[ 5 :: Is It? (Over) ]

Mercifully unaware of the visceral assault that had been carried out, both against her, and her attacker, the trauma little more than a surreal echo at the fringes of cognition, Shepard had remained listless on the floor of the apartment, unable to track how much time had passed. It came and went in heartbeats, flickers of imagery- a silhouette moving in front of her at erratic intervals. One moment, it was above her, moving slowly, methodically- then, it inhabited only the corner of her eye, the displacement like a tremor; skipped frames of an ancient film reel.

Like sleep paralysis, unwelcome, almost ethereal, the dream-state she'd been enveloped by- as eyes flashed black- so easy to sink into- should have fought it, didn't want to- that she all but welcomed it. It did not return the sentiment; instead of embracing her, it began to retreat, allowing her to become aware, steadily, of her own breathing. She could sense her limbs, sense that she was laying down against a floor, awkwardly, even as peculiar images continued to surface behind her eyelids- or were her eyes open? Her lungs, steadily taking in air at lulled intervals, weren't receptive to her entreaties to take in a renewing breath; her body, unwilling to move out of the uncomfortable position, even as her legs began to ache. The best she could do in her attempts to communicate with the silhouette was to force out an exhale, in the hopes that a sound might come with it.

For a long while, there was no answer; then, abruptly, with little warning, the shadow entered her vision, so close she could feel its warmth, feel a clutching at her shoulders, startling her. Perhaps it sensed the idiot moans she couldn't be sure she was forcing out, a voice- familiar, gentle- raised in an attempt to sooth.

It panicked her, instead; stripped her of common sense, her heartbeat getting faster, more frantic, the memory of the situation- that any wrong move could end in sudden death- flooding her mind. Had she? These flashes, the paralysis, the cold sweat, had inextricable ties to that moment of disconnect, awareness reaching far enough to feel skin wrapped taught around flesh swollen, frozen and blistered from vacuum exposure, airways had choked, eyes blinded-

Then, she'd receded from sensation. Now, she rose to it, felt a slight tugging along the skin of her torso- unharmed, not swollen, no pounding subdermal pulse, lungs responding, heart still beating- light, but noticeable, movement she identified dimly- not the pinch of an unnaturally tight pressure suit- as the shifting of fabric. And sight, last to sluggishly break through the haze of unconsciousness, granted her a view of the silhouette blotting out the dim lights of the desk lamps; let her know that the shadow was real, not a delusion. Only then did her memory kick fully into gear, the events that had preceded Morinth's attempts to seize total control coming swiftly to mind, the remembered tugging of her shirt, what it meant, causing her hands to rise abruptly, take hold of the wrists of the shadow overhead- the way she should have before.

"You are safe now, commander," the voice said, clearer now, urgent. "Be calm."

Samara. Shepard took a slow breath to try and steady herself, eyes trying to focus on the figure above her, tried to reason with herself that the hands at her shirt weren't attempting to undress, but redress her. What's going on?

"Shepard," Samara said, cutting through the confusion for long enough to refocus the commander. "Do you know where you are? And to whom you are speaking to?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah..." Furrowing her brow slightly, she didn't see any sign of the woman that had loomed over her none too long ago. "-Is it, um..." Tongue sluggish, mouth unwilling to move as instructed- "-It it-?"

"Over?" Samara said, her query- bereft of inflection- earning a slow nod. "Yes. It is."

The wave of gratitude, of relief that came over her far out-paced any of the other reactions that would undoubtedly crash down on her as every unfortunate connotation, every humiliating mis-step came back to her. For the moment, all that mattered was that it was over- and that she'd retained her own mind, her own desires, up until the very end.

That thought alone prompted a muffled, half-delirious "-Don't know where I'd be... if you hadn't been here."

Samara's hands paused on the top button of Shepard's dress shirt, but that fiercely controlled expression gave little reason as to why.

"-Felt like I was drowning," she continued, needing to hear the sound of her own voice, to know she could talk, use her own words, as much as she needed to express those sentiments to the matriarch. "When her eyes went out-" -blackened, twin event horizons in a cerulean sea- "-felt... suffocating. Like-" She shook her head slightly, taking another slow breath, as if to remind herself that she could. "I don't really want to think about it..."

"It would be best if you refrained, for the moment," Samara said. "Are you well enough to walk?"

Testing her limbs as best she could, she could feel the weakness in them- and loathe though she was to admit it, "Might need some help," had to be stated.

"I assumed as much."

Though the matriarch moved to try and help Shepard up, there was a pause between them, a moment where they exchanged glances that brought on a greater urge to speak.

"Samara- I just want to say-"

Samara raised a finger to press it against Shepard's lips, silencing her. "We will speak of this," she said, "but... please. We must leave."

Even in her present state, Shepard didn't miss the urgency in that; couldn't ignore the stagnant grief that settled in those pale blue eyes. It seemed absurd that she even thought to ask why; more so when she allowed Samara to help her to her feet, in spite of her disorientation, catching sight of the reasons for the matriarch's urgency, for seemingly displaced emotions that were so at war with an expression that still appeared controlled; perfectly composed. It all coalesced around the body laid out on the nearby couches, the reminder of why they'd been here, what had happened, ushering in a pang of guilt; put a halt to any further expressions of gratitude. Instead, there was shame; apology; the remembrance of the raw sexuality that had taken place moments before what amounted to a centuries-long family tragedy.

She had no right to be distraught, and every reason to keep her mouth shut.

"Sorry," she said. "I..." Still finding it difficult to hang on to coherent thoughts for long enough give them voice, she struggled to find the right words, and instead, simply said, "It can wait."

"Your patience is appreciated, commander," Samara offered sincerely, however fatigued her voice sounded; however much it sounded like the words were forced out. "Thank you."

There was no question of whether or not she was well enough to walk on her own; she couldn't. That in mind, Samara simply encircled her waist in a light grip, slinging her arm over armored shoulders to help haul her back to the Normandy. Shepard knew better than to try and pretend as though she was capable of doing it on her own, even as the weight in her limbs began to lift, little by little; her head was pounding, body unnaturally weakened... she needed the support as badly as Samara seemed to need the silence.

But silence was one thing she couldn't abide, entirely. The longer they moved through the stretches of Omega alleyways, the more she felt her mind start to drift around the surreal feelings that plagued her- the uncertainty that what she was seeing, experiencing, wasn't a ploy unto itself. Every once in a while, her breath caught at the thought of it, a reaction neatly played off as little more than the result of fatigue. That was, until they approached the Normandy.

Maybe it was the act of stepping on to the ship she'd viewed in those moments before her first brush with death that did it- maybe it was the simple idea of facing the crew while she was still incredibly unsteady... but something made her stop in her tracks, bringing Samara to a halt alongside her.

"Commander?"

Shepard took in a shaken breath, a hand raising to rub at her eyes, the motion carried through with a brush of her fingers through her hair. It all felt perfectly real- but-

"Samara, I- um..." There was no face-saving way to put it. "I'm just- I think I need a moment to, ah..."

Words weren't coming to her, still- though this time, it was for an entirely different reason. It wasn't her place to ask for reassurance, no matter how bad she needed it.

"Interrupting even a common meld has adverse effects," Samara replied gently, what little soothing she could offer lost to distraction. "That you are feeling unsteady is- natural."

"So it's normal," Shepard said, paraphrasing as if to reassure herself without the need to impose. "It's all- just... part of the process."

"The feeling will pass, yes," Samara said, as those words trailed off. "But it may be wise to seek the advice of Doctor Chakwas, once we're aboard."

"Yeah..." Shepard paused, and took a breath, trying to steady herself. "I think- that'd be for the best. Just-" Another pause; much as she was aware of concepts like propriety, she had little interest in doing anything except drawing the matriarch into a partial embrace, needing, badly, to feel the warmth there- not the intense chill that had hit her the moment she'd locked eyes with the woman who'd preyed upon her. "Thank you. For... saving me." She let out a short, humorless- almost disbelieving laugh at that, if only thanks to the absurdity those words held, ignoring the sting in her eyes. "Not sure if there's any other way to put it."

Hard to sound non-chalant, when you sound so damn shaken up- but she gave herself points for trying, at least.

As before, Samara was an anchor- though a silent one... and one that was resistant to anything except affording her weary commander her presence. Much as it was easy to sense, it was still difficult to let go, the brief bout of queasy disorientation slowly righting itself.

"I appreciate your need for a moment's peace, Shepard," Samara said, without inflection, "but we should have you examined before too long."

"I know. I'm- sorry. Just- thank you."

"No, commander..." Samara paused, waiting for Shepard to draw away, carefully catching her gaze to say, "I should be the one thanking you. For what you've endured-" Whatever was supposed to come after that was cut short; whatever meaning it had, it wasn't something that could be communicated now. All there was to say was, "For everything. I just hope you can forgive my inclination to seek privacy, once we are certain your health has not been compromised. There are many years I have to account for... and not nearly enough time to atone for them."

What could she say to that? 'Don't be a stranger'? 'I know you just had to murder your daughter, but I need you right now'? She couldn't even tell Samara there was no need to suffer alone; one case outpaced the other by a long shot. Of selfish urges, she'd indulged far too many, in front of the matriarch's own eyes; there was no need to indulge another.

In the end- there was only one thing she could say, and that was, simply, "I understand."

Samara merely raised her hand in response, fingers featherlight down Shepard's cheek, thumb brushing the pooling moisture away from the edge of the woman's eyelid, her own eyes too clouded by the centuries mourned to offer much else than a single, unspoken apology- for being unable to give little more than a gesture meant to sooth a frightened animal, or her speechlessness, save what few technicalities she could offer. It didn't matter, either way; for now, it was enough.

No words were offered otherwise- just a soft urging on Samara's part to guide the ailing commander towards the Normandy's airlock. And Omega, true to its ever-enduring word, remained the burial ground for murderers and victims alike, however inextricable the definition of both could be.

Stood as warning that the line between the two was, as always, forever blurred- no matter the code, or conduct