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Normandy is dark when Shepard and Kasumi return from Bekenstein. It’s an hour into the ship’s artificial night cycle, the best time to hear the engine purr. Shepard absentmindedly pats the metal bulkhead before joining Kasumi in the elevator.
When they stop on deck three, Shepard steps out, too. Kasumi hasn’t said anything since they wiped Keiji’s greybox on the shuttle, but now the corner of her mouth pulls up into a tired smirk.
"And where are you going, young lady?” she asks. There is a terrible sort of knowing in her voice.
Shepard raises her eyebrows. “The kitchen,” she replies, trying for casual. It comes out even enough. “There a problem?”
Kasumi snickers. “Good night, Shep,” she says. It’s hard to tell with half her face hidden in the shadow of her hood, but Shepard thinks she winks.
She is going to get food, dammit. So what if that isn’t her only stop?
She takes her time in the kitchen, heating up one of those meals that promises it has all the nutrients a Collector-killing hero needs. It doesn’t taste half bad. Better than Alliance issue, definitely. The macaroni and cheese might even contain real cheese.
She chases the whole thing with a glass of water, swallows, and glances toward the forward battery.
He’s probably asleep, she tells herself. It doesn’t really change anything; she still wants to see him. Always does, after missions he doesn’t join her on. Kasumi is fine as far as backup goes, but there’s something comfortable about Garrus watching her six—familiar, well-worn, like the armor she lost over Alchera.
She drops her glass in the sink, leaves her gauntlets on the counter, and makes her way to the promising green glow at the end of the hall.
She stops just before the lock can register her presence, frowning. She’s always just barged in, but would that seem like she’s assuming too much? It’s not exactly a reasonable hour. Fuck, this used to be easier.
Every inch of her aches; she’s never in her life worn heels regularly, and every time she steps into them they turn her muscles against her. Her spine feels like it’s been thrown out of alignment. Maybe she should have Chakwas look at it.
She’s still standing there, stalling by cataloging all the new and exciting ways her body hurts, when the door swishes open.
"Shepard," Garrus says, and his mandibles twitch like he knows she’s been standing out here for a solid minute.
"Hi," she offers up, and very nearly cringes at how that single syllable comes out, all bright and…weird. Dammit. She’s terrible at this. "I just got back, thought I’d check in, but then I realized you might be sleeping, so…"
He does look as if he might have been sleeping, since it’s rare that she catches him without armor. Come to think of it, has she ever seen him out of armor? Did she really proposition a guy she’d never seen without armor? But here he is, no armor—no visor, even—wearing pants that really emphasize the anatomical difference of his hips and a blue shirt that reveals part of his cowl and keel bone. It is a keel bone, right? Is she remembering that extranet search correctly?
Garrus clears his throat, which is enough to snap her out of a quickly spiraling chain of thoughts. “Just reading. Killing time.”
"Ah." She takes a step back. "I should go, then. Don’t want to interrupt."
He reaches out and catches her bare wrist in his fingers. “You’re not interrupting,” he says, pulling gently until she follows him through the door. It closes behind her. His skin is nice, she thinks—different, an unfamiliar texture, warmer than hers, but nice. “Tell me about Bekenstein.”
So she tells him, popping the seals on her armor while she talks. The weight falls away with each piece, the air of normality returning between them.
"If this all goes south and the Alliance won’t take me back after we save the damn galaxy, maybe I’ll take to thievery," she concludes, rolling her leggings off.
Garrus chuckles, leaning against the dark instrument panel beside her. “Tell me again how you broke Hock’s window and shot his guards to get a DNA sample. You’d be a terrible thief.”
"Hey, we got the box," Shepard protests, straightening up and smoothing out her dress. There’d been no time to do more than tuck it into her leggings before she yanked her armor on; Kasumi had twitched visibly as the expensive fabric wrinkled. "And a really cool gun," she adds.
"I’ll take your word for it," Garrus replies. He touches the black collar of the dress. "What’s this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much of your skin before."
Shepard can’t help it; she snorts. “You know, my glitch earlier was my brain short-circuiting over never seeing you without armor.” The words fall out of her mouth, easy. When she stops thinking for five damn seconds, it’s all so easy with him.
"Really? I thought you might have a concussion."
She laughs outright at that. “It’s a dress. I was under cover. There were high heels involved.” She wiggles her bare toes against the cold metal floor, savoring freedom.
"I’m guessing you blew your cover when you shot out that window."
She bumps her shoulder against his—hard, but affectionate. “I’m not really into formal wear, anyway.”
"No?" There’s a sly tone to his voice now. "Shame."
She pushes away from the console, turning to get a better view of his face. He’s hard to read, but she sees a bit of restlessness in the way his hands flex, a quiet amusement in the way his mandibles flare wide.
"Why?" she fires back, planting a hand on her hip. "See something you like, Vakarian?"
His nose twitches; his gaze falls to her waist. She’s pleased with that reaction. She knows he doesn’t have a human fetish. If there’s anything at all about her that actually appeals to him, well—that will make this so much easier.
He reaches out to touch her, fingers wrapped around her waist, palm pressed warm into the curve of her side, and tugs her closer. She wants to kiss him. It’s never occurred to her before the last few weeks, but now it’s a matter of urgency, and it doesn’t make a damn bit of sense—turians don’t kiss. But she takes a calculated risk, anyway, rising up on her toes to press her mouth to his for a too-brief moment. Something rumbles in his throat, a noise without a name, but it doesn’t sound unhappy.
When she opens her eyes again, arms still looped around his cowl, he’s staring at her.
"It’s, uh," she says, hurried, "it’s a kiss. Humans, we do it to, um—"
He chuckles, interrupting her. “I know,” he says—and his voice is suddenly sofond, a swell of affection that warms her to the bone. “Turians do this.”
He slides his free hand into her hair, pulls her forehead against his, and looks at her, familiar but different. She lets go of a shallow breath; he breathes back. “Oh,” she whispers, settling against him.
"Mmm. Yeah," he agrees, looping his arm fully around her waist.
This is better than nice, she decides. This is great.