She awoke to near darkness, the pale blue glow of the aquarium and the streaking stars beyond the skylight the only source of light in the room. There was a weight in the air that alerted her to another's presence, even before she heard the soft, slow breathing nearby. She reached out cautiously to feel the bed next to her, but her hand only encountered sheets twisted and tangled by a night of uneasy sleep. Lying still, she concentrated, then tilted her head to the left, eyeing the form sitting propped in a chair next to her bed. Even in the dim light, she knew exactly who was standing – or rather, sitting - vigil at her bedside, and she whispered his name: "Kaidan."

He was asleep – she could tell from his even breathing. Quietly, she slipped out from beneath the sheets, rubbing her arms as she drifted on silent feet across the room, moving towards the storage room where she kept her clothes. Dragging out the oversized button-down shirt that often served her as a nightgown, she pulled it on, fingers fumbling as she buttoned it up. She could feel the last dregs of the drug fleeing her system as she made her way towards her desk, leaving her mind clear. She supposed she should be angry at having been drugged, but enough of the sedative remained in her veins that her emotions were still banked. Logically, she understood what Kaidan and Chakwas had done – even if she didn't appreciate it.

Still, the rest had done her well, though she knew from the state of her bed that it had not been an easy sleep. Even drugs, it seemed, couldn't keep the ghosts of the dead from walking her dreams. Her recall was hazy at best – voices, that child, bitter winds – and even as she concentrated on remembering, the dream eluded her, vanishing to smoke. Shaking her head, she moved away from her work area, her eyes automatically seeking the slumbering form of Kaidan, propped rather uncomfortably in the chair he'd dragged to her bedside. Leaning shoulder and hip against the divider between work space and living area, she folded her arms across her breasts and simply watched.

There had been little enough time like this since the Reapers had invaded Earth – time to reflect, without the constant pressure of mission after mission, of the expectations of her superiors. In the dim light, with the stars swimming in the ghostly glow of the FTL trail outside of her skylight and the last remnants of the drug loosening her muscles, Shepard could almost forget that the fate of a galaxy depended on her every move. The knowledge was still a nagging pressure in the back of her mind – but for this one brief moment in time, she could set it aside to concentrate on here and now.

Here in this space of time, she realized that her life and her job were, indeed, two separate entities. For so long she had lived the job – breathed it, been it. When she thought of herself, she didn't think of a woman thirty-two years of age with short black hair, jade green eyes, and a secret passion for chocolate and moonlit walks by the sea. She thought of a soldier, an N7 infiltrator who could line up a headshot on the fly, who could use her omni-tool to stealth or throw plasma rounds. She thought of the Council Spectre who could and would use that status to browbeat dignitaries into submission when she needed something done. She thought of the commander of the Normandy, upon whose shoulders rested the weight of dozens of worlds and billions of lives. She couldn't remember the last time she'd lain in a bathtub full of bubbles, with a glass of wine at her elbow and a book of high fantasy in her hands and just breathed.

But he had changed that. Slowly, exquisitely, she'd remembered what existed beneath the black and purple armor – the woman, with a woman's wants, and a woman's needs. More surely than a Phantom's sword, he'd sliced into the very heart of her, piercing deep into that hidden place where she'd stored her individuality in the name of being the best soldier she could be. And in doing so, he'd heightened her strengths, and decreased her weaknesses. He'd made her see the human side of the equation – made her see beyond the numbers and what Garrus referred to as the "ruthless calculus of war". And maybe it meant she bled a little more every time she lost a crewmate – a friend – and maybe it meant she cared a little more when a world fell to the Reapers… but it also meant that she'd try that much harder to keep it from happening again. Pain, she had learned long before, was a most effective deterrent.

She felt the charge in the air brought about by his awakening only seconds before she saw his eyes open, watched his head turn instinctively towards the bed. "Shepard?" She might have shifted at the thin thread of anxiety in his voice, or he may simply have sensed her watching, but his head whipped around, and brown eyes stared into green. They held each other's gaze as he pushed himself up from the chair and approached; his steps hesitant, almost wary. "Shepard. Hey." Sometimes, she wondered how he was so good at poker – but perhaps the fact that she could read the relief and worry warring on his face was only one more indication of how well she'd come to know him.

"Kaidan. Hey," she responded in kind, her voice lazy as she continued to lean against the divider, canting her head towards it as she cocked her hip, swinging one foot in front of the other in a deliberately nonchalant pose. "Have a nice nap?"

"Not particularly," came the dry response as the major stopped several feet away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Snatches here and there, but…" He trailed off, shrugging his broad shoulders. Shepard felt a pang, noting the shadows she could see beneath his eyes in the dim light. "How about you? Sleep well?"

Pushing away from the wall, she moved a few steps closer, tucking her hands behind her back as she echoed his shrug. "It cleared my head," she admitted. "I don't know if I'd say it was restful," and they both glanced at the tangled sheets that gave mute evidence of just how restless her sleep had been, "but it was needed." She noted the slight smile that crossed his lips at her grudging admission. "Come," she said briskly. "Join me." Without waiting to see if he followed, she crossed towards the couch, settling down upon the cushions and arranging her legs to ensure there would be no inadvertent flashing.

He sat carefully on the second couch, not quite close enough to intrude on her personal space. Feet planted on the floor, he leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped loosely before him. His brown eyes watched her – cautiously, she thought, as though waiting for a blow. But she wasn't of a mind to ream him over his and Chakwas' high-handed actions, not when their necessity had become so clear. After several humming moments of silence, he cleared his throat, then stated, "I didn't expect you up so soon."

"Yeah, well, since my… surgery," and here she paused to peer at him, to be certain he understood the reference. At his grimace and nod, she continued with, "I haven't responded as well to sedatives. An unexpected benefit, as I discovered on Aratoht," she added bleakly. "It doesn't matter – it worked well enough. I can't say I care for being ambushed," and she offered him a mocking glare, "but I can't argue with the evidence."

Kaidan sat there quietly for a long moment, his gaze turning from her to his folded hands. "I was in the medbay when EDI called the doctor," he stated into the silence. "I had… a headache." Shepard winced, knowing that that 'headache' was more likely one of his biotic-born migraines. "She – EDI – said that the monitors in your cabin showed heightened respiration and pulse, and that you weren't responding to any of her inquiries. When we came in, you were struggling in your chair, like you wanted to get up, but you couldn't quite figure out how. When I touched you, you started shouting. In Prothean," he added wryly. "I don't regret it, and I'm certain that Dr. Chakwas doesn't either."

"In Proth- Dear God. I didn't… you know what it's like, Kaidan. There's no time for sleep. Earth… Palaven… all those people." She stared off into the distance, lost in the memory of the Reaper invasion. She felt him shift, felt his gentle touch. She turned her hand upwards so that their fingers could link, the action as natural as breathing. And another key clicked in the lock. "I didn't mean to scare you, Kaidan."

"You did," he stated bluntly, fingers tightening briefly as he slid a bit closer to the junction of the couches, to her. "There's a whole lot in this war that makes me sick, that makes me angry, but the idea of losing you – and not just to the war, but to yourself – that chills my bones." When he felt her start to draw away, he tightened his grip. "No, it's your turn to listen. Shepard," and he waited until her eyes snapped to his, green on brown. "I love you. That fact isn't going to change." His tongue flicked out to wet dry lips, and she felt her spine tingle. "I can't help but think of the future – sometimes it's all that keeps me from losing it when I imagine everything going on out there. That dream that someday, this horror will be over and we can start rebuilding our lives, that's my motivation. I want to save people – save worlds – but they're abstract to me. I need something I can put a face on, and I can put a face on us."

It's important to remember the big picture, but there's always a little picture too.

Garrus, damn him, had been right. She'd been so focused on the faceless masses – the calculus of war – that she had spread herself too thin, trying to fight for everyone and everything. Every world taken, every life lost, she'd taken upon herself – every wound was a wound on her body; no wonder she'd bled herself dry. Without hope to sustain her, she'd gone hollow.

What right do we have to envision a future – to want a future – when so many will never have one?

It didn't come down to rights. It came down to needs. A person can't live without a goal – a visible, obtainable goal. She knew that, as a soldier. One of the first lessons learned was that to get something done, you have to set a goal, then work towards that goal. Often, there would be multiple goals on the road to the objective – first avoid this ambush, then defeat this enemy, then traverse this maze, all before taking the point. And she'd forgotten that truth in the rush, in the sheer, overwhelming moment that had been the vindication of three years of her life – the unwanted proof that she hadn't simply been crying wolf, that the sky was, indeed, falling – and it was about to crush the world.

He waited at her side, patiently watching her struggle through her thoughts. Just like always. The thought struck her like a blow. Granted, there'd been a time when she couldn't have depended on him – when he'd let suspicion overcome common sense – but in the time since he'd returned to her life, since he'd rejoined the Normandy, he'd more than made up for that brief lapse. If anything, his loyalty and devotion were stronger than ever – all the more so because, she mused, he was no longer technically under her command. He ranked her, in the Alliance, and he matched her as a Spectre. They were, finally, on even ground – and yet he deferred to her leadership, obeyed her commands, and accepted her guidance without question, placing his life and his trust in her hands. No qualms, just simple belief in her.

"I want a life. I want a family."

"Sure, I get that."

"No, Shepard. The Normandy's your real love."

Maybe once upon a time, Jacob Taylor's words would have been true. But while she loved the Normandy – and everyone who served her – her real love was sitting beside her, his fingers tracing gentle, abstract patterns on the back of her hand as he watched and waited for her to come to terms with his words and decide her own mind. "I like chocolate and fantasy novels and walking on the beach," she said slowly, and felt him tense beside her. "I like to climb rocks, hike, and fish, but I'd just as soon watch a deer as shoot it. I want a home – somewhere remote, where it's just you and me and nothing but nature. And a cat," she added slyly. "A black cat with white socks who thinks she owns the place. I never had a home."

Kaidan sat silent for a moment, simply staring at her with that calm, impenetrable expression of his. His hands continued to play with hers, fingertips caressing her skin. "A home," he finally mused. "With lots of windows and a wide porch where we can sit on a swing and watch time stand still. A huge yard where the dog can run free, chasing squirrels and terrorizing birds." She felt her breath stutter in her chest as his lips turned in a slow, sweet smile. "A place we can come home to at the end of the day and leave our worries behind us and just be a family."

"I want a life. I want a family."

Yes. That's what I want too. Finally, I do get that. "I grew up on ships. The only time I was planet side was when my mother would take me with her on shore leave. My possessions encompassed what I could fit in my luggage, and I was never allowed a pet. Even after I entered the service, I never really had a place I could call my own. This," and she pulled a hand free to gesture to the cabin around them, "is the closest I've ever gotten to having somewhere I could consider my own."

"When this is over," and here Kaidan paused, taking a breath, "when this is over, we'll find a place and build a home – and a life – and a family. That's what I want," he added, firmly. "Our home, our life, our family. You and me, Shepard. Together."

It's good for you to have something other than the next mission to consider – maybe now you'll be a little more careful, with someone to come home to.

Thanks, Mom. "Together," Shepard agreed, leaning forward as he did to seal the promise with a kiss. And when that kiss turned to more, she reveled in the stolen moment, let her mind go blank and simply lived. Simply breathed.