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Shepard’s cabin was far from the ideal place for a drinking session, yet here the captain and his turian friend were, having a post-mission washdown. Two nearly empty bottles sat on the table between them — one of aged turian horosk, the other of Earth whiskey, which Garrus had once grimly dubbed 'burnt acid'.
"And then this bastard–" Shepard paused to take a swig from their glass, "–thinks he can hide behind a biotic barrier like I can’t just overload it! And then—BAM!" They slammed a fist on the table, making the bottles clink. "No more shields. No more geth."
Garrus let out a raspy laugh, his mandibles twitching slightly.
"You know, Shepard, if you shot half as well as you tell stories, we’d have ended this war before the Reapers even hit the Citadel."
"What, are you trying to convince me again that you were the one who took that geth out?"
"It’s a fact. Accept it," Garrus replied smugly, slouching back on the couch.
"Yeah, sure," Shepard reached out and poured themself another drink. "Guess someone’s already forgotten how he managed to miss a geth at point-blank range."
"I missed?" Garrus straightened sharply. It was almost visible how his blue eye flashed behind his visor. "If it weren’t for your genius ‘charge straight at them’ plan, maybe I wouldn’t have had to fire a sniper rifle two meters from the target!"
"Should’ve just, you know, hit ’em with this your… what’s it called…"
"If you say 'beak', I’ll shoot you."
"I was gonna say your incredible turian charm," Shepard grinned.
Garrus snorted, letting out an amused chuff.
"At least you admit that," he said, crossing his arms and leaning back again. "But still, explain... what was that move with the krogan? You just leapt at him like a varren."
"Strategic maneuver."
"It was a krogan. With a grenade."
"So what? It worked."
Garrus rolled his eyes.
"You’re the only human in the galaxy who’d call ‘it worked’ a situation where you almost got turned into paste on a bulkhead."
"Well, I know I’ve got a loyal friend who’ll pull me out of any shit," Shepard said smugly, sipping their whiskey, which only made the turian grimace in disgust.
"You’ll be the death of me, Shepard."
Shepard just chuckled and reached for the bottle again, but Garrus swiftly intercepted it.
"Ah-ah-ah, no, buddy. You can barely sit straight as it is."
"Me?" Shepard feigned offense. "Look at you. You’re swaying so much you’ll soon create an amplitude and throw the ship off course."
Truth be told, Shepard was already thoroughly drunk, unlike Vakarian, who was used to much larger doses of alcohol. What can be said, Garrus always knew how to drink, sometimes he could sip a drink right before a mission, which, surprisingly, allowed him to maintain professionalism. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said about his human partner…
Shepard frowned and flicked one of Garrus’ three fingers where they gripped their wrist.
"Oh, so you wanna fight?" The turian pulled back, but his tone held more amusement than threat.
"With you? I don’t brawl with turtles," Shepard laughed, shoving at him, but his clumsy movement only resulted in their fingers brushing lightly over the plates covering Garrus’ body. The turian twitched and batted his hand away.
Shepard paused, then slowly turned their head toward Garrus, who, noticing the look, awkwardly glanced aside. The captain decided to test a sudden theory and reached for their friend’s neck, where the plates parted to expose vulnerable flesh.
"Shepard," Garrus said calmly, though with a warning edge, catching the wandering hand. He still refused to make an eye contact.
Here Shepard had completely lost interest in the whiskey.
"Garrus, do you know what tickling is?" a barely noticiable smile played on the lips, caused by sincere curiousity.
"Surely. A human indulgence."
"Why do you say it like that?"
"Well… You humans have these agile little fingers that let you do all kinds of weird things," Garrus demonstratively poked Shepard’s face with their own hand. "Turians can’t do that."
And it was true. A turian’s hand was more like a talon capable of ripping flesh. Nothing like the dexterous human fingers that could slip into tight spaces. The ones like… the gaps between turian plates. Shepard hadn’t often seen Garrus out of his armor like this, and the thought grew even more intriguing.
"So turians never tickle each other? Never ever?"
"No," Garrus rumbled in his bass tone. "Our anatomy isn't built for that. Shepard, where are these questions coming from?"
"Pure curiousity," the commander waved it off quickly, stubbornly looking at the neck visible under the thick bony collar, one of the most vulnerable parts of the turian body, which seemed to invite to touch it just to feel its pleasant texture. Rare scales were visible on the thick skin, and the flesh itself seemed slightly cool. "Maybe then, you won't mind if we test your sensitivity? I can even take brass knuckles to make sure it works!"
Garrus turned sharply to his companion and gave them a hard to define look. The stinginess of emotional signals was a distinctive feature of Garrus's race, but even through the drunken haze, Shepard could see in those cat-like pupils bewilderment and thoughts about someone's feeblemindedness.
"Alright, that's it. You need to sleep it off," Garrus started as he stretched. "Let me take you to the bed. I don't trust your legs!-"
Before the alien could finish speaking, Shepard pounced, fingers digging into his neck with frantic curiosity, tracing every iridescent scale. Garrus was taken aback, a hollow rumble and roots of awkward laughter came from his mouth, dulled by trembling mandibles.
"Unbelievable... Honestly, I thought you were faking! Your skin looks so rough, as if it could be massaged with a drill."
Shepard loved the reaction. So much so that they clung to the flustered turian like a drunken pyjak, despite Garrus’ attempts to shake them off. The alcohol had also dulled the sniper's reflexes. Of course, he and Shepard were on completely different levels, but the love for tuarian alcohol let the alien down not allowing him to throw off the 'rowdy'. Garrus often compared humans to monkeys, and now the moment came when he fully felt what was behind these careless words.
"Alright, alright, confirmed!? Now quit abusing your rank privileges, commander!" While one hand of the drunk human was harassing the sensitive neck, the other gently scratched the plates on Garrus's sides with the very tips of nails, causing him a wave of continuous goosebumps. If Garrus was a cat, the sensation would leave him torn between snarling and something embarrassingly close to purring. A turian’s nerves weren’t wired for this.
"Shepard, seriously, don't! I could accidentally tear you to pieces."
"Are you so sensitive that you are ready to do this to a friend?"
And without exaggeration, Garrus could do this in the blink of an eye through sheer carelessness. His arms were incredibly strong, a real weapon, sometimes the team members even wondered why Garrus even used a rifle if his limbs cope with the role of a murder weapon no less effectively. Perhaps any other turian would have done this without looking back, but Garrus was not a clumsy type. He was respected for always being careful with everyone: with weapons, with partners, and especially with Shepard.
"I'm seconds from throwing you out the airlock!"
"You always threaten me," Shepard grinned, relentless. "Remember how many times you swore you’d never drink with me again?"
"And I regret not listening to myself every single time!" Garrus' voice had devolved into a wheezing grumble, which only egged on the insufferable Shepard. The commander's wandering hand slid lower past the armored plates, finding the vulnerable skin of his lower flank and abdomen.
For such a tall creature, the turian had a surprisingly narrow waist, slimmer than Shepard's. Maybe even slimmer than the commander's thigh itself.
Shepard explored the newly discovered weak spot with glee, coaxing higher-pitched chirps from his usually stoic friend. Seeing that frozen, statue-like face and hearing the booming laughter was an unusual experience. Shepard was fascinated; Garrus... was trying to save his poor body.
Garrus writhed like an overturned turtle, his mandibles clicking in staccato rhythms Shepard had never heard before. The captain giggled triumphantly, refusing to end this handsy 'expedition'. Their fingers danced along the narrow gaps between plates, discovering new sensitive spots with each pass.
"Enough!" Garrus barked, but his voice cracked when Shepard found a particularly vulnerable spot beneath his chest plate. The noise the turian made was so absurd that Shepard froze for a second before bursting into laughter.
"By the Citadel, this is even better than I imagined!" They grinned, watching their usually unflappable friend struggle to both escape and salvage his dignity. "How did I never think of this before?"
"Shepard–hah!–Come on, I can’t... My body is not trained for such loads–ah!.." Garrus’ voice was strained but still warm, with no trace of real anger in it. All his energy was going toward adjusting to the bizarre sensations and not accidentally clocking Shepard in the face. After all, no one had ever tickled him before. And certainly not with this much enthusiasm.
"Hahaha, too bad for you, Garrus. Bear with my fun."
"You little..." Garrus thrashed wildly, trying to either fling Shepard onto the couch or pry those relentless hands off him, but it was useless. Nimble fingers kept finding untouched spots, sending electric jolts straight to his spinal cord.
He couldn’t fathom how such a drunk meat sack could be this agile. And first coherent thought was to switch to one of Shepard’s core interests: booze.
"Whiskey, Shepard, whiskey! You wanted to finish it!" Shepard laughed at the blatant distraction attempt but finally took pity, feeling his own buzz fading.
"Alright, live," the commander grunted, releasing him with shoulder pats, timed perfectly with Garrus’ ragged breath. Their hand shot toward the precious bottle, only for Garrus to snatch it first and down half the contents in one go, leaving Shepard gaping.
"So now we're drinking Earth swill?" Shepard ribbed, feigning disapproval that their precious nectar had been gulped down by a reptile. Though he knew well the exhausted Vakarian needed it more right now.
"You left me no choice," Garrus shot back. "See what I have to put up with because of you?"
"Eh, fine. Next time you’re treating me with the turian booze." Shepard shrugged, subtly testing if Garrus would uphold his usual vow to 'never drink with them again''.
After a pause, and finally catching his breath, Garrus replied:
"Just don’t complain when your liver fails mid-toast."
Shepard nodded, brushing off the warning. Of course Garrus would never trade them in, no matter what drunken antics the commander pulled.
Shepard's eyes scanned the table, landing on the dregs of alcohol at the bottom of their glass. Thinking again about his friend's newly discovered little weakness, they decided to come up with a funny toast. But as soon as Shepard turned to Garrus, the latter seemed to scan their gaze.
"If anyone on the ship finds out about this…"
"Airlock. I remember."
Mutual nods and the clink of glass dispelled the ship's hum.