“The, uh, dreams. They continue.”

She rubs her forehead and looks down, notices the blue and white reflections of the lights on the floor, and thinks about how she doesn't do this often, how she always looks people in the eye no matter the situation. She's aware she's not doing it right now—and so is the doctor sitting across from her.

Dr. Chakwas has settled in her chair with the two drinking glasses resting at the edge of her desk somewhere behind her. The brandy's not out yet, but the night's young—eternally so when you're traveling through space—so she hasn't ruled out the possibility of ending Shepard's visit with some inebriated storytelling. She hopes, however, that before things go there, to get some resolve with the Commander's troubles, however impossible given the current circumstances.

“Dreams? Plural?”

The distinct voice of the older woman has always been calming to Shepard. Despite everything, even in the craziest of situations, that tone that says, “We're here and it's bad, but we're acting,” is what has sometimes been enough for Shepard to go on without doubting her leadership. She rarely has the time to do so anyway, and hey, she managed to get everyone so far so she must be doing something right, but lately it's been getting progressively more difficult to believe in herself.

She never catches the boy, after all.

“I know I have more dreams than just... that one. But I never remember them.” She raises her eyes but doesn't look at the woman. Small steps. “They're bad, maybe full-on nightmares. They make me feel groggy and tired.” Her tongue covers her teeth at the last sentence as if she didn't mean to say so much. “But I can't recall them once I wake up. The kid's always the last image I see before I open my eyes.”

And he burned last night, like every other night, but this time she was with him too. They burned, never screaming, always calmly looking up at her as if telling her, “This is your fault. You'll try and it's not going to be enough and there's nothing you can do to change that. You failed.” I failed.

But she's not going to tell her that.

“I meant to ask,” Dr. Chakwas unknowingly interrupts the horrible image sequence that has started taking place in Shepard's head, “but you were asked elsewhere last time.” Her face becomes softer and her voice gets significantly lowered but not in a hurried or scared way. Out of respect. “Was the boy the first child you witnessed getting killed?”

“What? No. Of course not.” Mindoir. Her posture straightens and she can now look into the doctor's eyes without feeling the need to become small, invisible under the med-bay's fluorescent lights. She can talk about things she's long dealt with because she had to, what with nearly everyone she meets mentioning the human colony's raid on Mindoir by the Batarians. That or Akuze always seem to be popular ice-breakers when meeting her and, for the first time, a part of her she'll later not agree with, feels thankful for that.

It's the kind of day that talking or thinking about otherwise traumatic events that reshaped your life feels the most comfortable.

As if reading her mind (sadly not included in her actual abilities, even though she sometimes wishes otherwise when dealing with this ship's undoubtebly unique crew), Chakwas says, “It was different on Mindoir. You were really a kid yourself, the losses weren't under your command. Not even close.” She doesn't mention Akuze at all and Shepard isn't sure if she's thankful or slightly insulted, as if the doctor believes it's too sensitive or hard for Shepard to consider that event too. It's not, she tells herself, because she's strong. Right?

“Earth's losses that day weren't either.”

“Yes, Commander,” a gloved hand reaches out for Shepard's newly formed fist and even so, the young biotic's static warmth's still noticeable, “but do you realize that?”

Shepard falls silent and it feels as if the ship's suddenly empty, as if the two women's conversation was the only thing that made noise in the Normandy.

If she'd tried harder to make people listen, if she had managed to get through the Council's deep alien skulls that the Reaper threat was real, Earth might have been okay. Everyone would've been prepared, or at least more prepared, and there might have been a fighting chance which is anything anyone could ever ask for. Things could've progressed better than they did. No Earth invasion, no substantial losses, no Alliance shuttles getting blown mid-air.

But the ship isn't empty or silent, and Shepard can feel the rhythmic, almost soothing low vibrations under her feet. Somehow that gives her comfort. Alive.

“I should go, Doc,” she finally says and it comes out more serene than she expected. Slowly getting up from the white desk chair that seems to be competing with Joker's leather seat in coziness, she feels the mild ache of her limps. In need of stretching or some much needed rest, she can't tell, but the second option's not really available so she plans on fully committing to the first one once she reaches her cabin. “And, uh, thanks. For this. I appreciate you taking the time to do this.”

“It's why I'm here, Commander.” Dr. Chakwas, clearly used to the abrupt stop of most of their conversations, smiles up at her sincerely. A soft, yet radiant smile that promotes warmth and healing, and Shepard feels a small pang of guilt because she's not receiving any of that. Not today, not in the last weeks.

“No, it's not. But thank you anyway.”