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If there’s anything Lieutenant Tiso knows about being in the Alliance Navy, it’s that your CO has the final word in everything. That went for just about every single military organization out there— at least for humanity— but the Alliance is doubly so. Especially during these fraught, dangerous wartimes, it’s expected of all soldiers to bend the knee to his lieutenant, commander, captain, and what have you.
Thankfully for Tiso, his rank as a commander’s right-hand means that he has a fair amount of leeway when it comes to not having to kiss ass. Being childhood buddies with his commander also works out in his favour. In fact, Commander Quirrel is pretty lax with his entire crew, rubbing shoulders with everyone from his lieutenant to the cleaners. He’s a good guy, if not a bit of a doormat sometimes.
But Commander Quirrel’s relaxed attitude means that he’s extra serious when he actually puts his foot down. Like the slam of a hammer or the slice of an Omni-blade, his words sear with a level of precision that one would hardly expect from such a mild-mannered man.
“Stop bringing it up, Lieutenant Tiso,” says Quirrel— and he’s using Tiso’s full title, which means he’s pissed. “What I do off-duty isn’t any of your business.”
Tiso crosses his arms, though he doesn’t plan to relent in his questioning. It’s one thing to date someone while being employed in the military. Most guys dream of a sweet thing to come home to, a cute civvie waiting with open arms in the doorway and a dreamy smile on her face. Welcome home, my big, strong soldier, she’d say or whatever. Tiso doesn’t know. Being gay kind of does that to you, he supposes.
That’s besides the point. What Tiso really wants to focus on is the fact that it’s a bad idea— like, extremely— to date within the military itself. It’s a civilian’s own dumbass fault if they decide to shack up with a soldier or, God forbid, someone actually high in the ranks that is susceptible to dying at a moment’s notice. Their heartbreak is none of Tiso’s business.
What is Tiso’s business is when Commander Quirrel (as in, his Commanding Officer, the CO that he’s supposed to follow without question into gunfire and biotic blasts; and his oldest friend, the man who used to be a boy that ran through Earth’s dirty streets with his eyes on the stars) is actively seeing someone in the Alliance Navy. Granted, it’s not a concern of power. If it was, then Quirrel would be talking to someone much higher up about his conduct. No, instead he’s dating someone who’s the same rank as him.
The Commander of the SSV Alamo— Commander Hornet. Commander Hardass, Tiso colloquially knows her as. You can probably guess where and how she got that flattering nickname.
This is a problem. Primarily because they’re in the middle of literally the biggest, most destructive war to ever grace the Milky Way. Wars equal death— there’s no escaping the grim reaper’s scythe if you’re caught in the line of fire or forget that there’s a sniper on the hill. One shot and you’re dead. No longer to live another day.
And if Quirrel were to see his girlfriend be shot and killed in the middle of battle— woof. That would not be good for ship morale, Tiso will tell you that much.
“I’m just saying, Commander,” Tiso ambles. “It’s a bad idea.”
“As you tell me, I’m often full of bad ideas,” Quirrel says, rolling his eyes. He directs his attention back to the galaxy map on the CIC, hands clenching the metal bars that separate them from falling into the holographic display. His hand goes to swipe along the Milky Way’s clusters until landing on where the Citadel’s projection hovers aimlessly, as if there aren’t Reapers tearing up the local star systems. Quirrel taps the hologram and then the command is sent off to the pilot, who is probably immediately shifting them from their current cluster into the closest relay.
“She can’t be that interesting,” Tiso sniffs.
“I’ll have you know that she is. Now, was there something you actually needed, Lieutenant, or are you here simply to criticize my choice of partner?”
“The latter.”
“Well, then. You are dismissed, Lieutenant. Please, have the rest of the evening off.”
Commander Quirrel is unassuming, a man so placid that you can call him an inland lake that exists on a planet without wind. But that just makes him all the more frightening when he puts on his commander voice and redirects you with all the ease of pulling the trigger of a rifle to leave the CIC, thinking that you royally fucked up your friendship.
Not unlike what Tiso has just experienced.
Back on Valhalla, Tiso hadn’t had much time to assess Commander Hornet as a person. As a CO, she was domineering and strong, eyes made of ice and arms built with corded, well-trained muscle. She was an impressive woman, in a strictly professional sense. Tiso had a sort of instant respect for her when she opened her mouth and directed that little lieutenant of hers around, pointing here and there and everywhere they needed to get work done.
Commander Hornet got shit done. But Hornet, the regular woman?
Quirrel and Hornet are standing on the docking bay’s overlook patio. Hornet is pointing at one of the ships, some kind of turian cruiser. Her mouth is flapping on and on about something about it, her arms moving rather animatedly as she speaks. Clearly, it’s an interest of hers; and clearly, Quirrel’s interest is nothing but her. He has this stupid, lovestruck look on his face like he’s just hit the jackpot, and his life is finally going to be complete. Tiso’s jaw grinds. It’ll probably be dust by the time this little scene is over.
Hornet, the regular woman, represents one thing and one thing only in the military: heartbreak. It’s an inevitability that she will get hurt in the line of duty. And following that is the inevitability that Quirrel will rush from whatever he’s doing to address that pain of hers. Damn the crew, damn the mission— his girl is on the line here!
That’s the problem with falling in love in the military. And obviously, Quirrel has yet to figure out a plan to deal with such expected outcomes.
Tiso wanders closer to the two commanders. In a hoodie, it’s easy to drape the black cloth over his face to conceal his identity from them. He takes a step, and then another step. And then, he’s within earshot.
“I’ve been thinking of increasing my range,” Hornet says.
“Oh? How so?”
“As in, with guns. Shotguns are nice and all, but… I’d like to learn how to shoot a sniper rifle better. For work purposes, of course.”
“I can help you with that.”
“Oh, so kind of you, Commander. How is a girl ever to repay you?”
Quirrel throws an arm over Hornet’s shoulders. He’s a mite taller than her, and Tiso is about seventy-two percent sure that the fact makes Quirrel feel like the strong soldier he thinks he is (he is; Tiso is just festering, old wounds being picked at in the Citadel’s harsh lights), and so it’s easy for him to lay his arm around Hornet and bring her close. Hornet sighs, and it sounds like a dreamy sigh.
Do feared commanders sigh dreamily? And in public? Is Tiso’s mind just racing, conjuring up pictures of falsities while he stews in resentment?
“I could have done that for her,” says a feminine, piqued voice beside Tiso. “She could have come to me.”
Tiso turns and sees just about the last person he wants to see. Draped in a white, doily-decorated hood is none other than Lieutenant Lace, the dolly-looking soldier that was touting around a mean sniper rifle back during their joint Valhalla mission. Her face is twisted into more than a frown— this is a scowl, and one of epic proportions.
“Jealous?” pokes Tiso. Lace startles, as if she didn’t expect him to say anything even though she’s literally standing within a foot of him.
Her response is a half-snarl. “No. And I recommend you keep out of things that don’t concern you, Lieutenant.”
“Hey,” he says, “you’re the one talking out loud here.”
“Do you have no sense of decency?”
“Not when you’re getting jealous over our commanders.”
“It’s not jealousy, you cretin,” Lace spits, and who the hell still says cretin in this day and age? Tiso isn’t even sure if he knows the correct definition of the word, being the soldier stereotype he is. “Does being a lieutenant even mean anything anymore?” she continues, bemoaning.
Tiso is starting to wonder if that’s what he looks like to Commander Quirrel. Dramatic, worrisome, and fretful for nothing. Granted, even though Lace’s reaction to her commander selecting her boyfriend’s assistance over her lieutenant’s is probably severer than is appropriate, Tiso can understand where she’s coming from. It’s not just concern. It’s a fear that they’re missing something vital in their relationship as commander and lieutenant, a bond that’s fostered not only on trust, but a deep knowledge of one another.
Friendship. In-between moments. The love shared in a brotherhood.
So, Tiso does the only thing he knows how to do in situations like these. Moments where he’s got his back against a fellow soldier’s, though they’re both blocked in a corner, clips empty, trigger fingers pulling but only the crisp clink of empty guns fills the air.
He leans on his partner— albeit reluctantly— whoever it may be at the time.
“I know what you mean,” he says. “They’re—”
But Lace cuts him off. She’s spitting mad, angry like a scorned dog. “Idiots! Fucking idiots.”
Fucking idiots. Tiso likes the sound of that. It’s very succinct. Although, he’s not so sure if Quirrel will take very kindly to him calling him that.
Quirrel leans close and whispers something in Hornet’s ear. His head is a mop of black hair, grown out from the last time he and Tiso got their hair cut together. While Tiso has kept his hair regulation-short (because he’s nothing if not a good little soldier, following the structure that he longed for as a child without such bracing forces), Quirrel has let his get a little longer than he usually does. Hornet seems to like it, though. She winds a finger in a strand near his face, giving him a slight nudge back when she remembers that they’re in public.
The commander— Quirrel, not Hornet— has also been wearing his glasses more often. Only ever off-duty, of course; you can’t really shoot a sniper rifle and run through the field while wearing spectacles. But anytime he’s got some free-time, he forgoes his contacts and pulls on those dorky glasses of his. Tiso had told him what he thought of them the moment Quirrel wore them aboard the SSV Warsaw. Goofy, he had said. And Quirrel had merely shrugged in indifference, when in past times he probably would have laughed and said, “Try something better, Tiso! You’ll have to hit me harder than that to make me cry.”
Lace’s rage slows to a simmer when she sees Commanders Quirrel and Hornet laugh at something together. Slightly separated now, no arms or hands touching each other, they look like they get along rather well. Quirrel says something to Hornet, muffled in the space between them, and the laughter begins anew. Hornet is grasping at the metal railing her front of her, head thrown back. Who would have thought that Quirrel was such a damn comedian.
Or maybe that’s just what people do when they’re in love. They laugh at the stupidest things. Tiso watches the way Quirrel’s eyes light up at Hornet, his chuckles fading as hers grow. It makes a smile break out on his face that Tiso has never seen before. It’s filled with adoration, the kind he saves for his research and intergalactic discoveries that no one has ever heard of before.
“Are we in the wrong here?” Lace asks. Something like regret has taken root in the corners of her face, pulling her brows down. A silver wisp of hair falls from her ponytail, curly and coiled and way too complicated-looking to fly in the Navy. Hornet must not have as hard of a hand as Tiso thought.
As for her question…
“No,” Tiso says, confident. “How can we be wrong? In this line of work, you’d have to be dull to date someone doing the same shit as you.”
“Gunning down Reapers.”
“Fighting on the front-lines.”
“Taking bullets to the chest.”
No, Tiso thinks with a renewed anger. They’re right.
And Quirrel and Hornet have lost their damn minds.
It happens, finally. One of them gets hurt.
Except, it’s not who Tiso thought it would be.
It’s 0300 hours on the Citadel and Commander Quirrel has taken a nasty hit to the side of his neck during a prior mission. Not exactly the jugular, not the carotid, but close enough that it’s a real concern to his mortal state. He’s been in-and-out of surgery for the past four hours as the doctors knit him back together. He’ll be fine, the doctors assure Tiso, although it’ll be some time before he can get back into the thick of it. They also ask Tiso if there’s anyone else that the commander would like to have contacted, if possible.
Tiso’s first thought is, nah. Commander Quirrel doesn’t have any family— not anymore. It’s a sensitive subject that Tiso doesn’t try to broach with the commander, mostly because Tiso is in the same boat and the SSV Warsaw’s crew is his family now, and so he knows what it’s like to be left with nothing. Anyone who needs to know already knows what’s happened to Quirrel.
Except for one person.
He mulls over it for longer than he should. She’s his girlfriend. It’s only right that Tiso reaches out and lets her know that something has happened to Quirrel. In the interim time that Tiso is thinking about whether or not he should tell Commander Hornet about Quirrel’s near-fatal injury, the doctors lightly tell him that he can contact whoever he wishes through the panel on the side of the wall. They don’t have time to wait for Tiso.
Tiso is the sole person who sits by Quirrel’s bedside while the commander sleeps. Tiso’s a good lieutenant like that. A good friend like that. Even though Tiso should probably be manning the Warsaw in Quirrel’s absence, he can’t justify leaving his commander’s side.
He runs a hand over his face. Beneath it, he can feel the bumps of long-lasting scars, his dry lips and craggy skin.
Fuck. He should call her, shouldn’t he?
The panel rings. Tiso waits.
Hornet picks up.
“Commander Hornet,” Tiso greets. He’s disrespectful to Quirrel, but to other high-ranking officers, he stays his tongue. Quirrel would want him to treat his girl like that, right?
“Lieutenant Tiso,” Hornet replies. Surprise is writ across her face, pale lines pulling across her scarred cheeks. “You’re calling from Huerta Memorial. Is everything alright?”
Tiso explains to her the situation as delicately as he can, which is to say he puts everything bluntly and doesn’t save her feelings. Part of him wants to treat her softer— her boyfriend just got his neck chewed through by a bullet, and that’s a pretty nasty thing to learn— and the other part wants his words to sear her like the moment the metal ripped into Quirrel’s skin has seared itself into Tiso’s mind. He’s split between two worlds and he’s not sure where the landing gear is on his ship. He’s never flown one before.
Tiso expects Hornet to break out into a run, leaving Tiso hanging on the call. He expects her to be worried and panicked, tears brimming at the edge of her chilly eyes. He expects so many things out of her, the things that he thinks Quirrel would do if he ever found out that Hornet was hurt in such a way.
But, perhaps, there is a reason why Hornet is known so well throughout the Alliance Navy for her cold demeanour. It’s not that she’s mean, nor that she is emotionless. It is that she is a professional, through and through.
“His surgery went well, then?” she asks.
“Yes. It was completed at 0230.”
“That’s good, that’s good,” she says, nodding. “I’m currently in the Sol system on a mission. I won’t be back for another week or so, unfortunately. When Quirrel awakens, please ask him to call me. Or if he’s not well enough to speak, inform him that I will return in time.”
“Solid copy, Commander.”
Then, they say their goodbyes. The panel fizzles and Hornet’s sharp visage fades from the screen, hologram twinkling out into a thousand atoms. It’s as simple as that. Just a regular sitrep coming from a lieutenant to a commander.
Is Tiso in the wrong?
No. Yes. Maybe. He’d be the last person to ever admit that he’s set his tent up too close to the water, right on the border where the waves lick the shore and seep into the tarp, but he can’t help but feel like he has.
He gets an e-mail from Lieutenant Lace four days after his call with Commander Hornet. It’s easy to imagine the words written out in her cadence, prim and posh and just a smidge snarky. Okay, a lot snarky.
Commander Hornet wanted me to let you know that we’ll be back on the Citadel tomorrow night. A seven-day mission has become five, if you can believe it. Whatever you told her, do it again— it lit a fire under her ass like never before. It made her an even better commander than she already is. I’d like to see you gun down five guys at once, Mr. Perfect Lieutenant.
Tiso would like to avoid having his commander get shot in the neck again, thank you very much. But Lace’s words are comforting in a way that he hadn’t imagined they would be, as if Quirrel’s injury only caused her to become more focused. Tiso wonders if Quirrel would be the same, working even harder to impress his already-impressive girlfriend.
“Thanks, Tiso.”
“Yes, thank you, Tiso.”
Both commanders are looking up at Tiso from the hospital bed. Though Quirrel smiles, Hornet does not. She doesn’t smile unless she has a reason to and Tiso respects that greatly. Quirrel always smiles. Tiso respects that, too, strangely enough.
“What am I, a glorified seat-warmer?”
Quirrel laughs, an infectious sound. Like the pox, it spreads from person to person until everyone is holding their bellies and chuckling along with him. This time, the illness is not so severe, but they all let out a few laughs. Hornet, especially.
“Then you’re a very helpful seat-warmer,” Quirrel says warmly.
“Say something I’ll actually care about,” Tiso huffs.
“You’re a seat-warmer with one hell of a talent with an AR,” Hornet says, which immediately warms Tiso’s chest. Now, that is a good compliment.
“See, Commander,” Tiso says, gesturing at Hornet. “That’s the correct thing to say here.”
On the battlefield, Tiso is the first person Quirrel looks to when he needs something. It’s a fulfilling job that places responsibility in that helpless void in his heart, ever-hungry and ever-growing. Tiso has a hard time imagining a world where Quirrel doesn’t immediately turn to him with a command, words understood before they even leave his lips in the heat of gunfire. Quirrel points, and Tiso follows.
He’s the commander. Tiso is the lieutenant. They go hand-in-hand like… like some cliche. Peanut butter and jelly. Salt and pepper. Tequila and bad tattoos— a reminder of a night from long ago on Earth, Quirrel’s hand gripping his while Tiso sat in the parlour chair, an Alliance motto being embroidered into tawny skin.
Per aspera ad astra.
Through hardships to the stars.
He’s thought about covering up that tattoo, usually when he’s half a whiskey bottle deep and regretting the fact that he’s drank through the best shit on the ship just because it was a Friday— or whatever the intergalactic equivalent was to a Friday. But just like with so many things to do with Quirrel, he can’t disappoint his commander.
It’s why he finally relents when he sees Hornet grasp Quirrel’s hand in hers. Their fingers intertwine in the snowy-white hospital sheets, and it’s so fucking romantic that Tiso wants to vomit. That shit shouldn’t be legal. It’s almost horrific how lovingly they gaze into each other’s eyes— Hornet more so. This woman who’s single-handedly destroyed more armadas than Tiso cares to count is making goo-goo eyes at his commander.
It’s gross. It’s obscene. But the way Quirrel’s smile coils around his features, softening them to the nth degree, makes Tiso take a step back and admit that he’s been defeated. Well, maybe defeated is the wrong word. Maybe he’s closer to being demoted. Even then, that word feels ontologically incorrect to place in this situation.
Tiso doesn’t know the right words to describe it. So, he won’t.
Hornet looks like she’s glowing. That’s how you know someone is really in love. She’s a beautiful woman— anyone with eyes can tell you that— and she somehow gains even more beauty the longer she holds Quirrel’s hand and beholds him in this clinical hole of the Citadel. Her eyes glimmer and a prickle of mischief appears on her face as she turns to Tiso.
“Lieutenant,” she says. “I’m not your CO, but do me a favour and look away for a second.”
Tiso looks to Quirrel. “Well?” his eyes ask.
Quirrel shrugs. “It’s up to you, Lieutenant. I’m beyond telling you to do things, anyways.”
That gets a laugh from Hornet, and Quirrel preens, the bastard. “Reminds me of Lace,” she says.
Tiso ultimately decides to look away. It’s not a command from his CO nor his CO’s girlfriend. It’s his choice, and a choice he makes gladly, for when he hears the sound of Quirrel and Hornet’s lips connecting with a soft sigh, Tiso has to do everything in his power to not throw his head back and groan loudly.
His vision returns to them after a moment. They’re both still sitting there under the unpleasant hospital lights, smiling stupidly. Honeymoon phase, Tiso’s mind supplies before he demolishes it with all the power of a fully-loaded shotgun.
So what if it’s their honeymoon phase? So what if they’re dumb and in love?
For once, Tiso lets himself be happy. Be happy for his commander, and that he’s managed to scrape some semblance of stability in another person while the galaxy tears itself apart.
And that is a beautiful fucking thing.