Chapter Text
Shepard had been staring at the same report for what felt like an eternity.
Reports for the Council tended to be bland and dry and not much else.
For their part in doing their damnedest to avoid involvement in ‘how Spectres conduct business,’ the Council wanted every little detail of his missions. Ironic, considering how few details he ever received from them in return. Other assignments taken on behalf of Hackett or some Citadel diplomat often added only frustration and subtracted only time. And every mission always ended with a report that could have easily been whittled down to ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’
A little padding usually filled in the missing pieces well enough.
The Normandy had been chasing Saren around the galaxy for weeks, only to find herself one step behind him the entire time. The mission was huge, the width and breadth of the galaxy itself, and Shepard spent too many of his off hours sitting at the solitary desk in his cabin and staring at the screen suspended above it. So many words that amounted to so little.
He always found himself resorting to bullshit within the first few paragraphs.
Fingertips frozen over the holographic keypad, he read through the last few words again. A sentence fragment hung off the end of the last line as it had been for the past half-hour, some unfinished thought that he was not sure would be worth concluding. Words so inert, lifelessly explaining away his choices and actions on Noveria, so far disconnected from the ‘here and now’ that had driven his every thought and movement on the ground. The story had been reduced to a laundry list of people, places, and events – unorganized facts that, on their own, were such minor details.
But they say the devil is in the details.
Mission reports, protocol, the chain of command… all minor details in a story so much larger than perfunctory words could convey.
Somewhere in the chaos of circumstance was a real story. A story worth the time and effort of weaving all of those details together. A story worth the consequences of telling it.
Shepard blinked through the eye strain, the subtle tension radiating against his temples, and chanced a glance at the clock at the other end of the desk.
The Normandy was well into the night cycle. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up. When the cabin door slid open, only his own footfalls against the metal deck reached his ears and only the dimmed lights overhead met his eyes. But when he rounded the corner, he stopped mid-step.
Kaidan.
It had never been unusual to find him working at that familiar console outside the captain’s cabin. What was unusual was the number of times that Shepard had wandered out from the silence of his cabin at odd hours of the night to find him still standing there.
Maybe he was starting to expect it. Maybe that was why he was becoming quick to leave the mission reports behind and venture out into the heart of the ship in the middle of the night.
Shepard had taken him on every mission. The man was controlled and knew how to take orders, but he was also resourceful and showed initiative. And he was principled – in some cases, too much so. If anyone knew every regulation in the book like the back of his hand, it was Kaidan Alenko.
Kaidan Alenko and the way his mouth quirked ever so slightly whenever he noticed Shepard approaching him. The way the matured lines on his face grew and shrank as they talked about everything from missions to service history to long-buried memories. The way his voice hitched when he prefaced a sentence with a breathy laugh, that sound so characteristically him.
A hundred little details that Shepard had noticed before, all meshing together into a cohesive whole.
Kaidan Alenko was a story all his own.
He stood up straight and wiped his damp brow with the back of his hand, arm slowly lowering to his side and lip curling at one end when he caught sight of Shepard from the corner of his eye.
“Awake at this hour, Lieutenant?”
Kaidan turned to face him properly. “Yeah,” he said, a tiny exhale of a word, tired and a little sheepish, that slipped from between slightly parted lips.
“I know I always say we should talk later, but this late?”
“It’s not from lack of trying.”
His gaze fell away for a few seconds, fruitlessly scouring the deck in a moment of hesitation, and when he finally looked up, his eyes were a little more reserved, a little embarrassed, like he wanted to admit to something but had no idea where to start.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Kaidan finally said. “Had a… strange dream. Happens occasionally.”
Shepard crossed his arms. “So you’re working?”
“Figured I’d try to get something done in the meantime,” Kaidan replied. “How about you, Commander? Anything you need?”
“A distraction.”
Kaidan let out a laugh – all breath, low notes that rumbled out of his throat on half of a sigh – and it made Shepard’s stomach tense.
“Well, nobody can ever say you’re dishonest,” he said, his smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah,” Shepard said, lifting a hand to scratch at the itch that had suddenly crept up the side of his neck. “I was trying to hammer out a report, but...”
But the words refused to fit together. They had stared back at him from the data screen as little more than silent noise.
“Thoughts?” he prompted. “Anything I might’ve missed?”
Kaidan’s brow quirked. “Off the record?”
Shepard was sick of ‘the record.’ He had been staring at it for god knows how long.
Apparently his silence was sufficient approval for Kaidan. “Taking out Benezia probably set Saren back a bit,” he said. “Hate to imagine how Liara’s handling it, though.”
Shepard hesitated. That was another side of the story that would be best left off his report.
“Have you talked to her?” he finally asked.
“I haven’t decided what to say. Hopefully I’ll have something come the morning cycle.”
“Yeah. She didn’t really want to talk about it. What’s done is done.”
“Makes sense. Probably not something she wants to think about. Actually, I, uh… knew you’d already talked to her, Shepard.”
“I figured she could’ve used an ear.”
Shepard stopped himself there. He remembered how he had caught sight of Kaidan after he had finished speaking with Liara and left the med bay: how Kaidan glanced up from his familiar position at the console, how Kaidan’s eyes followed his steps, how Kaidan looked away as soon as he realized that his commanding officer was giving him the same sideways glance.
He had seen Kaidan’s shoulders stiffen from across the room. He had seen the creases deepen at the corners of Kaidan’s eyes and on his brow. He had seen every visible sign of restraint that peeked out from behind Kaidan’s best efforts to maintain control.
What it all meant was a question without an answer.
“Seems like you spend a lot of time here on restless nights,” he finally added.
“Yeah.” Kaidan’s eyes flicked toward the med bay, and then he rolled his shoulders, jaw clenching a little tighter as he worked out the tension there. “Got a lot to think about these days,” he added. “Need to keep my hands busy, I guess.”
Those hands. Steady from dedication. Callused from combat. Firmly set in every action they undertook on the field and…
Shepard swallowed the thought that lingered on the tip of his tongue, and it left his throat dry.
Heat radiated against his cheeks and dampened his brow, but he ignored it – or tried to. And then Kaidan wiped his own brow with the back of his hand, eyes falling back to the console like they should have been trained there the whole time, like he had been the one caught unawares.
So Shepard risked a question, one that burned his throat on the way out, sharp with teasing defiance: “You normally sweat like this when your hands are busy?”
Kaidan looked him directly in the eye. “Biotics run hot, sir,” he said, voice low, rough – wanting.
Maybe.
“I can see that,” Shepard said, and then he looked away.
A sideways glance rewarded him with a smile – tiny and weak, but honest nonetheless – and he had to wonder if, this time, Kaidan knew that he was looking.
“Maybe we should both try to get some rest. We’ll talk another time, Kaidan.”
“Sure, Shepard.”
Maybe Kaidan was too distracting.
But he chanced another glance as the lieutenant turned away from him – steady hands working on one last attempt to fix the faulty console, the broad span of his shoulders and the slant of his back and the hard lines of his hips – and then let his gaze fall away to the floor.
So many stories weaved around his own, but never entwined with it. Not with stolen glances that read every little detail only in secret. Not with unspoken questions and muted answers. Not with the regs tying his hands and holding his tongue.
So if all he could get was a sideways glance, he would take everything it could give.