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Some things never get old, Shepard muses as he stands in the darkened doorway to his children's room; leaning his shoulder against the frame. He watches his family together in the light of a pink Blasto nightlight, knowing finally,finally that everything he has ever done up until this point was right. Every decision had led to this moment of peace. Of wholeness.
Kaidan is resting back on his son's bed, one child under each arm, and a picture book lit on the data pad screen in his hands.
Shepard can't hear the words, and doesn't dare move closer to disturb the scene, but he listens anyway. He always listens.
Kaidan's voice. When they first met, Shepard was struck with its rough texture; serious and authoritative at all the appropriate times. It pulled him effortlessly through missions and strengthened his resolve. The gravel of it sanded away his doubts even when making the most difficult of decisions. That voice in his earpiece got him through the most hopeless of assignments.
Then slowly it transformed into the voice of a lover. Almost before he realized it, the rough texture had changed to velvet and whisky. Sensual. Heady. He craved it all. The rasping moans and hoarse confirmations of fulfillment. The asperous promises to 'do this again sometime.'
Years later, after distrust and misunderstandings and pain, Kaidan's voice came back to him again. Wear and tear on worn leather. It returned his lost humanity. His lost sleep. His lost calm in the endless black. Reason and confidence.
And somewhere, he wasn't sure exactly where, it stayed on to encompass every last thing in his life that he needed and desired. During the sleepless nights punctuated by airless nightmares and ghosts, it offered itself calmly, pitched low to undercut the high pitches of horror. It numbed the ache in his heart like a balm for the gaping holes left by loss. Drove him crazy with desire. Lit a fire in him he had never felt. Made him yearn for more when it caressed him with a morning greeting or soft goodbye. It became as important as the air he breathed. It made him cry once - and only once - as it breathlessly proclaimed "I do."
And now, like a fine wine, Kaidan's voice has matured to reveal its true purpose. It serenely speaks a lullaby with the pitch of a calm, ancient ocean. Half-sleepy and full of more love than Shepard thought the world could hold.
Kaidan. Curled up on a child's bed. Their four year-old son already dozing with his head pressed against his father's heart. Their daughter, barely a year old, rhythmically squeezing and releasing Kaidan's dog tags while sucking the thumb of the same tiny hand. Her comfort object. Kaidan's voice gradually slows, the ocean calming as it rocks the children to sleep. He whispers the final words of the story then kisses the tops of their heads.
Shepard meets his eyes and smiles. It's his turn now. Just as Kaidan's voice is his constant and eternal rock, his body and actions are Kaidan's. Even these days, despite the fact he hasn't had the types of assignments requiring the use of a gun, his body and actions have matured and evolved with Kaidan's needs.
He extracts his daughter from the bed, Kaidan murmuring nonsensical words as she stirs. But Shepard has the touch. He is the only one who can deposit her in her crib without so much as a whimper of protest, having mastered the art of handling a child very early on during the sleepless first nights.
He then helps Kaidan slide from their son's bed and tucks the boy in gently.
Then the pair retreat to their own room where they can communicate with each other best.
Kaidan says, "I love you."
Shepard pulls him close and kisses him.