[Shepard stops when he asks her to, sensing the hard, angry lump in his mind like the warning tremors of a Thresher Maw Nest. She's not afraid to fight Thresher Maws, but the only reason to do so on purpose is to serve a particularly persistent death-wish.
...She's not entirely sure how serious he is about that, because he keeps going, but Shepard does know, if nothing else, exactly how he feels. And not just because she can feel it along with him.]
No, you're right. It's not going to bring anyone back.
[The Butcher of Torfan.]
But neither is feeling sorry for yourself about who's fault anything is. You don't have control of who lives or dies-- and if you spend all your time worrying about what might happen, you're going to miss out on what else you might do. Maybe something great.
[The way she says it, it almost deserves a capital letter. Shepard reaches out, but doesn't quite put her hand on his back. She hesitates, then compromises by putting it down on the table next to his own. Not touching, but vulnerable. Honest. She sits there, quiet, for long enough that it'd be awkward, if she weren't working up to say something. It'd be more than awkward, if she weren't projecting that intention to anyone with a symbiote, so focused on the effort that her shields dipped back and rushed in again, like an uncertain tide.]
I've spent years killing myself, trying to save the galaxy. I was supposed to be the Hail Mary pass that found a way to save us all, but instead I'm here, and Earth is burning. The human race is coming to an end.
[Her voice is calm, dispassionate, as remote as if she were reading it from a mission report rather than relating a war to end the world. She knows, if she thinks about it any harder than that, calm will be the last thing she can be-- so this, this disassociation is the best Shepard can manage.]
So, I know what I'm talking about. That's all. [She grimaces-- she really had meant to shut up.] Sorry, I should go.
[She doesn't take her mug, but she does turn away. Stupid. Stupid, should've just shut my damn mouth in the first place and let it go.]
no subject
...She's not entirely sure how serious he is about that, because he keeps going, but Shepard does know, if nothing else, exactly how he feels. And not just because she can feel it along with him.]
No, you're right. It's not going to bring anyone back.
[The Butcher of Torfan.]
But neither is feeling sorry for yourself about who's fault anything is. You don't have control of who lives or dies-- and if you spend all your time worrying about what might happen, you're going to miss out on what else you might do. Maybe something great.
[The way she says it, it almost deserves a capital letter. Shepard reaches out, but doesn't quite put her hand on his back. She hesitates, then compromises by putting it down on the table next to his own. Not touching, but vulnerable. Honest. She sits there, quiet, for long enough that it'd be awkward, if she weren't working up to say something. It'd be more than awkward, if she weren't projecting that intention to anyone with a symbiote, so focused on the effort that her shields dipped back and rushed in again, like an uncertain tide.]
I've spent years killing myself, trying to save the galaxy. I was supposed to be the Hail Mary pass that found a way to save us all, but instead I'm here, and Earth is burning. The human race is coming to an end.
[Her voice is calm, dispassionate, as remote as if she were reading it from a mission report rather than relating a war to end the world. She knows, if she thinks about it any harder than that, calm will be the last thing she can be-- so this, this disassociation is the best Shepard can manage.]
So, I know what I'm talking about. That's all. [She grimaces-- she really had meant to shut up.] Sorry, I should go.
[She doesn't take her mug, but she does turn away. Stupid. Stupid, should've just shut my damn mouth in the first place and let it go.]