[Part of her, admittedly a fairly large part, is a little annoyed at this sentiment. That's the part that wants to punch him on the shoulder, or throw back a quip about dying, about living again, about being harder than that to kill. But it's a lie, and Sam knows more intimately than anyone else, how false it would be. It's one thing to know something is untrue, it's another to know what the truth behind it is with the same certainty that you know the air within your lungs. It's so easy to die, in space-- she had deserved to die, pulling a stunt like that. Shepard had had no business running as an escort, in the state her ship had been.
The other part is, like lifting away, metal rusting out particulates into an acid, flake-flake-flake. She's not drunk, Shepard realizes, she's fucking high. "Contact high" is supposed to be a euphamism, isn't it?
Can't bring herself to complain, of course.
How can you complain, when someone like Sam Wilson picks you up and spins you around like the image of a princess? She laughs, and it's not the bitter, inconsolate laugh of someone who is denying the chance of death; it's joyful. He presses them close together, careful of her amp port, but no less fervent. Beautiful man, come the words, as they have before, but there's no hiding lust and love and affection and the terror of losing it, not as entangled as they are. Death ends physical suffering, but that kind of pain might never end. She's so tired of pain. Surely, something good must eventually come.
I'm here, is all she can give him, really. There are no promises to be made, only... Only that she isn't gone yet. As afraid as she is, and as vulnerable to death, she isn't yet gone.]
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The other part is, like lifting away, metal rusting out particulates into an acid, flake-flake-flake. She's not drunk, Shepard realizes, she's fucking high. "Contact high" is supposed to be a euphamism, isn't it?
Can't bring herself to complain, of course.
How can you complain, when someone like Sam Wilson picks you up and spins you around like the image of a princess? She laughs, and it's not the bitter, inconsolate laugh of someone who is denying the chance of death; it's joyful. He presses them close together, careful of her amp port, but no less fervent. Beautiful man, come the words, as they have before, but there's no hiding lust and love and affection and the terror of losing it, not as entangled as they are. Death ends physical suffering, but that kind of pain might never end. She's so tired of pain. Surely, something good must eventually come.
I'm here, is all she can give him, really. There are no promises to be made, only... Only that she isn't gone yet. As afraid as she is, and as vulnerable to death, she isn't yet gone.]