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"No, really. The paint's supposed to go where?" Garrus said.
Shepard rolled the pot between her palms, then put it on the bedside table and started twirling the brush between her fingers instead.
"Anywhere you want," she said. "Within reason, obviously."
"And you're sure that it's dual chirality?" Garrus asked, giving the innocent pot a skeptical look.
"I got it from a shop on Omega specializing in accessories for the sexually depraved," Shepard drawled.
Garrus stilled, his shoulders going rigid.
Shepard winced, and set the paintbrush down next to the pot on the nightstand. Garrus exhaled into a more relaxed pose. Crossing the room, Shepard settled down next to him on the couch.
"We aren't depraved," she said. "I'm sorry for touching on a sore spot."
Garrus slung his arm around her shoulders, rested his chin on the top of her head.
"So the paint goes anywhere I want?" he asked. "Could be fun."
Shepard smiled, and tilted her head up to press a kiss against his carapace.
"How do you suppose you're getting first crack at it?" she asked.
"I'm not the one who just insinuated her boyfriend was a sexual deviant," Garrus pointed out.
"Fair enough," Shepard said.
She stood, and bent to kiss his cheek, before stripping off her shirt. Part of her wanted to fling it aside, but years of military training won out, and she settled instead for tossing it into the laundry bin.
Garrus lolled back on the couch, for all the galaxy looking the picture of calm and relaxed. Except that his eyes were fixed on hers, and his talons were dimpling the couch's upholstery.
Shepard placed a booted foot between his legs.
"Lend a girl a hand?" she said.
Garrus snorted, and leaned in, unpicking the knotted lace with the tips of his talons. His other hand ran up the back of her calf.
"No tickling, Vakarian," Shepard warned him.
"Human feet are weird," Garrus remarked, fingers circling her ankle.
"You want a lesson in xeno-anatomy, I'll be glad to help you out," Shepard said. Her leer went unfortunately unnoticed.
Garrus let go of her ankle, and gestured for her other foot. Her boot hit the floor with a thump, joined by both her socks. Shepard stepped just out of Garrus' reach, and undid her belt. Garrus' gaze dropped to her navel as her trousers hit the floor.
Navy issue bra, Navy issue pants. In navy, since the Alliance could be extremely imaginative when it chose. Shepard quirked an eyebrow at Garrus, and gestured at herself.
"On or off?" she asked.
"Off," Garrus said.
He rose from the couch, and Shepard had to look up as he drew closer. Sometimes with all the armour they both wore, it was easy to forget that Garrus had several inches on her.
"I feel like there's a but attached to that statement, Vakarian," Shepard said, mostly to Garrus' cowl.
Alright, so it was possible he had over a foot of height on her. Shepard frowned at his cowl and tried to be taller.
Garrus's palms skated down her back, from her shoulder blades to just above the curve of her ass. His talons grazed her skin as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her pants.
"But I want to take them off of you," he said.
Shepard's breathing picked up, her heart beating a little faster. Garrus walked her backward until the back of her knees hit the edge of her bed. His hands slid beneath the plain fabric of her pants and squeezed.
"Vakarian you grab-ass," Shepard grumped.
The world tilted and she fell back onto the mattress, bouncing twice. Garrus knelt on one knee between her legs, and tugged her pants down and off. He had no problem simply throwing them somewhere to the side. Then he stalled, one hand on her thigh and the other dangling at his side. At moments like this, when they were on the verge of intimacy, sometimes Garrus' suave veneer cracked. Other times, it was easy enough not to pay it any mind. Shepard and Vakarian, Vakarian and Shepard, slayers of Reapers, mighty and powerful and in love. Then there were times like this, when Shepard wondered if the differences would win out, if Garrus would wake up one morning and decide that he didn't have a Shepard fetish.
The thought chilled her, and Shepard shivered. Garrus startled out of his daze, and fixed her with that singularly soft gaze of his. His hand squeezed her thigh, and the other plucked at where the little latch for her bra rested between her breasts. The military's advances in bra technology since they'd met up with the asari were more than fantastic.
Shepard leaned up, pulling her shoulders away from the bed as Garrus removed her bra and threw it wherever her pants had got to.
God, she wished turian faces were more expressive. Sometimes it was hard relying on eyes alone to discern emotion. Whatever Garrus was feeling, he seemed happy enough as he sat back on his haunches to pluck the pot of paint and paint brush from the nightstand. The cap popped off easily, and Garrus poked the protective foil with the tip of a claw. He gave her another of those inscrutable turian looks, and Shepard began to wonder if perhaps she'd overstepped. Garrus wasn't as bad a turian as he claimed to be, and she knew colony markings were important.
"If this is too weird for you," she started.
Garrus cleared his throat. Dipped the brush in the paint pot.
"Just debating where to start," he said.
The first touch of the paint brush against her skin felt odd. It didn't quite tickle, but it wasn't a firm pressure either. Garrus painted a swooping line from her collarbone to her navel. The paintbrush swirled along the curve of hipbone and stomach, and Shepard jerked involuntarily, her mouth curving up into a grin.
"Sorry, that tickled," she said.
Garrus drew something on her right breast, and repeated it on her left. Then he narrowed his eyes, and began a complicated design that spanned from one shoulder to the next, and down her arms to the elbows.
"Is that turian?" Shepard asked, propping herself up to look down at the blue patterns on her skin.
The salarian behind the counter had sworn the paint tasted like blueberries. Apparently it was a popular flavour, and it was one of Shepard's favourites. It had absolutely nothing to do with Garrus' colony markings, or his preference for blue. Absolutely nothing.
"That's possible," Garrus said.
"You'd better not be writing anything rude," Shepard said.
She frowned at some of the designs crossing her stomach.
"Garrus, I hope that's not the Thanix's circuitry," she said.
Turians couldn't blush, but Garrus' neck went suspiciously purple. Shepard flopped back against the bed.
"Should I leave you and the cannon alone? Tali was wrong, it wasn't Dr Michel I had to look out for!" she said dramatically. “It was my own damn battery!”
"This is turian," he said, gesturing at the writing down her arms and along her chest.
Shepard raised one arm to look at the tidy blue writing.
"I didn't realize you had such neat handwriting," she said. "I never see you using anything but a data pad or omnitool."
Garrus shrugged. The purple tint of his neck deepened.
"I'm full of surprises," he said.
"So what does it say?" Shepard asked.
Squinting at her arm failed to reveal the mysteries of the turian alphabet. Garrus took her hand, and bent his head to the crook of her elbow. His tongue traced the angular letters.
"Your name," he said. "Shepard. Then your title, Commander of the Normandy."
His tongue smeared blue along her collarbone.
"Hero of the Citadel," he murmured.
Shepard's heart drummed in her ears. Garrus pressed his mouth against hers. He tasted like artificial blueberries.
"All of that took up that much space?" Shepard asked.
"It's a bit different in turian," Garrus muttered.
"What about this?" Shepard asked.
Her fingers touched the paint that swirled down her chest, from collarbone to navel.
Garrus kissed her again, his hands stroking their way down her sides to her thighs.
Shepard arched up into the touch, her arms tangling around Garrus' neck.
"You're not distracting me that easily," she whispered into his ear.
The turian equivalent thereof, anyways.
Garrus' head dropped to her shoulder. Shepard stroked the back of his head.
"It can't be that bad," she said.
Garrus rolled over, dragging her along with him. Shepard wriggled, settling herself more comfortably against his hips.
"You know, I think I'm over dressed for this party," he said.
Shepard fiddled with the clasps on his tunic. They were fussier than the hooks on old Earth bras.
"You're still deflecting, Garrus," she said.
One clasp popped free, and Shepard grinned.
"This one says-" Garrus stopped, tilted his head. "Its, uh. Partner. In the romantic sense. Turian isn't a particularly romantic language so-."
Shepard swiped her fingers through the section he'd indicated, and offered them to Garrus. His tongue twirled between the digits.
Wiping her fingers on his tunic, she fought with another clasp until it too opened.
"See, that's not so bad," Shepard said. "We are partners, Garrus. In everything. Romance or otherwise."
"Does that mean you'll take this tunic to the cleaners?" Garrus asked.
He gestured at the blue stains smeared across the lighter blue and orange of his shirt.
Shepard snorted, and kissed his nose.
"Suppose that depends on whether you're taking my dress there, too. If we're dividing laundry by who made a mess of what..." Shepard trailed off meaningfully.
Garrus sighed wistfully.
"That was worth it," he said. "I can always buy you a new one?"
Shepard rolled her eyes.
"Didn't know the official Reaper advisor had a dress budget," she teased.
"I'm sure I could classify it a necessary expense," Garrus said.
Shepard laughed, and bent to press her forehead to his.
"You are my favourite turian," she said. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"Good, because the Primarch and Councilor Sparatus were arguing about it yesterday-"
Garrus yelped as Shepard smacked his shoulder lightly.
"You're a menace, Vakarian. Now, what does this say?" Shepard asked, pointing at the smudged lines that stopped just below her hipbones.
"My name," Garrus said.
His talons traced the shapes so delicately that Shepard barely felt them.
"You autographed me?" Shepard asked incredulously.
"It connects with the other part," Garrus said.
He touched her arms, where the shadow of blue paint stained her skin.
"Shepard, Commander of the Normandy, Hero of the Citadel, beloved of Garrus Vakarian," he continued.
"Oh," Shepard said. "Garrus."
Adjusting for the jut of Garrus' cowl, Shepard curled her arms around him, forehead pressed firmly against his. Garrus' arms wrapped around her ribs, one of his hands curving gingerly around her skull.
Heat prickled behind her eyes, and Shepard blinked rapidly.
"You okay, Shepard?" Garrus asked, his voice soft.
"Better than fine," Shepard said.
Shepard cleared her throat.
"So you know," she said. "I love being your girlfriend. Never been happier."
Garrus didn’t look up at her.
"Never? What about last week when you killed three husks with one shot," he joked.
"This is better," Shepard said. "Although that comes pretty close."
Garrus was quiet for a moment, his fingers idly tracing shapes on her back. Shepard met his eyes, and felt herself quail. Garrus' gaze was unbearably, hopelessly the mirror of her own. There was so much emotion on plain display, nearly too much. Her vision blurred, and Shepard buried her face against Garrus'.
"Of course I feel the same way, Garrus," she said fiercely. "Of course. Always."
He sighed, breath warm against her throat.
"I-ah. That's good. To know. Not that I worried-" Garrus said.
He stopped, and when he spoke next, Shepard could feel his mouth moving against her shoulder.
"I love you," he said. "In case it wasn't clear."
"I love you, Garrus Vakarian," Shepard said.
She shifted, and some of Garrus' tunic shifted with her, stuck to the drying paint.
"Okay, new plan," Shepard said. "Meet me in the shower?"
"Going to let me clean you up before I get you dirty again, Shepard?" Garrus asked.
Shepard grinned, and peeled herself away from Garrus with a sound like tape unsticking.
"Only if you catch me first," she said. "And I've got a head start."
She bolted to the stairs, before Garrus snaked an arm around her waist and tossed her to the bed. His fingers made quick work of his tunic, as Shepard scrambled to untangle herself from her sheets. She dashed back up the stairs, catching Garrus by the waistband of his trousers. He stumbled, righted himself, and picked her up again. Shepard's legs kicked in the air, as Garrus held her close.
"Good luck taking your pants off one handed," Shepard teased, laughing.
Garrus huffed, and nearly dropped her.
Shepard squirmed, freeing one arm long enough to ghost along the ticklish spot right beneath Garrus' shoulder blade.
"Shepard!" he gasped out.
Breaking free, Shepard bolted for the bathroom and did a small victory dance. Garrus shucked his trousers in her cramped office space and sent her a dark look that promised retribution.
Shepard smiled at him, and crooked a beckoning finger.
Sitting on the small counter, she unpinned the tight bun at the back of her head, and carded her fingers through the heavy pile of brown hair. Garrus strode into the bathroom, feet clicking against the floor, and stopped dead in his tracks.
"What is it?" Shepard asked.
Garrus looked at her fondly, crossing to stand between her legs.
"What's a girl like you doing with a turian like me?" he asked.
"Everything I can," Shepard answered.