[Archangel, she thinks, obscurely, and the memory of Garrus' voice in the same words is a bridge between them. I've got your back, Shepard. No Shepard without Vakarian.
The back of her mind is open to the woods, a house with no fourth wall, and the neighbors can see in, all the way back. Well, the one neighbor, at least. Sam can see. She can see him too, if she had the attention free to look, but they're each cluttering up each other's minds. Like hvaing a houseguest for a week, they'll both have to tidy up afterwards. If they can.
It's impossible to believe he's in the other ship, more than a few kilometers away. She knows it must be true, but it's impossible-- Sam is right here, thinking her thoughts. Feeling her feelings.
The flight, chaotic, careening, it's easy to remember that insane flight through the Omega-four Relay. Names and faces flash through her mind, and she focuses, spiraling around debris, warding the shuttle's flank, helmet sweaty against her chin as she works. Joker would have done this better, without any sweat, but with a lot more cursing.
And then they're through, caught up in the gravity of the Station, and the gaping maw of the hangar-bay is ahead of them, welcoming with its selective force-fielf. They made it. They made it, thank fuck.]
Son of a bitch. [Her hands are steady as she sets the ship down in a likely gap. It's good for nothing but scrap, though it did a good job for all that. Shepard puts both hands on the console and lets her head sag in a way that feels strange, like she's at once too short, and too tall. The words are automatic, and Shepard has no idea she's said anything at all, let alone that.] Damn.
[She closes her eyes.]
(Sam? You okay?) [She knows he's unhurt, can't help but know that, but everything is so vague and mixed up. Shepard is suddenly very unsure of what, exactly constitutes the word myself. Every physical motion feels remote, as if her body is a doll operated at some distance. So she tries not to move.] (I--)
[Is she talking about herself, or Sam? Or the both of them? That's not the right pronoun, is it, "I?"]
(...Gotta focus.)
[She doesn't, not really, except for appearances sake. There's no obligation that says anything about this. For a moment, it feels good to let go, but that same vulnerability frightens her deep in that gut-grown part that never knew a parent's love. She wants to stay like this forever, and that's what makes her want to pull away, most of all.]
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The back of her mind is open to the woods, a house with no fourth wall, and the neighbors can see in, all the way back. Well, the one neighbor, at least. Sam can see. She can see him too, if she had the attention free to look, but they're each cluttering up each other's minds. Like hvaing a houseguest for a week, they'll both have to tidy up afterwards. If they can.
It's impossible to believe he's in the other ship, more than a few kilometers away. She knows it must be true, but it's impossible-- Sam is right here, thinking her thoughts. Feeling her feelings.
The flight, chaotic, careening, it's easy to remember that insane flight through the Omega-four Relay. Names and faces flash through her mind, and she focuses, spiraling around debris, warding the shuttle's flank, helmet sweaty against her chin as she works. Joker would have done this better, without any sweat, but with a lot more cursing.
And then they're through, caught up in the gravity of the Station, and the gaping maw of the hangar-bay is ahead of them, welcoming with its selective force-fielf. They made it. They made it, thank fuck.]
Son of a bitch. [Her hands are steady as she sets the ship down in a likely gap. It's good for nothing but scrap, though it did a good job for all that. Shepard puts both hands on the console and lets her head sag in a way that feels strange, like she's at once too short, and too tall. The words are automatic, and Shepard has no idea she's said anything at all, let alone that.] Damn.
[She closes her eyes.]
( Sam? You okay? ) [She knows he's unhurt, can't help but know that, but everything is so vague and mixed up. Shepard is suddenly very unsure of what, exactly constitutes the word myself. Every physical motion feels remote, as if her body is a doll operated at some distance. So she tries not to move.] ( I-- )
[Is she talking about herself, or Sam? Or the both of them? That's not the right pronoun, is it, "I?"]
( ...Gotta focus. )
[She doesn't, not really, except for appearances sake. There's no obligation that says anything about this. For a moment, it feels good to let go, but that same vulnerability frightens her deep in that gut-grown part that never knew a parent's love. She wants to stay like this forever, and that's what makes her want to pull away, most of all.]