She will see him change. Slowly, very slowly, so that the changes will appear inevitable—or unnoticeable—to any who do not know his body so intimately. She will compare him every morning to the man who fell asleep the previous night and when the first gray comes and the others follow she will be waiting for them, an enemy more dangerous and more insidious than the Reapers ever were. An enemy that is also an ally; a constant; a truth; a reality. Time.
He will ask her if he has gained weight. He will turn sideways in front of a mirror and she will tell him exactly how much weight he has gained since the night before, then exactly how much he has gained since the year before, then exactly how much he has gained since they first met. ‘Not like I can go pump some iron with Beefbags McLargeHuge or anything,’ he will grumble, a sparkle in his eye.
That sparkle is life. And age is a facet of life. Change is made of age. Literally.
She will observe the hair on his belly. She will take note of the length of his stubble. She will allow him to be stubborn until his stubbornness becomes detrimental to his well-being, and then she will supply the crutches. They will make his forearms sore. They will rub the skin until it is raw and he will cool it against her, resting his wrist upon her stomach, until they are both warmer than they were before.
Before. A nebulous concept. After. There is only one certainty.
She will not grow old with him. He will change on the outside and remain remarkably similar on the inside, whereas she will metamorphose opposite to his progression. She will still look the same, but he will change her breath by breath beneath the derma, where the truth lies. Fear is the truth.
He will die.
And he knows this; he is smarter than he pretends to look, and he knows this. Yet still, despite the knowledge, there are thousands of photographs, memories in time, of them laughing. Not without a care. With every care. His funny eyebrows. The weight he has gained. The crutches he grouchily came to accept. His arm around her. Warming each other, skin to artificial skin.
She will live. And listen to his steady heart. Love, laughter, aches, pleasures. Change.
whenever i see a graphic w/ edi’s “i would risk non-functionality for him” quote it reminds me I wish after that the game would have cut to joker doing something really inane
see this is what i love about joker/edi and how the joker/edi fandom really made me fall in love with the pairing. because this is what the pairing is all about. joker’s awkwardness, asking—of all people—mordin solus for sex-with-an-AI tips and all these deeply human quirks that joker has; to some they might seem like weaknesses or flaws, naturally, and maybe they are, but to edi they’re the anomalies that act as catalyst for this strange new program-slash-virus she’s carrying: affection.
there is no one else out there like jeff moreau. granted, every individual is just that—an individual—but the point remains that edi would risk nonfunctionality for one particular individual who has an arguably unpolished sense of humor and very few self-preservation instincts. and that’s brave. wonderful. it makes sparks fly, not necessarily literal ones, except for when joker pulls some wild maneuver and then the sparks actually do fly. quite a lot of them, in fact.
but of course, edi knows every strange little nook and cranny of this man. where he gets itchy. how he scratches when he thinks no one’s looking. that sometimes he talks to himself in the cockpit like he’s accepting a medal of honor for his bravery and service. (‘just doing my galactic duty, admiral. oh, you’re looking for a photo-op, huh? no problem, primarch. just tell palaven joker says hey.’) that some other times he talks to himself in the cockpit because he’s been running on forty-eight hours of not sleeping and the only thing keeping him awake now is the sound of his own garrus vakarian stick-up-my-ass impression.
and it’s that particular set of bizarre behaviors, all displayed by one single man who rubs so many people so much the wrong way, who does impressions of james vega in front of the bathroom mirror, who once suggested to the lieutenant that he should name his pecs since they were practically the size of planets, who snores in his sleep and drools on the pillow and is far, far from perfect, that bridge the synthetic/organic gap. this is how they overcome the great divide between synthetic and organic life without needing to destroy, control, or synthesize. this is how you know that a certain unit has a soul; that shepard is more human than machine no matter how many times the body gets rebuilt; that edi is special for a thousand and one reasons, but also loves jeff ‘joker’ moreau.
because she would risk nonfunctionality for him.
even knowing that he often behaves nonfunctionally—or is that dysfunctionally?—himself.
so it’s not unconditional love. just nonfunctional love.
This is why the scene with Natasha and Loki is so fantastic. She goes up against a god, yes, but not just any god: the god of lies and deceit.
And tricks him.
Even Batman doesn’t manage that.
HOLY COW *FLAILS*
I want to be able to give Joker a hug. SETH CAN WE GIVE JOKER A
VERY GENTLEHUG? IS THERE HUG DIALOGUE? *attempts telepathy*
This guy is not acting as Joker; HE IS JOKER <3
*veeeery gentle hugs*