Shepard.

Come on, Shepard.

Open your eyes.

I know you can hear me.

It's time to get up.

Open your eyes.

He's dead, Kaidan.

No.

I don't think so.

That's not possible.

He's just sleeping.

Come on, Shepard.

Wake up.

Look at him, Kaidan.

He's just tired.

There's blood all over him.

That's not blood. That can't be blood.

He's dead.

He's fine.

Dead.

Shut up, why don't you?

He's fine.

Shepard.

Open your eyes.

Wake up.

Wake up!

Dead.

Stop it!

He's just sleeping-

just sleeping.

Shepard.

Shepard!

Wake up!

Why won't you wake up?

Dead.

No!

Not again!

Don't do this to me,

John,

not after all this time,

not after what you promised me-

you said we'd be together,

you said you would be waiting-

Dead.

JOHN, NO!

And I wake up.

Covered in icy cold sweat,

breathing raggedly.

Shepard's arm is draped over me.

He mumbles something as I pull myself up;

his hand slides off of my chest and falls limply at his side.

Alive.

A shudder ripples through me and I suck in a slow breath.

Of course he is.

We both have nightmares.

I don't think they'll ever cease,

not even when we grow older.

After all, we've seen and experienced things that would break most people.

Most people.

Just not us.

We didn't break.

We bent.

We scarred.

I wonder what's worse:

the breaking or the scars.

I'm still shaken and somehow Shepard knows because he wakes up too,

even though it's quiet

and peaceful

and still one in the morning.

He wakes up too

and sees me,

the back of my skull tilted against the headboard

and my chest heaving

and my eyes open,

wide open,

because I don't know what I'll see if I close them again.

He sees me and he knows

and I wonder if it's something that you feel,

a kind of alarm that goes off,

loud and insistent,

when someone you care for is in pain.

"Hey,"

says Shepard.

Still sleepy,

but the worry in his voice clear.

I don't say anything because I'm not sure if I can.

"Hey,"

he says again,

a little louder this time,

pushing himself to a sitting position next to me.

"Kaidan."

I don't say anything.

I don't look at him.

I can't.

He touches my arm.

"Tell me."

My pulse is still racing and I take another deep breath to slow it.

"Bad dream,"

I mutter.

"Yeah,"

Shepard nods,

grey eyes blurred with sleep

but serious.

"Yeah, I got that part."

"Now tell me."

I look at him,

unsure if he's asking what I think he is.

"Tell you...?"

He nods again.

We've never done this before.

When Shepard wakes up like this,

I don't ask.

I never ask.

And he's never asked either.

Until now.

I clear my throat.

I swallow hard.

And I tell him.

I tell him how his body looked,

stretched out in front of me.

How cold it was to the touch.

Cold

and caked in blood.

Blood

trickling out of his mouth,

staining his skin,

smearing across his shirt.

I tell him how his eyes looked,

grey and blank and sightless.

How they looked at me but looked past me.

Unseeing

and dull and empty.

I tell him how I knew right away,

that he was dead.

How I knew but refused to accept.

And how that voice,

the reasoning part of me,

my better judgement,

repeated it

over

and over

again.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

I tell him that I screamed until I couldn't breathe and then kept screaming.

I tell him that I grabbed his shoulders and shook him

but he was like a rag doll in my hands.

I tell him everything

and his face is kind of pale by the end of it.

I sink back against the pillows when I'm done.

"Huh,"

Shepard exhales.

Then wraps a strong arm around my waist and yanks me beside him.

I flinch,

taken by surprise,

but relax soon enough,

resting my head against his.

He's quiet for a while.

For a long time.

"Kaidan,"

he says at last.

His words quiet.

Low.

"Kaidan...

haven't we already been over this?"

I tilt my head to meet his gaze,

confusion clouding my eyes.

He strokes my cheek.

"I mean...

Don't you remember what I told you before?

What I said?

About how

when this is over..."

He trails off,

waits for me to finish.

"...I'm gonna be waiting for you."

My voice is barely a whisper.

"That's right."

Shepard's arms close warm and tight around me.

One hand rests reassuringly at the small of my back.

The other ghosts over the back of my neck,

the tips of his fingers sliding up into my hair.

"And I was.

I was waiting.

Wasn't I?"

I sigh into his shoulder.

"You were in a god damned coma,"

I mumble.

"You couldn't move,

or speak-

hell, you couldn't even breathe on your own-"

I want to ask him.

Does that count, Shepard?

Does that count as waiting?

And were you waiting for me?

Or were you just waiting to wake up?

Did you even know me at first?

Did you even know yourself?

How much did you remember about-

about that dinner on the Citadel?

About those nights in your cabin?

About...

us?

I want to ask him.

I'm afraid to.

"Hey."

I look up at him.

He presses his mouth against my forehead.

"I waited,"

he says.

"And I'll always be waiting,

if you need me to be."

I close my eyes.

His bloody, mangled body lying in front of me.

My rising panic.

The voice inside my head.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

I open my eyes.

The quilts over us are soft and thick.

Shepard's arms enclose me like a shield.

He kisses the corner of my jaw,

quick and light and

alive.

Alive,

and waiting.

If I need him to be.

There are no more nightmares,

when I fall asleep again.

Instead I dream of Vancouver.

Of English Bay.

Sitting on my parent's balcony,

Canadian luger in hand...

and Shepard next to me.

Alive.