Merry Christmas, My Love

Title: Merry Christmas
Author: DinkyMew
Game: Mass Effect (post one pre two)
Disclaimer: Bioware own all content and characters relating to the Mass Effect franchise. Abigail Shepard is my own creation, inspired by the character of Jane Shepard created by Bioware.
Characters Features: Kaidan Alenko (M) and Abigail Shepard (F)

Suggested Listening while reading; the music that inspires this piece, the lyrics are haunting and beautiful :www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Qbw3W…

“I can’t believe you are making me do this!”

Her voice is high, filled with tempered delight as she steps onto the ice shakily, the skates on her unpractised feet wobbling as she throws her arms out to her sides, jerking one way and then the other, trying to hold herself still. I watch her a moment in amusement, strapping my own skates to my feet, she might be lithe and graceful on the battlefield. But Commander Shepard cannot skate to save herself; never mind the galaxy.

“You have to keep moving.” I say to her patiently “The longer you try to stand still the more likely you are to fal-“ As if on cue she stumbles forward, landing hard on her knees with a grunt and then a giggle. I get to my feet, barely needing to skate a few feet before I am at her side and offer her my hand.

“You’re standing still.” She frowns up at me and I smile, helping her up as she grips my hand.

“Yeah but I’m better at this than you.” I say gently, playfully. I can see the thought of hitting me flash over her eyes; instead she glares at me, her breath escaping in little clouds as she shakes her head.

“You are loving this aren’t you?” She asks, her blue eyes flashing with humour. Her pale skin is especially white under the winter sun, contrasting the rosy, pink apples of her cheeks where the wind has bit her skin.

I skate back a little, moving my shoulders innocently. Of course I love it. At last something the commander cannot do! She huffs out a breath, determined not to be undone she starts again, taking tiny sliding steps, her gloved hands curling and uncurling as she tenses with trepidation and then releases when no fall comes.

“Think of it like dancing.” I say, skating up behind her. I put my hands on her hips, feeling the tenseness within her even through my gloves. She leans back into me a little – somewhat comforted maybe – and I can smell the vanilla almond of her hair through the thick brown wool of her hat.

“Yeah I’m not so great at dancing either remember?” She jokes and I break into a grin.

“You move just fine for me.” I tease taking the opportunity to catch a squeeze of her backside.

“I’ll fall.” She warns jerking forward as though my fingers burn her, her voice wavers unsure as she stumbles and skids in front of me.

I hold her steady, reaching forward to catch one hand in my own “I’ll catch you.” I whisper in her hair, pressing my lips there briefly.

“Now slowly.” I say gently, pushing my own leg forward, forcing hers to move with mine. She clutches my extended hand, but nevertheless makes an attempt, mirroring my movements until slowly we start to gain speed on the ice, slowly she begins to relax a little – that grip on my hand loosening slightly as she moves with me, against me, and soon that fear is long forgotten. Soon we are skating like kids; laughing and joking and pushing and kissing.

She falls to the ice, this time taking me with her and we lie there both laughing so hard neither can find purchase to get ourselves to our feet.

Then just like that, the moment is gone.

I jerk awake, bathed in sweat, the sheets twisted around me like some kind of chains. I press my head back into my pillow breathing carefully, quietly, allowing my heart to still from its racing, allowing my blood to cool once more as I take in my room.

It’s small and cream; like all the rooms here, void of any character or anything that might lift the spirit. The window, through which I can see it is still dark outside, is shatterproof – the railing on the outside as much to keep us in as it is to keep others out. There is a picture on the far wall of a vase of flowers, the frame is hardened plastic and there is no glass in the frame, in this ward comfort and niceties are the least of their worries.

I have nothing else in my room except my bed and a chaie – one of those horrible one-piece moulded plastic chairs, it’s cream too. As is the carpet, and the door and the built in wardrobe. There is no rail inside that wardrobe, only shelves and clothes I don’t own but have to wear. Surprisingly, they are not cream. They’re blue.

Blue like Shepard’s eyes were; a dusty, pastel blue. I can still remember the flecks of silver when her eyes hit the light right, the long lashes brushing my skin when she would come too close in her sleep. I remember them full of tears, bright and hard and determined. I remember them full of laughter, twinkling brighter than any star in the sky. And I remember them full of love, only for me, the warmth of that gaze brighter and more wonderful than any sun.

Beside my bed is a shelf, sticking out of the wall, just small enough for a glass of water and a photo I managed to somehow get permission to bring in with me. They wouldn’t allow me a frame for it, obviously, so it is propped against my paper cup. Even in the near darkness I can see the faint outline of it, as though it is burned into my vision – lord knows I’ve looked at it long and often enough. It wouldn’t surprise me if they dissected my brain they would find that picture stamped on every fibre inside my skull.

The photo is of me and Shepard, the Christmas we spent at my Aunt’s ranch, the Christmas I taught her how to skate. In the photo she is on my back, her brown woollen hat pulled over her ears so that her hair curls down around her face. Her eyes are large and bright and full of the laughter that was in that day – her smile wide and open, she clings around my neck, forever locked in that piece of carbon paper in all her perfection. I wish I could will it to life.

All things move on though – almost a year now since her death and Christmas is here again even though to look at my room you wouldn’t know that. All our gifts and cards are kept in the rec-room, under the group tree – which I hate. They want me to sit in there like some addled veteran with drool running down my chin.

I shouldn’t be here.

I roll to my side, tucking the thin sheet under my chin as I try to generate some warmth into me, but it never comes.

I press my eyes closed and she waits there, her smile coming to life behind my lids as she reaches for me. I wish I could submit to her embrace, to feel her arms around me for real – feel the heat of her here in this bed, but I know it’s a false hope.

Slowly I feel myself drifting to sleep and I reach for her, knowing that she can take me away from this place, even just for a short spell. Back to the memories I wish I could stay in. I feel like I’m falling, weightless, into an endless black abyss.

“I’ll catch you.” She whispers and I smile as sleep sinks in on me.

I’m going home.