[When she finds the photo, balanced on the cactus' needles like some sort of cheery trending decoration, she wonders if Lavellan's been collecting other people's belongings as he putters in the garden—maybe old remnants of the station, from a quainter people. People who still printed photographs on paper, for example.
But there's something about it—or, at least, something familiar about its subjects. So rather than hand it over to the greenhouse-desert's keeper, she slips it into her pocket, taking it out every so often throughout the day to wonder. It's not until the third time she takes it out that it hits her like a lightning bolt, so much so that she chides herself for not realizing immediately. Add thirty years, and enough scars to tell a hell of a story...
Still gaping at the picture (and her own lack of immediate awareness), she pulls up 76's-- or, Jack's, as it turned out--contact address, and shoots a short text.]
[Because at one point, yes, he had a photograph, but it never made the trip to the Moira with the rest of his things, for some reason. It's not that he's forgotten about it in the meantime, just that it isn't at the forefront of his mind. When Shepard texts him, however, he knows exactly what photograph she has to be talking about.
(Unless, of course, she happened upon one of Angela's old photos, but he's reasonably certain he cleaned those out of her house when she disappeared).
He supposes he should be glad that it's Shepard contacting him about this--someone who would recognize him in an old photo and have the decency to return it. Jack can't think of many other people who would do that.]
[True to her word as ever, Shepard takes no time in traipsing over to Sector Chemistry. It's barely ten minutes before she's rapping politely on the former laboratory's door. Even invited, she's not going to bust in. It's someone else's living space, after all.
The photo is carefully pressed between two slim, connected panels of fabricated industrial plastic, serving as a careful card-esque photo frame.]
[Jack is waiting for her--dressed like a normal person, no less. He's in his own quarters, and seeing as how he and Shepard are familiar with each other to the point where she can recognize a photo of him in his early thirties, there's no further need for tactical gear.
Still, he checks the peephole (I decided there is a peephole) before he opens the door.]
Hey.
[There's a moment where he scans her to locate the picture on her person before he remembers his manners, stepping aside.]
[She slips in, holding out the nondescript plastic as an offering as she does. Jack is surprisingly... casual, and she's almost amused at how much it suits him. It's easy to see him off-duty, lounging as much as he was feasibly able, swirling a drink and considering how best to evacuate every person in the bar should an emergency arise.]
Here. Not sure how it ended up on the cactus, but maybe whoever found it first thought its owner would find it better that way.
[It had been missing from his jacket upon arrival, and though of course it's an important piece of sentiment for him, over a year away from home had him worrying about other, more important things. He takes the photo when Shepard offers it, and the corners of his mouth can't help but quirk upwards, the barest hint of a smile that he's trying to make as subtle as possible.]
Could be Ana's copy.
[But he recognizes the little imperfections, even sandwiched between plastic. This is his, and Jack finds himself not wanting to think about how it got here.]
[For all his airy words, his own body language gives him away as soon as the picture's in his hands. As his eyes drag over the faces in the frame, she catches the twitch of a smile, the warmth towards the image, the nostalgic distance between.]
Just glad I could get it back into the hands of the right person.
[Gesturing to the photo, she raises a careful eyebrow.]
So, who's your friend? I imagine you go back quite a ways.
[If she's paying attention to the minute changes in his expression, she'll be sure to see it falter. He stares at the third person in question for a long moment before he decides to answer.]
That's our old CO.
[Seems to be the best way to put things, especially if he's going to be talking about Gabriel like he's a separate entity from Reaper. Jack has a difficult time with that, but when talking about it with someone else, it's easier to separate the two. Doesn't make it any less uncomfortable.]
[The facefall is subtle, but on Jack's face, it's practically an airhorn. She watches him, in the silence, staying silent herself when he finally answers, clipped and to the point.
It's a respectful moment before she asks her next question, eyes drifting across the photo to match his own line of sight.]
How did he pass?
[Somehow, Shepard highly doubted it was of natural causes.]
[Jack has to think about how to answer for a moment, because it's not as though Gabriel died during the Crisis--the one thing he has told Shepard about. No, they all lasted another twenty years before things really started to fall apart, which leaves Jack a little in the lurch when it comes to talking about what really happened. He's still looking at the photo, perhaps in consideration.
He settles for gesturing vaguely at his face, indicating the scars.]
[Her eyes flit up, drag across his face with quiet interest. The scars are reminiscent of shrapnel wounds—something she'd had personal experience with, before and after the rebuild—but the jury's out on what kind of explosive.]
I'm sorry for your loss. Never gets any easier.
[Worse, if you were there. Never shaking the feeling that you could have stopped the bullet.
[Partially because he's hella lying by omission right now, partially because he's been a soldier longer than he's been anything else. If Jack hasn't come to terms with what that means by now, he doesn't think he ever will. Shepard strikes him as similar--someone who has seen immeasurable loss and presses forward anyway, simply it's because that's what she has to do (or, perhaps simply because she doesn't know how to do anything else, like him).
It's another moment before he seems to find the words.]
Attack on our headquarters. Still don't know who was responsible.
[Another lie--he knows who was partially responsible, but he's still fairly certain that Reyes didn't intend to blow himself up, too.]
[A single courteous nod is the only answer she gives, weighted with understanding, before letting the space spread out between them. It's a lot to ask someone—to detail the passing of a friend, of a commander—especially to someone outside of the situation itself. Still, each answer brings with it another question—and she hadn't been shut down yet.]
[It all points to a much larger global conspiracy that Jack knows is there but can't find. Knowing Reyes is likely steps ahead of him just adds to the frustration, but that's how it had always been, wasn't it? His eyebrows furrow--Jack is clearly thinking of something that isn't necessarily what's leaving his mouth.
Jack knows he could go to Talon for answers--it's what Gabriel has done--but he can't make those compromises. He's already lost too much of himself, and with so little left, he has to cling to what he can. Maybe Gabriel can run with the people who took Ana from them, but Jack can't. Won't. He's not that kind of person.
Maybe that's why he's always a step behind; why he can't get his hands around the answers he wants. He's stooped so low already but won't stoop low enough. Dog chasing a car.
After a moment, he seems to shake himself out of it, like he's remembering that Shepard is in the room with him, expecting an answer.]
[Dead ends were still trails at a point—though he doesn't elucidate further. Instead, it paints across his face, not reaching his voice. Not ready to be spoken. Like someone who knows enough of the answer to guess at it, but knows the consequences for getting it wrong are larger stakes than guessing out of desperation.
Eyes flitting back to the photo, her lips thin briefly. But how long had he been looking?]
You've got several allies here. They don't know any more than you did, I guess?
[They knew even less, and he'd been more than content to keep them out of it. Better for all of them to get on with their lives and leave the ghost-chasing to him. It's bound not to end well.]
Before this, we hadn't been in touch for a few years.
[More of the between-the-lines conversation. How long was "a few years"? Why hadn't they been "in touch"? The way he says it is casual, offhanded almost—but from day one, Jack had struck her as a career soldier. Had he severed the ties?
Or had they been severed for him?]
What knocked you out of touch?
[She plays the question like a card, raising an eyebrow, eyes half-lidded. She wouldn't press if he left the table, so to speak, but while he was answering, she'd keep raising.]
[Jack pulls his lips tight as the conversation reaches uncomfortable territory. He doesn't particularly care about coming off as disagreeable, but he's also not sure if that's going to encourage Shepard to pry. Jack shrugs his shoulders in a way that indicates the reason for being out of touch is the reason Gabriel is dead is the reason he has scars on his face. She should be able to piece things together without him outright saying he and Ana were both pretending to be dead.]
[And Jack had figured it out too, eventually, though he’d always been slower on the uptake. Ana was found only when she wanted to be—when Jack had put two and two together, dropped his leads in Mexico and made his way to Egypt. He never actually made it there before being pulled into space, but Ana seems to remember the meeting, so he guesses he found her either way.]
I was on my way to meet back up with her when we ended up here, so. Guess it all worked out.
[There's more to the story, of course, but Jack doesn't seem inclined to offer any further detail. This seems like a neat place to leave off at, and he offers a shrug of his shoulders to indicate that's that.]
Wouldn't exactly call it vacation. More like retirement.
[Nothing. Or, he's had years to practice and perfect and irritatingly solid pokerface when he's not been surprised with a photo of his past. With the shrug, it's all over.
Still, it was more than she knew before.]
You never struck me as a cribbage and mobility vehicles kind of guy, but yeah—guess I could see it.
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TEXT; OCT 17
But there's something about it—or, at least, something familiar about its subjects. So rather than hand it over to the greenhouse-desert's keeper, she slips it into her pocket, taking it out every so often throughout the day to wonder. It's not until the third time she takes it out that it hits her like a lightning bolt, so much so that she chides herself for not realizing immediately. Add thirty years, and enough scars to tell a hell of a story...
Still gaping at the picture (and her own lack of immediate awareness), she pulls up 76's-- or, Jack's, as it turned out--contact address, and shoots a short text.]
Did you lose a photograph recently?
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[Because at one point, yes, he had a photograph, but it never made the trip to the Moira with the rest of his things, for some reason. It's not that he's forgotten about it in the meantime, just that it isn't at the forefront of his mind. When Shepard texts him, however, he knows exactly what photograph she has to be talking about.
(Unless, of course, she happened upon one of Angela's old photos, but he's reasonably certain he cleaned those out of her house when she disappeared).
He supposes he should be glad that it's Shepard contacting him about this--someone who would recognize him in an old photo and have the decency to return it. Jack can't think of many other people who would do that.]
Did you find something?
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You're a lot younger.
So is Ana.
I don't recognize the third person.
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Why don't you bring it over? We're in the old labs. Unit 8.
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[True to her word as ever, Shepard takes no time in traipsing over to Sector Chemistry. It's barely ten minutes before she's rapping politely on the former laboratory's door. Even invited, she's not going to bust in. It's someone else's living space, after all.
The photo is carefully pressed between two slim, connected panels of fabricated industrial plastic, serving as a careful card-esque photo frame.]
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Still, he checks the peephole (I decided there is a peephole) before he opens the door.]
Hey.
[There's a moment where he scans her to locate the picture on her person before he remembers his manners, stepping aside.]
Come on in.
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Here. Not sure how it ended up on the cactus, but maybe whoever found it first thought its owner would find it better that way.
How'd you lose it?
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[It had been missing from his jacket upon arrival, and though of course it's an important piece of sentiment for him, over a year away from home had him worrying about other, more important things. He takes the photo when Shepard offers it, and the corners of his mouth can't help but quirk upwards, the barest hint of a smile that he's trying to make as subtle as possible.]
Could be Ana's copy.
[But he recognizes the little imperfections, even sandwiched between plastic. This is his, and Jack finds himself not wanting to think about how it got here.]
Guess I should be glad you found it either way.
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Just glad I could get it back into the hands of the right person.
[Gesturing to the photo, she raises a careful eyebrow.]
So, who's your friend? I imagine you go back quite a ways.
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That's our old CO.
[Seems to be the best way to put things, especially if he's going to be talking about Gabriel like he's a separate entity from Reaper. Jack has a difficult time with that, but when talking about it with someone else, it's easier to separate the two. Doesn't make it any less uncomfortable.]
He's dead.
[There's...one way to deflect.]
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It's a respectful moment before she asks her next question, eyes drifting across the photo to match his own line of sight.]
How did he pass?
[Somehow, Shepard highly doubted it was of natural causes.]
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He settles for gesturing vaguely at his face, indicating the scars.]
Same accident.
[Except it wasn't an accident, not really.]
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I'm sorry for your loss. Never gets any easier.
[Worse, if you were there. Never shaking the feeling that you could have stopped the bullet.
Or the explosive, in this case.]
Were you on a mission together at the time?
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[Partially because he's hella lying by omission right now, partially because he's been a soldier longer than he's been anything else. If Jack hasn't come to terms with what that means by now, he doesn't think he ever will. Shepard strikes him as similar--someone who has seen immeasurable loss and presses forward anyway, simply it's because that's what she has to do (or, perhaps simply because she doesn't know how to do anything else, like him).
It's another moment before he seems to find the words.]
Attack on our headquarters. Still don't know who was responsible.
[Another lie--he knows who was partially responsible, but he's still fairly certain that Reyes didn't intend to blow himself up, too.]
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No leads, or too many?
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[It all points to a much larger global conspiracy that Jack knows is there but can't find. Knowing Reyes is likely steps ahead of him just adds to the frustration, but that's how it had always been, wasn't it? His eyebrows furrow--Jack is clearly thinking of something that isn't necessarily what's leaving his mouth.
Jack knows he could go to Talon for answers--it's what Gabriel has done--but he can't make those compromises. He's already lost too much of himself, and with so little left, he has to cling to what he can. Maybe Gabriel can run with the people who took Ana from them, but Jack can't. Won't. He's not that kind of person.
Maybe that's why he's always a step behind; why he can't get his hands around the answers he wants. He's stooped so low already but won't stoop low enough. Dog chasing a car.
After a moment, he seems to shake himself out of it, like he's remembering that Shepard is in the room with him, expecting an answer.]
Then I ended up here, so--
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Eyes flitting back to the photo, her lips thin briefly. But how long had he been looking?]
You've got several allies here. They don't know any more than you did, I guess?
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[They knew even less, and he'd been more than content to keep them out of it. Better for all of them to get on with their lives and leave the ghost-chasing to him. It's bound not to end well.]
Before this, we hadn't been in touch for a few years.
[Mostly because they all thought he was dead.]
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[More of the between-the-lines conversation. How long was "a few years"? Why hadn't they been "in touch"? The way he says it is casual, offhanded almost—but from day one, Jack had struck her as a career soldier. Had he severed the ties?
Or had they been severed for him?]
What knocked you out of touch?
[She plays the question like a card, raising an eyebrow, eyes half-lidded. She wouldn't press if he left the table, so to speak, but while he was answering, she'd keep raising.]
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[Jack pulls his lips tight as the conversation reaches uncomfortable territory. He doesn't particularly care about coming off as disagreeable, but he's also not sure if that's going to encourage Shepard to pry. Jack shrugs his shoulders in a way that indicates the reason for being out of touch is the reason Gabriel is dead is the reason he has scars on his face. She should be able to piece things together without him outright saying he and Ana were both pretending to be dead.]
It wasn't safe.
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[So to speak.
Shrugging out of her stance, she gestures to the photograph again.]
Must've been a shock, then. When you both showed up on the Moira, then Thisavrou.
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[And Jack had figured it out too, eventually, though he’d always been slower on the uptake. Ana was found only when she wanted to be—when Jack had put two and two together, dropped his leads in Mexico and made his way to Egypt. He never actually made it there before being pulled into space, but Ana seems to remember the meeting, so he guesses he found her either way.]
I was on my way to meet back up with her when we ended up here, so. Guess it all worked out.
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Still keeping her tone light, she watches his expression as she hazards:]
And now you're both practically on vacation, what without any extra assassination worries.
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[There's more to the story, of course, but Jack doesn't seem inclined to offer any further detail. This seems like a neat place to leave off at, and he offers a shrug of his shoulders to indicate that's that.]
Wouldn't exactly call it vacation. More like retirement.
[But still with assassination worries.]
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Still, it was more than she knew before.]
You never struck me as a cribbage and mobility vehicles kind of guy, but yeah—guess I could see it.
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