Chapter Text
Anderson was a low ranking officer on shore leave in Boston when he met John Shepard, an 8-year-old Tenth Street Red member. The boy was just bruised skin and fragile bone covered in rags and dirt but his eyes were alive and bright with spite even as Anderson held his wrist in an iron grip.
“Not the person you want to pickpocket, kid,” Anderson snarked.
John bit his arm in response and sprinted away. Anderson had cursed and admitted to being surprised at the action. An officer nearby had laughed at him.
“I see you met Johnny. That kid’s been around causing all kinds of trouble lately” the policeman said.
“And you haven’t tried to take him off the streets?” Anderson accused.
“John’s in the Reds, the Reds are violent and vicious and control a lot of major cities. We aren’t going to start a war with them,” the officer shrugged.
“Over one kid?” Anderson clarified.
The officer’s face went carefully neutral.
“Over one of Big Tommy’s kids,” he said.
Anderson wasn’t sure what that meant, but he could guess and it made him sick. The rest of his shore leave was spent trying to get the kid. John was lithe and small and could outmaneuver Anderson so easily that it pissed him off as much as it impressed him. He finally caught John when he wasn’t even trying. It was the last day on shore leave in Boston and Anderson had given up after 4 days of trying. He had been strolling the streets when John came rushing around the corner, 2 men hot on his heels. John sprinted around and skidded to a stop right by Anderson, who was in uniform. The 2 men came to a halt and eyed the Alliance officer uniform before glaring at John and walking away. Anderson laid a heavy hand on John’s shoulder. It was bony and felt like it would break under the slightest of pressure.
“Now you owe me,” Anderson smiled.
John glared up at him distrustfully before nodding to an alley. Anderson raised an eyebrow but followed the boy. John turned once they were further in and crossed his arms.
“How doya’ wan’it?” he asked neutrally.
There was a heavy Boston accent on the voice that Anderson found intriguing. Not many people in Boston had the accent quite as strongly. ‘Do’ and ‘you’ became one word even as ‘you’ sounded more like ‘ya’ and want had lost its ‘t’
“What?” Anderson questioned.
“I’m naut very good wit’ my mouth but-” John started.
“No! No, I don’t want…when was the last time you had a good, hot meal?” Anderson replied.
John stared blankly at him.
“If yaw’re tryin’ ta drug me-” John growled.
“No, just feed you, promise,” Anderson held out a pinky.
John looked at his hand skeptically.
“Pinky promise, you know?” Anderson asked.
John stared blankly.
“You’re supposed to intertwine your pinky finger with mine,” Anderson explained.
“Why?” John demanded.
“It signifies a promise was made and that both parties agree to keep it,” Anderson expanded.
Slowly and carefully, John reached out a bony hand and wrapped his small, fragile pinky around Anderson’s larger, stronger one. Anderson gave him a wide, gleeful smile at the first, small step of trust. John let go and stepped back quickly. He was like a cat, cautious and distrustful, but Anderson knew he would come around. Anderson tried to visit Boston every time he came to Earth for shore leave. Every time he would take John out for a hot meal and they would talk. John would never speak of what he did for the Reds, even if the hickeys were visible or the blood still stained his nose and clothes. Anderson thought it was out of fear, but over time, John’s kind heart would shine through and Anderson realized loyalty and protectiveness for the other young members drove the boy. He did the horrible things so the others didn’t have to. Anderson almost cried when he realized that. John had been opening up to him and his accent was much less severe.
“Sarah still lives at the orphanage. She has a good chance of getting adawpted if she stays just running messages fo’ the Reds. Maybe you could...suggest her to someone ya’ know?” John had said.
Anderson had to force his next words out, force his expression to remain neutral.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
She was adopted by someone Kahlee knew. It was the first time Anderson had ever seen John actually smile. It lit his face up to make him look his 10-years-old and his eyes shine youthfully and happily. Anderson wanted nothing more than to protect that last shard of innocent, childish happiness. He told Kahlee all about John when they were on their mission with Saren.
“Sounds like you gained a son,” she giggled.
Maybe he had. He only wondered if John thought of him as more than a hot meal. That would be answered on his next leave. Anderson was furious with the council and Saren and it had affected his mood as he stormed out of the Alliance base. The black cloud vanished when he saw John, waving at him shyly from the street across the base. Anderson jogged over to the child, a wide smile on his face.
“I...um...well I was in the area and I thought…you might come back,” John looked everywhere except at Anderson, but that didn’t stop the warmth in Anderson’s chest.
“I’m happy to see you, John. I’ve had a rough few weeks,” Anderson admitted.
John scratched at his cheek and looked off to the left.
“Want to...want to talk about it?” John offered.
Anderson shook his head and laughed.
“No, no, I’d rather hear about what trouble you’ve been getting into,” Anderson ruffled his matted hair.
John pouted at that but quickly started telling Anderson about a very nice woman who kept giving John cookies. John was 12 with a healing cut marring his hairline from a knife coming a bit too close and the best thing in his life so far was Anderson and cookies. Anderson wondered where his parents were but knew not to ask. John was slow to trust and would tell Anderson when he thought he could trust him. He wanted John to trust him, so he spent the entirety of his shore leave with him, even if the kid would disappear at times and return a bit more quiet, a bit more bruised, a bit more used. Shore leave only lasts so long. John was silent when Anderson said he was leaving the next morning. Anderson hoped he would say something, but he only gritted his teeth and disappeared. He was waiting for Anderson the next morning.
“Do you have to leave?” John asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Anderson let down.
John crossed his arms and tilted his head just enough to make his matted hair shadow his striking blue eyes.
“Fine, go, leave, and don’ya’ dahre come back,” he growled, accent slipping.
“John…” Anderson trailed.
“Go!” he snapped, refusing to look at Anderson.
“I’ll be back,” Anderson held out a pinky, “I promise.”
John lifted his head and small tears fell from bright, blue eyes with the familiar fuck-you spark as he snatched Anderson’s pinky with his own. Anderson didn’t know kids could cry without a telling sound. He wanted to hug John, to comfort him, but he knew the boy was adverse to touch. So he settled for the pinky promise. John felt differently and lunged forwards to wrap his thin arms around Anderson’s stomach, head burrowing into his chest. Anderson smiled and gently returned the embrace. The years went by quickly, he and John growing closer until John was 18 and asked Anderson for his help. John had grown into an attractive young man. The angles of his face sharpened, his hair buzzed, his body more muscled, but Anderson couldn’t get over how much taller John was. Where the boy had just managed to reach his chest he now was only a few inches shorter than Anderson.
“I want out,” John had confided.
That was another thing that had changed. John’s accent was almost completely gone, taking on a neutral sound. Only certain words gave his origin away now. Anderson kind of missed his accent.
“Good, I want to get you out,” Anderson encouraged.
“No, I mean I want to get into the Alliance,” John clarified.
“Why?” Anderson asked.
John scratched at his face and looked off to the left. It was something he did when he was nervous or uncertain.
“I...well...you’re-the-closest-thing-I-have-to-a-father-and-I-want-to-make-you-proud,” John rushed out in one really long word.
Anderson took a second to process that. John took that as rejection.
“I mean- it’s just you never took advantage of me and I trust you now. You’re a good person and I haven’t met many of those. My mom was an addict and a whore and her addiction killed her. The only memory I have of her is her cooling corpse and that her name was Hannah Shepard. My dad was some client of hers and I’ll never meet him. And the Reds...they were something to me, but now...now I don’t feel like I belong there. I feel like I’m enslaved by them. I even have a tattoo to prove it. I’ve never had a family. I don’t know what that’s supposed to feel like, but I feel like I’ve got something pretty damn close to it, even if it’s just you,” John ranted.
Anderson gave him a watery smile.
“Of course, I’ll help you,” he whispered out.
John looked so alarmed at Anderson’s show of emotion that Anderson laughed. Anderson felt so happy, so warm as he walked John down to the Alliance recruitment office and signed him up. John shipped off to basic training the next day. He gave Anderson a tight hug before he left. Anderson kept tabs on him and was proud to hear of how well John was doing. John sent him excited messages, that innocent child shining through as he experienced things people usually don’t even consider. Anderson grinned at the paragraph dedicated solely to hot water showers. Then the paragraph dedicated to regular meals and how uncomfortably soft the beds were. Kahlee said he really was John’s father. He wasn’t prepared for the pain that would come with seeing the boy he watched grow up sit deathly still in complete shock after Akuze. His breathing was shaky but controlled. His eyes wide and unseeing as Anderson knelt in front of him. John was only 27 and he had already experienced something most soldiers never have to. But John was strong, just as he has always been, and he would recover, just as he always has. Still, the pure look of panic and anguish John had given Anderson when he came to visit him just hours after Akuze would never leave him. John looked broken, looked cracked. It was the same look he had when the Reds had forced him to do something he couldn’t dare himself to speak of and just existed with Anderson in shamed, shocked silence. This time, though, this time John had a new scar, a new physical one. A bit of thresher maw acid had chewed through his armor to burn the lower right side of his back.
“How’s the tattoo?” John had attempted a light tone but failed miserably.
It was the first time Anderson had ever seen John’s tattoo, but he remembered John telling him about it when he was 16, about how much it had hurt and about how much he hated it. It was massive. In red script across his shoulders, read Tenth Street Reds with small, black script under it reading baptized in fire . Spanning the canvas of his back was a male demon running a sword through a female angel, held by the demon’s left arm and gazing into the demon’s face. Her chest was bloodied as the sword, colored black, pierced through to peak out below her. The demon’s face was serious but saddened and his right hand gripped the elegant hilt and forced the blade down. The angel looked limp and defeated while the demon looked grim and tired. The thresher maw acid twisted the angel’s flowing hair and knotted it up when it had been straight and trailing under her.
“Little bit of damage, not too much,” Anderson informed.
“Kind of wish it erased the whole thing,” John murmured sullenly.
“That would probably have required you to die,” Anderson commented.
“...I should have. I don’t deserve to live,” John laughed, “I’m a nobody from the streets, a criminal.”
“You’re not nobody to me,” Anderson admitted softly.
John stared at him. His expression was unreadable, but Anderson knew where John was mentally and he needed to know he was valued.
“I’ve never had a son. I don’t know what that’s supposed to feel like, but I feel like I’ve got something pretty damn close to it, even if it’s just you,” Anderson echoed.
John recognized the words and that lively, fuck-you spark reignited in his eyes. Anderson knew he would be okay.