Trigger Warnings. This story contains a (non-explicit) non-consensual sexual encounter. Additional warnings apply for suicide, mental illness, psychological trauma, violence, and some gendered and ableist slurs.

Mass Effect and its characters are the property of Bioware.

Cover art by the incredible greendelle; you can find additional pieces for this story at her tumblr. Additional notes and acknowledgments are at the end.

"The measure of an individual can be difficult to discern by actions alone."
—Thane Krios

ARCTURUS STATION, DECEMBER 2182

Anderson hated chasing ghosts.

That wasn't a metaphor. For three days he'd tracked Lieutenant Shepard across Arcturus Station and found only traces. She flickered in glitched security footage, timed viruses circumnavigating Alliance VIs and erasing her from the record. False trails cobbled from old footage told him where he wouldn't find her. Logs at docking stations and security checkpoints were wiped by habit.

Only the combined might of the brass and Alliance R&D's compulsive need to study whatever new toy, loophole, or exploit Shepard wielded kept her from receiving any punishment other than a tap on the wrist for all the havoc she wrought.

Shepard and Alliance IT had a love-hate relationship.

He caught a break the third night. A tip from the bartender brought him to one of the seedy bars at the edge of Arcturus. Shepard sat at the bar, knocking back shots while yet another bad remix of "White Christmas" blared over the speakers. He smelled the vodka and tried not to dwell on the parallels.

He was lucky he found her in time. Drinking that heavy meant she'd be shipping out in the morning, and expected to sleep off her hangover in a cargo bay before disembarking and arranging private transport to her real destination.

"Shepard." He gestured to the bartender, who summoned him up a whiskey, because Shepard wasn't the only one who liked to drink in shitholes. "Where you off to?"

"Classified," which was Shepard-speak for 'you don't want to know.'

Shepard had never been the cuddliest of marines, but five years as a covert operative took her from cool to solid nitrogen. Sometimes Anderson wanted to pretend Torfan changed her, made her hollow-eyed and ice-veined. But Torfan had been a revelation, not a sea change, and her finely-honed killer instincts served the Alliance too well to waste in ordinary rotation. Never mind that at the rate she was going, she'd be dead before reaching 30.

Thank God for the Council's latest whim.

"You're supposed to be on shore leave."

She shrugged and downed her fresh shot. "Records say a lot of things that aren't true."

So that was how they were playing it tonight.

"You've been avoiding me, Shepard."

Shepard had the decency to look abashed. "No, not you. That was a...bonus?" Her words were clipped, deliberate, to avoid slurring. She traced her finger along the edge of her glass. "What's this about, Anderson?"

He sipped his whiskey. "Can't a man check on his protégé without having an agenda?"

Shepard snorted, and Anderson shook his head. As protégés went, he could've chosen better. Someone who didn't assault his ego every fifteen seconds might've been nice. But Shepard was the best to come out of N7 in the last decade, and someone needed to watch her six.

No one else was alive to do it.

This wouldn't have been the time or place of his choosing for this conversation, but Anderson could make it work. A few drinks in and Shepard stopped tracking every entrance. She never truly downgraded from sniper position but she relaxed her trigger finger. He had to make the most of her lowered walls.

"You heard about the new stealth frigate?"

"That Council project with the turians? Yeah, the brain trusts in R&D can't shut up about it. Some of the talk goes over even my head." She waved down the bartender. "Heard Zander's the CO."

"Not anymore." Anderson couldn't suppress a grin. "Word came down from the brass today. I'll be commanding officer on the SSV Normandy."

Shepard's face broke into a rare, wide smile. "That's great, Anderson," she said. "I can't think of anyone who deserves it more."

Anderson liked it when she forgot to not be human; her warmth was infectious when she let it escape. He sat with her for a moment, savoring his anticipation. Reality might be worse or better, but it was always different. "There's more. I got leave to hand-pick my crew."

"Nice." Shepard raised her refilled glass to him. He clinked, droplets spilling on the bar. "Half the Alliance is gonna be crawling up your ass when that gets out."

"I have a half-meter stack of datapads on my desk," Anderson admitted, "but I'll be taking several officers from the Tokyo with me. And I've already picked my XO."

She chuckled and raised her shot glass to her lips. "Oh? Who's the unlucky bastard?"

"I'm looking at her."

Shepard spluttered, sending a mist of vodka everywhere. Anderson closed his eyes against the burn of the alcohol. She looked over at him, then at her empty glass, setting it down. "With all due respect, sir—"

"Don't give me that crap, Shepard."

"Anderson, there're a thousand well-qualified people who would drink paint thinner to be your pencil-pusher. I'm a marine. Ground-pounder, remember?"

"What you are," Anderson corrected, "is one of the Alliance's top infiltration specialists with extensive experience in covert ops and stealth reconnaissance. And you'd be leading the Normandy's ground team along with pushing my pencils."

"Riiight. Your ground team's gonna love being led by the Butcher of Torfan." She was sarcastic, but not bitter. It still irritated him. Shepard was a pain in the ass when she was drunk.

"Look, I don't know how the hell you did it, but every single survivor from Torfan under your command swears you made the right call." One of the neatest tricks in the Alliance, it baffled the psychologists even today. Anderson guessed Shepard let her ice melt just enough to let the soldiers under her command know just how monstrous batarian slavers could be.

"I'm doing good where I am, Anderson."

"That's bullshit and you know it." Whether the lie was to him or to both of them Anderson didn't know. He put on his command voice. "You're going feral, Shepard. You've had your fun, but it's time to take a real command posting."

Shepard looked up at him, her gaze piercing straight through him. He'd seen that expression before, an insolent snap in her eyes in the instant after receiving an order. Watching her FTL-drive mind process, a nanosecond rebellion not even N7 training beat out of her. Somehow the answer was always 'yes, sir,' but her superiors were left knowing she fell in by choice, not by training.

Still, she'd never balked yet. "All right. I'm in."

Anderson let out the breath he'd been holding. "Good. Glad that's done." He held out his hand. Shepard studied it, confused. "Job comes with a promotion. Won't be final for a few weeks, but let me be the first to shake your hand...Commander."

Shepard took his hand in hers, and Anderson smiled. She didn't know it yet, and she wouldn't thank him if she did, but he'd just saved her life.