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“I might be the worst killer this galaxy has ever seen,” Shepard laughed bitterly, exhaling a cool stream of silvery smoke before passing the cigarette to Jack. She’d tried to quit smoking when she was “reborn,” she really did. But fresh, pink lungs straight out of the factory-sealed packaging were no match for the intense urges that gnawed on her insides.
Satiating those aching cravings was the only thing convincing her that she was real.
Jack was stretched over her lap like a cat lying in the sun, languid and gentle, though still able to strike at a moment’s notice if she sensed danger. Or if she simply felt like it.
“You wish.” Jack’s tongue darted out to lick her plush, red lips before inhaling her own share of nicotine and dread. Shepard hated it when Jack soaked the tip of a shared cigarette. The saliva cooled instantly and felt unpleasant in her mouth, but she never mentioned it. “One bombed relay doesn’t even come close to the Reaper’s numbers.”
Shepard ghosted her fingertips along the hard notches of Jack’s ribs, barely glancing against the soft underside of her breast. The tattoos did a great job of covering her scars, but at this distance, Shepard can see the raised lines of marred tissue for what they are: a tapestry of misery painted by madmen and sadists. She’s never asked about the scars though—because Jack never asks about hers.
“I’m still turning myself in.”
Would Jack crush the cigarette in her hand, ignoring the glowing ember as it seared her flesh, or would she rather stick it right in Shepard’s eye? Nothing could carve one’s insides with pain quite like abandonment.
Jack’s hands merely settled on the flat planes of her abdomen as she turned her head away from Shepard’s gaze. Maybe she would run? The signs were there in the way her jaw tightened and the slight flinch of her toes. Signs that would have gone unnoticed by someone without cybernetic enhanced eyesight.
“Why?”
“You think they’ll listen to me if I steal the ship and run? We need them to start preparing for the Reapers.” Shepard took the cigarette from Jack and stubbed it out on the tray by the bedside.
“Grow up,” Jack scoffed, more petulance than malice in the tone. “The fucking Alliance has never listened before and I don’t get why you think they will now.”
“You’re probably right,” Shepard laughed, harsh and humorless, prepared to give more of herself to a cause that may have been lost right from the start. “But I still have to try.”
“That’s what I get for fucking a girl scout.” In a move that Shepard never would have predicted, Jack rolled to face her. The once sharp buzz of her hair was softer now that it was growing in, tickling Shepard’s thighs as she turned and locking her into a steady gaze.
Jack’s eyes might have been described as doe-like if she’d been able to choose her life—large, and a decadent shade of dark brown, perpetually drenched in thick layers of flaky, cheap mascara and rimmed red with unease.
Shepard had always enjoyed looking at Jack, intrigued by her quick, feline movements and the soft curve of her ass. But it wasn’t until she spared Aresh in the dark, wet hell of Pragia that Shepard longed to trace her tattoos with her tongue.
No one knew the strength that restraint takes better than Shepard.
“I seem to remember this girl scout making you scream her name last night. Or am I thinking of someone else?” Shepard teased, igniting a flicker of blue energy on her fingertips, trailing them down the smooth line of Jack’s jaw.
Jack clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, a hollow sound of derision, before she reached to twist Shepard’s nipple—a move that was easily blocked. “Don’t get full of yourself, Shepard. That was only cause I showed you how to fuck with your biotics. You can thank me when they throw your ass in prison with only your fingers to keep you company.”
“Give me a break. I didn’t have them in my first life.” Shepard grabbed Jack’s hands and held them still against her abdomen. “And I’ll miss you too, by the way.”
Jack moved to snatch her hands back, but Shepard wouldn’t let her. She recognized if the biotic used her true power, there was no way Shepard would have been able to hang on.
“Fuck,” Jacked huffed and sealed her eyes against the first fat drops of tears that pooled in the corners. “I’d argue with you if I didn’t know you were as thick-headed as a krogan.”
“Literally.”
A corner of Jack’s mouth twitched with a smile that Shepard almost missed. She wasn’t a sniper, but an opening to take the shot had clearly presented itself. Leaning over, she closed her eyes and kissed Jack, using the tip of her tongue to take in the salty, smoky warmth.
This was the version of Jack that Shepard was falling for; nearly melted in her arms but with a definable line of tension that stretched and held her body taut, capable of snapping at any given moment. She could still run—the idea was on the tip of her tongue and in the forefront of her mind, but she was choosing to be brave instead.
And Shepard knew this to be true, because she felt the same exact way.