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[firesongbard]

Our Better Angels

Read the rest on AO3

S H E P A R D

Shepard had flagged the email without even reading it as “to review”. With the number of messages appearing in her inbox, she suspected Anderson had notified the whole galaxy that she was on shore leave when he gave her the apartment.

In the last few days, the oversized space had been many things. A theater, a gym, a sports bar, a spa…

All of that was better than what it was now. Empty. Quiet.

It was her own fault. She’d wanted the time to catch up, sneak a look at the troop movements her crew kept deliberately hiding from her. The last time she’d gotten some honest work time in was when Liara visited. Two whole hours of quiet, uninterrupted work before Kaidan came in with beer and groceries and the idea in his head that no one should be thinking about war on shore leave.

She and Liara had shared precisely the same thoughts on that.

If you stop, they win. There’s no time for rest.

She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. There was more to being prepared than troop movements and an endless scrolling of death tolls. She tapped on the message marked simply as “Memorial Service” and let it display on the terminal.

Publicity stunt. Of course.

She quickly composed a reply before she could think too long on who the memorial was for, or who the request had come from. Anderson’s—Her apartment was perfect for the event, and would encourage an intimate setting. Nothing heavily publicized, room for loved ones and the Council. She’d have control to leverage against any ridiculous posthumous medals of honor, if hanar were even prone to such things.

The Council was also interested in it being a small affair, it seemed. Same-day scheduling was uncommon.

Councilor Valern was more than happy to handle the ‘arrangements’. Probably flowers, some overblown portrait on an easel. All for the best. For all the death she’d witnessed, Shepard didn’t actually have that much experience with funerals.

No time to grieve. Too many millions dying.

She rooted around in one of Anderson’s drawers, clinically judging each item before setting it aside. Old data drives, collapsed datapads, expensive stationery, and a real pen—she’d bought that for him. Old fashioned as he was, it was the only thing she could think of to get him. And the old sap kept it.

Must have been ten years ago, now.

She finally laid hands on the much more practical stylus he’d taken to using on away missions. Maybe she shared a few old-fashioned tendencies herself.

——

Though his life took him to very dark places, Thane cared for the better angels of our nature. Even when he was terminally ill, Thane ran through war-torn streets to reach me because he knew I needed help. An Assassin A professionally trained killer He gave his life for the galaxy And now, he can rest.

Shepard swiped the datapad to a clean slate, before dropping the pad and pen, and resting her head in her hands.

Guide this one to where the traveler never tires, the lover never leaves, the hungry never starve.

“Prayers for the wicked must not be forsaken, huh?” The ceiling was far too high above her, arced in some Asari-centric principle of architecture to the wall of windows looking out upon the Silversun Strip. Shaking the ghost of a memory from her mind, she picked up the stylus and pad, and tried again.

This was about a man. Not some propaganda hero.

He once said that he first felt love for his wife when she stepped in front of an assassin to save someone she didn’t even know. Sunset colored eyes defiant in the scope And when he knew his death was close, he chose to die doing nearly the same thing. Just as he loved his wife for it, I still The measure of an individual can be difficult to determine by actions alone. He understood the universe was a dark place, and loved the light all the more for it. We cannot thank Thane We can remember how he lived

She swiped the datapad clean again. Something tinked against the window and she looked up to see the stylus had flown out of her grasp with the gesture.

“Hey Shepard, I got your message. Do you need help—” Garrus paused at the doorway, giving her a brief appraisal before sweeping his gaze around the apartment.

She set down the datapad and stood, only now realizing how stiff her muscles had gotten from staying curled up in the chair for so long.

“No, Councilor Valern is supposed to handle all the setup. I think I’ve got time to take a shower and change before anyone else shows up.”

“Ah yes, because you wouldn’t want the Council to see you in your bridge uniform. You need your combat uniform for that.”

She tossed him a careless smile before crouching to grab the flight-prone stylus. “At least I have more than one uniform. You won’t have time to buff out the scratches from your favorite armor before the service. Might have to pull your Archangel gear out of—”

Her breath hitched when she felt hands settle on her hips from behind, gently lifting her out of her half-squat by the window. She hadn’t noticed when Garrus closed the distance.

“You’re going to go up there, take a shower, and put on that dress uniform with all the damn buttons.” He spoke low and quiet in her ear, bending down until his mandible fluttered against her cheek. “Then you’re going to come down here and give us all a rousing speech, like you always do.”

She turned to face him, carefully setting the distance so she wouldn’t be tempted to bury her face in his neck. “I don’t know how to talk about him without making him sound like… like some shadowy, brooding action hero knockoff, or a torrid love affair.”

“Hey now, I thought I cornered the market on brooding action heroes. And I’m not sure that second part translated properly, because I definitely cornered the market on passionate love. Learned to dance and everything.”

Shepard let out a bitter huff of a laugh, and squeezed her eyes shut. “ I—I’m no good at funerals, Garrus.”

Garrus lifted one hand off her hip and brushed a thumb across her cheek. His scarred mandible flared away from his face and twitched in concern, but he did not draw attention to the tears.

“Then, as the resident expert on Spirits, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Funerals aren’t for the dead. They’re for those left behind.” He let his fingers hang on Shepard’s hip even as he pulled away, giving her an unspoken choice to leave or call him back. “You don’t have to try to preserve a whole person in a 3-minute speech. Just talk about what he left you with.”

She thought of Irikah—sunset-colored eyes defiant in the scope. Such a vivid person, the memories welled to the surface unbidden. A warrior angel, fierce in wrath. A tenacious protector…

Shepard had also found something while staring down a sniper.

When the soul is weakened by despair or fear, when the body is ill or injured, the individual is disconnected—no longer whole.

“He gave me You.”

She hadn’t meant to say it.

Garrus hovered his hand by her, his eyes flicking side to side as he looked into each of hers, taking in her whole face and expression as she desperately tried to hold it stoic.

“…I guess he did, didn’t he?”

Shepard broke eye contact and made her way up the stairs.

“If someone shows up with flowers, just have them set up by the piano. I’ll be down in 10.”

[firesongbard]

Unlikely Heroes

A scene from my Post-Control long fic. Read more on AO3

V E R N E R

Getting to medical was a good idea.

Even though Commander Shepard had stopped the war, Cerberus was still in the Citadel. There were firefights. There would be bullet wounds. There would be a lack of medi-gel.

Man, Medi-gel was such a wonderful thing. Imagine if each wound needed a different style of treatment, and each alien had their own antiseptic ointment, and each had to be prepped and sutured and wrapped differently—

That would be so inconvenient.

Conrad had a good team with him. Detective Chellick was stern but a seasoned officer. Jenna had learned a lot about guns from him and was great with an omni-tool. And Felicia Hannigan (if that was her real name) had the look of a super cool spy about her. He was sure she had at least one secret identity. She seemed to know more people than she let on, even if she screamed a little when the keepers dragged bodies through the service corridors.

In her defense, it was a little unsettling.

And Conrad? Conrad knew Commander Shepard. She had given him advice on so many occasions, and showed him all the things he had done wrong, so now he was ready to do things the right way. He would help with all the skills he had. And sure, his skills might not be guns or firefights or super-secret infiltration. But he had heart. He had courage. And he believed in Commander Shepard.

So, when no one could decide where to go after Cerberus flooded the presidium, Conrad knew Huerta Memorial was the right choice.

Jenna knew all the side tunnels. She had maps of the keeper pathways, and it let them move through the Citadel undetected. She and Chellick moved the last panel out of the way, and their tiny team of heroes at last entered the hospital. They had gathered about 50 refugees and safely escorted them, though there were many more that had taken their chances at the docking bay. Hopefully, Shepard would find them when she was finished with the Reapers.

Chellick almost immediately went to the nearest doctor. Smart thinking, talking to doctors. The detective would get lots of information there. But Conrad wanted to see who else had thought of going to the hospital for supplies. He wandered away from his strike team—oh man, that felt so cool! He was on a strike team!—and found a very well-dressed asari staring out the window.

He had an excellent command of asari languages. Most of his doctoral thesis had used the ancient matriarch works as primary sources, and he always jumped at a chance to practice his High Thessian accent.

“In starry skies between the clouds, adventure calls my name. But soon, I reach the apex and seek the ground again.” He settled next to her, looking out the window. He hoped she recognized the quote.

“It’s rare to find a human who reads Dilinaga’s works.” She didn’t smile so much as let the frown leave her face for a moment. “Do you know the meaning of the words, or do you speak sweet syllables on a gentle breeze as a ploy to curry favor?”

“Oh, I meant no offense! I only thought the view was appropriate. I have seen the stars and all their gifts and set foot on solid ground again, but now I know the wisdom of things close and afar and carry the burden of speaking to those who must experience it for themselves.” He hoped he had gotten the last part right. Matriarchal idioms were challenging to translate, and it might come across as rude if he’d flipped the words.

Oh, he really hoped he hadn’t told this nice asari that a crowd of people should sit on his face. You only make that mistake twice.

But the asari did not throw him across the room with her biotics, so he couldn’t have messed up that badly. Or she was just really, really nice.

“You… don’t know who I am, do you, human?”

“Conrad Verner!” He offered his hand to her in—a very human gesture. On no! What was the proper asari greeting again? It depended on age difference, but humans were short-lived so maybe adjusting for lifespan, carry the one—

“Tevos Araeus” she took his hand, familiar with the greeting. “Councilor Tevos.”

Councilor.

Oh.

Oh!

“My sincerest apologies. Your work must call to you, and I did not mean to intervene. I—” Conrad switched to letting the translator do the work for him. “I just thought you looked lonely and thought you could use a friend.”

Tevos smiled at him. “I could, indeed. You are perceptive.” She sighed. “You brought the refugees here? From the docks? That must have been a long walk without transit or elevators.”

“Yes! My strike team led this group here. We’re short on rations, though. We started hiding when the Citadel first moved, so it’s been a few days now.” His stomach grumbled to punctuate his sentence, and he felt heat rise to his face. “But I thought medicine was more important than food.”

“You are the only people to come through here that I’ve seen.” She turned away from the window to survey the refugees now flooding the waiting area. “Other than myself, the other councilors, and our escorts.”

“Are the other councilors here too? Are they safe?” Conrad had a sudden sinking feeling for why he had only met one councilor. They always traveled as a set.

“Valern is still in surgery. Sparatus is recovering. I suspect we will need to stay here until it is safe to move.”

“We can help.” He waved at Jenna, who came to join him. “We can do supply runs and get the word out to other refugees. We can send scouts to watch for Cerberus and keep you safe, Councilor Tevos.”

Jenna knew who he was standing next to, and she spoke in a hushed whisper to him, “You know the Councilor too?”

“I do now!” He flashed a smile that he hoped was charming and heroic. “And we’re going to be her guard until the rest of the councilors are all healed up.” He bobbed his head in a mild show of deference—adjusting for life expectancy that should be the right amount—and extracted himself gracefully from the conversation. “Thank you, Councilor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go.”

Conrad wasn’t a Spectre. He wasn’t a soldier. But he could still do some good.

So until Commander Shepard came back from fighting Reapers, he would protect the Council. He and his strike team of heroes.

[firesongbard]

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Read it on AO3

December 25, 2178 — Ashley

“Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow:”

Ashley watched the vid again, reconstituted cocoa cold in her hands. Her bunk was decorated in cheap colored lights and a few sticks that promised to smell like pine (if you pinched your nose and breathed through your mouth, maybe). It broke at least 12 regulations, but no one had come to reprimand her yet. Not with her eyes red and puffy. Not after she threw her boot at Whithouse when she asked her if Ash wanted to go get a drink.

Her father had a damn poem for everything.

“The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.”

It wasn’t her first Christmas away from home. She’d missed out her first year of boot. But they pretended it was Christmas again when she came home on leave. The whole family kept the tree up into April just so she could see it.

But it was the first one without her father.

She re-started the video again to see him smile, tell her he was proud, and recite the history and importance of the Tennyson poem he was going to read her tonight.

September 29, 2183 — Shepard

“Hey Skipper, you gonna let us decorate the Normandy for Christmas?”

“I don’t think—Wait. Ash, it’s not even October yet.”

“Never too early to ring in some joy, Shep.”

Ashley had cornered her leaving the Med Bay. She had just managed to talk her way out of another full brain scan with Chakwas, and was fleeing the xenoromantic tension that flooded every conversation with Dr. T’soni. Shepard had no way out.

And Ash knew it.

“I don’t think it’d go over well with the crew.”

“Come on, who doesn’t love Christmas, Shep? Don’t tell me you’re a Scrooge!”

“The Krogan might not get the whole ‘give unto others’ bit, unless you want a severed head under the tree. The Quarian probably has her own holiday. And the Turian might take a little offense if we’re celebrating ‘love to all man’. Plus I think Adams is Jewish.”

“And the Asari will probably find it a fascinating example of human culture to study and catalog.” Ash threw her hands up in mock frustration. She smiled like she knew she had already won. “And who doesn’t love a party? I’ll be sure to get plenty of that Turian brandy shit along with the Champagne.”

“….You want a budget.”

“Can’t have a proper party without refreshments!”

“….Talk to requisitions. Then gear up, would you? Hackett has us investigating some Geth activity out in the Skyllian Verge.”

December 25, 2183 — Shepard

It was the kind of party Ashley would have liked.

Everyone who’d helped stop Saren had piled into the Normandy. Joker set up a bar in the cockpit—which must have broken at least 12 regulations—and was playing bartender. Udina had made an appearance and excused himself early. His schedule indicated he had at least 8 more of these parties to visit. But Anderson had stuck around.

They swapped stories, an insane game of oneupmanship where Shepard didn’t even have to embellish how crazy their last few months had been.

Eventually, as all parties go, someone clamored for the host to make a speech. Shepard hated being the focal point. It was so performative, and fake. But she tossed some words together in her brain that would feel uplifting, and honor the dead.

When you go into war, end with a call to action. When you leave it, end with humor.

“And for those who helped us get here, may their spirits haunt the shit out of us so we don’t fuck up again.”

“That is not how that toast goes.”

“You’re a terrible Turian. I’m gonna have to consult an expert before I believe you.”

Laugher rippled through the crowd, and they drank and told tall tales and made impossible promises to meet again.

At least no one sang. She wasn’t sure she could take that.

In the quiet of the afterparty, Shepard retreated to the observation deck. Wrapped in the cool quiet of the stars, she pulled a book off the shelf. Real, honest to god paper with glue binding, worn with dog-eared pages. She flipped through the collected works of Tennyson to the page Ashley had bookmarked while they were planning the party.

Did she know, then, that she wouldn’t be here for it?

And then she read a poem to the stars.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

December 25, 2184 — Garrus

Sidonis slid into the bar stool next to Garrus. The private room of Afterlife was almost never this quiet, but someone had managed to call in a favor with Aria and clear the space. No chance of gang presence meant Sidonis had dragged Archangel’s ass out of his watchtower and sat him down for a drink.

Joy.

“Come on, at least toss one back with Weaver. They’re over there tellin’ stories about some big human holiday today, and how they always shared a drink with Family.”

Garrus snorted. “Weaver’s never said a true thing about their past. I bet the holiday is bullshit, too. An excuse to get me to authorize an open bar.”

Sidonis relaxed on one arm, swirling his amber drink. It smelled warm and spiced. “Butler confirmed it. Some kind of Birthday. Translator’s having a field day with it.”

“I don’t buy it. Hey, Montaegue!” he called over the former alliance soldier. She, in turn, told him to fuck off and went back to a spirited argument with Krul that was likely to end in an arm wrestle. Damn few humans were stupid enough to arm wrestle a Krogan.

He liked her.

Sidonis winced. He, on the other hand, did not like when anyone riled up Krul. It usually ended in property damage. “That’s as close to celebratory as you ever see her.”

Garrus sighed in defeat, and held out a hand. Sidonis slid the drink over to him, and ordered another for himself.

“If you’re gonna sit there and talk my ear off all night, I’ll have a drink to shut you up.” They both laughed, and the sound felt good. The team felt good.

As sad and bitter as he had been when he left C-sec, he had found something like a family here. Something warm in a galaxy full of death and shit. Human holiday or not, it was a good excuse to put aside the darkness of reality, and revel in the warmth of friendship.

And maybe Melenis… if they’d both had enough to drink…

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes But ring the fuller minstrel in.

December 25, 2185 — Kaidan

One of the perks of being a Major, Kaidan didn’t have to fight to get shore leave on Christmas. Not that he was terribly religious, but it was tradition. It was family. It was an excuse for everyone to sit down, shut up, and remember what they were all fighting for.

He broke tradition to take over the cooking this year. His mom threw her back out trying to get the lights up outside and he had to practically tie her to the couch to get her to stop running around and lifting things. He sipped at his beer and traded work gossip with his dad while tending to four pots at a time on the stove. One of his mom’s friends commented what a good boy he was, and he played into it by putting on a frilly yellow apron that proudly proclaimed “Best Mom”.

Someone told him it was good he wasn’t so full of pride he couldn’t make fun of himself.

Guess Kaidan was better at acting than he thought.

Late in the evening, he got a message alert from an unknown sender. He excused himself to stand in the chilly night air to read.

Happy Christmas. I think you said you celebrated. Couldn’t think of what to get you, so I figured I’d just say: I’m alive. Did what we had to do. I’m still working out with the Alliance when I can come home but, well, maybe we could get a drink. -Shepard

God Damnit.

He hadn’t been wrong for leaving her on Horizon. It was the right call. She was in over her head, and someone had to try to talk some sense into her. But why did it always feel like she knew more of the big picture? How was she always right in the end, even when she was so clearly wrong in the moment?

The wind picked up and chilled through his skin. His bones ached, and he realized he’d been standing outside far longer than a few minutes to catch up on messages.

He went in to get a mug of uzvar and warm up. What the hell was Christmas for if not new beginnings? Once the liquor raised his temperature and his courage, he fired off a reply.

Alright. But you’re buying. -Kaidan

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

December 25, 2186 — Shepard

“Hey”

Shepard didn’t turn from her vigil of the stars at the voice. She couldn’t quite pull her mind back from circling around all her failures, all the losses, all the dead she had abandoned…

“Hey Yourself.”

Garrus slipped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressed in the way they had discovered fit best without forcing her to turn from her thoughts. “Did you need to be alone?”

They can’t know the weight of it. If they see the cracks, we lose.

“No, no. It’s fine.” Her voice was thin and broke with the half-whisper of it. Going on three months now, how many had died? How many had she abandoned, running around the galaxy like a kid on her first away mission?

“I got you something.” She felt the thick fingers leave her waist, and heard rustling behind her.

“And it’s not even my birthday.”

“No,” His voice beckoned her, and she turned away from the pull of the void of space. “But I hear it’s someone’s birthday. Read up on it, sounds like a damned confusing holiday. But I like the drinking part.” He held out a small, velvet box, and Shepard’s heart dropped.

A fucking proposal? Now? In the middle of their flight to Horizon? Stars, at least he wasn’t down on one knee.

“That better be one hell of a strong drink, if it fits in that little box.”

He laughed. She didn’t detect nerves in his voice, none of the usual deflection in his humor. Maybe it wasn’t a proposal. She relaxed a little, and took the box to examine it.

“I liked the gift giving part too. Though I have to say, you’re a hard woman to shop for.”

She opened the box and saw an old, black metal ring, sized far too large for any of her fingers. It wasn’t shiny or flashy. In fact, it looked old. Fragile. “Okay, instead of making an ass out of myself, how about you just tell me what this is?”

“It’s a… I guess you could call it a Peace Ring. This one dates back to the Unification Wars. It’s ah…” He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. She smiled at the gesture. It made him look soft and young, when he was nervous. “They’re made with the remains of the dead on both sides of a battle. They’re exchanged by Generals at the end of a war to symbolize the cost of peace.”

“I’m holding Turian corpses?”

“Two-thousand year old Turian corpses,” Garrus corrected.

Shepard stalled out on what to ask. General? Peace? Marriage? Theft? She settled on: “Shit, Garrus, doesn’t this belong in a museum?”

“It’s been in my family a very long time.” He shrugged. “And it wasn’t a very important war. Just some local skirmish that eventually lead to Cipritine. I won’t bore you with the details.” He widened his mandibles in an expression that told her exactly how excited he was to bore her with those details, given the invitation.

He won. She laughed. “Alright, I get it. You’re a history nerd too. But why give this to me? It has to be important to your family.”

“I’m not an idiot Shepard. I know what our odds look like. There’s a chance we might not make it to see a happy ending. And I don’t want to make you think about futures when… well.”

“Thank you.” She lifted onto her toes and gave him a very gentle kiss on his scarred mandible. “I love you, too.”

“Remember that, no matter what we’ve lost, someone’s going to be there at the end to forge that Peace Ring.”

He wrapped his arms around her, and exhaled into her hair, holding her in the quiet starlight.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 106

[firesongbard]

The First Death

A scene from my Post-Control long fic. Read more on AO3

S H E P A R D

She used to come look at the stars when she was restless. She’d watch the endless field of lights and pretend they enveloped her, cradling her like some lost explorer destined for new frontiers.

She tumbled in the motes of light, fighting back the panic of the suit rupture, fighting the darkness tinging the edges of her vision. She had never been a romantic, like her father. She took after her mother, as much as she wished…

A melancholic song of worlds and innocence lost flooded her mind, and she tried not to fall into the agony of that which might have been.

The remnants of the Normandy burned around her. She had gotten them all out, as many as she could. She had saved more than she could have on Mindoir, held the line as she had on Elysium.

It didn’t feel like enough.

It wasn’t enough on Eden Prime, on Noveria, on Virmire. It wouldn’t be enough when the Reapers made good on their threat.

Her back arched, and pain gripped her burning lungs. The stars enveloped her, stole her warmth, and robbed her of her thoughts.

Hey Skipper. You’re losing it. Just try to relax.

She had failed. There was too much left to do, and no one would listen to her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. How could she make them listen if she couldn’t speak?

Sometimes, you’ve just gotta have a little faith, Commander. How can you look out the window at this galaxy and not believe in something?

Space was so cold, so dark, and so quiet. Her pulse thrummed in her ears as she gasped for breath. But the panic was overtaken by a cool rush of clarity. The stars before her winked out. The thrumming ceased. Her last breath sighed out with the ghost of a woman who should have lived offering Hope.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset, and the baths of all the western stars, until I die.

She had always loved the Stars.

[firesongbard]

Frequency

A short snippet from my Post-Control long fic. Read more on AO3

T R A Y N O R

The CIC was now much quieter than it had been an hour ago. Most of the crew had returned to their typical postings, systematically working through every piece of technology on the Normandy and turning it off and on again. Oh, the trials and tribulations of advanced technology.

But currently, Samantha was trying to fix the much more difficult problem of re-seating mechanical interfaces that had been jostled by their crash landing, and Joker was ‘helping’. She launched into another pointless argument with him.

“I’ll tell you, if there had been any blunt trauma—well, more blunt trauma than landing belly-first on an unknown planet—”

“Let’s see how graceful you are wresting control of a failed jump and landing on the only garden planet within several lightyears.” Joker sat at one of the empty control stations, observing and offering commentary. “Oh, without Nav systems.”

“Fine.” She indulged him. She enjoyed the company, and it kept both of their minds off the unnervingly still form of EDI in the cockpit. “If there had been any more blunt trauma than an elegant and graceful belly flop into a jungle, we would have knocked the QEC loose. You think hitting the target the size of a pinhead halfway across the galaxy is good Flight Lieutenant? Try finding a single quantum particle in the wreckage of the CIC.” She felt the delicate pin structure lock back into place and breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to cannibalize another part from the Captain’s terminal to get the communications systems back online.

“Well, I’m sure you—hey, wait a minute. Where did you hear that story? Man, that was from the good ol’days when Anderson was still in charge.” He grinned wide. “You some kind of secret super-spy, Traynor? With your magic toothbrush multi-tool?”

Sam extracted her shoulder from its wedged-in position in the console and stood up, dusting her hands off win victory. “I do have the class for that sort of position. But if I told you, I would have to kill you, wouldn’t I?” She gave him a wide smile, and his facade of mirth faltered.

She realized too late they had both thought of the same thing, and it was too painful to quote EDI’s oft-repeated mantra when neither of them had had time to try to reset her. If she could be reset.

The elevator doors opened with a swish that cut the dampened mood, and Garrus and Liara exited. Together. Together? Was that unusual? That was unusual, wasn’t it?

“Traynor, any progress?” he asked, parting ways with the Asari information broker like part of an elegant dance. Sam shook her head of the thought.

“Garrus, I’m a very good communications officer. Do I come into your room and tweak the power on your Thanix cannon? No, I leave that to the specialist in that field.”

Joker piped up, “Yeah, the Commander.”

“I’m sure the Commander earned the right to touch your things by being the captain of this ship but I—” she registered the quiet snuff of laughter, and the disapproving glare from Liara too late. She thought back through the conversation and the implications and, “—oh, oh no. Oh no no no that’s not what I meant. I have absolutely no interest in your… um…” She gestured vaguely at Garrus and her hand hesitated a moment too long on the lower edge of the sweep. She felt heat rise to her face.

“Are you sure?” the Turian drawled, enjoying her discomfort far too much. “I heard how into voices you are and I’ve been told mine is very—”

“Absolutely not.” She turned away, hoping that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.

“She’s right, Garrus,” Joker jibed. “You’ve got the wrong equipment. Liara is much more her speed.”

“Joker!” both she and Liara admonished in unison, causing the two men to burst into laughter.

She was saved from further embarrassment when the radio finally came to life, and a string of repeating signals came through, printing to the readout:

Run! To anyone reading this—don't trust Cerberus. They're taking people against their will! Just run—whatever you do, don't look back. RUN.

Comm Log: Svetlana Alexandrov They have us surrounded. Private security from the depot tried to help, but they got slaughtered. Someone has to know. Someone has—‚�舐óÞ¢áñ ‚�£☒舐 ðsžšåÞя© ©ðsžšåÞя????

BE CAREFUL! Nemo--if you can read this, stay away from the taxi stand. That place is crawling with Cerberus soldiers! Elly.

Resistance Radio - Arcturus First Division - Attention All Resistance Forces - Farm Raid Schedule no longer valid - Do not attempt to raid between 0200 and 0400 - Return to base for rations. Await further instructions.

Samantha looked up with a grin. Jackpot. “Joker, you aren’t going to believe where you landed us.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I know exactly where I landed us. I’m the best pilot in the Alliance after all. This was all according to my master plan.” Flight Lieutenant Moreau threw extra bluster behind his words, deepening his voice into something she was certain he thought was ‘manly’.

“Benning,” Liara breathed, reading over her shoulder. Very closely over her shoulder. Oh goodness, Samantha needed to get laid. This was not a time for distractions.

“Yes!” she pulled the word out in a long whisper. “We’re on Benning. I still have the Arcturus stream starmaps from the rendezvous plans. I can navigate.”

[firesongbard]

Entregarme

Entregarme—Surrender: To give oneself up to the leader’s lead.

Read the rest on AO3

S H E P A R D

Meet me at the bar -G

Did he know how many damned bars were on the Citadel?

Of course, he knew. They’d been to every incarnation of every single one in a bar fight, shoot-out, or covert investigation gone sideways. They’d been at every bar across half the galaxy, and that included any undiscovered systems with unknown intelligent life who had also learned the magic of fermenting sugars and slowly poisoning themselves for fun.

Who’s dumb idea was this?

Not sure I remember how to be me.

Her brain supplied the memory to the clearly rhetorical question.

The straps on her heels cut into her ankles, the black dress rode up uncomfortably high on her left leg, and the balls of her feet had started to swell because they weren’t built to stand like a damned turian. This was his dumb idea.

She made it to the Silversun Casino bar early, despite Jack’s best attempts to delay her. She hailed the bartender and ordered a double of something close to lighter fluid and a glass of something flavorful and savory.

“Biotic?” the bartender asked, passing her the two glasses.

“Something like that.” She downed the rotgut without letting it touch her tongue before picking up the glass of amber liquid to nurse. She felt the warmth bloom down her spine as the first bits of tension started to leave her body.

Maybe this wouldn’t be terrible. She’d ordered her comms off for the evening. Anything short of Harbinger docking on the Citadel could wait until after her ‘first date’. No Hackett, no interstellar summits, no pushy diplomats. Just one terribly overmakeuped woman sitting at a bar—

Waiting for one terribly dashing turian.

Garrus caught her eye and sauntered over. He’d picked a black and white outfit with a full round collar. He must have gotten padding custom-made to hide the break in his cowl. He must have passed for attractive for a turian—he turned heads as he made his way next to her at the bar. She set her drink down and tried to think what a woman in a napkin-sized black dress with raccoon makeup would say to woo a Turian with such command of the room.

“So, a turian on shore leave. You come here often?”

Yikes. Okay, roll with it. Nothing’s worse than ‘your waist is very supportive’.

He leaned in close, clearly not rolling with it. “Is this that, ah, date thing we talked about?”

She glowered. After the hell her afternoon had been preparing for this damned First Date, and he set up the invite—

“Got it. Yes—” In an instant, his whole demeanor changed. He donned his armor of confidence he reserved for interrogations—an overplayed vision of his youth in C-Sec. “Yeah, oh, I come here often. Good place to blow off steam. Scenery’s not bad either.”

He looked over his shoulder at one female Turian who was giving the two of them the once-over. Okay, so she was not getting Lucy the accountant tonight.

“Though the view in front of me is even better.”

Time to lean into her skin-tight dress and over-plumped lips. If he was going to play hardball... “Hm. That supposed to melt a girl’s heart?”

“No, but this voice is.”

Garrus leaned in, overemphasizing the low rumble in his chest as he spoke. Rogue Spectre Regalius it was then. Something just adjacent to reality was easy to be. She could play off of that. Maybe Lola would make an appearance—

“I’m Garrus Vakarian. Code name: Archangel. All around turian bad-boy and dispenser of justice in an unjust galaxy.”

Stars, he was just his melodramatic self, donning the armor in front of a stranger. She couldn’t be Commander Shepard in this getup. Not with the freshly waxed eyebrows and gelatin-plush lips that had been smothered in some cosmetic-grade medi-gel to cover her perpetually chapped lips.

The wheels ground in her brain until Garrus cleared his throat, adding almost as an afterthought, “Also, I kill reapers on the side. And you are?”

“Commander Shepard. Alliance Navy.”

The answer was unconscious. Automatic. Hell, she almost spat out her identification number like it was a damn interrogation. Maybe she could flag the bartender down for another shot of whatever she’d started with. Or four.

“Shepard, huh? I might have heard a few things about you.” Garrus pulled her back. Thank every god in existence he was as terrible at this as she was. Play defensive. Make him do the work.

“Oh? Flatter me.”

“Word is you’re smart, sexy, a wicked shot,” his voice rumbled low and quiet. Tryhard, he may be, but Vakarian did have a marvelously expressive voice. “Also, you kill Reapers on the side, too.”

She held back a laugh. That was a little funny, but she couldn’t give him the point. “Uh-huh. And do most girls fall for that?”

“Well, sure, you know. This voice and, uh... And um...”

She smiled. Stars, he was bad at this. Shepard doubted he’d ever actually picked up a woman in a bar before, despite his bluster.

“I’m running out of banter here, Shepard.”

“Make it up. Remember, we just met.” She put a gentle hand on his forearm and smiled. It was always fun when he got tangled up in his own banter. Better than tracking headshots.

“Right, yeah, I mean... Yeahhh,” he drew on the melodramatic growl again. “All the girls fall for it. Let me show you.”

Before she knew what was happening, he had grabbed her wrist and hauled her to her feet, any hope of liquid courage abandoned on the bartop. The club music had somewhere faded into something slow and seductive and teasing.

Her heels hardly made her tall enough to face the towering turian, her necklace was too wide and flat to bring the comfort of her dog tags, and she swore the black starch on her lashes had turned them into lethal weapons while simultaneously blurring the edges of her vision—and all that was still not enough to distract from her heart pounding painfully in her chest and the cold of fear tingling in her fingertips as she was sashayed across the room.

Commander Shepard could not dance.

[firesongbard]

War Paint

Some rare real-talk with Jack, just before The Tango Scene. In response to the prompt "How does Shepard relax?". I discovered the answer is NOT "get dressed up".

Read the first part on AO3.

S H E P A R D

“Alright, mission accomplished. You gonna let me get this over with now?”

“You don’t make it easy.” Jack stood back, looking at her handiwork. Shepard had been stuffed into a slim black leather dress. It was horrifyingly similar to what Kasumi had picked out for her. But she had flat out rejected the Asari floor-length disaster with waist cutouts.

The makeup made her look like she’d been in a fight. Artfully smeared black coal promised to make her eyes pop, but all Shepard saw was an under-fed raccoon that ate a tube of red paint.

“Hero of the galaxy, slain at last by the Asari behind the makeup counter.”

“Would Commander Shepard ever be caught dead wearing that much paint?”

“Ask Liara, she’d know what Dead Shepard looks like.”

“Cut the crap, and look at me.”

Shepard did as she was told, unprepared for Jack’s change in tone. Had she said something to piss her off? Touched a nerve?

“You put on a fresh face for everyone on your damn ship and when you don’t have a person to fake it for? You put on Daddy Hackett’s dress blues and pretend you’re a good little soldier.”

Okay. Definitely touched a nerve somewhere. “I didn’t mean to piss you off, Jack. I appreciate the—”

“Fuck, Shepard, I’m trying to help you. I know an invented persona when I see one.”

The black dress cut into her shoulder. It rode up on her left leg a little higher than her right. The strappy heels didn’t have enough arch support and the balls of her feet weren’t built to stand like a turian. And all of that discomfort was easier to focus on than Jack’s incredibly insistent gaze.

Fight or Flight, Shep. When the shit hits the fan, gotta pick one.

She always picked Fight.

“No, you know how to project your problems on other people instead of dealing with them. You haven’t stuck with anything long enough to understand how a person could want to fight for a cause.”

And she was a better shot than Archangel.

“Fuck you! You know what?” Jack reared back to throw a punch, her body covered in a wash of blue. Shepard had poked the bear, but she was actually looking forward to physical blows. It’d make for a good icebreaker when she was late for her date.

But the punch didn’t come.

“Twisted bitch, you did that on purpose.” Jack dropped her fist and grinned. “No, fuck you. I’m winning this fight. Mark it on my gravestone: On this day in the year 2186, Jack beat Shepard at her own fucking game.”

With nowhere to put the fight thrumming in her muscles, Shepard felt very tired.

“Damn, thought you were gonna give me a real shiner to go with my fake ones.” She resisted the urge to rub her face. She didn’t want to look like a streaky starved raccoon. “I’m sorry, Jack. That was uncalled for. I’m just nervous. I don’t do... normal.”

“That’s for fucking sure.” Jack pulled a chair up to sit in (backward, of course). “Look. You’re overthinking this. You’ve got your uniform, you’re wearing your war paint. Go in there and be somebody else for a few hours. Test it out. I don’t know what happened to make you forget who you were, and I’m not tellin’ you to go deep diving to find it. I’m not a fucking shrink.”

“Oh, really?” The sarcasm was not delicate.

“Fuck you!” Jack said it with a smile and not a snarl this time. “Go in there and be anyone but Shepard. Pick a new name. Hell, use your first name. No one fucking knows it.”

“I get it.” Shepard waved a hand in the air like it could disperse the conversation. “Just go be some plain Jane on a normal inter-species date pretending the world isn’t ending as we speak.”

“Or go be Lola and watch Garrus’ head explode.”

Shepard laughed. “Oh God, who told you?”

“Story like that gets around. Now, fuck off. I’m buyin’ drinks for the Bellarmines tonight. It’s their birthday.”

“Have fun playing Mom.”

Jack made a gesture colloquially described as avian, and Shepard laughed.

“Sorry, saving myself for tonight.”

“You and your weird Raptor kink.” Jack stood and put her chair back. “I’m out. We’ll catch up after the next fight. I’ll have the kids show off their scars, maybe pit Rodriguez against a Krogan. Her head’s hard enough for it.”

They said their goodbyes, and Shepard found herself alone with her thoughts again, in a strange dress with all of her armor stripped away.

She could be just... Elizabeth, couldn’t she? Just for one night.

But she was pretty sure she couldn’t.

[firesongbard]

Her Words

A scene from my Post-Control long fic. Read more on AO3

T ’ S O N I

With the lights on and most of the translators repaired, Liara had excused herself from the crowded CIC to return to her office, quietly triggering reboots across each individual system. She had about half the monitors up, and Glyph was working in safe-mode, though she had to manually query each kernel of memory. His higher processing functions were locked.

She sat at the smaller work desk, hoping to gain access to her expanded personal storage on the Normandy’s computers, but was faced with a firewall so convoluted it must have been of EDI’s design.

“Liara, any luck?” She jumped. She hadn’t heard the owner of the voice enter, or clank in full armor across her room, or come to stand in the center of it absently plinking at her keyboards and monitors. She ran the last few minutes through her mind and realized he had been there for some time.

“Garrus. I…well some. Any reports I would have collected during our escape are tied up in a mountain of junk data that would take me an age to sort. I was hoping to get Glyph to help me but…” she waved a hand at the VI hovering stock-still in the corner, not making any of his usual bobs our spins or approving beeps. “Well, I only have access to storage right now. I’m not sure how long he’ll take to fix.”

He stared at her a moment, then shook his head, tapping his visor that, now that she really looked at him, she realized wasn’t lit. She’d never seen his whole face like that before. She hastily repeated herself in the Cipritine dialect her mother had taught her—she had learned all the high council languages in her youth.

Garrus noded, and bent over to take a look at the VI. “Drones aren’t my specialty, but I bet you we could get Tali to take a look at him.” He paused, looking off somewhere in the distance. He’d been very thoughtful since they had landed. “In the mean time maybe you can organize the crew while I grab a few hours rest.”

“I don’t organize people, Garrus.”

“Says the Shadow Broker, with the largest networks of informants in the galaxy.” The sarcasm dripped from him. She hated that, but at least she had learned to read when he wasn’t being completely serious.

“It’s probably much smaller now.” She sighed, standing and crossing the room to her quiet monitor array.

“You know what you need, T’soni? A vacation.” He held up his good hand, already anticipating the bark of bitter laughter she couldn’t hold back. “Hear me out: A fancy drink, pretty umbrella, Jungle beach all to yourself. Maybe find someone on the crew interested in some stress relief.” He shrugged. “I know Kaidan’s been wound a little tight…”

The idea of Garrus Vakarian, renowned for his melodramatic displays of human courtship, trying to set her up on a date was just too much.

“While I appreciate—” the word came out with too much venom, “—your help in this matter, I do not need a vacation. I need to work. I need my network up and running again, and I have no interest in having my first time be with someone who abandoned us for two years in some misguided attempt at integrity.” There was no return quip, no argument. Why was there silence? Had she said something—

She replayed the words in her head, no it hadn’t been the anger it was… oh Goddess.

“You’ve never… with anyone?”

Liara turned away and put her head in her hands. “I don’t know where you got the impression I was a people person, Garrus. Goddess, if Shepard hadn’t found me when she did, I’d still be trapped in that Stasis field on Therum. I went on digs alone for a reason, you know.” She sighed. “People were… distracting. I got much more done in solitude.”

Garrus stood a little closer, looking over her shoulder at the array of blank screens.

“What about that drell friend of yours. Feron, I think?”

She did not look at him. Why everyone thought she and Feron were— “He’s a very dear friend. I owe not only my life to him, but Shepard’s as well.” She sighed. “But no. No, I never melded with him either. Not even to confidentially share information, as I know some Asari in espionage are known to do.”

He was quiet, and so very damned thoughtful again. “So, Shepard…”

If she could have crawled into the hull of the Normandy and disappeared at that moment, she would have. “Yes. Shepard is the only being I’ve ever… joined with.”

He was quiet for a long time, and Liara briefly wondered if it was possible to blow out her own nervous system to escape where this conversation was headed.

“You love her.” It was not an accusation. It didn’t hold any malice or anger. If anything, there was a note of pity to his voice. Oh Goddess no. There would be no returning from this embarrassment.

She felt so naked. So seen that she didn’t even consider lying, by omission or otherwise. “Yes. From the moment I met her.” She couldn’t look at him. She felt the tears sliding down her cheek. She hadn’t cried since they lost Thessia—hadn’t allowed herself to cry. There was too much to do. But now, now when she was cut off from her work—

“Come on. Let’s grab a drink.”

She did look at him then, face tear-streaked and shocked and incredulous all at once. He looked… uncomfortable, for sure, shifting his weight back and forth like he always did when he felt out of place.

“We can’t. There’s so much to do.”

“You’re not getting anything done until we have communications established with anyone, and I’m pretty sure Thanix Cannon calibrations aren’t at the top of anyone’s priority list right now.”

He waited for her to move or reply, but she was still processing this outcome. She had just admitted to being in love with his—with Shepard, and he wasn’t angry?

He sighed. “You know it’s what she would do if she were here. I can’t give you work to distract you, not ‘till we’re up and running. But I can give you someone to talk to.” He shrugged with his one good shoulder. “Won’t always have the right things to say, but….” He looked off into the distance, a mandible flicking. “Sometimes… we forget there are things we learn by spending time with the people we care about.”

The words stirred something in her heart, and tears streamed down Liara’s face again as she thought of the apartment, the piano on the Citadel. How could he know? How could he have known? Some of the last words she had shared with Her, with Shepard— “She… was a good teacher,” she said, muddling her thoughts with the conversation.

“The Best.” He agreed softly. “Now, let’s get you crying into a drink where I can feel more in my element.”

Liara laughed through the tears, and followed him. He was wrong. He did have the right words to say. They even felt like Her words.

[firesongbard]

Hold the Silence at bay

read the whole NSFW version on AO3

V A K A R I A N

The moment the door to the apartment closed, Shepard pressed her face fully against his, walking him back into the wall with a force strong enough to shake him through his armor. He gasped in surprise, and she moved her lips up above his mouth, tongue darting over the ridge of his teeth, taking advantage of his stunned, wide expression.

“Sh—Shepard what—”

She roughly tilted his chin up so she could reach the underside, kissing and licking and dragging her teeth along the skin there in a way that sent shivers down his spine and pulled a rumbling groan from deep in his throat.

This isn’t Shepard.

Vivid memories of the day wrenched him back from the pleasure. The firefight in the Normandy’s cargo bay, pulling Shepard’s dangling body from the ledge of the Normandy before she ended up a smear on the walkways in the Wards.

The red smear that did end up in the Wards; that C-Sec would have identified as Commander Shepard if a certain Spectre hadn’t declared the matter classified.

It killed his arousal.

“Too much armor,” she rasped between frantic, forceful kisses. She had the harness holding his chest piece in place undone before he’d realized she’d moved her hands. It now sagged and bit into his hips without the shoulder support. The pain in his head and discomfort at his waist mingled with the electric thrill down his spine as Shepard’s wet tongue lathed over sensitive flesh behind his mandible.

His objections caught in his throat, replaced with a low rumble of a moan. He relaxed into her, pressing his nose into her cheek and inhaling the scent of salt, ozone, and scorched metal still clinging to her from the fight.

She smelled like spent heat sinks and adrenaline.

She was rough, hot, and radiated need—her breathing every bit as ragged as his own. She commanded the pace, interrupting his every action with fingers, teeth, or tongue on a bundle of nerves that drowned his every thought in the rapid thrumming of pulse. A part of him wanted it—wanted to ride the buzzing need in his muscles and ignore the way Shepard’s eyes dampened and her breath hitched when he tried to stroke the side of her face.

She’s not herself.

“Are we going to talk about th—”

“No.” Her hot breath passed over his ear, and he fell deeply into a place without words. “I don’t want to talk.” He grasped the collar of her uniform and his hands trembled as he tried to work the damned buttons, but she wouldn’t give him the chance. She dug the fingers of her other hand under his throbbing crest and sparks filled his vision. Caught between pain and pleasure, his hips twitched of their own accord.

His armor sloughed off, front and back halves impacting the floor with a dull thud. His fingers still held Shepard’s belt taught—one hand curved around her hip bone to steady her as he tried to wrench it free from the buckle. He barely noticed, an echo pulling him from the present into memory.

He saw the back of her head through his scope—a de-escalation going further and further off regs. He watched Shepard’s heart rate fluctuate erratically as she lost her grip on the situation; watched her target suddenly still, the cold calm of finality guiding her gun up to her head...

No more bad dreams.

He felt the crack of his rifle as he took the shot that could have been the end of her.

“Don’t.”

The awful break in Shepard’s voice pulled him back to the present. He had her face cupped gently in his hands, his fingers lightly tracing where the scar used to arc over her brow.

The muscles along her jaw felt hard and her nostrils flared and she stared at him, eyebrows lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. Liquid gathered at the corners of her eyes.

He struggled to form words around his thick tongue and ragged breathing.

In the quiet, still moment, her lips curled, showing teeth, with no hint of crinkles around her eyes. It was a hard, dangerous twist of a smile. With her dilated pupils, she looked wild and crazed.

And hot. Spirits, she was beautiful when she was angry.

“Shepard—”

She gripped his cowl and pulled his face down to hers, tongue again pressing into him and silencing his words, but he kept his mouth carefully still—instead letting his hands slide to the back of her head, tangling in her hair. She hesitated, not getting a response out of him. Her quiet grunt of frustration buzzed against his skin.

“Damn it!”

He straightened, gently tucking her head under his chin. She kept her hands on his cowl, fingers finding their way into the damaged crack and wrapping tightly as she shuddered.

Funny the way they both gravitated to the other’s scars for comfort.

A low, quiet laugh rumbled through him, and Shepard returned it with something closer to a growl.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely interested.” He swallowed, still willing the blood to return to his brain.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah.” The words came out more air than sound. “Figured that one out when you nearly put me through a wall.” He let one hand fall to her back and ran gentle circles between her shoulder blades. She stiffened against his touch, causing his obscenely damp bodysuit to drag across his partially exposed cock.

It took a monumental effort of will not to return to tearing Shepard’s uniform off of her.

“If you just need to blow off steam after one hell of a stressful day, I’m here for that. But if this dredged up some old unfinished business you need to deal with, I owe you at least a few of those too.”

“What do you want me to say?” She pulled back to look up at him, eyes wet and face tense, and pressed into lines of anger and frustration. “No. No, I’m not okay. Some asshole tried to steal my Spectre status, my ship, and my damned mission, and then it turns out that asshole is me. Shit, Garrus.” She raked one hand violently through her hair, knocking his aside. “Make a Shepard and Vakarian for every system, huh? How many of them do you think would throw themselves to their death instead of deal with the shit hand we’ve been dealt?”

“Well,” he took another breath, watching his heart rate drop. “Probably any that knew we were dipping out for a vacation while they ran diplomat summits.”

She didn’t laugh. The hard anger in her jaw had slackened, replaced with the long-distant stare of introspection.

“Look, that thing wasn’t you. It had your face, sure, but that wasn’t Commander Shepard. They might as well have stuck a varren in an N7 suit and called it special forces. She didn’t have a unique thought in her head, just taking orders from that crazy ex-Cerberus flunky.” When she still didn’t respond, he ran a finger gently down her cheek. “Shepard?”

The fingers wrapped in the divot in his cowl twitched, but she still didn’t acknowledge him, held in the grip of some old ghost haunting her.

“Shepard?” He lifted her chin, watching for her eyes to refocus on him.

“Damn. Guess we’re the poor saps stuck with clean-up duty while our clones go out and enjoy cocktails on the beach.”

She turned her lip up at him in what might have been an earnest attempt at a smile. He saw the strain though—the fine lines caught at her nose and between her brows.

“You think they keep an airship at the end of the assembly line? You know, for authenticity?” He flared his scarred mandible in an imitation of her half-hearted smile, and she let out a small, genuine laugh.

“Look, I’m not...” She turned her head away, breaking eye contact, and he let his hand rest on her shoulder. “I’m not good at asking for help. But I can’t think tonight. So I either need mind-blowing sex, or enough alcohol to kill a horse.”

He studied her, the way she refused to meet his gaze. The way her fingers crooked in his broken cowl to pull him close, but her hand settled on his chest to keep distance. He felt the dank air of silence settle over them and felt the inescapable grip of dark thoughts pulling him under.

You will surrender your potential against the growing void.

“That bad?” The struggle to keep his voice light was evident in the rasp, and the click of his twitching mandibles.

She nodded.

“Then, we’d better get started.” He let the tips of his talons graze the skin behind her ears, down her neck and to the top button at her collarbone. She gasped as his hot breath passed across her ear with a whisper: “But this time, you need to let me think long enough to get you out of your uniform.”

She did, but only just. Finally free of cloth and armor and sullied bodysuits, desperation crept back into their movements. Teeth and tongues clashed when he pressed into her, awash in her warmth and her scent and her touch.

Her labored breathing in his ears, her strong fingers clutching his neck, her wet heat surrounding his length—it was almost enough to chase away the whispers of guilt that had grown almost constant with every sacrifice to the war.

No more bad dreams. For either of us.

[firesongbard]

Help

A short snippet from my Post-Control long fic. Read more on AO3

S H E P H A R D

Post-mission usually involved an electrolyte drink and an energy bar, scooped up absently on the way through the mess to the officer’s quarters—consumed just as absently while writing up reports. Today she’d been cornered by an infuriating but well-meaning doctor who was brave and stubborn enough to give her orders.

Which is how Shepard found herself in the mess, reconstituted food long cold beside her, hunched over her omni-tool as it beeped pitifully under increasingly percussive maintenance.

“I think a hammer would work better. I assume you’re trying to put it out of its misery?” Tali never could leave a piece of tech to suffer in silence.

Shepard flexed her fingers, resisting the urge to give the whole apparatus a good smack. “Tali?” she asked, trying to keep her frustration at bay. “Wanna give me a hand with this?” She compressed the interface, reluctantly abandoning percussive maintenance, and offered the omni-tool to the more experienced engineer.

“You seem to be doing an excellent job turning it into a paperweight.” Her laughter was clear in her tone as she opened the device, fingers running much more deftly over the holo interface. “Keelah, what did you do to the poor thing?”

“Got a burst transmission that junked up my hardsuit’s interface and just about every piece of tech I had on me. Thought my translator was going to blow out my hearing. I isolated it to try to parse it out later, but now my omni-tool is locked up.”

“You… isolated it.” She intoned, dryly. “Shepard, you created a partition so large your life support VI can barely function. It’s a wonder you didn’t suffocate before extraction.”

Shepard twisted her face in a tired smile. “Didn’t seem like the kind of thing a healthy slathering of omni-gel was going to solve. My tech skills are a little out of practice.”

“A little?” the tool in her hands let out a series of warning beeps, followed by a loud, constant barrage of white noise. “Hang on…”

Shepard’s translator echoed the white noise in her ear, and she instinctively raised a hand to cover it, despite the lack of an external device there. She hissed in discomfort. “Good thing I’m well-practiced in the ancient art of delegating.” The noise stopped, and she took a moment to clear her head. “Always gives me someone to blame.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time Wrex complains that you always get to push the button.” She returned the sarcasm with humor, tilting her head in a way Shepard had learned conveyed amusement behind the purple mask. “It’s not dangerous. It’s just a recorded message. Why did you go through so much trouble for it?” she passed the tool back, and Shepard took it, placing it back on her arm.

“It was from a rogue VI. Killed a lot of people down there. I needed to confirm it wasn’t a cyber attack.” She pulled up the readout, familiar ones and zeros from when her hardsuit’s heads-up display had filled with the pattern.

01001000 01000101 01001100 01010000

This time, she was in the safety of the Normandy mess instead of panicking that the VI had scrambled her shot at a clean evac. She pulled up a decryption VI and let the binary run through it. Four letters stared back at her.

“Shepard, are you alright?”

“Yeah…” She closed the Omni-tool. “Guess it was just junk data after all. Sorry to bother you, Tali.” She stood, abandoning her untouched plate of food. “I’m gonna go do my rounds. Let me know if you need me for anything. I’ll swing by Engineering last, and we can talk shop.”

Tali offered a pleasant goodbye that Shepard hardly processed. Her thoughts were consumed with the events of the day, the dead Alliance soldiers, scientists. And the ham-fisted destruction she’d wrought with a shotgun against an increasingly desperate VI.

And after all of that, it had still reached out to her—the blast of white noise unsettlingly close to the screams of dying soldiers.

And it had begged for her Help.

[firesongbard]

Retreat

A short snippet from my Post-Control long fic. Read more on AO3

T R A Y N O R

There was so much happening all at once.

“EDI, can you filter Admiral correspondence only to my omni-tool? I want to get a better look at Normandy flight systems.”

“Of course, Specialist Traynor.” Sweet music to her ears.

Sam transferred the most recent fleet positions to her omni-tool and headed toward the helm from the CIC, barely looking up from the small hologram as she did. She walked in as Garrus’ voice came over the radio.

“I just got off the line with General Quentius. They’ve got Harbinger on their tail. Don’t know what they did to piss him off, but if we can get in there and distract him, we’ll save a lot of lives.”

“Great idea! Let me pull up in front of the searing death eyeball of the giant mechanical space squid that’s been trying to kill us specifically for the last year.”

She had to agree with Joker. The Normandy was of much more use painting targeting for other ships, since they could generally get closer undetected. Most Reaper ships didn’t have a way to detect them without a heat signature.

“I’m telling you, we’ve got the weapons to get a shot off at its eye. We go in cold, EDI sets the targeting piggybacking off of Quentius’ computers, and we land the shot before it destroys the flagship of the Turian fleet.” Before Garrus finished talking, she found a better plan.

“Garrus, I’ve just sent coordinates to Hacket for that maneuver. The SR-2 is just too heavy to pull that turn, even with EDI’s help. The Geth have smaller ships, and in the time it takes me to explain to you why, they’ll already have a shot. Just tell General Quentius to be ready.”

“…Aye Aye, Traynor.”

Joker spared her a look as Sam settled in behind his chair. “Damn, who died and made you Admiral?”

“I’m just advising, Joker.” The knowledge that Admiral Hackett was taking her advice seriously would have been enough to send her into shock if she dwelled too long on it. “EDI, the next time we need to vent heat, will you let me know? I’d like to take advantage of it to create a distraction to offer cover for Balak and the Quarian Civilian fleet to escape the system.”

“Of course, Specialist Traynor.” This time, EDI’s wonderfully sultry voice came from the body seated next to Joker. “We could quickly build up heat with a small Drive Core maneuver less than 3 seconds before or after a weapons’ discharge.” Oh, bless this brilliant woman.

“Joker, can you find us a target near enough to these coordinates? I’ll give Balak and Zaal’Koris orders to be ready.”

“Aye Aye, Not-Admiral.”

“Very funny.”

“Jeff seems to think so.”

Sam jumped. EDI now stood very close to her. Wonderfully, terribly, uncomfortably close with her wry, low voice.

Combat, Samantha. Head in the game.

Venting heat left them dead in the water for exactly 4 minutes and 73 seconds, but the Volus bombing fleet was near enough that they offered cover. And in turn, the Normandy’s brilliant heat signature distracted from the less appealing targets of the Batarians and Quarians now headed for the Charon relay. Oh, if Reapers could feel neural-feedback!

“Jeff, the situation on the Citadel has changed.” Again, EDI’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Wait, what do you mean changed? Changed how? Changed good? Changed let’s-go-back-in-there-and-grab-Shepard?”

Before anyone could reply, Hackett’s voice came over the comms.

“All fleets, the Crucible is armed. Disengage and head to the rendezvous point.”

Sam stared at her carefully laid concert of space-battle plans, and swept the pieces away to determine exactly how long it would take to jump nineteen fleets through the relay. The Flotilla alone could take several days.

“Get Shepard. Got it.” Joker had his own display of the impossibility of getting everyone to the rendezvous point. If they left now, at full speed, they would be the first team to Charon. If they stayed…

“I repeat: Disengage and get the hell out of here!”

EDI placed a gentle hand on Joker’s shoulder. He threw off her first attempt to draw his attention, but she persisted. Her voice quieted, and she spoke so gently Sam felt like she was intruding for hearing it: “We must leave the system.”

It was enough to break anyone. Joker pulled his hands away and took a long look at the same ruthless calculus Sam had poured over. “Damnit.”

They made the jump to the Charon Relay.

[firesongbard]

Second First Date

Ever wonder what conversation led up to The Tango Scene on the Citadel?

Read it on AO3

V A K A R I A N

Shepard sat hunched over her desk, elbows doing their best to grind divots into the metal surface while her hand cradled her head. Three datapads flickered on the surface of the table, and one tossed haphazardly on the floor sparked from recent structural damage.

“Sanctuary?” Garrus asked, carefully announcing his presence to avoid becoming target practice for the next data pad frisbee.

“Yeah.” She sank a little lower into her hands before pressing them both firmly on the table and leaning back in her chair, face turned to the ceiling. “It’s not enough that two-thirds of the Council want to just sit on their asses and wait for the Reapers to come to them, no. Some of the brightest scientists the galaxy has to offer, funded by the deepest pockets this side of the Traverse have banded together to do the Reaper’s work for them.” She slammed the flat of her hand against the armrest of her chair. “We could have finished the crucible and fired it by now if everyone wasn’t so damned focused on holding onto their trade secrets. For what? Bragging rights?”

She quieted, letting her head hang limply back, draping one forearm over her eyes. Garrus approached and set one hand lightly on the edge of her chair.

“Well, look on the bright side. It’s only half the Council if you count the seat Udina left vacant.”

Her head snapped to the side, and her brows folded sharply over her eyes with her lips pressed together enough to make the rose color disappear.

“Oh... Too soon?”

“God,” she brought her hands to her face and dragged her fingers down, divoting the soft flesh. “When we were chasing Saren, I never would have guessed Sparatus was the only reasonable person on the Council. Most punchable face, maybe.”

“Only you would look at turian faceplates and think ‘I should slam my delicate fingers into that as hard as I can.’ Must come from the same lack of self-preservation that lets you stare down a Reaper.” He smiled down at her, watching for the tells that she wanted closeness or space.

Her muscles relaxed, leaving only residual lines of strain and worry behind, and she stared through him. “You ever think about just leaving them to it?”

His mind wandered to another place—a reality where they both had died and come back as ghosts. Rather than shoulder the weight of the world, they just disappeared into the uncharted together. No responsibility. No constant danger. Turn their backs on everyone who refused to be saved and make the choice to be happy.

“Little hard to leave when your home is on fire, Shepard.” His voice was more raw and strained than he expected, and the words felt like they’d been pulled out of him against his will.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I left a home burning.”

He noticed Shepard hadn’t returned from that long-distant stare. She was letting the grip of old ghosts pull her in—wherever hers came from.

“If only we could just make more of us. Every system gets a Shepard and Vakarian to solve all their problems, and we go off somewhere with a beach-side bar and take a vacation.”

“You know, I think that’s only the second most awkward mating proposal I’ve received.”

He felt heat rise to his face, and his chest tightened. “I didn’t mean—that wasn’t—wait... Second?”

Shepard laughed and broke the distant stare, coming back into the absurdity of the moment. “I wish I still had a copy! Probably got wiped when they repainted the Normandy.” Her eyes were wet from laughter, catching the light of the overheads. “Krogan find my lack of self-preservation very appealing.”

“Well, you gave them all enough children to throw off the ecosystem. Consider that obligation fulfilled.”

“Hey,” she took hold of his wrist, gently pulling him close. “If I have to be forced into the worst-timed shore leave ever, how about we take a night to pretend the world isn’t ending?”

“I would try to forget about the end of the world. If only the end of the world would forget about us. Seems like whenever we get too comfortable, some sentient starship comes out of the woodwork to tell us how doomed we are.” He gently tugged Shepard out of her chair so he could rest his hands on her hips. “But I’ll never say no to a night with you.” He lowered his forehead to hers but felt her duck her head and tuck into his cowl instead. He rumbled something quiet and comforting and ran his hands in firm circles on her back.

“Not sure I remember how to be me.”

He stiffened, his hands freezing for a moment. Another memory floated to the surface from years ago on the Citadel. Shepard talking down a human woman on the docks— the disgruntled subject in barely coherent hysterics waving a pistol around. Shepard threw the rulebook out the window and wrapped her arms around the girl, trying to bring her back from her trauma.

She doesn’t want to remember anymore.

“Then let’s not be us. Just one terribly dashing turian and a human with unparalleled charisma drawn inexplicably toward each other.”

“You watch too many romance vids with Tali.”

“I watch them for the character analysis. Good detective training.”

She shook against him with quiet laughter and wrapped her fingers in the divot of his broken cowl. “As long as you aren’t you, we might have a shot at that romantic evening.”

“And you might have a shot at dancing.”

She groaned but didn’t let go. He felt her shift to press her cheek against the base of his neck, and he lifted his head to make room. He had to smooth her hair to keep it from catching on his mandibles and set them wide enough to the side that one flicked gently against her forehead.

The silence settled over them. Thick. Suffocating. Drawing his mind to the places he kept tucked out of sight, always to deal with after. After this mission. After this meeting. After the war.

The memorial wall kept getting longer. The casualty numbers grew so large he was numb to the meaning. He could measure one life. Weigh the cost of ten. But millions? How many more would they have to sacrifice to win? How many ships? How many systems? How many races?

Shepard sometimes whispered in her sleep. Dreams of Bahak and the choice she’d had to make about the Alpha Relay. He’d read the reports, but it was always worse to hear the Reaper’s words from her lips.

Know this as you die in vain: your time will come.

“Garrus?”

He pulled back to reality with some effort. His head ached from the force of refocusing thoughts. Long-term sleep deprivation. He’d have to put in a request for an extra cycle so he could be his best, and remember not to lie awake staring at the ceiling for it—

“Garrus?” He caught the rise in volume and pitch—the panic setting in, and he wasn’t sure how long she’d been calling his name.

“Sorry, I thought we were pretending to be other people. I was going to go with the Rogue Spectre Regalius, Pirate in the Terminus after he fled the Hierarchy to pursue a forbidden love with—”

“Other than the Spectre part, it sounds like you already did that.” She pulled away from him slowly, her eyes rimmed in red. The ribbing on his shirt had imprinted on her face, lining it with bright red bands. She looked absolutely ridiculous.

“Hmm. Guess I need more practice. How about I be Lucius, from accounting? Despite the citadel getting overrun with Cerberus, he still has a report to file by Monday.”

“Oh Lucy,” she walked her fingers up his cowl to the back of his head, mocking him with the intimate gesture. “Woo me with your quarterly statements.” Her voice purred in a way that made his stomach drop and his spine tingle.

“How—” he gulped, absolutely incredulous. “How are you doing that?”

“I’m a great actress.” She slid her body up against him and nibbled on one mandible. “Haven’t you seen my latest performances?”

They chased away the silence together with laughter and meaningless banter. Anything inane enough to keep the weight of the war at bay. With enough talk and enough of Shepard’s impressive performance, he could ignore the whispers of guilt that tugged at his conscience.

[firesongbard]

Peace Treaty

I may have an unhealthy love for these two characters.

Read Sha'ira's perspective on AO3

S E P T I M U S

It was appropriate to apologize when one caused another distress due to a misunderstanding.

There was no shame in admitting that one was working under an imperfect understanding of the situation as a whole. Once new intelligence comes to light, a good leader adapts, changes strategies, re-allocates forces as necessary.

One cannot change what has come to pass, obviously. One can only learn from past failures and resolve to grow and do better. These are the makings of a good leader. This is what distinguishes a soldier from a General.

But Oraka was retired.

He had been petty. Very, very petty. In truth, he had thrown a tantrum unbecoming of even a child. He knew what he had been doing, every step of the way. He even knew when he had descended from drinking to forget into belligerent drunkard. If not for his renown (and perhaps his choice of bar), Septimus would have been picked up by C-Sec and left to sober up in a cell on more than one occasion.

He had deliberately and intentionally caused Sha'ira pain in the most efficient way he knew how. He had employed his skill and resources from a long military career and exploited information from their private and intimate conversations.

Somehow, an apology felt not only insufficient, but insulting.

His apartment suddenly felt like a cage. He paced around his desk to burn off excess energy. His body reacted to this simple task like it was preparing for war. Perhaps he was, in a sense. The very young Human Spectre was right: he just needed to straighten up and act like a general.

Sha'ira was worth fighting for.

Of course she was. He'd stand before an army of Krogan alone to defend her. Her honor. Her love—no, her friendship. Even if she had been willing to give him her love, at this point he had proven he wasn't worthy of it.

He withdrew a roll of paper from his bookshelf. It was the sort of gesture reserved for special commendations, posthumous promotions, and peace treaties. It unfurled across his desk, and he weighed the corners down to fight against the shape it had been stored in for so many years.

He tried not to dwell on the metaphor in it.

Instead, he settled into his chair, withdrawing his ink well and writing nib. They were both pristine—he hadn’t actually had reason to write on paper in ages. He slipped the nib onto the tip of his finger and tapped it against his chin, thinking through what he needed to say.

A peace treaty seemed appropriate.

[firesongbard]

My Duty, Your People

A short scene from my Post-Control longfic. Read more on AO3

Z O R A H

Maybe it was stress.

“So, if we can’t dock the Normandy, and we don’t have a shuttle, I’m thinking we can have Joker bring us in, here, then we can—Oh hell, Cortez is still down on Earth.”

Maybe it was desperation.

“Pop the Airlock. If we keep tethered, we won’t get separated, and you can use your biotics to create a small gravity well in the direction we need to go to keep us on course. We’ll need you to reverse halfway through to decelerate us so we don’t end up a smear on the hull of the Citadel…”

Maybe it was two full-grown bosh’tets relying on two-bit action vid plots to plan a suicide mission.

“I’ve got it. The Crucible. Citadel’s made of—well, I don’t know what it’s made of, but it’s damned hard to breach. And I’m not sure a well-placed shot with the Thanix cannon would do it. But if we pull up the plans for the Crucible, I bet we can get in just under the presidium, here…”

But Tali was out of patience.

“Will you two Shut Up, you stubborn tak’tals!”

Kaidan and Garrus both looked up at her with paired looks of surprise and amusement.

“No. Whatever you were going to say next, no! This is stupid, and reckless, and you’re talking about destroying the weapon we’re trying to fire to get onto the Citadel.”

Garrus flicked his mandibles in surprise. “Tali, no one is suggesting we break the Crucible. I just meant we could breech the hull to get inside.”

Kaidan was quick to come to his defense. “It’s a small operation—three man team, just like we’re used to.”

“Well, like I’m used to. I seem to recall you opting out of the last suicide mission.”

“Low blow, Vakarian. I’d be happy to bench you for this one. Tali and I can handle—”

“STOP!” In a rare show of anger, Tali slammed both her hands down on the table. Her whole body trembled with adrenaline. “Will you two just listen? Just for a moment?”

And Keelah they did. Maybe they were just both shocked she had spoken up. It was the problem with having known each other so long. Sometimes they forgot she was not the young girl on her Pilgrimage anymore.

“I want to go after Shepard just as much as you do, but you don’t have a plan. What you have is… is…” she waved a hand in the air “Bravado and Machoism, and a distinct lack of braincells. No—” she held up a hand as Kaidan tried to argue. “We can’t dock the Normandy on a Cerberus controlled station in the middle of a Reaper onslaught. You’ll get everyone on board killed, and Shepard would not stand for that.” Garrus was next to interrupt and she shushed him as well. “We do not have a shuttle with stealth capabilities right now, and if Shepard survives this she will never forgive you if she finds out you spaced yourself trying to get to her.”

The two looked down at their hands, clenched in what might have been a humorous mimicry if she weren’t so angry.

“Kaidan, you’re a Spectre. We’ve already gotten in contact with the Citadel once. Work with Specialist Traynor to hail the Council, or anyone else you can find.” Her voice softened. “She can’t be alone up there. Find someone who’s already inside and get her help.”

“Yeah.” Kaidan stood up, and his words were low and husky, trying to convince himself. “Yeah, okay. Let me see what I can do.” He turned to head back to the CIC, and Tali let out a long suffering sigh. This was almost as bad as the Admiralty board. At least no one in this room could claim seniority on her. Each one of them was a highly ranked, highly respected individual in their own culture. More importantly, they had all been with Shepard since the beginning.

“And I do what, go calibrate the cannon?” The bitterness seeped out of him like a toxin. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“You really can’t think of a better use of your time?” She crossed her arms, not willing to take the bait. She would not coddle him when he was deliberately sabotaging himself.

“I’m a Soldier. I shoot things. And I’m damn good at it. But stuck up here—”

“You’re a Strategist.” Keelah he was dense when he set his mind to something. “When you don’t have your eye to the scope, you’re actually quite good at seeing the big picture.” She waited for the argument to come, but he just… stayed quiet. At least his hands unclenched. “You’re as close to the leader of your people as anyone right now. Between the two of us…” She hoped he would come to himself and finish the statement. She wasn’t familiar enough with Turian government to really know what he could do, just that he was smart enough to figure it out when not being a bosh’tet.

He sighed, and his whole body relaxed. With a quiet laugh, he said “I have my duty, and you have your people.”

“Really, Garrus? Fleet and Flotilla? Now?” The quote was so terribly, awfully misplaced she couldn’t help but laugh. “I am sorry to disappoint, but I will not be taking off my mask for you.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve already seen who you truly are.” He shook his head. “Tali… thanks.”

She gently took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t thank me yet. I just sent you to go talk to politicians. You might be cursing me by the end of the day.”

“Who’s to say I haven’t already started?” He returned the squeeze before letting go, turning to head to the CIC. “May your soul be returned to the Spirit of my uncle’s latrine.”

“That—” she snorted “—can’t be a real Turian curse.”

“Well, it’s not as concise as ‘bosh’tet’, I’ll give you that.”

And just like that, they went back to war. Back to not knowing the outcome. Back to impossible choices and unbearable sacrifice.

And somehow, she felt a little stronger for it.

[firesongbard]

The High Cost

A scene from my Post-Control long fic. Read more on AO3

J A C K

“Rise and shine, buttercup. Naptime’s over.” The jibe came easy, but if she was being honest with herself?

Jack was scared shitless.

The kids didn’t need to see that, though. They needed their ‘psychotic biotic’ to be on top of her game and dishing out trash talk disguised as orders so they could all see home again.

Rodriguez stirred in her arms, blood leaking out her eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Christ, she was a mess. “Five…more… minutes… ma’am…”

Jack bit back tears and put as much steel in her voice as she could muster. “You f—forget how to duck? Come on Rodriguez. I’ve seen you survive one of those turian/krogan shitheads to the face. Don’t tell me you can’t handle a little space-squid backwash.”

They hadn’t been stationed at the front lines, but the clean-up crew still sometimes caught the tail end of a laser blast from the asshole Reaper standing guard over the beacon. Rodriguez had thrown up one hell of a barrier to save their asses, but she’d been out cold for almost five minutes after.

The Bellarmine twins stood watch at the doorway to the abandoned convenience store holding a damn good stealth barrier in place. Just enough dark matter to deflect incoming fire or shrapnel, but hardly enough to glow or sparkle to act like a big sign saying ‘I’m in here! Come kill me!’ Prangley’s idea. Kid had a hell of a brain when he remembered to use it.

“Throw me in, ma’am… I’ll show ‘em who’s….” Rodriguez passed out in her arms again, and Jack whispered a string of curses absolutely worth the swear jar tax. “Prangley, you find someone I can scream at yet?”

“Hang on…” Jason Prangley knelt over a comms device, tweaking settings and producing a whole lot static. “I had Major Coats for a minute. Sounds like they got someone through to the Beacon.”

“I don’t need a news update, Prangley, I need a goddamned EVAC!”

Jason put a hand to his ear, and held one up for quiet, listening. “This is strike team Grissom Zero. We’re at Carter and Tothill. Javalin position abandoned. Requesting nearest team location.”

Kid had a damn good head on his shoulders. He knew if he just asked for a shuttle he’d be one voice in hundreds shouting in the void. But offer to be reinforcements… Shit, he was too good to be stuck under her.

“Strike Team Grissom Zero, this is Aralakh Company.” A gravelly voice came over the radio. “We’ve got a horde of Banshees three buildings north if you want to try to regain your honor.” Of all the Krogans to pick up the damn line, it had to be the one she liked.

“Bite me.”

Grunt laughed over the radio, and Jason gave her a startled look. “Copy… Aralakh Company. We’ll make our way to you.” He set about packing up the equipment in his backpack—he was too weighed down for a biotic in the field, but they’d lost their Marine contingent in the reaper blast. Prangley had taken it upon himself to pick out the most important things and slog them around, arguing that his biotics were some of the weaker on the team. It was a bullshit line, and he knew it.

Give him enough time for his balls to drop, and he might even rival Shepard as a leader.

“Alright, kids. Everybody grab a juice. Reiley, I want you to carry Rodgriguez.” The left Bellarmine blanched at the command.

“I—I can’t carry her and hold a shield. There’s no way—”

“Relax, kid. I’ve got the shield for this one. This ain’t the class room, and you’re all two warps away from a nap. We’ve only gotta make it to the wall of angry Krogan.” He didn’t look convinced. She rolled her eyes. “Come on I’ll buy you a f—fancy pony.” It was enough. He broke into a wide smile.

“Only if it’s as pretty as Rodriguez’ unicorn, ma’am.” He nodded once to his sister, and she took over the barrier for him—though not as stealthy as when they’d been working together, it still held. He came over and hoisted the unconscious Rodriguez over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry—good form—and gave Jack a nod. “Ready to roll.”

Prangley, bless his bleeding heart, gave the order. He even had actual juice boxes he pressed into each kid’s hands as they filtered through the rubble into the next building. Unbelievable.

The next few minutes were agonizingly long. She had flashbacks to the collector base when she had to keep a swarm of skin-burrowing cyber-bugs off her squad in the middle of a fire fight. At least this time she didn’t have to specifically allow bullets through. And she was only being pelted occasionally by stray fire and shrapnel.

Seanne started to perk up. The break was doing them all some good, and the sugar had hit their blood stream. Jack felt a little better about putting them back on the field, even if they were going back to support for Grunt’s team.

Aralakh Company announced its presence with the whistle of a rocket launcher and an explosion of fire and chunks of flesh.

“Where the hell did they get a rocket launcher?” Prangley asked, in quiet awe.

“And where the hell is mine?” Seanne retorted. She moved up to the front, muscles tense and dark energy trailing her fists. “I call take down!”

“I’ll do set-up!” her brother grunted as he shifted Rodriguez’ still unconscious weight to free one hand. “Hey Teach, can you drop the wall? We’re gonna take out that Harvester before it circles back!”

She hesitated. She’d tried to hold them back from the front line once already. She was wrong—they were ready—but she couldn’t stand the thought of one of her kids getting hurt.

“Three seconds. Make it fast, Bellarmines.” She dropped the shields. Just like practice, Reiley threw his arm out and wrapped the Harvester in a stasis field of dark energy—good, he used to go to Singularity for everything.

“DIE!” Seanne screamed as she threw a blast of energy just after. She’d been working on her force. Her energy hit her brother’s field, and the opposing forces detonated—pulling in on itself before throwing the atmosphere outward and crushing the harvester’s head in the process.

“Save some for the infantry, Sunshine.” Jack put the shield back up at three seconds on the dot, just in time to deflect some assault rifle fire. More turian assholes.

“Got plenty more where—”

———————

Her head hurt.

Her face was wet. She tried to move, and realized she was on the ground.

It took a few moments to recall the flash of blue-white light as her own shield had collapsed in on itself. Something destabilized her biotics.

The kids.

She was on her feet, surveying the area. Rodriguez still unconscious on the ground. Reiley was on his knees not far, clutching his left arm. Something let out an ear-splitting scream.

“Seanne, Set-up!” Jason’s voice. Jack threw a half-hearted barrier around Reiley as she turned toward the voices.

Seanne stood with her feet planted, both hands outstretched holding up an area of dark energy around two banshees. Both of them doubled over from nerve pain.

Jason glanced over his shoulder. “Hey teach, Knock’ em down for me.”

He’d barely finished the words before she threw herself into a shockwave. The ground tore and shot gravel in every direction as the energy raced into Seanne’s area Reave.

The explosion knocked her on her ass, but she heard the dying scream of a Banshee. Bitch.

More gunfire nearby. She saw a familiar steel-blue armored head and stupid deadpan laugh. The calvary had arrived.

A Brute charged just past Reiley, but Prangley had dropped his pack of equipment and dashed forward to get him out of the way.

“Bellarmines, barriers up, and keep them that way.” Jack grabbed Rodriguez, and the group of them sprinted to the line of Krogan for cover.

“Did you steal my kill?” Grunt asked her as she passed, thrusting his head toward the dead Harvester corpse.

“Nah, you can blame that one on the Bellarmines.” She dropped Rodriguez behind cover, settling her into the least uncomfortable position she could manage. The girl moaned softly. Good. Still alive. “Maybe you should stick to the small ones. More your speed.”

Whatever ‘witty’ comeback Grunt had planned, it was cut off by another Banshee scream. Oh hell. They had only taken one out earlier.

Seanne screamed.

Her legs dangled helplessly in the air as the stretched out asari monster lifted her by her head. Jack lobbed a wall of dark energy at the thing, but not in time to stop the sickening crunch of the skull fracturing under pressure.

Seanne’s body dropped, limp.

Reiley charged, like an idiot. Jack tried to lash onto him, pull him back, do something to get his hot-headed ass back behind cover. He leaped into the air and grappled the Banshee, pinning it’s arms to the ground and knocking it out of the air.

“Teach, behind you!” Jason rocketed bast her and slammed into a Brute that had charged into the fray.

Okay, now she was pissed.

Dragging two fists into the air and down with all the fury she had been keeping squashed down, she ripped the Brute off it’s feet. It’s hulking mass slid through the rubble and into the line of fire of Aralakh Company.

By the time she turned her attention back to Reiley, he was trying to smash the Banshee’s head in with a rock.

“Damnit, Reiley! Give it space before you kill it.”

Her warning came too late. Time and space imploded in an ear-piercing screech. Reiley went down in the blast.

Enough was enough.

“Prangley, you take Rodriguez and you get your asses in cover. I don’t want to see your faces outside again until this fight is over.” Her body light up in blue flame, and she walked toward the next wave of reaper forces closing in.

“But what about—“

“Shut the hell up and get out of here!” Cerberus had stolen her life, but these Reaper assholes had stolen her family from her, and she was done playing nice.

It was time to pay the fucking piper.

[firesongbard]

Café Orders and Data Points

Read it on AO3

V A K A R I A N

“So, this is what you get up to when you’re not running your dark empire.”

Liara turned away from the railing overlooking the Presidium, offering the barest of smiles to Garrus as he approached. If he caught her off guard, she didn’t show it.

“Well, someone gave me an excellent reason to leave the café I normally work at.” She hesitated just a moment before words tumbled out in a rush. “I mean, sit at. While working. Goddess, I’m not working as a waitress. I’m certainly not some kind of maiden stereotype.”

Garrus rumbled a laugh, letting her sort through her discomfort, but he didn’t interrupt. He just settled on the railing next to her, looking out over the Citadel.

“I know that café. Great place to stake out if you want to catch some white collar crime going down.” He nodded in the direction. “Don’t point. Don’t want to let him know I’m watching. See the salarian in the green robes? Melon skin, symmetrical horns.”

“Double pu-erh with extra sugar and an energy vitamin complex. Always sits with his back to the corner, and if his seat’s taken he returns every half hour until it’s available.”

He laughs. “You have spent a lot of time there. Alright, well, did you know he’s ex Spec-Ops? Look at the way he surveys the area. He’s had training. Too young to have retired, and the STG doesn’t let agents go unless they’ve screwed something big up. Clothes are custom, designer quality. He’s got money, and he’s advertising it. Ex-military personnel with a dishonorable discharge don’t usually like to be noticed. My guess is insider trading. He’s probably—”

“Treason, actually.”

Garrus stuttered. “W-what? Do salarians even prosecute Treason?”

“Not for military transgressions. But making a Dalatrass’ lineage records public…”

“Damn.” He gave the salarian an appraising look. “You think he’s looking for amnesty?”

“Hardly. After he was passed over for Spectre status, he turned mercenary. He’s working for me now.”

“Hey now, that takes all the fun out of it if you’ve got him on payroll.”

Liara was quiet a moment, before nodding to a human on the lower level. “Blonde, refugee clothing. She’s moving through the Presidium like she lives here, but dressed like a refugee that broke quarantine. My guess is that she’s trying to get the attention of C-sec.”

Garrus followed her gaze and laughed. “Damn, she looks terrible as a blonde. No, she’s ex-Cerberus. I’ll have to tell Shep she lived through the raid, though. Refugee clothes are legitimate; she’s been on the run for months. But she didn’t come here as a refugee. She’s been in hiding since Shepard took the Normandy back to the Alliance.”

“Interesting. Maybe I’ll have Shepard ask her how she managed an identity change without my knowledge…”

They traded assessments like that for a while, reading people based on actions, clothes, and facial expressions. Reducing people to easily digestible data with practiced accuracy.

“Alright, Liara. You’ve got to tell me where you got training. You grow up with a Commando babysitter? Was your father part of some secret Asari espionage corps?”

“No. Nothing quite so interesting, I assure you.” She sighed, slumping into her elbows on the railing, and hanging her head. “I am not skilled at understanding people. I never have been.”

Garrus let her gather her thoughts, for once not interrupting with a smart comment.

“It was a rough childhood, carefully cataloging the mannerisms, tones, and expressions that indicated anger, or frustration, or sadness. And even now, I am not always correct. If I can’t tell, I’ll assume a negative emotion first. I’m less likely to embarrass myself that way.”

“You’d have made one hell of a detective.”

“I make one hell of a Shadow Broker.”

She twisted her lips up at him, ever so slightly dimpling the flesh by her nose. He’d seen the expression on her more often since the Reapers arrived. They’d all picked up more responsibility since the days of chasing Saren and the Geth across the galaxy.

“All right then, T’soni. Do me.”

“I—I’m sorry?”

“If you didn’t know me personally, what would you notice first? Pretend I’m just another displaced turian wandering the Citadel.”

“I don’t think—Really, that isn’t a good idea. These kinds of observations aren’t typically shared with the subject for a reason.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad.”

“Alright.” Liara sighed, turning to face Garrus fully, her eyes flicking analytically over his whole body, her face devoid of any hint of familiarity.

Damn. That was more intense than he expected.

“Active service, since you’re in armor and not civilian wear. Your posture and hip-tilt are more reminiscent of human body language than turian, so you aren’t a turian-space refugee. I would say that puts you squarely in C-sec, except your armor is custom, and has more than one illegal modification.”

“Hey now, everything I have is above board.”

“The medi-gel injection system you designed for Shepard two years ago is banned under the genetic modification laws even with the exemption for medical use.”

“And polonium rounds were never strictly legal, but I seem to remember you using a number of those in your pistol.”

She gave him a sharp, deadly smile. “Garrus, when have I ever claimed to be above board?”

He thought about that. His own mental construct of Liara had her as a soft, bleeding heart scientist who cried during romance films, even on the third watch.

But he had to admit, she also routinely used gravity wells to crush Cerberus troopers into malformed balls of flesh, armor, and circuitry. And she enjoyed it.

He was suddenly very glad she considered him a friend.

“Point taken.” He couldn’t keep the amused approval out of his voice. “But you were supposed to be assessing me as if we haven’t been saving the galaxy together on and off for years.”

She sighed and pulled up her omni-tool. “You forged the security certificate for your black-market shield booster, and your visor modifications aren’t registered. They aren’t offenses that come with more than a few hundred credits in fines, but I’d assume you’re more likely to be Spectre than C-sec.”

He almost argued that he’d been fudging mod registration rules since before his detective days, when he finally processed the rest of what she said.

Spectre.

“As Joker is so fond of reminding me, if my ego gets any bigger, it won’t fit in the Normandy’s airlock. You don’t have to softball it for me. What would you really peg me as?”

“I wasn’t exaggerating. The quality of your equipment, your battle scars, and the way others give you space as you move through the presidium all support the assertion. I’d assume you’re a Spectre, and one I wouldn’t want to draw the attention of. Anyone else with those markers would be high enough military to be recalled to Palaven to help with the war effort instead of wasting time…” she trailed off, her distant face contorting with down-turned lips and heavy creases under her cheeks. “…shopping on the Presidium.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, coming to rest on the railing with her again, looking out over the people below.

“I—I’m sorry Garrus. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, you’re right. I think the same thing about everyone I see up here. The willful ignorance it has to take to just… pretend that the Reapers are some distant problem happening to someone else in the galaxy—“

He cut off, noticing the blue fingertips gently wrapping around his arm. Liara had leaned up against his armor, gently placing her hand on him. She looked up at him and said with a waver to her voice, “Garrus, I’m so sorry. About this. About Palaven. I can’t imagine how hard it was to leave your home while it was under attack.”

He took his other hand to rest on hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “And here I thought you were ‘unskilled at understanding people’.”

“Well…” her voice cracked, and she looked away. “They’re much easier to process as easily categorizable data points. Micro-expressions, body postures, word choices and inflections—”

“Extranet searches and surveillance footage? Café orders and designer suits?”

She shrugged, falling into silence.

All the talk about reading people, and Garrus had to admit he still didn’t have a good sense for when Liara needed to talk. When she needed a distraction, and when she needed to be left alone. So, he did what he did best: he took a gamble.

“You said someone gave you a good reason to leave the café. If you were waiting for someone, you would’ve noticed me before I approached. So, who are you avoiding?”

She pulled back, removing her hand from his arm and straightening. “No one. I suppose you could say I’m avoiding the lack of someone.”

“…Shepard?”

“My father.”

“Oh. Oh!” He hadn’t spent enough time anywhere but the refugee dock on the Citadel, all tied up in managing transport and resources and finding enough beds.

“She… was working at the café before Cerberus attacked. I assume she’s moved to more military pursuits.”

“Well…” another gamble. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard for the Shadow Broker to keep tabs on her. You’ll get a chance to catch up again.”

“I’m… glad,” she finally settled on the word, “Glad that we talked. That I had a chance to connect with her before…” She shook her head. “Well, it was good to finally meet her.”

“Hey.” This time, Garrus reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder. “If anybody has a shot at winning this war, it’s us. You’ll see her again.”

“We will end the war. I’ll make sure of it.” She glanced back over to the café and pulled away from Garrus, making her way to the stairs away from their perch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

He grunted, looking back to see what she saw. An empty chair sat in place of the melon-skinned salarian—drink abandoned on a coaster at the table.

He smiled. Dead drop. Liara really would have made a hell of a detective.

She certainly made one terrifying Shadow Broker.

[firesongbard]

The fit was right, the color was wrong.

It was funny how slipping into an Alliance uniform for the first time in a year (three years?) was like humming an old, familiar tune that she’d never quite been able to forget, even if she tried.

It was different from the uniform of her memory. Fashion, it seemed, had moved beyond her during her time away, and while she was about as far from being a fashionista as possible, she had opinions on the shoulder pads.

The white-on-black uniform she’d worn for months on end was behind her. It had never fit well to begin with. Her new Alliance-issue uniform was before her, and donning it felt like coming home.

Except that it wasn’t the right color.

Her entire adult life had been a mix of dark grays and deep navy blues with the occasional gold accents on special occasions. The colors of space, of the hallways and bulkheads she’d called home for so long. The colors that were hers, that were the closest thing to a family she’d had for close to fifteen years.

This uniform, however, was black.

The difference was subtle, at first. What was one dark color among a sea of other dark colors? But if the color didn’t make the passers-by in the corridors of Alliance HQ in Vancouver do a double-take, the lack of insignia, namepatch, or any distinguishing pins usually did.

“Black is the new orange,” she muttered to herself after one too many double-takes on her way to the mess hall one day.

“What was that?” The young marine newly assigned as her guard-slash-jailer asked. She glanced over at him. Vega. Lieutenant. Two commendations for valor in combat, was the language she read off of his uniform.

“You got a first name, Vega?” she asked, deflecting his questions with one of her own.

“James, ma’am,” he answered promptly, if a little bemusedly. Hard to grudge him that, really.

“How many heads do I have, James?”

“Uhhh, one?” he responded.

“Funny. From the way people gawk you’d think I’d have at least two.”

She strode ahead of him, leaving him to stew in confusion a moment before he caught up.

“It’s not every sees supposedly dead war hero walk on by,” he observed.

“Not everyday someone sees a supposedly dead accused war criminal, either,” she said wryly. “Come on, Vega. It’s Meatloaf Monday in the mess and I don’t want to miss it.” She set off again at a brisk pace before he could reply.

The fit was right.

Everything else was wrong.