#keriweird

No, as much as he believed that to be true, his superiors were happy with the outcome. The intel, they’d said, was valuable. It would help them save more lives. The Collectors were a threat to more than just the Alliance. They’d make allies, start preparing an antidote to the seeker swarms. There would be hope for the colonies on the outskirts of Citadel control. The sacrifice was worth it.

But those reasonings really didn’t apply anymore, did they? Because Commander Shepard, the Alliance hero who had stopped the attack on the Citadel, had blown the Collectors to hell. 

And James Vega was sitting alone on Omega, being nothing but a drunk with a chip on his shoulder.

A commendation, a promotion, that’s what he’d gotten. Those were his rewards for sacrificing an entire colony of people. People that had mattered. People that hadn’t had a chance once the Collectors landed. Not when he had to make a choice between them and future victims. 

Weeks later, he didn’t know if choice had been the right one.

A sigh slipped between his lips as Treeya’s face came to mind. The shock, the pain, the disbelief at him having chosen her instead of the colonists. Instead of her friends.

It was the right thing to do.

His own words mocked him because no matter which way the brass played it, no matter how much he attempted to find the silver lining in his own mistakes, James Vega still doubted himself. How can he believe his own actions were moral and right when he’d been the one to doom those people? He’d survived, if anyone could call his current life surviving.

April’s teddy bear sat amongst the rest of his belongings, watching him with its single button eye, stuffing spilling from a tear in the stitching. A constant reminder of what was lost: A child, her mother, their friends… all gone and for what? For information that no longer mattered? How could he consider himself a hero when it’d been for nothing?

How did Commander Shepard handle the weight of the galaxy when it was so damned heavy?

Taking another gulp of whatever passed for alcohol here, James forced back the tears every memory of Fehl Prime brought on. The drinks only helped to numb the pain, but it never took it away. Not completely. Not when it filled every muscle and fiber of his being. 

“Another.” He grumbled, pushing the empty glass to the bartender along with his credit chit, waiting for the refill with as much patience as he had left.

The bartender in this part of the club was a batarian, a nasty bastard, but he served drinks well enough and didn’t question why an Alliance soldier came each night to get wasted. James spent credits, and it was enough for him to keep his mouth shut and to keep the drinks coming. Yet this time, he hesitated, hand hovering over the glass.

James glanced up, vision blurring, and he noticed multiple bartenders standing in front of him now. “Hey, when did you get help?”

Both batarians bared their tiny pointed teeth at him. In a smile? Or was that the approximation of a frown in the alien species? Hell if he knew, but James decided to take a risk and smile back, only to suddenly have a wave of vertigo smack into him. Leaning forward to put his head in his hand, he couldn’t help the groan that left his mouth, nausea churning in his stomach as he tried to focus on the scratched bartop.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, kid?” 

The voice was of the usual turian cadence, and despite knowing many of the locals, James didn’t recognize it. Once he was positive the world wouldn’t spin again, he raised his head and glanced to his left to find the turian sitting on the stool beside him. James had no clue when he’d arrived, so far gone in drink and painful memories that everything around him became background noise.

There was something oddly familiar about the grey carapace and beady red eyes. Like he’d seen them before but couldn’t remember. “Not to be blunt, friend, but maybe you should mind your business.”

James didn’t know if turian’s could look surprised, but this one’s mandibles moved slowly, exposing his mouth fully, so maybe it was the same thing. “Is that a threat, human?”

It wasn’t, not when he could barely keep his head up, but James Vega didn’t back down from a challenge, unspoken or otherwise. His emotions were turbulent, a whirlwind of sadness and anger, guilt and shame, and he had the urge to punch something.

Or someone.

“It won’t be if I get another drink.” His gaze landed on the bartender, only to find that the batarian had disappeared. “What the-”

A hand roughly gripped his shoulder, pulling him from the stool and he nearly lost his balance at the sudden movement. “Time to go. You’ve had enough and Aria doesn’t put up with troublemakers.”

Troublemaker? Him? A man plagued with nightmares whose only solace is the alcohol that can numb it enough to sleep? How the fuck was he the problem?

He planted his feet, the rough flooring helping him find grip, his superior bulk tripping up the turian. He threw his weight forward, and the turian nearly face planted into the ground, but he managed to catch himself on the stool. The bartender, Forvan, scrambled away, finding shelter behind one of the sturdier liquor shelves. James ignored him in favor of keeping an eye on the turian.

“Aria, huh? Do we know each other?” 

The turian met his gaze with a glare as he righted himself, shaking off the embarrassment at being bested by a human. So was that a yes?

“Are all Alliance soldiers this dumb or do I have the pleasure of meeting the stupidest one to exist?”

Oh, they definitely knew each other.

“Ouch, that hurt. Why does every turian I meet always have such a big stick up their ass?” The mandibles moved again, in annoyance maybe? “Is it a personal choice or something you’re born with?”

“I’m going to shut that trap of yours.” The turian stepped closer, menacing in his countenance, but James was too intoxicated to care. Not when he was in between him and the drinks. Because without the alcohol, there were too many things he’d have to relive in his head, over and over, until he broke.

And James refused to break.

The second the turian stepped into arms reach, James made his move. The fist was predictable, they always started with punching first, and James ducked it, his shorter stature actually helping him for once. The turian cursed with a word his translator couldn’t pick up, turning to attempt another swing when James tackled him to the sticky floor. The sound of the turian’s hard head smacking into the floor rattled in his brain, another sound to add to the ones he’d never forget, and he scrambled to wrestle him into submission. The quicker he was out of the fight, the quicker James could go back to drinking.

Only, this turian wasn’t as easy to subdue as the last one he’d squabbled with.

No, this one was a dirty fighter, and wasn’t go to lay down easily.

The turian bucked beneath him, trying to get his legs under him for leverage, but James pressed into his carapace harder, finding it difficult to keep a grip on the small waist. The pair struggled again, trying to best one another on the cold, hard floor of the nightclub.

“Hey!”

The shout shocked both of them into freezing. The thud of footsteps approached, and without even glancing up, James knew what he’d see. A krogan stood above them, missing one of his eyes, but the green one that stared down at them was clearly looking for a good fight.

James barely got out of the way of the first fist, and he didn’t even make it to his feet when a second came down. The krogan’s punch hit him square in the jaw with bone crushing force, but thankfully Vega had always had a hard head. He stumbled back, enough that another person jumped in, a grizzled old merc who went toe to toe with the krogan, absolutely no fear in his gaze.

Before he knew what was happening, an asari jumped into the fray as well, hopping onto his back and wrapping their arms around his neck in an attempt to take him down. With a laugh, he merely flipped them over his shoulder onto the ground beside the turian, who had finally regained his feet.

As their gazes met once more, James cracked his knuckles, ready to go again. Anything was better than stewing about regrets and the dead. At least in a fight, he could find some absolution through pain.

~~~~

Bray dropped him on to the filthy ground, the music still thumping though the atmosphere as if the nightclub saw the violence he was capable of and continued on anyway. His hands brushed over the grimy grates, vomit and piss only some of the lovely consolation prizes he’d won that evening. He already felt the bruise welling on his cheek, and when he reached up to brush a finger against it, it stung like a son of a bitch.

He winced, unable to hide it from the batarian enforcer, and the only other sound besides his heavy breathing was the drip drop of blood as it dripped from his nose.

Bray sighed, the sound hitting him as solidly as the krogan from earlier. It was the same sound as when your guardian told you there weren’t angry, just disappointed. They knew that hurt more than punishment ever could. “Go home, kid. Sleep it off. Next time, you might not be as lucky.”

Home. That’s what he avoided, right? The place he rested his head and tried to be James instead of Lieutenant Vega. But who was James without the Alliance? He didn’t even know.

Not when the faces of every person he failed waited to remind him of his mistakes each time he closed his eyes.

He didn’t respond, just laid among the filth as Bray returned to his post inside of Afterlife, the music fading slightly as the door shut. Groaning, he forced himself to his knees, his head spinning from a head injury more than alcohol now. It took a moment for him to regain his senses and not black out, and then he was on his feet again, staring down the empty corridor that ran along the back of the nightclub.

Only it wasn’t empty. Not this time.

Because as James blinked to clear his vision, he swore he saw a ghost.

An asari with eyes the color of Earth’s sky from planet side.

“Treeya?”

The asari stared at him, but there was no shock at seeing him on her face, almost as if she’d expected him. No, the only expression he saw was the same sadness that James felt down to his bones. The guilt of surviving when no one else had. 

“Why are you here, James?”

She stood only a few feet from him, as beautiful as he remembered and yet, he felt nothing for her as they regarded one another. He’d wondered where she’d gotten to after Fehl Prime, but he was afraid seeing her again would make the memories more vivid. And yet, all of these weeks without being in her presence and he was still plagued during every moment.

“Trying to forget.”

Another sigh, another disappointment. At least he was consistent. “Does it ever get easier?”

Did it? A lie was easier to speak than the truth, but he owed it to them both to say the words aloud. Because it might not ever get better. The guilt had woven itself deep into his chest, become a part of him now. And if he ever dislodged it from where it’d hidden, would he ever be the same person?

Treeya watched him in the silence, eyes begging for the lie. But he couldn’t do it, not after everything.

It wasn’t fair to everyone who’d died that day.

With a deep breath, he brought eye contact, staring at the bloody knuckles of his dominant hand. No matter how much pain he felt or alcohol he consumed, one fact remained: they’d never be the same again. 

Now, he sat on the bed of his Alliance rented hotel room on the Presidium, the cuts on his cheek pulling whenever he moved his mouth. Glancing up at the ceiling, the light burned his retinas, and wished that if the end was coming, it’d come faster. Because if the war continued to drag on as it had, he might not even care if the entire Citadel was demolished by the end.

The door swished open and he shot a glare in its direction, ready to snap at the first person who walked in: Kaidan, Wrex, Garrus, Liara… he wasn’t picky at this point. Hell, Hacket could’ve walked in and Daniel probably would have jumped down his thraot.

Except it wasn’t any of his supposed friends, and it wasn’t the Alliance. At least, not anyone who’d have anything to do with ending his career over a drunken fistfight. It was worse than that.

It was his boyfriend.

Johnny stood there in the glow of the ugly yellow lights, watching him with dark eyes that said nothing of what he thought. Of the situation or little else. Daniel swallowed against his sudden nerves, glancing away from the probing gaze leveled in his direction. 

“Say something.” He muttered, flexing his hand, wincing as the cuts on his knuckles split open again. Blood seeped from the wounds, bright against his pale skin. “Yell, if you must. Just stop fucking standing there.”

Johnny moved closer, setting a first aid kit next to him, the red package looking like the blood on his skin. “You’re an idiot.”

“We’ve established that years ago.” Daniel watched him out of the corner of his eye. His boyfriend snorted, a laugh crossed with a huff,  before opening the kit and pulling out some medigel and sterile cleaning pads. “Who called you?”

“Kaidan.” Johnny paused, side eying him briefly before turning back to his duties. “Did you at least win the fight this time?”

Daniel grinned, glad to see Johnny was in good humor. Lately, things had been dire, he wasn’t sure if either of them knew how to smile anymore. “What sort of question is that? Do you reminder who you’re talking to?”

“You aren’t pulling that Hero of Elysium bullshit, are you?” Johnny shifted his entire body to stand between Daniel’s spread legs before pressing one of the pads against a cut on his forehead. Daniel hissed at the contact, the stinging of the alcohol a reminder that he was a living human being. For now, at least. “No one cares about that anymore, Daniel.”

One of his hands snaked around Johnny’s leg, keeping him close as he continued to sweep a clean pad over every cut on his face, meticulous in his work, eyes focused on what he was doing. The muscles in his thigh tensed at the touch, but he didn’t move away, much to Daniel’s relief. His body was solid, a wall of muscle that was a weapon on the battlefield. But here, every touch was gentle and precise, as if he was constructing a work of art and any mistake would end in disaster.

If an infection could be considered a disaster in the current state of the galaxy.

“You care about it.” Daniel pointed out, running the flat of his hand up Johnny’s thigh, pausing at where his ass curved. The temptation to go farther was almost too much to deny. “You bring it up far more than I do.”

Johnny rolled his eyes to the ceiling, setting the used wipes in a bag. Then he moved on to the medigel, carefully applying it to each wound. “I love you, Daniel…”

Daniel heard the ‘but’ before he continued. There was always a ‘but’ with Johnny. Much like the one that filled his hand now. Cupping Johnny’s ass, he pulled him closer, his knees bumping against Daniel more suggestively than he expected. “That was never in question.”

“But-” The medigel didn’t sting, but it felt strangely cool against his skin as Johnny worked. “I’m not going to inflate your ego anymore than the bureaucrats of the galaxy already have.”

Daniel grinned, leaning forward to brush a kiss against Johnny’s chest, feeling his warm skin beneath the thin fabric. “There are other things willing to be inflated by your mouth.”

“Daniel.” Johnny’s voice was soft, as gentle as the hands that rested against his shoulders. His lips pressed against Daniel’s shaggy blond hair, a kiss that he certainly didn’t deserve after the events of the night. 

“Hmm?” 

His hands trailed up to grip Johnny’s waistband, strong muscles shifting beneath his palms. Johnny pulled back slightly so that he could put a finger beneath Daniel’s chin, tipping his face up to meet dark eyes. 

“Please, I beg you, just shut up.”