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“Shepard, I, uh, aaah--”
He's on her bed, legs spread wide apart, just a little uncomfortably so to accommodate her, kneeling in between. Her mouth is wrapped around him in a way he could never have imagined before insterspecies awkwardness and damn, it's dirty and beautiful and he could never go back now, is so fucking grateful that for all his initial misgivings he didn't back down because this, this is sublime.
This is not quite new and not quite familiar for them. There had been that first time, just before the Omega Relay and less than a handful of other times before she had turned herself in. That was months ago and they were over almost before they'd started. Then he had heard the Reapers hit Earth and he didn't know if--
His hands find her hair, and he strokes as gently can. But she did. She did make it out alive, alive and kicking. She's here and she's safe and if the galaxy ever had a chance she's it. She seems to hum around him and it's all he can do to stop himself bucking under her. His spurs dig uncomfortably into the mattress as he forces his hips still. He pants with the effort.
“All right there big guy?”
She's poised above him, lips glistening and the light of mischief dancing in her eyes, so rare these days.
“I think,” he rasps out, still pretending at cool “that you're trying to kill me.”
“Better than death by Reapers,” she says and his own answering chuckle turns to a two-toned gasp as her hot mouth is on him once more. His fingers are kneading the sheets, and his mind is drifting despite himself.
Kill him? Really, if it weren't for her, he would have gotten himself killed long ago. On the streets of Omega or his heart swallowed up with revenge later on. Because this is them and this is what they do: he, the maverick, goes too far and she, a burning seraph pulls him from the brink back into her orbit, only to push him out again in her likeness, better and brighter than he could ever be alone. The one thing right in his whole stupid life, and her scars and the occasional bad call and horrendous dancing aside, in his eyes no one can touch her. Can't even come close.
“Shepard, I--”
“Close?”
She sucks in earnest now and he can't help himself. He's weak-kneed and trembling all over. He's clawing desperately at her hair, face, neck whatever he can get his hands on.
“I love you.”
And he's spilling into her. His heart his beating like a drum and his blood is boiling. He can hear his own breaths rattling in his ears. She's wiping her mouth and now sidling up next to him. He settles his arms around her and pulls her flush against him, relishing the feel of her skin. He inhales her scent, utterly content.
“That was--” he begins but something in her face stops him. She's looking hard at him and damn it, for being so expressive human faces are inscrutable sometimes.
What is it? What did he--
Oh.
Spirits no.
“That's, uh, that's not what I meant to say.”
Damn it, if she were Turian and they had a common tongue he could think of a half-dozen words that rhyme with that but he has no idea what will even come close in her language. He's extracting himself from her arms, panic rising up his throat. “I love, uh, I love--”
His eyes settle on the blue of the fishtank across the room. I love your sunfish?
“I--” And he's pretty sure she's onto him. He shakes his head. “I'm sorry, it just came out of nowhere. I know this is. I mean. I understand if you--” He's inching for the side of the bed, instincts all clamouring for full retreat. His eyes rove the ground. His pants, they have abandoned him! Where are his damn pants?
And when did he become such a damn coward?
Sighing, he turns to look back at her. She's still got her gaze trained on him, wholly unreadable and covered in shadow.
“Look. Shepard. I know we're just blowing off steam here, I don't. I didn't mean to--”
The one thing is his damn life going right, and he's gone and fucked it up. What can he say? He's swung his feet for the floor and he's about to get up and pace when he feels her hand on his back.
“Did you mean that?”
He finds her eyes then. She's looking at him, somehow calculating and radiant all at the same time. And she's perfect. Like he's shouted after her when her shot finds home in shot the heat of battle a hundred times before. Now every word and touch from her is a bullet that has found a home in him.
Perfect.
There's no way he can lie to himself about this any longer. He shutters his eyes.
“Yes.”
Seconds and no words come. He swallows. He's about to steal a glance at her when, to his great surprise, he hears her quiet laugh. When he risks a look she is as brilliant and unburdened as he's ever seen her.
“Damn it Vakarian, I'm glad at least one of us has balls.”
There are at least seven different things he could say to that, but now's not the time. “What--?”
Her hand finds his, and she squeezes. “I love you too. I've been wanting to tell you since I first saw you on Menae, but I didn't want to pressure you. You damn idiot. We're both damned idiots.”
He is too incredulous to speak or even to be happy at first. He pulls her to him, a little too tight, and buries his head in her hair.
“Hey,” she murmurs. “Hey, it's ok, it's--”
“Did you really have to leave me hanging like that?”
“Naturally.”
“I hate you.”
At that she barks out a laugh. “No you don't. You love me.”
“Oh for--” he flips her on to her back. He's growling but can't quite contain the smile quirking at his mandibles. He rubs his nose against hers. She's smiling back at him, and his heart is tripping over itself all over again, unable to believe his great fortune. That that smile is for him. She is perfect, and she is his. She reaches up and presses a gentle kiss to his right mandible.
“Don't know what I'd do without you,” she says.
He understands perfectly.