Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beside herself with excitement, Emma Alberts chattered a mile a minute, completely indifferent to Shepard’s monosyllabic responses. They stood elbow-to-elbow, using the same small mirror to apply makeup. Shepard was sticking to neutrals: pink lips, brown eyeshadow, mascara. Alberts, on the other hand, had thrown caution to the wind and was going as dramatic as their combined supply of cosmetics would allow. Gleefully. And with more fervor than skill, truth be told.

Shepard wanted to be excited. Hell, shore leave was supposed to be fun. Instead, she mostly felt uneasy and kept thinking longingly of the extra rotation she could have (should have?) picked up instead. Quiet guard duty had to be better than drinking bad beer and avoiding a friend who, rumor had it, wanted to take things into more than friends territory. Ugh. The last thing she wanted was to spend her first night on shore leave, on Elysium of all places, tiptoeing around Paul Graves’ hurt feelings. Because his hurt feelings were inevitable. She wasn’t interested. He was either oblivious or stupid or, worse, thought enough persistence might change her mind. Hints sure weren’t doing the trick. The next step was brutal honesty. Fantastic. She sighed, twisting her hair and automatically starting to pull the weight of it up into the regulation bun she usually wore.

Alberts glowered at her in the mirror and turned, slapping Shepard’s hands away hard enough to sting. “No! God, Shepard, you are doing this all wrong. We’re not on duty, remember? Hair like that deserves to be seen.” Alberts fluffed out her own shoulder-length blonde curls as if to prove her point, before reaching for the brush and tossing it Shepard’s way, all in one swift motion. 

Shepard, reflexes honed by training and aptitude no one had quite expected of her, grabbed it out of the air and gave it an acrobatic flip before dragging it through the red hair falling in waves past her waist. “It’ll be too hot for dancing,” Shepard protested. A token protest, really; she didn’t remember the last time she’d left her hair loose. It felt soft and lovely against her arms and the skin the cut of her dress left bare at her waist.

It was the exact opposite of the dress she’d been meant to wear to her eighteenth birthday party. She shuddered at the memory of it. That one had been floaty and virginal and white and had probably cost her foster mother at least three months of a Systems Alliance 2^nd Lieutenant’s salary. This one had cost a week’s salary (still an extravagance); was short, tight and a vibrant green that brought out the complementary tinge in her grey-green eyes; and left an amount of skin bare that her foster mother would have sniffed at and declared ‘unsightly’ before sending her immediately to her room to change.

Unsightly was the very worst of insults in her foster mother’s eyes. It covered any manner of sins, all of them unforgivable.

Shepard hitched her skirt a couple of inches higher, to spite the woman she hadn’t seen in four years and intended—if she had her way—never to see again. No matter how many guilt-inducing letters were sent. No matter how much blood money was forwarded on credit chits wrapped within those letters.

If she hadn’t thought the price too high, Shepard would have spent the whole small fortune on an increasingly unsightly wardrobe. And then had compromising photographs of herself taken, from one end of the galaxy to the other. She wondered how bad they’d have to be, to make the letters stop, and whether the letters would end before her commission was taken and she was asked to leave the military. Or given a dishonorable discharge. So, instead, she donated the money to charitable causes. Usually ones her foster parents would never have chosen to support themselves. 

Strange, when she realized twice as many years had passed as she’d spent with them in the first place. Hate could burn a long time when it had fuel enough. Find another Mindoir orphan to be your political pawn, lady. This one’s got different plans.

Alberts, oblivious to the dark turn of Shepard’s thoughts, only rolled her kohl-lined eyes and swiped rose-pink blush over her cheeks. “I thought you didn’t dance.”

“Maybe I will.”

Alberts jabbed her makeup brush in Shepard’s direction, the pointy end extended like a weapon, though she stopped short of actually poking her with it. “You mean maybe you’ll sit in a dark corner avoiding Graves and making moon-eyes at Smith. Alex, not Jillian.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Unless there’s something I don’t know…?” 

Shepard made a face that couldn’t, by anyone’s definition, have been called moon-eyes. “I do not moon. I—okay, maybe there’s a little bit of healthy admiring of Alex Smith, but admiring is not mooning. At all.”

“Ooh, Alex,” Alberts simpered, doing an unbearably bad impression of Shepard’s voice. At least two octaves higher than reality. “You’re so good with your gun, Alex. Watch me pretend you’re the second coming of Christ even though we all know I have twice the commendations you do. Ooh, Alex, what strong hands you have.”

“Shut up.” 

Alberts snickered, and her voice dropped back to its usual register. “I see you’re not bothering to deny it.”

Shepard stole the makeup and added a little color to her own cheeks. Not because of Alex Smith. She just… looked a little pale. Not much opportunity for sun on a space rotation, and she didn’t have Alberts’ natural swarthiness. Alberts’ snicker became a full fledged laugh, and Shepard took the moment of distraction to throw a powder puff in the other girl’s face before running off, cackling, as fast as her very short, very tight dress allowed.

“This means war, Shepard!” Alberts shouted.

“Only if you catch me,” Shepard taunted back.

“War! Full-scale! No holds barred!”

Shepard laughed. “You sure about that, Alberts? Because I’m prepared to walk out the door this second, and I’ve got your shoes. So I’m pretty sure I’d win.”

After a long pause, Alberts appeared in the doorway, glowering, the excess powder no longer in evidence. “Fine,” she said, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Temporary ceasefire. Tonight, drinking. Tomorrow, war.”

#

“Shepard? Lieutenant, we’re going to need you to put that gun down.”

Though she could hear the words, and even mostly understand them, her ears still rang from the blast. This one had been so much closer than the first. It seemed selfish to hope it wasn’t gone for good, given how many others had lost so much more. What was hearing to a goddamned limb? What was hearing compared to a life? She blinked, shaking her head as if shaking might help the cloudiness clear. It didn’t. 

“You are Shepard, aren’t you? Lieutenant Shepard?”

The voice seemed to come from a thousand miles away, echoing strangely in her head. Her hands ached and trembled, and she clutched the pistol tighter, afraid of dropping it. A good soldier didn’t drop her weapon. Not for anything. Not for anyone. Even when her hands were swiftly going numb.

She was pretty sure the warmth trickling down her face was some unholy blend of sweat and tears and blood, all mixed with the makeup she’d put on earlier. That Alberts had forced her to put on. 

Alberts.

Poor Alberts.

At least she wasn’t crying anymore.

Shepard hoped the civilians got out okay. Rebecca Milton. Doc Ribinski. Mary; Mary had to have survived. Mary had probably saved just as many lives as Doc Ribinski by making sure everyone got regular hydration. Her voice, soft counterpart to the shelling and gunshots, had risen to every challenge, telling them stories about growing up on Earth, keeping them distracted in the best kind of way. Bluest sky you ever saw. Golden wheat undulating under that sky like a sea of gold. Birds singing. My loves, you can’t imagine how much I miss hearing birdsong. There you go, my boy, have some water. Pretend it doesn’t taste of ashes, there’s a good lad. 

Lily. Shepard’s gut twisted and she swallowed the rising nausea. What had she been thinking? She should’ve sent the kid away at the very first chance. You didn’t let a teenaged girl wander around a goddamned battlefield, no matter how shorthanded you were. Another bad call, Shepard. She really hoped she wouldn’t have to see Lily’s dark eyes empty, Lily’s full lips slack.

Better than if the batarians had taken her, though. Better death than that. Shepard knew that much, remembered that much.

Shepard tried to breathe in, but the smoke still burned her lungs and she managed only to make herself cough. Eyes watering, she kept her gun trained on the direction of the voices. Aim for the eyes, she thought. Batarians have four. Good chance of hitting one of them. Aim for the eyes.

“Lieutenant? Can you hear me, Lieutenant Shepard? Nod once for yes.”

She nodded. Once. Even though she could really only make out one word of every three.

“Good. Good. I’m Commander Kildare. Brendan Kildare, Alliance Navy. I serve on the SSV Agincourt.”

Don’t talk, Commander. The batarians are coming. Aim for the eyes. Batarians have four. Kill or be killed. Worse. That’s what I learned on Mindoir.

She couldn’t find her voice. Her throat was too raw. Burned, maybe. Messed up hearing and no voice. No medi-gel in the dress she’d worn to the club. Maybe Alberts wouldn’t have lost her leg, if she’d been in a hardsuit. Maybe she wouldn’t have died.

Oh, God. The crying. She couldn’t get the crying out of her head.

Commander Kildare took another step closer, his hands raised, his eyes wary. She recognized wariness when she saw it. Two eyes. Just two. Hazel. Alliance gear. A pair of Alliance grunts stood behind him, their Alliance-issue guns still fixed on her. I’m not the threat, you assholes. “The fighting’s over. It’s over, LT. You’re safe. Lower your weapon, Lieutenant Shepard. That’s an order.”

She wanted to. All her training screamed at her to do as the commander bade. But her arms remained locked, her finger a breath away from the trigger, her ragged breaths closer to sobs.

Aim for the eyes. There are worse things than dying, Shepard. There are worse things than dying. You know that better than anyone. Aim for the eyes.