Identity (a Mass Effect fanfiction)

Normal

Shepard looked around the apartment. His apartment. It was still a lot to wrap his head around—and not just because Anderson's taste was far too grand for him. He felt like he was living in a museum, afraid to put a bottle of beer down and destroy the pristine cleanliness everywhere. The place was well-maintained, he'd give Anderson that, and had to be worth a fortune. That Aaron Shepard himself was also worth a fortune, at this point, was beside the point—most of Shepard's savings were going toward keeping the Normandy running and financing his personal part of the war. The Alliance tried, but it had ten places to put every credit. And what was Shepard going to use his money for, anyway?

A buzz on the monitor by the door recalled him to the moment, and he hit the button to wake the screen, smiling at the two men who appeared on it, unsurprisingly in the midst of a friendly argument.

"You two are going to settle whatever this is on the way up, right?"

Steve Cortez flashed his brilliant smile. "You bet, Commander. Mr. Vega here was just about to apologize for being late."

"Is it my fault somebody forgot to pick up the cerveza?"

"Since that someone was you, yes."

Vega chuckled. "Busted. Sorry, Commander."

"Come on up, guys."

They reminded Shepard of his early days in the Alliance, the camaraderie, the way everyone was the same, despite their differences. He missed that, sometimes, and wondered what things might have been like if Anderson had never seen something in him and plucked him from the ranks for the N7 program.

Shepard grimaced. He'd probably be dead, several times over, like so many of the guys he'd started out with were.

The apartment door slid open, and Vega and Cortez walked in. Cortez did a double take, and Vega turned around, walking backward, staring up at the high ceilings. He gave a low whistle. "Damn, Commander, you sure do know how to live."

"Not me. Anderson. If I'd picked out the place it'd be ... a lot smaller." It was a lame finish, but Shepard felt strange sharing personal details about his style with these guys. Or anyone, really. For that matter, he'd never really had a place of his own to develop a style.

Vega eyed him, from the scuffed boots to the battered vest. "Got it."

That Vega thought the clothes were a pose, Shepard knew perfectly well. But Vega didn't know how Shepard had grown up; no one did. Not even Jack, although he'd told her some. Suddenly, he thought maybe he should say something. After all, he knew about Cortez's husband, lost on Ferris Fields; he knew about Vega's absentee father. Maybe it was time they knew about him, too. "The way I grew up, you never owned more than you could carry. Hard to fit this place in a duffel bag."

"I'd be tempted to try," Vega said, grinning. He took one of the beers Steve was handing out. "So when's the game?"

"About to start."

"Man, this should be some intense biotiball." Cortez shook his head. "Seattle Sorcerors vs. Usaru Maestros. Thanks for having us up, Commander."

"My pleasure." Shepard led the way to the ... well, he wasn't sure what to call it. Den? TV room? He'd read those terms, but never spent enough time in houses to get familiar with what they represented. He'd never had some guys over to watch the game, either, although he'd read about that, too.

"Man, Derek Rogers and the Sorcerors have been tearing it up!" Cortez said with enthusiasm, sinking onto the couch.

"Esteban, you are completely loco. The Maestros don't lose! Have you seen Tyra T'Sanis play? The woman is blue lightning." Vega straddled the arm of the other couch, taking a long pull off his beer.

Cortez laughed, watching the screen as the commentators appeared, talking up the game as it was about to begin. "Mr. Vega, we all know your love of the asari team has more to do with how they look than how they play."

"I can appreciate both! You telling me you don't got the hots for some of the Sorcerors?"

"Guilty as charged," Cortez admitted.

They both turned to look at Shepard. "What? I don't have the hots for any of the Sorcerors. Or the Maestros, either," he added hastily, thinking that rumors of his previous fling with Liara might still be circulating.

"Yeah, Joker showed us pictures of your girl. Damn, Shepard, how'd you get so lucky?"

"Right place at all the wrong times." Shepard grinned, drinking his beer and thinking of Jack. They were trying to coordinate visits to the Citadel, but it was proving hard to do. He wondered what she would think of this place. Probably that it was too much, just like he did, he thought fondly.

"So, who are you backing?" Cortez asked him.

That was a tough one. He'd never really followed biotiball; never enough time, it seemed. He shrugged. "How do you bet against a team that's been playing since before we were born?"

"Now, that's what I'm talkin' about!" Vega reached out a hand, and Shepard high-fived him, like he did it every day. "Listen up, Esteban. Shepard's preaching the wisdom."

Cortez shook his head. "You're both out of your minds. The Sorcerors are way too hungry to lose this one."

On the screen, the game started. Cortez was on the edge of his seat, cheering, Vega pacing back and forth behind the couches. As the game went on, their enthusiasm was infectious, and Aaron caught himself leaning forward tensely as the Maestros went in for a point, and cheering as loudly as Vega when they made one.

They commiserated with each other over more beers and a delivery of pizza and wings when the game was over, pelting Cortez with the remnants of the wings when he got too cocky about the Sorcerors' win.

Finally, the other two left, heading back to the ship, and Shepard was left with the mess—the pizza box with the last half-eaten piece, the wing bones and beer bottles strewn across the floor and cluttering the table. And he smiled, because for the first time in possibly his entire life, he felt like a normal guy.