Sometimes it’s Shepard who’s shaking, his lips warm with the taste of alcohol, and Scott becomes a safe harbor in a storm that he knows nothing of. He only knows how to hold, hands finding warm skin, guiding, trying to steer Shepard somewhere safer than his own mind. Those nights, Scott makes quick work of him, learning every line and quiver, every shudder and whisper. Shepard sleeps better, and Scott simply watches, somewhere between sleep of his own and a dream. Those are the nights that Scott wants to keep, and he clutches onto burnished dog-tags like a lifeline, counting down the days he has left with him.
Shepard talks in his sleep. It’s the same words, the same dream, and Scott wonders where he is for a fleeting moment. He wonders if he’s there too. Shepard’s hands twist in the sheets under his pillow, body curling in, and he flinches. Scott frowns, feeling uneasy that this dream might be more of a nightmare. The dogtags fall out of his grip as he moves closer, sheets pooling at his own hips, exposing his back to the cool night air. There’s a chill hanging over them, biting into his skin, but Scott ignores it. He reaches under the pillow to where Shepard’s hands are balled into fists, straining, and gently coaxes his fingers away from the sheets. When Shepard flinches again, Scott freezes, not wanting Shepard to wake suddenly in a panic. Shepard stills once more, and Scott gently runs his hand along Shepard’s arm, following every line and shape, right up until he meets the familiar dip at his shoulder. A muffled noise comes from Shepard, still in the throes of his dream, and Scott drags his fingers lazily over Shepard’s shoulderblade, down over his ribs with feather-light touches. “Scott?” the word is barely coherent, half-mumbled, half-spoken, heady with sleep. It belongs to Shepard’s voice, though, and Scott carries on his mindless exploration, hand running along the hard edges of his stomach as Shepard rolls over with a groan, body aching with exhaustion.“You were dreaming.” Scott says simply, his hand finally coming to rest over Shepard’s heart, and he can feel it pounding. Scott frowns, glancing up at Shepard, who’s been watching in tired reverence. A lazy smile appears on the older man’s face, but it doesn’t answer Scott’s worry.“Nothing you need to worry about–” Shepard murmurs, a yawn catching up with him as his sentence trails off. Scott huffs, scooting back, feeling a little silly for even trying to wake him in the first place. “Hey,” Shepard’s voice follows him, the bed dipping as he shifts over, strong arms slipping around him easily, “Thank you.” Scott regards him for a moment as they lie there, face-to-face, legs already tangled in comfortable familiarity. He wants to ask, wants to know where that same dream keeps taking Shepard, but something tells him it’s a topic best left alone until Shepard breaches it. Scott sighs heavily, sleep catching up with him now that he has Shepard’s warmth back instead of the cold in the room.“Y’welcome.” Scott mumbles, still sheepish, but Shepard only smiles golden as he always does. It’s enough.It always is.
Sometimes it’s Scott who’s shaking, his mouth caught in a grim line where doubt speaks instead of hope, and Shepard becomes a reminder of the hurricane he’s always been. The bodies in the streets don’t hurt Shepard, but Scott makes the mistake of looking at their faces and he feels sick. Those nights, Shepard sits with him, gentle hands and gentler words spilling over Scott’s shoulders. Those are the nights that Shepard will remember, the way his world sits in an orbit that Scott’s own world doesn’t, and he sits there with a heavy heart, head resting on Scott’s back as he holds him from behind.
“Scott.” Shepard presses a kiss to the ridge of his shoulderblade, but Scott just shakes his head, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees kaleidoscope colours. Shepard sighs, his breath hot against Scott’s cold skin, and lifts his head to speak better, a hand moving to rub gentle circles at the small of Scott’s back.
“I can’t. I keep seeing those faces.” Scott’s reply is strangled, mixed up with fear and disgust. Shepard just listens, waits until he finally spits up every choked word and heaves out another breath, trying his best to calm down.
Shepard is fully aware of the merc jobs Scott’s been picking up on Omega. He’d thought nothing of it at first, knowing Scott was more than capable of handling himself, but… Shepard hadn’t expected this. Scott has a moral compass far more black and white than Shepard’s own, and Shepard has no doubt that it’s a shitty byproduct of a dishonest man, which Alec Ryder is. Shepard knows the name, knows the legend, he’s shaken hands with him, and he knows that ‘N7′ comes with its own shade of morality that doesn’t belong anywhere else.
“Scott, listen,” Shepard soothes, but when Scott doesn’t reply, Shepard moves from behind him and off the bed to kneel in front of him instead, “Listen.”
Gently, Shepard pries Scott’s hands away from his eyes, holds them both in one of his own, and his free hand curls around Scott’s neck, thumb brushing his cheek as he coaxes him to look, properly. From here, Shepard has a much better view of those eyes of Scott’s, and he almost wishes he didn’t. Red-rimmed and dull, a dead giveaway. Shepard swallows, uncertain. This was new territory for the both of them.
“Scott, you didn’t hurt those people.” Shepard tries the obvious route: brute force and realization. Scott’s a soldier at heart, Shepard knows that. Sugarcoating things won’t help, and especially not coming from him. God knows he’s done far worse.
“Doesn’t matter, they’re still dead.” Scott sniffs, resisting the urge to close his eyes and ignore the way Shepard is looking right into him, trying to piece together every fraying tear. If anyone could, it would be him.
Shepard hesitates on his chosen route, noticing how Scott dodges it so blatantly. His brow furrows as he thinks, trying to claw some sense from somewhere.
“Look, you could say that about a lot of people. Regret doesn’t bring anyone back, and it’s not about to start now. Hey– look at me, please?” Shepard tries to coax Scott’s wandering gaze back to him, to give him a focus, a starting point. He can’t go anywhere without one. Scott obliges, blue meeting gold in gentle gaze.
“There is absolutely nothing wrong with surviving. This galaxy is all kinds of fucked up, and you and I both know it. Pulling the trigger just means you wanted to live. That changes nothing about who you are.”
Shepard is brutally honest in himself, but Scott has always liked that about him. He knows where he stands, knows where he can go, and that fills him with a confidence that he struggles to find elsewhere.
It didn’t stop the faces, not entirely, but he could bear them now. He could understand it, and that was far better than believing in the worst of yourself.
“Thank you.” Scott manages to reply, after a moment of silence. Shepard smiles up at him, quiet and tentative, unsure of his footing, but Scott returns it, despite the watery eyes and sniffling.
“I’m here for you, Scott. Whenever, however you need me. I want you to know that.” Shepard admits candidly as Scott’s hands fall from his grip, easily cradling Shepard’s face instead as he presses their foreheads together with an exhausted sigh. He doesn’t need to speak anymore, he just needs… this.
And Shepard would give him all the time he had.
Every kill is necessary, every casualty measured and drawn up with a bullet in their chest. Shepard is precise, leaves no room for mistakes he can’t afford. Kill the one to save the many has become doctrine, has become his own warped prayer, falling from lips better suited to kindness that he can’t spare.
Every kiss is desperate, fueled by a fear neither can describe. Scott isn’t shy, he knows how to get what he wants out of Shepard, and Shepard always allows it with a wicked smile. They both know it isn’t quite the fear of losing each other as it is the fear of finally having to set their compass and sail, eyes fixed on a horizon that has never belonged to both of them.
