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James sipped his second beer and leaned an elbow on the upstairs bar, watching the steady stream of guests come and go along the casino’s spiral staircase. This angle didn’t give him view of the other entrance, but there wasn’t any tension here—not like down in the wards, where refugees were either in silent shock or crying about the Reapers wiping out whole colonies, whole planets. He’d distracted some of them with poker this afternoon, purposely losing everything except his shirt, but he had to get away for a few hours.
Too much time swimming in their desperation made him lose his edge, an edge he’d need when they hit that fuel depot at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow.
Maybe the Silversun Strip was not the best place, either. His casual Alliance tee had got him a military discount instead of thrown out, but everything was so . . . clean. Smiling faces, sharp tuxes, slinky dresses. Like the war wasn’t happening. Like the human, turian, and asari homeworlds weren’t on fire. There wasn’t any desperation here.
There wasn’t any care, either.
His grip tightened on the glass bottle and he made himself carefully set it on the bar. He didn’t need to get hauled into Citadel Security for throwing a tantrum. His CO would not approve.
As if his thoughts had conjured her, her laugh carried over the techno music.
Shepard?
Just an hour ago, she and Vakarian—covered in sweat, grime, and fatigue—had been distributing rations in the wards.
James turned around to see the Commander and Garrus leaned on the opposite bar, foreheads almost touching, his gray skin silver against her cream skin in the flashing lights. The turian’s blue-and-gold dress uniform, rising impressively over his domed back, reminded James of Alliance blues.
He shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool and tucked his tee shirt in tighter.
Covered from neck, to wrist, to ankle, Kimberly was a glowing vision in a red pantsuit and pristine white satin shirt. She’d washed her face and combed her hair, but those ever-present honey-blonde wisps had escaped her bun again, caressing her curved neck like—
Well, if she knew he was looking, she’d probably hit him with a singularity and shove him out the nearest airlock.
She wore a spent slug on a gold chain around her neck. He’d not seen that before, but it seemed an odd accessory for a fancy evening. Maybe she always wore it; perhaps under her uniform?
James looked down and chuckled: the toes of her black combat boots, polished and ready for inspection, peeked out from the hem of her fancy slacks.
The music slipped into a tango. Her happy smile faded when Garrus took her hand and dragged her toward the dance floor. “No, no, no.”
Garrus swept her into his arms and, despite her initial protest, she followed his lead. “You’ll pay for this later,” her voice was low, but James could pick it out of the crowd noises. Hers was the voice that saved his ass in every battle.
And she was smiling again. Like Sol bursting over the horizon.
“Promises, promises,” Garrus said, the deep, resonating echo unmistakably turian.
A crowd gathered around Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian as the human and turian danced. James stood from his stool to keep the couple in sight as they gracefully stepped, swung, and dipped through a perfect tango, ending with her draped along his front, one powerful leg wrapped around his.
The gawkers gave a spattering of applause and dispersed, returning to their drinks and gambling as the music changed to some techno from an asari dance club.
Shepard caressed Garrus’ scarred mandible and leaned in to gently press their lips together.
Something sharp twisted in James’ chest. He tossed a handful of credits on the bar and left without a backward glance.
He’d see to it that they won tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Until Kimberly and Garrus could go home again in peace.