Chapter Text
Garrus hadn’t realized that he was sighing heavily, or looking grumpy, until Tali called him on it.
They were in the cargo bay, Tali at the workbench and Garrus realigning his sniper scope. It was a good place for him to do rifle maintenance and for her to tinker with Chatika (and for Ashley to clean her own rifle, which she was doing with loving care sitting on the floor a little way away, and for James to work out, and really, Cortez was pretty patient to put up with all of them), but Garrus suspected the real reason that he and Tali and Ashley were there was that it was comfortingly reminiscent of being back on the old SR1, before everything had gone to hell.
Which was probably why he was sighing. Which he didn’t realize until Tali said, “Something wrong, Garrus?”
“No.” He programmed in a scope adjustment and frowned thoughtfully at the result. “Why do you ask?”
“You keep sighing. It’s a little gloomy. I figured you weren’t just doing it to amuse yourself.”
“I’m not sighing.”
It was Ashley who said, without looking up from her careful work, “Yes, you are.” (It was such a familiar pose for her, bent over her assault rifle. Much more Gunnery Chief than Spectre Agent. She even had her hair drawn sharply back from her face, held out of the way with a clip that looked disconcertingly like a claw.)
“I am?”
“Yes,” said both Tali and Ashley, in unison, and then looked at each other and laughed.
“Okay,” Garrus said. “I guess maybe something’s not great.” He put down his sniper scope. “But compared to everything, it’s a really trivial problem.”
“Compared to everything,” Tali said, punctuating with fingerquotes, “I don’t think a single one of us has a problem that isn’t technically trivial. Nevertheless. Spill.” He gave her a dubious look. Tali sighed. “All right, if you need me to start: I’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to decide if I want to recolor Chatika in pink or purple. Or maybe green. Green’s nice, I’ve never used green. But it would clash with my suit.”
Garrus chuckled.
James paused in his punching-bag workout and said, “Trivial problems? Here’s mine. I would absolutely kill for a fish taco, a real one. I know you can sort of make one with imported ingredients, but it’s not the same.”
Tali laughed at that, and then all three of them turned to look at Ashley, who was still bent over her assault rifle. She looked up, eyebrows cocked, and said, “What?” At their continued expectant expressions, she sighed and put down her handful of pins. “Fine. Sometimes I miss my pink armor.”
“You had pink armor?” James asked, clearly gleeful.
“Hey, I liked that armor,” Tali said. Then, “Okay, Garrus, now we’ve all unloaded our trivial worries. So?”
Garrus sighed again, and then laughed when he realized what he was doing. “Okay. So… Shepard’s really busy,” he said, and then rushed to add: “Of course she is. I’m not complaining, that would be petty when she’s saving the galaxy, and… everything. We’re all busy. But these days half the time we just see each other in passing—and when we do have time, we wind up talking tactics.” And having sex, but they didn’t need to hear that. “And it’s not that I resent it, really, I know that what she’s doing is more important than, you know,” he tuned his voice to a self-deprecating harmonic, “date night, but I worry because she’s running herself ragged and I know she has nightmares. And, well—”
“You want to do something romantic for her,” Tali said quietly. Garrus could feel blood heating his throat, but he nodded. “That’s really sweet. Even if you are too much of a clod to actually admit it out loud.”
“I’m not a clod.”
“Uh huh.”
“Tali.”
She giggled. “I was around when you two first hooked up, remember? You were a mess. I think you exchanged the wine for a different bottle five separate times. And there only are about five different levo-dextro-compatible wines in existence.”
“Thank you for your sympathy, Tali.”
“Oh, hush, I helped you last time, didn’t I?” And she had, even if that help had mostly consisted of patiently listening while he paced and fretted about what to bring and what to wear and whether he was going to screw it up—which, thank all the spirits both named and lost, he hadn’t. “I’ll help you this time,” Tali continued. “Let’s see, something romantic….”
She trailed off, and looked thoughtful. Vega’s rhythmic thump-thump-thump on the punching bag slowed, which meant he was pondering too. And out of the corner of his eye, Garrus could see that Ashley had slowed in her efficient cleaning of her Vindicator.
“Take her on a nice date,” Tali said. “Fancy restaurant?”
“Thought of that. We always wind up talking shop.”
“Take her to a show, then. Live shows are always nice. Hard to get caught up with work when you’re at them.”
“Most of the live shows on the Citadel have been canceled pending the apocalypse.”
“Hm.” Tali rubbed her knee. “Starlit walks on the Presidium? Dramatic declarations of love in inappropriately public places? I don’t know, I don’t really have a lot of experience with this stuff.”
“Doesn’t stop you making fun of me.”
“And I might even feel a little bad about it if you didn’t return the favor.”
“Dancing,” Vega interrupted, very suddenly. Tali and Garrus turned to look at him.
“Have you ever seen Shepard dance?” Tali asked.
“Well, yeah.” James pushed the punching bag to one side and walked around it to lean on one of the crates.
“Not exactly a pretty picture, huh?” Garrus said. “And I love the woman, but—”
“No, no, I didn’t mean like that,” James said. “Not club dancing type dancing. I mean something a little more formal, and a lot more sexy.” He raised his voice slightly. “Hey Williams, you know how to tango?”
Ashley had a packet of Alliance-standard cleaning cloths held between her teeth as she finished the disassembly of her rifle with both hands. She spat it out and raised her eyebrows at James. “Real smooth way to ask a lady to dance, Vega.”
“Hey, hey, I wasn’t hitting on you. I just wanted to demo for Vakarian. But if you don’t know how….”
“I know when I’m being baited, and I still rise to the bait,” Ashley said, setting her work down and wiping her hands off on the knees of her fatigues. “That’s a Williams for you. All right, yes, I know a little.”
“Great. Tali, I’m sending you a link to some music. Can you play it from your omnitool?” Tali bent to the task, and within seconds the strains of human music—a little tinny due to the limited speakers of an omnitool, but enough to get the feeling—filled the cargo bay.
Ashley paused to pull the clip out of her hair and toss it on the workbench and then crossed to Vega. Garrus watched as he held out his hand and she took it and they arranged themselves into what looked like a formal pose—certainly a lot more formal than most partnered dances he’d seen on the Citadel, where two—or sometimes three—pressed as close as possible and then squirmed. But they were still plenty close, with Vega’s hand settling on the small of Ashley’s back in a way that Garrus would not have expected anyone to get away with without losing that hand. Ashley caught Vega’s eye and gave a short nod, and they began.
It was… not quite like anything Garrus had ever seen. Their movements were crisp and decisive, and yet at the same time undeniably sexy; undeniable even to him, who wasn’t attracted to either Vega or Ashley. (He was a one-human turian in the literal sense; Shepard was the only non-turian he’d ever been remotely attracted to.) Vega moved surprisingly lightly for such a big guy. Ashley danced like she fought, decisive and strong and physical in a very immediate way, that left you with no doubt that her attention was fully here, fully now. The steps of the dance had the air of something stylized and yet, paradoxically, also improvised. And underlying it all was a sensuality so intense it was almost tangible, almost visible, as real as the radiation on Palaven, like an aura of light and heat around them. Body to body they danced, and it was at once like a fight just about to begin and like sex just barely restrained, and also like nothing else but dancing.
Though they clearly hadn’t had any time to practice—Ashley hadn’t even known Vega was going to suggest it, after all—they moved in sync, and it took Garrus a few moments before his sharp eyes detected the silent communication passing between them, the way Vega was speaking with his hands and his feet to direct Ashley without words. Even their breathing had fallen into a rhythm as they moved eye to eye, hand to hand, step to step.
They danced like that for a couple of minutes, and then Ashley said, “Not bad, Vega, but can you follow?”
“Uh,” Vega said, and without waiting for any more of an answer, Ashley shifted the position of her hands and Garrus could tell that she was one doing the silent directing.
Vega stumbled but recovered admirably well; they continued, boots loud on the cargo bay floor, accompanied by the thin strains of tango music on Tali’s omnitool. A few minutes more and as if by mutual accord they switched back, Vega leading, Ashley following, to a finale where Ashley bent backwards—backwards—backwards so far that her loose hair brushed the floor, so far that Garrus wondered at the flexibility of the human spine and thought vaguely that the space between their locked gazes was about to burst into flame.
Then Ashley straightened up with a gust of laughter that broke the mood. Tali and Cortez applauded.
Vega was giving her a look of mild consternation. “You can dance ‘a little,’ my ass. Where’d you learn to tango like that, Williams?”
Ashley gave him her smug smirk. “I think I deserve to have a few secrets, Mister Vega.”
Vega’s look had turned intrigued indeed, and he clearly had to drag his gaze away from Ashley to say, “So, Garrus, think Shepard would like something like that?”
Garrus hesitated, but Tali didn’t hesitate even a second. “She’d love it. Garrus, do it.”
“You going to teach me, Vega?” Garrus asked.
“Hell yeah,” Vega said. “Maybe with a little help.”
At first, with some coaching from Vega—and feeling like a mighty fool—Garrus practiced his footwork in the empty cargo bay. (Tali and Ashley had wanted to help, but Vega said that Garrus didn’t need an audience for his first stumblings, which meant that there was no one there but Cortez—who had a good reason to be there, and was good at not looking too unnecessarily amused—and Vega, who was doing the coaching. Also the ridiculous robot dog thing, but Garrus was pretty sure it didn’t have mockery in its programming.) There was so much to remember: how to hold himself, where to put his feet, how to step, how to move. Twice he considered giving up, and it was only Vega saying ‘Anybody who can master hand to hand combat has plenty of dexterity for this’ that stopped him.
Well, that and the memory of the way Vega and Ashley had looked, dancing: light and yet utterly grounded, and as if there was nothing else in the world just then but the dance. And they weren’t even lovers. It was hard not to imagine what Shepard would look like, like that….
Soon enough Ashley joined in as his partner, and Tali came with her; Tali spent her time sitting on the workbench, tinkering with Chatika and acting as cheering section, and to her credit she really was a cheering section, with no jokes at all. They needled each other all the time, but Tali could clearly tell when something was actually important.
“Sorry if I step on your feet,” he said as the music cued up, the first time he danced with Ashley. He hoped she didn’t know enough to be able to read the blush spreading across the thin skin of his neck. Settling his hand on her back seemed downright bizarre.
“Doesn’t matter if you do,” Ashley said, “everyone’s clumsy at first.”
And sure enough she was patient, the same way he’d seen her be patient with terrified young soldiers on their first serious deployment, the same way he’d seen her be patient with the grieving in the refugee camps. Just like Tali knew when to joke and when not to, maybe Ashley knew when you needed a kick in the ass and when you needed a pat on the shoulder.
He did step on her feet, more than once. Vega directed them, made suggestions, stopped them to correct Garrus’ posture or the placement of his hands or feet. He was a good teacher too—a great one, actually, thoughtful and focused, capable of quickly seeing how Garrus was going wrong and how to fix it; and in an odd way, Garrus was beginning to see why Shepard was so thoroughly confident that Vega would do well in N7.
Funny how something as silly—as trivial—as this brought out such different sides of all of them.
Occasionally they would stop and Vega and Ashley would demonstrate some step or show him how to fix something he was doing wrong, and his brief spike of despair (he was never going to look that fluid, that natural, that confident on the dance floor) was lost in admiration for their dancing, the way that slinky grace alternated with movements as staccato and decisive as the crack of a rifle. It was a dance that looked both sleek and abrupt, subtle and assertive, sexy and dangerous.
Perfect for Shepard.
After a bit, Ashley said, “Okay, as much as I’d rather do this, I have some work to catch up on,” and stepped back. She shot a glance over her shoulder at Vega, mouth tilting up at one side with amusement. “Why don’t you take over, Vega?”
“Uh,” Vega said, and then, “…sure, why not, I’m game.”
Vega wasn’t as practiced at following as Ashley, which left Garrus in the position of feeling as though he’d suddenly got much worse. He hadn’t quite realized how much Ashley’s skill at following was compensating for his own deficiencies at leading.
But it wasn’t so bad, because after a minute, Vega started to laugh. “Shit,” he said, “this is a lot harder than it looks.”
Ashley glanced up from her omnitool. “You know what they say about Ginger Rogers, doing everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in heels?”
“Who?” Garrus asked.
“Very famous ballroom dancer. I’ll show you later,” Ashley promised, returning to her work. “But first we need to find Vega some high heels.”
Shepard rubbed the nape of her neck in the elevator up to her cabin, willing the headache back. Part of it was exhaustion, part of it was frustration, and part of it was just the damn chairs she’d been sitting on all evening. She’d been talking to the leaders of an asari colony to help with an evac plan, and for all the humans were liable to think of asari as ‘blue women,’ they weren’t. They had a different musculature. Sit in an asari chair for too long and your head started to throb.
She made a mental note to get another batch of pain relievers from Chakwas. She didn’t want to rely on sleep aids too much—they made her groggy—but something to help with these persistent muscle-tension headaches, at least….
It was a relief and a delight when the door to her cabin opened not to the smell of stale air and dust but to the delicious aroma of food. Vat meat, probably, but she didn’t even care because the only thing more pressing than the growl of her stomach was the exhaustion in her limbs. Food already ready was a goddamn miracle, no matter how artificial.
And yes, there was Garrus, sitting in her chair next to two trays of food.
“Garrus, you’re a saint,” she said, pulling up another chair. “I am starving.” She gave the two trays a cursory glance and then pulled the levo meal toward her. (It was easy enough to tell her levo meal, in shades of reddish-brown, taupe, and green, from Garrus’ dextro meal, in shades of gray, blue, and purplish-pink. She had a great deal of fondness for her dextro companions, and absolutely no desire to taste their distinctly unappetizingly-colored foodstuffs.) She had one bite of the piping-hot vat-pot-roast already swallowed before she thought to say, “How do you always know when I’m going to be in so the food stays hot?”
Garrus grinned, mandibles widening as he took his own bite of blue something. “Cortez lets us know when he’s leaving with the shuttle to pick you up, then Joker fills us in on when the pickup is. Traynor lets us know when you’re coming out of the meeting room after you’ve filled Hackett in. That gives just enough warning to get your food picked out and heated and up to the cabin. I usually do the actual heating up, but if I’m busy or you’ve taken me with you it’s Chakwas or Tali who does the honors.”
Shepard stared at him, her fifth bite of pot roast hovering halfway to her mouth. “You all really don’t need to do that for me, really. I can wait. Or eat it lukewarm.” Although that was hard to say with a plate of hot, freshly-made (well, freshly-reheated) pot roast, mashed potatoes, and mixed vegetables in front of her.
Garrus’ mandibles pulled in. “We don’t mind,” he said. “Really. Think of it as a… benevolent conspiracy.”
“But—”
“It’s nice to be able to do something for you.” Garrus dragged his eating utensil—a turian implement, something like a cross between a single chopstick and a tiny spear, used to hook food and bring it to his mouth—against the plate, sopping up some of the whatever-sauce that doused his pink-whatever. “I mean, I think so particularly, but I’m not the only one.”
“Well,” Shepard said, and then lapsed into hesitant silence. “Thank you.”
Once she finished eating, there were messages to answer, tactical summaries to read—bad news, bad news, one piece of bad news after another—after which Garrus offered to give her a back rub to help ease her growing headache.
She stripped down and stretched out on the bed, letting him get to work. His touch was utterly wonderful. Between the suede texture of the skin on his hands and his three-fingered grip it felt nothing like being massaged by a human, but by now he knew—from experience rather than instinct—where to dig in to work the tension out of her strained muscles, where to ghost over the sensitive patches where she’d been injured, what kind of pressure she liked, what kind she didn’t. She lost track of time utterly, for the first time in days, until all she could feel was a deep relaxing warmth throughout her back and shoulders and an intense sleepiness more powerful even than the artificial sleep brought on by Chakwas’ tranquilizers.
“Thanks,” she managed, her voice heavy with weariness, when Garrus finally stopped. Through her exhaustion she felt a stab of guilt that she’d come in, devoured the meal he’d brought her, worked, and then fallen asleep under his hands.
But he nuzzled the back of her neck affectionately, and she knew from the tenor of the rumble in his chest that it was without any resentment at all; her hair caught briefly on one of his mandibles. “Sleep well, Shepard,” he said, and she was barely even awake enough to be aware of it when he drew the blankets up over her.