Work Text:
“Your hands look very human.”
“Your hands look very drell.”
Shepard laughed at that. Her laughter seemed to fuel some emotional artery in his heart, driving it faster. He prayed to Arashu that Shepard would never come to realize the power she held over him. Thane moved his hand from his chin to the table, splaying his digits outward. Shepard did the same. Their fingertips were close, showing the many similarities and just as many differences. Shepard’s skin was smoother and more transparent, a close study and one would be able to see the veins and the ligaments pressing up against the skin. Thane’s was covered in scalelike bumps and were green, speckled with white and black freckles.
He found himself wondering if her hands were warm or if they were cold before any guesses to the temperature were dispelled at the touch of her hand on his. Her fingers encircled his right hand, brushing all over his fingers and palm.
This simple action was more intimate than his prayers. A goddess had reached out to her obedient servant. He knew he should pull his hand away. He should feign an awkward smile to subtly reject her physical contact without embarrassing either party. He should lie to himself and to her. He should fool the both of them into believing that there was nothing in his heart for her and that there never would be.
But he couldn’t.
He let Shepard explore. She was a force of nature on the battlefield and in her adventures. Everywhere she went, everything she touched, she left a lingering mark. It was no different for Thane. Except the difference was that while, to everyone else, she would fade into a legend— an impossible anomaly and a chapter in a history books— to him, she would always be alive in his mind in all of her brilliant glory.
Or perhaps her hand was a living, moving thing choosing to be entwined with his. A warming, soothing touch that wanted to be in proximity to his cold and worn hands.
Those who know the Commander as a warrior saw her as a single entity. That there was no excuse for war and violence. That it was a choice to take a life and that Commander Shepard was a murderer. Perhaps she was a murderer in another life and another time— one that was far away from here, but closer than anyone could conceive. Not to those who knew her. Not to those on this ship. Not here. Here, the Commander was a hearth— melting the icy storm that threatened to extinguish her light and leave the galaxy a frozen wasteland.
The Commander must have finally noticed what she was doing. She betrayed no gasp but did quickly release her hold on him, realizing the familiarity of her actions.
He should not have done anything. That would have been the end of it.
He should not have stretched out for the hands she pulled away.
He should not have wanted to need her.
He should not have reached for a light that was not, in this life, his to take.
He should not have fallen into temptation.
But he did fall.
And in the fall he begged for forgiveness for his selfish act with a heart full of love and his hands warmed by her touch.