flick of the hand. "Look at you. You're chiseled as if a work of art. There is not a single imperfection in your form. Your muscles, your strength, your bones, your sight, your hearing. Everything is perfect."

"You talk about me like I'm some sort of god. I'm not," he sneered and glared down at himself.

"Shepard, you single-handedly grabbed the galaxy by the throat and forced it to face an apocalyptic threat. You propped us upon your shoulders and defeated Saren, Sovereign, and the geth. And if that isn't enough, what about the last few months? Why don't we think about everything you've accomplished recently? Or how about what we are about to do?"

He did not like to think about that. He dwelled not on the victories and lives saved but on the lives lost by his decisions and his own hand. How many did he kill in the name of peace? How many died on the Destiny Ascension so that Sovereign could be defeated? To think about the volume of blood spilt or the lives lost in the campaign against the Reapers would cripple him if he let the guilt and truth of his choices weigh upon him. No, he was not ready to face that yet. He approached the foot of his bed and dropped to his knees. She called herself a monster for her mistakes, her faults, and her choices. If she thought herself a monster, what kind of demon was he?

He reached for her, cupping her cheek and turned her gaze to his. "What did you do to me?"

"Everything," she replied. "We grew you. Your organs, your muscles, your skin. We just grew you."

"And my eyes? You grew those or are they a donor's?"

Miranda brushed her fingers over his brow, around his eye then over his cheek. "They're yours. There are so many variables to eye color. I researched it for weeks as we tried to make sure they were perfect. Did you know, there is no blue pigment in the eye to make blue eyes? It is all relative to light and the amount of melanin. It's complicated, but none of the samples grown were exactly the same. The variables were maddening."

Her hand dropped and she tugged the sheet higher against her chest. "What we couldn't grow, we used synthetic materials. Mostly for your skeleton, joints but other areas too."

"So what? Am I even human?"

She scoffed. "What do you think you are? Krogan?"

He sneered and gripped the edges of the bed to either side of her hips. "A geth with god damned skin? I dunno."

"Don't be absurd," she dismissed and touched his shoulders then chest. "You have this. Muscle, blood, organs, a conscience. Just because you have some synthetic modifications doesn't mean you're not human. You need to eat, sleep, wash. For God's sake, you can get an erection. How could you possibly think you're geth?"

"You said once that you needed to come to terms with your creation. Maybe I need to do the same." His chin jutted outwards, proudly. "What do you see when you look at me?" His brow furrowed and eyes cleared in realization. "You weren't lying back then. When you said I was a project. A success. I thought you were just trying to distance yourself from me but you really saw me as just a prototype."

"Sometimes," she answered and when he moved to push away from her, she reached for him, her hand gripping the muscled flesh on the back of his neck. "I can't help it. I can't. You were …" she sighed. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" he huffed.

"John, how can you expect me to completely forget the last two years and everything I saw and did to bring you back? You're more to me than a project but don't hold it against me because sometimes when looking at you, I'm reminded of what you looked like lying on an operating table before me. Dead."

She was right. How could he hold that against her? It would be like forgetting about Sovereign everytime he saw a diagram of a reaper, or forgetting about the colonists whenever he saw the collector ship hologram.

Shepard frowned. He was obsessing over his own issues after Miranda opened up about a personal struggle. She rarely opened to him and always was there to comfort him, and she needed him now to alleviate her fears, her insecurities. He pushed away the thoughts and fears regarding himself and focused on her. "I'm sorry. I made this all about me and it was about you."

"Shepard …"

"No," he shook his head. "I'm sorry. For the Lazarus project, you did what you had to do to succeed. And you crossed some lines. I have too. But we can't take it back and all we can do is use that to move forward." He tucked her hair behind her ear then trailed his fingers down the side of his neck. "We were both created under really bizarre circumstances. So we just have to do the best we can with what chance we were given."

"I wouldn't change the past," Miranda replied. "Every choice means that you are here right now, just as you are. We tweaked and change some of the procedure with that vorcha and your perfect sight is the result. Don't you see, Shepard? It worked. You are here with me now because it all worked."

He filed away the moral consequences of his reconstruction, unwilling to let it weigh upon him so close to the coming battle. Though a part of him wanted to know the exact procedures done in the name of his resurrection, he resisted. In the end, it did not matter. He had no intention of taking his life, and he would not hold Miranda's past against her. He needed to focus on the Collectors and the Reapers.

Distantly reflective for a long few minutes, Miranda soon turned her attention back to Shepard, searching his eyes and expression. He cupped the back of her neck, tugging her gently forward and kissed her. Still clutching the sheet close, she reached for him with her free hand and gripped his bicep. He sighed contently as she returned his kiss.

Months ago, she tensed every time he kissed her as if unused to the affection. She eventually relaxed, returning his kiss or touching him, teasing him or hugging him, but there was that initial response of resistance, uncertainty, or surprise. No longer. Often, she matched his affection, opening up and gladly accepting his touch or kiss. She even instigated on many occasions, and he enjoyed watching her break away from the comfort of her highly erected walls to accept him and the budding emotions between them.

As she deepened the kiss, he groaned and his hands roamed down her body, stroking her sides and waist. She released the sheet to touch his face, his cheeks then his throat and she shifted closer to the edge of the mattress, opening her legs as he eased closer to her. Absolute contentment soothed him as her knees clamped against his sides. He pulled her into him, one arm binding around her waist as the other tugged at the sheet wound around her, his hand sneaking beneath the fabric to touch the skin of her hip then back.

She hummed at the contact and eased a little closer, hooking one heel behind his thigh. Desire stirred within him, and he grappled with the thought of taking her right there, pulling her the rest of the way off the bed until she slid onto …

Trailing his mouth down her throat, his hand tightened on her hip as her head tilted back, offering him access to anything he desired. He loved that about her lately. She succumbed to passion, losing herself in the moment and relished his every attention. He resisted kissing down her body and instead nibbled and nipped at the sensitive junction of her shoulder and neck. He found that delightful spot late one evening and never forgot it.

She trembled, a hitched breath sucked in between her teeth. He grinned and the hand on her hip slid up her waist to her breast. She chuckled at the contact, her fingers tightening on the back of his head. He whispered in her ear. "Well, you don't kiss me like you think I'm a walking corpse."

"Mmm, how would you know?"

He pulled back, mock startled at the crack. "Well, Ms. Lawson, this is some very interesting information I should have been made aware of long ago."

"Really?" She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "You are actually insinuating I have a necrophilia complex. I hope you realize how absolutely asinine that suggestion is."

He laughed and kissed her softly once then again before easing back from her. He pointed to the head of the bed. "Get back there. My knees are starting to ache."

"Funny that," she quipped and slid back on the bed. "I'm starting to like the view with you down there."

"Been trying to get there for months," he teased and crawled up onto the bed. "So you're having a change of heart?"

"Hardly," she scoffed and flippantly waved a hand at him, eyes on his groin. "And I hope you don't plan on me taking care of that."

"Was hoping for it," he stretched out on the bed, laying on his back. "I guess this means I don't get any covers?"

"You never do," she stated, flatly. At his deep chuckle, she smiled and lay beside him, her head on his chest as she tightened the sheet around her. He sighed, eyes closed and his hand slid along her back again, stroking soothingly.

Miranda rested an open palm on his chest, flaring her biotics. She watched the tendrils teasing the hair on his chest, flicking and brushing through the strands in an absent dance. She could not afford to let memories of her past cripple her in her coming battle with the Collectors, the Reapers, likely, her father, and maybe even, Cerberus. She struggled and wrestled with her past, but she had to overcome it. She could not allow her doubts and fears to conquer her or stop her from their ultimate goal - to survive the Reapers.

Her struggles paled to Shepard's and he carried everything so stoically, bravely, and without complaint. They could not afford for him to quit and stop fighting despite the adverse effects the war would have on his body and mind. She shifted, resting her chin on his pecs to look up at him. "When this is all over and we've won, you need to retire."

He smiled, eyes still closed. "Mmm, on a nice quiet colony. Garden world. Warm sun, fresh food. It'd be heaven. You'd be with me, of course."

"I would?" she teased. "I don't know, Shepard. I have a bit too much motivation to just sit back and do nothing for the rest of my life. I'm too driven."

"I didn't say you had to retire," he feigned innocence, glancing down at her, eyes half-lidded. "Just that you would be there when I did. Wherever it is. You could be queen of the colony for all I care."

At her soft chuckle, he tickled his fingers down her back then up again to her waist. "The Lazarus Project wasn't all bad. Got to rekindle my friendship with Garrus, save his ass, meet some interesting people, have some of the best sex of my life." When she arched a questioning brow, he sat up to kiss her. "Don't deny it."

"Only some of? Not the best?"

He laughed. "The best sex of my life. Plus, I'm stronger than I was before, can hold more weight and move faster than I ever could. My vision is better, much clearer than it was. I heal quicker, can take a brutal beating, then regenerate, and come back ready for more. And," he smirked, flirtatiously and glanced down his body. "I think you gave me an extra inch or so where it counts. What is that all about, Ms. Lawson?" he teasingly met her eyes again. "Wanted to make sure I fit just right? You know, so it was the best sex of your life?"

"Oh my God," she shoved at his shoulder and sat up. "You are such an ass!" She was unable to keep the laughter from her voice as his grin spread wider. How did he do that? With a few jokes, he managed to break through her depressing self reflection and brought a smile to her face. "I did no such thing. And I can guarantee you that this," she motioned between them with her free hand, "... was the last thing I was expecting. I promise you that."

"Yeah?" He stroked his hand along the sheet, and tried to ease it between the folds to touch her. "And what is this?"

"Complicated," she replied then admitted softly. "But worth it."

"Very worth it," he answered and tightened his hand on her waist. "Miranda, I love you." He professed and when her eyes widened in stunned shock, his abs contracted and he sat up, leaning towards his side. Before she could run or reply, he cupped her cheek with one hand, the other pressed into the mattress for balance. "I need you to know that. I don't know what we're flying into or what could happen and we're probably not coming back from this alive."

"John …" she whispered.

His thumb pressed to her lips, silencing her. "Don't. I don't want you to say it back. That's not why I'm telling you this." His eyes drifted downward, focusing on the black choker that was perpetually around her neck. "I know you might not be there yet, ready to admit what it actually is between us. And that's ok. I don't need to hear it. Not now. But I want you to know that we're going in there together and I'm not coming back without you. And if you die there, I'll follow you into that darkness. I'm not afraid of it. I've been there before."

She released the sheet and cupped his cheeks, jaw tense and voice trembling with restrained emotion. "Stop. That's not fair, John. You can't just make this kind of proclamation and then blow off my response before I have a chance to utter it. How do you know that I'm not ready to tell you I love you? Hmm?" she shook his cheeks gently for punctuation. "And I've known how you feel for some time now. You can't hide it from me because I'm very perceptive. Just like I hoped that you could see how I feel about you."

She sighed and ducked her head, eyes closed as she draped her arms around his neck. His hands, calloused and strong stroked down her back then up again. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not," she answered, softly. "But saying that we love each other does not change how this will end. You've told Hackett that you will surrender to the Alliance if we survive when this is over. I will not surrender to the Alliance. That means our paths will separate. Likely, for good."

"Maybe," he said and pulled her closer. He sighed as her arms tightened around his neck. "But that still doesn't mean I can't love you."

Her nails dug into the muscled flesh of his shoulder and she choked out. "Damn you, John."

He brushed his mouth along her throat, kissing and nipping the tense and trembling tendons, focusing on the sensitive junctures that always made her squirm. When she shivered, he growled, swirling his tongue and nibbling. His hands tightened on her back, pulling on the muscles of her lower shoulder and her head tilted to the side, giving him more access to her throat. "We're gonna make it back," he muttered and nipped just under her jaw.

"Are we?" she sighed and scratched her fingers along the back of his head, tickling the shorn hair. "Are you lying to me?" Sarcasm teased her tone.

He shook his head and pressed a kiss to her neck then leaned back. "Nope. We're going to make it because it is just way too cliché for us to die after saying 'I love you.' And I refuse to be any more cliché than I already am."

She laughed, cupping his cheeks with both hands again and she brushed a thumb over his bottom lip. "You think your life is a cliché?"

"Of course," he grinned. He loved making her laugh. She was so free, so open when she smiled and lost herself in humor. He remembered her saying months ago that she had no sense of humor. He begged to differ. "I am a walking cliché. Think about it."

"Mmm?"

He pursed his lips against her thumb and gripped her waist, holding her near. "I'm a grunt nobody soldier that is on a standard quest when something magical happens. Prothean Beacon. Then I'm thrust into a galactic quest to save the universe. And I do. Saren and the Geth are defeated. Then I die, valiantly. Now, the next part strays from the norm. But I come back to life just to do it all again. Oh, and I get the beautiful girl."

She chuckled. "I suppose you're right. It does not get more cliché than that."

"Sure, it does," he dragged her across his body and lay her upon her back. He tugged at the sheet that twisted around her. "Now comes the part where we make passionate love one more time before the final battle."

"Oh, it is, is it?" she shifted, arching her back then lifting her hips to help him pull the sheet away and she slid her hands along his side, waist and to his back. "I thought you wanted to break away from the cliché."

"I do. Tomorrow."

She smiled at that, one hand cupping the back of his head to pull him down and she kissed him softly. "Alright. Then make love to me," she purred.

A primitive growl rumbled deep in his throat and he sealed his mouth to hers in a deep and passionate kiss.

Note: Hope you enjoyed my take on the Engine Room scene. Thanks for all the hits and reviews. Keep them coming. Next time on ME: Sacrifice - The Suicide Mission. Who will live? Who will die?