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The Normandy was always a more silent ship, but now the quiet was deafening.
Crew conversations permeated what would’ve been an easy cruise through space; hardly a mission passed by without someone in the lower decks cracking up about the usual joke or otherwise enjoying pleasant conversation. The more notable individuals on the ship spent more of their time either alone working on their self-designated functions, or were found together passing drinks and games around in the lounge.
Those were the better days; memories of times when war was but a thought in people’s heads rather than an imminent reality. Back when the Reapers were believed to have been delayed much longer than they truly were, back when loss was something encountered on occasion and not a consecutive trend. It was the loudest anyone’s ever heard it, and they hated it. For once, they would much rather be calm; something to remind them of the past, when things weren’t hectic and frantic. They wanted something grounding. They wanted peace.
Yet when they got that wish, it came at a cost none of them were quite expecting.
There was always something to distract from the ever-present quiet, but now nothing filled the empty space.
Perhaps that was the issue: an empty space.
When Joker was forced to pilot everyone to safety out of the Crucible’s range, everyone was accounted for except for the commander himself. It wasn’t something he could afford to dwell on further; not when he had a job to do that included getting everyone as far away from the weapon as possible. It was a responsibility he couldn’t afford to be distracted by.
He couldn’t even remark on the way thousands of Reapers fell to their demise, the only objective in his sights being a planet found on the farthest rim of the galaxy.
Celebration could wait.
It was a close call, one that stressed him to the core. Keeping his breath steady and his heart calm was not on his agenda for that moment. This maneuver required all of his focus and he’d gladly endure the anxiety it came with.
Relaxing could wait.
If that meant he had to blink away the few tears that collected beneath his eyes, the ones that made his vision so foggy, then so be it. Nothing would deter his sights from the screen before him.
Grief could wait.
Especially if you deny yourself what seems most likely in this case. If you don’t know who lived and died, it makes dealing with the guilt of leaving them behind a whole lot easier. It wasn’t something anyone would fault him for. Not even Javik, who seemed to resort to his own form of silence upon seeing the state of the crew.
The faces of those he’d largely ignored for the most part, ones either hidden behind consoles, masks, and their own quarters were now all present. He may not have understood much about their facial expressions, given how he was more of a tactile person, but these were emotions he readily recognized from his own people: concern, dread, and complete and utter misery. It was one of the few things he could relate to. He was no stranger to loss and sorrow, and though he and the commander hadn’t known each other nearly as long as he had the others, even he too felt the prickles of sadness beneath his eyes.
He didn’t understand much about this cycle, but this he knew fairly well.
Joker was just one person of the many still reeling from the events just moments prior, yet he set aside much to get the crew — his friends and companions — to safety. All minus one, he would remark to himself, if he were able to pause and think on such, that is.
When the ship crash landed on a planet full to the brim with green and fresh air, a feature of Earth from before the invasion that the humans were no strangers to, a collective sigh could be heard echoing the Normandy’s halls. One of the last sounds to be heard in the moments that followed. Joker had enough resolve to take the first look into the wilderness beyond. It was beautiful, but he still couldn't shake off this lingering, festering sort of sour. Kaidan was beside him, but he could tell he was dealing with it all the same. Shepard and Joker have always been close, but they weren't bonded the way Shepard was with Kaidan. He felt it best to leave the major to his own devices. It's what he would want, or at least, he thought he would want.
He returned to his chair for some final checkups, Garrus and Traynor now among the first to speak up. Questions of ‘Are you alright? Is anyone hurt?’ followed, passed from person to person, all but two voices answering. Perhaps it was the rush of emotions in his system that made him snap, or maybe it was simply the fact he didn’t hear their voices that did it in, but either way the floodgates opened.
Joker wasn’t much for the crying type; it just wasn’t who he was. But when he couldn’t deny himself the truth any longer, that his commander and longtime friend was gone, and that his love, EDI, was too quiet for his liking, it proved too much. Hunched over his console, hiding his face in his hands, tears ran down faster than he cared to stop them.
Liara found him not too long after, placing her hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. It was almost motherly, tender, a way for her to silently communicate that she’s there for him. Even if she herself was blinking away tears to mask her grief, hide it from the others who largely looked to her for guidance in the aftermath.
She may be over a hundred, albeit young for an asari, so she was no stranger to death by any means; yet she’s bonded with the people she’s spent the better part of the last three years in such a way that this moment of sorrow was not a lament on the shortness of life. It was a cry from the depths of her heart. It was one that screamed and wailed and pleaded for her friends’ lives back; one that still was not completely over her mother’s loss, and one that desperately wanted back her closest friend. The one that saved her years ago.
As the Shadow Broker, she became well-acquainted with impartial perspectives and a gray morality. It’s easier to manage the knowledge of the galaxy when you aren’t boggled by clouded judgement, but bottling her emotions to deal with the others — her friends — was not something she could handle easily.
Shepard was as much her friend as he was theirs, and they deserved someone to confide in — to share their grief with someone who would understand and feel as much as they do. But they also needed someone level-headed; a person they could look to for stability. Liara wasn’t sure which person she had to be and which one she wanted to be at that moment.
Turning around away from Joker, who now stifled his sobs and was crying less, she was met with the faces of most of the crew.
Garrus stood tall as ever, looking stoic at first yet was very clearly trying to follow Liara’s second train of thought: someone had to be the leader in Shepard’s absence. Despite that resolve and military upbringing, Shepard was his friend — one of his best. Sniping bottles seemed so trivial then, but it’s now one of his fondest memories. There’s no Shepard without Vakarian, he remarked in his head. Oh how simple those words had seemed then; how simple it is for a happy thought to be painted with melancholy in such a short time.
Tali was found nestled into Garrus’ side, weeping softly from behind her mask, arm wrapped around his for extra comfort and support. The last time she did this, she was heavily intoxicated; drowning out her own grief in alcohol enough times that it probably wasn’t healthy no matter how easy it was to give in. Garrus held her in his arms before, but this need to stand was not borne of drunken vertigo. It was because her closest friend, who helped her show her worth and has saved her reputation far more than she could ever make it up to him, was now gone and the world was spinning from sorrow. She was sober this time around; she wanted to feel this hurt. She owed him that much.
Liara saw James and Steve, pressed shoulder to shoulder in a gesture that told her they needed the other’s grounding touch to keep them stable. It was them giving in to the natural gravity they shared; allowing themselves to feel for things more than what was expected of them. To say ‘fuck it’ to the pressures of war and let them confide in themselves. To have this be the segue from casual jokes to flirtation and maybe something more; but today was not about them. This was them simply needing assurance in the absence of a true friend. One that gave them purpose when they almost lost it.
Traynor held her head down low, looking like she was trying to hold it together but failing poorly. Back then when she’d first met him, he was an idol; one of the untouchables you’re only supposed to hear about and never meet or talk to. And while he certainly lived up to his reputation, he exceeded it and more. She felt honored to have served with him, to have been seen as a friend, and would gladly lose her toothbrush a third time if it meant she could bring back their commander for good this time.
Javik was there, too, avoiding Liara’s eyes, dealing with everything in his own way; something unique to him or intrinsic to protheans in general, a question she would ask another day. It was a matter entirely up to Javik to deal with, and unless he requested her help and guidance, she would accept his need for silence and give him space.
Dr. Chakwas was naturally among the others. She never took crew deaths well, regardless of how well little she knew of them. It was in her nature to be as caring and compassionate as a doctor could be, but this person she came to honor was even more so. Shepard and her have been colleagues for years, but they truly became friends the day they shared that brandy; a tradition Shepard promised he'd indulge in when the war was over. Liara took note of the bottle clutched in Chakwas' hands, the only sign she was struggling to cope with the loss as her featured yielded not to the pains of grief. Shepard promised few things in his life, but this was one of them. Poetic any other day, but devastating now. Even Adams showed some signs of grief at the commander’s lack of presence, but that wasn’t the most startling part.
Liara found it strange that EDI was nowhere to be found among the group. It’s something that troubled her as surely everyone was here and accounted for, except for the one that brought them all together, that is. Yet she couldn’t afford to dwell on it further; not when Kaidan stood front and center, looking at her with reddened eyes in such a way even she could catch a glimpse at the devastation swirling in his heart.
It was heavy, suffocating, and it was painful. Liara wished she could make it all go away; make it so he could come ashore and not drown in the despair he didn’t do so well at concealing — if he even cared about that at this point. For all she knew, Kaidan wanted this grief to swallow him whole, but a part of him knew it wasn’t the wisest decision. Though why would he care? His everything was gone.
The major was feeling Shepard’s disappearance more than they could imagine. Regardless of how close they were to him, nothing could compare to the union Shepard made with Kaidan; his friend of many years, his trusted confidante, and his lover for not long enough. One doesn’t share the kind of bond they do in every lifetime. To be chosen over another, to be forgiven and trusted after years apart, and to come face the prospect of nearly killing the other solidifies that — far more than they’d care to recall.
As Kaidan’s gaze peered into Liara’s, he was seeking solace. Maybe he was searching for some wisdom or comforting words to get him through this tragedy; looking to her as not just as a leader, but as a close friend. They may not have as many personal moments as he had with Shepard, but banding together to stop Saren and an army of heretic geth along with winning this war is close enough.
Her response was a silent exchange, an expression that told him she felt for him. It told him that the pain, no matter how tortuous it may be, is worth it. If it all went away, Kaidan would have nothing to show for the love he has for Shepard and of the love Shepard had — has — for him.
It seemed only fitting that Kaidan do the honors of placing Shepard’s name on the monument. Right above Admiral Anderson’s, yet another casualty that stung. While none were as close to him as Shepard was, they owed him much. They owed him for their chance to stop Saren, they owed him for the resistance on Earth, and they owed him for giving them Shepard.
With the crew gathered before the collection of names littering the wall, Kaidan’s read each and every one in slow acknowledgement.
He paused on Ashley’s first, the first person he recognized going down the list. Also the first person whose death really stung. While they lost Jenkins before her, the friendship he developed with Ash was something he hadn’t allowed himself before. Always focused on the mission at hand, always something to prepare for, and there was Ashley; joking around, fooling with the others, and pestering Kaidan any chance she got. It seemed bizarre given her normally stalwart attitude on the field, but she was largely responsible for him lightening up as much as he had since meeting her. If he couldn’t allow himself the time to be himself and see the good things in the world, then that’s not much of an existence. She said ‘It stops being life and it becomes survival.’
He hadn’t let that sink in as much as he should’ve before she died.
Even though it’s been years since that fateful day on Virmire, he never quite stopped blaming himself just a little bit. Shepard was there to ground him, even when he too was reeling after the decision. While they both weren’t fond of her attitudes towards their alien crewmates, they wouldn’t condemn her in death — not when she seemed to be getting better before her sacrifice. A part of him thought she could’ve survived, but it’s unlikely all things considered. He wondered briefly how things could’ve been had she been there alongside him when he lost Shepard the first time, and how she would be now that he’s lost him again.
He took note of Legion’s name as well, alongside Thane and Mordin’s. Kaidan never had the luxury of knowing the last two and the first was gone before they could ever strike up a conversation. Shepard took their losses much more than he did, as was expected, but regardless of how well he knew them, they were in this fight all the same and died to give them the chance to succeed.
It was Shepard’s greatest wish that their deaths not be in vain — that he do everything he could to ensure that what they sacrificed would never go unnoticed by history.
Kaidan supposed he owed Shepard the same, no matter how much it hurt.
The temptation to give into the darkness, let his eyes close and savor the images of their time together forever, was there. As he held the plaque delicately in his hands, stepping forward proved harder and harder the longer it set in. Every moment that passed was yet another cruel reminder this wasn’t a nightmare he could wake up from. This was the harsh reality, the unforgiving world that robbed him of his love.
With a somber look, he brushed his fingers over the letters, ‘COMMANDER SHEPARD’ reading clear as day. Tears threatened to spill onto the name — that beautiful goddamn name — now held tightly in his palms. He felt something surge through him.
It was something he never thought he’d feel again, but the thought spurred him on. It latched on like a vice, halting his movements towards the monument.
It was something warm, something bright. It felt light and enveloping. This was something he’d much rather sink into; the feeling of life.
It wasn’t in Shepard’s nature to die. He’d done it once before, but Garrus always pointed out how death only paused his mission, always pissing him off something fierce. He’d come back from the point of no return once before, and now that feeling, this hope — this belief — that perhaps he…
With one final look to the roof of the Normandy, fondly thinking of Shepard one last time, he smiled to himself. He knew. He knew more than anything — he was sure.
Shepard was alive.
He refused to put his name on the wall.