Chapter Text
Commander Shepard stands in her cabin making an incredibly important decision:
Dress blues or actual dress?
If she wears dress blues, she won’t have to worry about heels, and the likelihood of anyone asking to dance with her goes exponentially down.
However, if she wears the dress, it might catch the eye of a certain turian, who for some reason Shepard has come to realize she wants the attention of.
Of course that runs the risk of going entirely south because she’s not a turian, and showing shoulders and all might be equated with something else entirely to their species. It also could mean every other soldier she looks at for a second too long could take it the wrong way.
Ironic that the first human Spectre and more recent Savior of the Citadel would be a raging xenophile.
Shepard wishes she could call up Ashley and ask for her opinion. She’d have been able to tell her straight up what to wear, and hell, might have even offered to do her makeup.
Damn, she misses Ashley.
In her mind's eye, she hears Ashley telling her to pick the dress.
In her honor, that’s what Shepard does.
-
The speech is not Shepard’s own words. It was passed down from Anderson and then half rewritten by Udina. Shepard read down it and considered trashing the thing half way through. It all danced around the threat coming for him, and the way the Council was trying to muzzle her left her nauseous. What a farce.
“… Ashley Williams died a hero,” Shepard says to the crowd, going off her script. “She died to save all life in our universe from an unimaginable threat. I won’t let her death be in vain.”
Then she leaves the podium, striding off the stage.
The room is silent for a long moment before tense applause breaks out. Shepard doesn’t even look at them.
Anderson takes the stand again, clearly trying his best to put on that practiced politician’s face of ‘I’ve got everything under control!’ and only doing half a good job at it.
Udina in the corner looks like he swallowed a lemon, but his face has semi-permanently been in that position ever since Shepard declared Anderson the Councilor.
She goes back to her table, where she sits with her crew members. Everyone looks a bit more dressed up for the occasion except for Wrex, who could not be assed beyond showing up as the only krogan invited to the dinner. Even Tali got some new coverings that draped over her suit and shimmered with gold touches.
“Are you sure that was wise?” Liara asks, leaning over to ask her in a hushed voice.
“They got me to show up here in a dress, they can’t ask any more from me,” Shepard grumbles back. She notices Kaidan’s back turned to her, locked in conversation with another Alliance member at the bordering table, but even he turns his head to regard her before responding.
Garrus across the tables nods approvingly at her, and despite it all, Shepard finds a small smile on her face.
Dinner is finally served, and Shepard finds herself at least somewhat able to relax listening to Tali talk about how it’s one of the best meals she’s had since going on her Pilgrimage.
“You council races and your fancy junk. This whole table couldn’t fill up a single krogan,” Wrex complains, but still continues to eat.
People resume a good amount of mingling, Alliance members and other individuals important to the Council coming by the table to give the Commander their regards. The dinner was some kind of unity event for the humans joining the council, but she still finds herself feeling like most of the attention is on her.
At some point, one of those Alliance soldiers comes over to the table and stands behind Shepard.
Tali is trying to motion to get Shepard’s attention, but the man ends up needing to speak anyway.
“Commander Shepard,” he says, saluting her, and then falling to ease position. “Lieutenant Colonel Aaron Baxter.”
“No need for formality,” Shepard says kindly. She can sense Kaidan bristling across the table, even though she already shot him down to hell ages ago. Garrus, however, remains difficult to read out of the corner of her eye.
Maybe she should have worn those dress blues, none of this would be happening, and she wouldn’t be finding herself somewhat disappointed at Garrus’s reaction to her tonight, or lack thereof rather.
“Just wanted to introduce myself. I was wondering if you would do me the honor of a dance?”
She can absolutely feel the amusement radiating off of Liara and Tali.
It was one time at Flux! One time!
“Uhh…” Shepard says kind of dumbly, realizing that some dancing has begun to resume on the floor beyond the tables. “I really don’t dance.”
“That’s not true at all, Shepard!” Liara says, and Shepard glares at her.
“Yeah, Shepard, dance with him!” Tali joins in.
This cannot be happening. Shepard switches from glaring to trying to murder with her eyes.
The Lieutenant is still waiting patiently for an answer, Shepard glances over her shoulder at him once and decides no, that’s not what she wants.
“Shepard, he’s waiting,” Tali says.
“You know, I actually think Garrus owes me a dance!” Shepard says impulsively, head swiveling to look at him and suddenly wishing she hadn’t downed those couple glasses of wine.
He has one of those forehead plates lifted in the human equivalent of an eyebrow raise. That turian is definitely learning.
“Shepard, I don’t—“
“Now,” Shepard says.
Garrus knows an order when he hears one. He steps up from the table and comes over to Shepard’s side of the table. The poor Lieutenant balks at the looming turian suddenly in his space. Garrus only offers his arm to Shepard, who takes it as she stands and they start to walk to the floor.
“We don’t actually have to do this, I am really not good at this whole dancing thing,” Shepard admits. “I just needed to get away from that.”
“Commander Shepard, runs right into a fire fight but can’t handle a few eager suitors or a bit of… dancing?” Garrus teases quietly.
“Yeah, well, none of them are really my type.”
“And that type would be?”
“… We humans have a saying, it goes ‘Tall, dark, and handsome’.”
“What, none of them check all the boxes?”
You do. They’re not you, Shepard wants to say.
“… I think I’ve got more important things to focus on,” Shepard says, a complete cop out of an answer.
“Right…” Garrus says, voice with a note of grimness Shepard hadn’t intended.
“… But really, thanks for that. A seven foot tall turian sends a message.”
“So that’s why you kept me around.”
“I take it that won't convince you to stick around on the Normandy?”
“Sorry, Shepard, but I’ve made up my mind.”
On the edge of the dance floor, Garrus swings around and skillfully places Shepard’s hands in the proper waltz position. For a long moment Shepard is shocked before she realizes what’s happening.
“Wait…” Shepard says. “You know how to waltz?”
“They started doing it at the C-Sec balls a little while back when we had more humans join up,” Garrus responds honestly.
“… I don’t even know how to waltz.”
Garrus responds with the turian equivalent of a grin with a mandible flick, tightening his grasp on her hand, and then he starts to move her.
“Wait, no no no—“ Shepard starts. She stops and tries to pull away, but Garrus has her firm in his arms. The goddamn element of surprise. She quickly realizes it’s futile, at least without causing a scene. She thinks the entirety of the room might be watching them, or maybe it's just in her head.
“Garrus, I’m going to embarrass my entire species out here,” she grumbles to him under her breath, still fighting it a little and pushing back on his hold.
He just responds with a low laugh and ignores her, clearly enjoying getting the one-up on her for once.
He is actually rather smooth with it, and Shepard doesn’t feel as lost on her feet as she thought she would. He dances with intention, and having fought together so many times now, Shepard realizes she follows easily. She can just read him that well.
He’s so close to her like this. The hand position holds them apart, and this might be closer than they’ve ever been, except for those few times he’s helped pick her off the ground after a fight.
She can feel his bare skin under his fingers like this, it’s like soft leather. His other talons rest gently on her side, she can feel them on her skin every so slightly.
Shepard feels the room starting to get stuffy, suddenly feeling too warm over her bare shoulders. She wonders distantly if people are watching them.
“Careful, I’m wearing heels,” she cautions after stumbling once thanks to her derailing thoughts. She’s no longer warm. She’s burning up.
“Heels?”
“They’re… raised shoes humans like to wear. Usually only females, makes us look taller and I guess… nicer.”
“You don’t need any help in that department,” Garrus says vaguely.
“Uh, thanks,” Shepard says.
“I suppose it would be courtesy to compliment you,” he says. “But as a turian I’m not sure what humans like to hear.”
“Well, coming from a turian, what’s the first thing you’d say?” Shepard asks, genuinely curious.
“As a turian… I’d say your skin organ is rather exposed.”
Shepard can’t help it, she laughs. “Noted. If you were human, usually you’d just say someone looks nice.” Wow, she is… really not good at this.
“Well then, I suppose if I were a human,” Garrus says thoughtfully. “I’d say you look stunning.”
Shepard almost totally trips as he swings her around again, but quickly recovers. “And what about me? If I was a turian, what would I be saying to you?”
Garrus laughs, but it’s half a growl that makes Shepard shiver. “You’d say that my plates look shiny, or that my shoulders look broad.”
“In that case,” Shepard says, pausing as her eyes rove over that metallic sheen to his plates and that physique, however alien and foreign to her own form. “Your shoulders look broad, your plates look shiny, and you look… handsome.”
Might as well be the turian version of ‘tall dark and handsome’ if she’s ever heard it.
“That’s very kind of you, Shepard,” he says, sounding very amused with the meaning still clearly lost on him. “We’ll work on it another time, and I'll tell you what I'd say if you were a turian.”
"Deal."
The song ends, and Shepard hears another one striking up that sounds asari in origin. Her hand lingers on his for a long moment but then finally breaks apart.
“You know I’ll… I’ll miss you out there,” she confesses. “No one else I’d rather have watching my back.”
“I could not get a higher compliment from you,” Garrus says, so very formally. “If you’re ever around, you better give me a call, Shepard. There’s a drink on my tab waiting for you.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Garrus.”
Shepard didn’t dance again, until roughly two years and one resurrection later.
One day, even later, Garrus would stand in her cabin and finish that very same conversation with her. "If you were a turian..."
Then Shepard would, even later, finally tell him he was the exact definition of her type.
Maybe then they'd actually stop dancing around each other.