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Quirrel’s hands are shaking and no amount of reassurances will make them stop.
“You’re overthinking this,” Tiso says as he splays out on the sofa. His legs are spread almost obscenely— manspreading, Lieutenant Lace would call it. Tiso probably doesn’t care what its name is, though. He tosses his head back and lights another cigarette, taking a long drag as the smoke flitters out from his mouth and sticks to the layers of tar on his ceiling.
“That’s disgusting,” Quirrel scoffs.
“What, me smoking? Or you proposing?”
Quirrel doesn’t bother responding. He rolls his eyes as he fingers the velvet box in his hands, a pretty little thing that cost him a similarly pretty penny. How much were engagement rings supposed to cost, anyways? A month’s salary? Two? Considering him and Hornet make basically the same amount, she’d know immediately how much the ring ran him— and did that make it less romantic if she was already aware of the price tag?
Lace told Quirrel that it wasn’t about the money, or the diamonds. Hornet is a practical woman, meaning that she’d appreciate any kind of ring as long as it suited her as a commander. It had to be small, dainty enough to wear under a gauntlet if she wanted to go into the battlefield with a reminder of her fiancé. Not that she would, though. Hornet is far too pragmatic to ever bring something so expensive and important into a place so haywire as an active field.
Still, Lace’s pep-talk didn’t do much to assuage Quirrel’s trembling nerves. It’s natural, he has heard, to be anxious before proposing to the love of your life. Because even if you know without a shadow of a doubt that they’re going to say yes, a part of your brain will always whisper, “What if?”
“You think she’s gonna say no?” asks Tiso, which really helps Quirrel’s frayed nerves. The commander shoots his lieutenant a glare. “Oh, get over it, Commander. She’ll say yes and then cry the whole day about it. Scout’s honour.”
Quirrel has a hard time believing that. Not the part about Hornet saying yes, but rather the description of her tearing up and sobbing over her engagement like the girls do in the movies. Hornet isn’t— she’s just not like that. She can be soft, and she can be sweet, but emotional isn’t exactly in her wheelhouse. She’s not the type to cry effusively, even if Quirrel wouldn’t mind if that happened.
Except, the only thing he manages to say in response is, “You were never a Boy Scout.”
Tiso shrugs and takes another drag. “Hey, a kid can dream.”
Outside, a group of people pass by. Their shadows flutter through the cracks beneath the apartment’s door, fuzzy figures of bodies sliding amidst the light. Quirrel follows them as he continues to toy with the velvet box, and listens to the soft footfalls of the complex’s residents. It isn’t until he hears the tell-tale click of heels does he perk up. They sound heavy, rushed, like someone is trudging down the halls with a one-track mind.
A fist bangs on the door. Tiso groans and stands to get it. He barely gets the thing open when Lieutenant Lace shoves her way past the threshold with her teeth bared and hair out of place— something extremely unusual for such a put-together soldier.
“Where the hell have you two been?!” she howls, hand on the door frame. She’s in a pretty dress, hemline hitting a respectful distance just above her knees, and a pair of heels that could cut someone’s jugular if she tried hard enough. “Putting lipstick on? Picking out your shoes? Hornet’s waiting and you’re— Tiso, are you smoking inside?”
Tiso puts out his cigarette on the carpet. “No.”
“Gross,” she huffs. “You, Commander Loverboy,” she says, pointing at Quirrel, “it’s time to go.” Then, she turns and points at Tiso. “And you, Lieutenant Sidepiece, go put on some cologne. You smell like ash.”
Quirrel supposes this is it. Do or die, as they say.
The sky is beautiful, the wind is gentle, and Quirrel feels like he’s going to throw up. The lump in his pocket isn’t as nearly as big as the one in his throat, blocking any words he might think of saying as he wanders into the empty park with Hornet standing on a grassy knoll, her figure outlined in the sunset horizon.
The peanut gallery have already taken their position a few paces away from where the scene is going to happen. Hidden behind a thicket of bushes, the two lieutenants hunch in the leaves and prepare themselves to watch the moment unfold, cameras at the ready.
Tiso shoves Quirrel forward. He stumbles onto the paved path of the park, leading to where Hornet looks out over the endless fields. Lace gives Quirrel a kick. He nearly trips into a patch of flowers.
“Go!” Lace whispers. “She’s waiting!”
“Yeah, pop the question before the lieutenant over here beats you to it,” Tiso adds, which gets him a hefty punch to the shoulder.
Quirrel takes a breath and then walks forward. He ignores the clamminess of his hands as he focuses his gaze on Hornet, who is silhouetted amongst the flowers and trees and dying sunlight. A breeze rustles by, tousling her short hair and baring the nape of her pale neck; her red dress lifts slightly, and she goes to pat it down before it ever has a chance to reveal anything. Always on top of things, his love.
She turns when she hears Quirrel approaching. He probably sounds like a lumbering giant right now, all dragging feet and nervous energy. But if she notices anything, she doesn’t mention it. She smiles brightly— a smile she saves only for him— and gestures for him to stand beside her on the hill.
“I was wondering when you would show,” she hums. “You’re late for our walk.”
“Sorry, dear. You know me, powdering my nose and whatnot.”
Hornet snickers, and taps him on the nose. She grabs a hold of his hand and tugs him along the path, stones clicking under her heels. Though she hardly ever wears them, she strides like a model, thick muscles keeping her steady. Quirrel looks away. This probably isn’t the time to be ogling her.
“You were right,” Hornet says, breaking the silence after they’ve taken a turn around a pond. “The park here is nice. How much money does a restaurant need to afford a business and a landmark?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around,” Quirrel answers before he can stop himself. They’re not supposed to be talking about restaurants or parks or who owns what— this is meant to be about them. About Hornet, specifically. “The park is owned by the city, and the restaurant is subsidized. That’s how it usually works, I’m pretty sure.”
His mouth clamps shut. Hornet turns, and God. The sunlit beams hits her just perfectly, framing her against the lush background; she looks like something out a movie, a classic actress in a role she’s been playing since birth. But that smile of hers isn’t practiced, nor is it fake. Quirrel sees a hint of gleaming teeth as she goes to cover her mouth with a hand, chuckling to herself and rolling her eyes. She shakes her head for good measure.
“Smartass.”
“But I’m your smartass.”
They’re standing back at their original starting position. There’s a laugh coming from a bush, and then the subtle ow that echoes from it. It doesn’t matter which lieutenant laughed, and which lieutenant chided them for it— all Quirrel can focus on right now is the way Hornet gazes out over the park and rubs at her bare, scarred arms.
“Hornet,” he starts, and then stops. The words get caught in his mouth, sticker than taffy. He wasn’t like this when they first started dating, was he? He remembers being smooth and suave, although he probably wasn’t as cool as he thought. Yet, he can recall a certain confidence in him that Hornet would say yes to his request for a date, and then felt steady when she did so.
Right now, he thinks he’s going to die.
“Yes, Quirrel?”
“I…”
“Maybe make it quick. Our reservation is in five minutes.”
Trembling, he drops to one knee. The stone is chilly against his pants and seeps into his bones. He’s sure he’ll freeze over once the sun finally disappears completely and the sky is filled with the stars he swims through each and every day. Hornet’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens just slightly.
“Hornet,” Quirrel starts again. “I know how much you hate wasting time, so I’ll just come out and say it—”
Time seems to stop at that moment. Quirrel feels the muscles in his mouth open, making way for those four special words to be blurted out into existence, never to be taken back or hidden deep within his pining heart.
Hornet beats him to the punch anyways.
“I’ll do you one better,” she says. Bending down, she places her hands around the little box in his quivering grasp and steadies him as she always does. “Yes. Stand up, Commander, and kiss me.”
As a kid, Quirrel had very little expectations for his future. He thought that he’d maybe get a job, settle down, and coast through his existence until it fizzled out into nothing, gobbled up by galaxy’s unending pull. When he grew up, he realized that there was more to be had in the world. Experiences to be had, people to be met. Girls came and went, and he distantly imagined the day where he’d be able to sit down on a porch in a rocking chair with someone by his side.
How hard his younger self would be laughing now. You, he would say, in the Navy? Getting hitched with a commander? You’ve got a deathwish, man. She’s going to be your end.
It’s an end he’ll happily have as long as Hornet’s right next to him.
Quirrel barely gets a moment to slip the ring onto Hornet’s finger before she grabs him by the neck and slams their faces together.
It’s not pretty. It’s not beautiful. And yet, it’s everything he could ever have dreamed of as she presses her lips against his in full-force. He moulds against her and ignores the sudden cheers that come from a few paces away. Cameras flash, clicking. Quirrel lets his eyes get misty when Hornet pulls back and smiles like the bride-to-be she is.
All that’s left to do is plan the wedding.
It can’t be that hard, right?
“Can’t I just go in my armour?”
“Seriously? You’re— you’re being serious, Hornet?”
“When am I not?”
Men get to do it all the time at weddings. It’s a socially acceptable phenomenon to see active duty boys get into their blues and stand at the altar as they wait for their pretty bride to walk down the aisle, who’s being given away by a teary father. And sure, Hornet’s no man, but she thinks that the galaxy has gotten far enough to let women wear their gear to their wedding.
Alas, that’s not how the world works. Humans are uncommonly stubborn that way. It almost puts turians to shame.
Honestly, Hornet’s not against wearing a wedding dress. In fact, she mostly wants to. The major issue standing in her way is the fact that she hates making any fashion decisions, accustomed to donning whatever sweaty t-shirt she’s left on the ground to wear for the upcoming day. That and a pair of jeans works just fine for her. Maybe even a bracelet, if she’s feeling wild.
There’s also a minor issue that’s making it extra hard to select a dress, but she’d rather not think about it right now. Not when the only person helping her choose out a piece is Lace, not alongside someone who no longer flies through the Milky Way’s stars.
Hornet pats down the massive tulle folds at her waist and frowns. The mirror doesn’t display a very flattering picture of this bride. Here she stands, Commander Hardass, in a dress two sizes too small with a ball-gown skirt than could fit an entire kit beneath it. Grenades, guns, and piles of C4— the whole shebang.
She watches out of the corner of her eye as Lace rises from her seat. Her lieutenant comes behind her and slides her hands over Hornet’s arms, flattening the raised hairs in the cool, air-conditioned space of the bridal shop. There are giggles from other bridal parties a few racks over, hovering mothers and aunts and grandparents who ask every little question to the consultants.
Hornet hadn’t asked one thing other than which dresses were the cheapest. That got her a very stern look from the consultant. Without a word, the lady brought over an array puffy white pieces, leaving Hornet and Lace to their devices.
“Maybe we should just leave,” Hornet says, quiet. Another round of laughter breaks out, champagne glasses clinking. Some other bride is crying and saying, momma, I’m so happy; so, so happy that you’re here, that papa’s here, that I’m marrying the love of my life with all my family here. Thank God you’re all with me.
“Commander…” Lace says, trailing off. She’s already chosen out her Maid of Honour dress and a nice selection for Hornet’s siblings in the bridal party. There’s no reason for them to stay here if Hornet can’t find what she’s looking for— the fact that this is the number-one best place for wedding dresses notwithstanding.
Lace glances away. Hornet feels like a fool.
“One moment, Commander. Try to not look too pretty without me.”
Then, she’s off. The lieutenant disappears into the rows of racks, racing along them with a single-mindedness that she only ever uses during missions that actually mean something to her, which are all too few and far in between. Hornet watches as Lace hunts the aisles like a bloodhound whose nose has been honed to sniff out dresses.
Eventually, Lace returns with a bundle of white in hand. Her grin is answer enough as she shoves the thing into Hornet’s grasp. An attendant waits near the changing rooms when Lace gives her commander a nudge to go try it on.
Hornet doesn’t let herself look into the mirror when the attendant cinches the dress. It feels a bit juvenile, but she wants the look to be a surprise to both her and Lace. The material is silky smooth— there is no lace, no tulle, and no big accents. It feels simple.
Hornet emerges from the changing room to an astonished Lace. She doesn’t say anything as her commander steps up to the little circular disc in front of the triple mirrors, waiting with bated breath for her to turn around and see for herself.
And— oh. Oh, wow.
“Hornet,” Lace gasps, “it’s beautiful.”
Hornet has to agree: the dress truly is beautiful. It’s gorgeous, actually. The bodice has a heart-shaped neckline, and thins downward as it narrows into the waist. The lines naturally lead your eyes along the piece until it hits the skirt, which flows in watery turns from the top of Hornet’s hips to the bottom of her feet. It pools on the ground in dizzyingly cyclical spirals.
“I don’t know why I ever trusted the employees here when I have you,” Hornet says off-handedly. She’s never cared for aesthetics in her life, even as a young woman. The Alliance taught her that practicality was necessity if she wanted to survive, and she subscribed to that in every corner of her existence. It’s only now that the Reaper War is over that she’s given herself the chance to breathe, to exhale. To remember that there’s more to life than dry cereal, daily workouts, and the endless paperwork that comes with being the Navy’s top dog.
Lace sniffles, tilting her head back.
“I hate you. You’re making my mascara run,” she says.
“Hey, not on the white couches. I’m not trying to get charged for the dry cleaning.”
The bridal shop’s doors chime, heralding another party entering. This time, it’s a daughter, her mother, and her gaggle of sisters. All of them are cooing at the pretty decor and elegant paintings that hang on high walls. The mother calms them all down before the consultant is overrun by chatter.
Lace follows Hornet’s vision before she stands, perching herself on a nearby stool. Her hand guides Hornet’s gaze back to the lieutenant.
“Herrah’s here,” she whispers. “She always is.”
Hornet doesn’t cry very often. She makes an exception for today.
Traditionally, grooms don’t do much of the wedding planning, but Quirrel and Hornet have never been traditional people. So, it’s not too surprising that Quirrel is the one who’s been tasked with finding the venue. He’s recruited Tiso to assist him with narrowing down the locations, although he’s turning out to be more of a hindrance than any help.
“It’s nice.”
“Nice,” Quirrel repeats. “Anything else?”
“I don’t know, man. This is your wedding.”
There’s a reason why Quirrel asked Tiso to help him. And no, it isn’t because of some chain of command decision, but rather because Tiso and Hornet have become fairly close over the years. While they may not work together, they head out for drinks on occasion, and slip out in the early morning hours to hit the gym. Quirrel hardly ever plays spotter for his own fiancée anymore, although he’s not too sore about that. Waking up early has never been his strong suit.
Ergo, Tiso and Hornet are friends. A general hypothesis points toward Tiso knowing Hornet well enough that he would be able to provide some kind of insight about whether or not Hornet would like a mountainside, beach, or forest-y venue on top of Quirrel’s own knowledge. Unfortunately, that’s not really the case here.
They’re driving to the final location on Quirrel’s list, though he doesn’t really have much confidence in it. It’s just a little chapel on a farm, located fairly far from the city centre. Humble is the way Quirrel would describe it, at least from what he’s seen from images online.
The skycar rumbles to a stop and the both of them step out. Quirrel takes one look at the chapel’s fraying edges and off-white paint and thinks that he if were ever a wedding planner, he’d probably be fired on the spot. Still, the area itself is quite nice: it’s nestled in a small meadow and dotted with flowers around its border, colouring it in dainty hues that appear almost snowy white under the spring sun. But the chapel clearly looks like it’s seen better days, and that’s kind of an important part of a wedding venue.
Maybe Quirrel should just ask Lace for her suggestions— or even Hornet. But, no. That’s not fair. The ladies are busy on a mission a few sectors over, saving the galaxy and protecting the innocent as they are wont to do. It’s probably easier than choosing out a place to get married, Quirrel imagines. At least it’s something they all know how to do.
Just as he’s about to say they should pack it up and leave, Tiso points at the chapel and says, “It’s gotta be this one.”
Quirrel turns around. He’s got one hand on the skycar door and the other on his keys.
“Really?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m not a chick. It’s just that Hornet doesn’t like big, flashy things. You don’t really either, right? This is the opposite of that.”
The comment is enough that Quirrel motions for Tiso to follow, and the two of them head inside the chapel. Inside, they find that it’s a cozy space with intimately nestled pews. It’s easy to imagine the sermons that took place in here; and while neither Quirrel nor Hornet are religious, the chapel is secular enough that no one will ask why neither of them are committing themselves also to the big man upstairs.
What makes Quirrel eventually pay the venue owners is the stained glass windows above the altar. They shine a kaleidescope of colours onto the ground, mosaics of downy doves and blooms casting the dyed sunbeams. Quirrel toes the tip of his boot into the light and watches as they dance along the leather.
Lace: I’m thinking I take Hornet and her siblings to the club for her bachelortte, and then the bachelor party can go somewhere nearby. We can hang after it’s over.
Tiso: i am shocked your planning this with me in mind. the answer is no lace, im not sleeping with u.
Lace: Fuck off. I need someone to bitch to after this shit is all over. I like being with Hornet and her family but they’re kind of scary and I genuinely need to unwind once they head back to the hotel.
Tiso: please LT if hornet had a sister u would want to stay.
Lace: Ok fine. You can go drown in your sadness alone.
Tiso: wait no ok ill take the guys to somewhere near the bachelorette.
Tiso: would hornet be mad if i took quirrel to a strip joint. i hear its a tradition.
Lace: Unless you want a bullet in your skull, I’d recommend avoiding strippers entirely.
Lace: But if you do go, lmk.
On the eve of Hornet and Quirrel’s wedding, there are two separate groups doing two very different things. For one, the bachelor and bachelorette parties have long since been wrapped up, leaving all attendees in a happy, drunken stupor as they make their way to their respective hotel rooms. The only people that remain are the bride, groom, and Maid of Honour and Best Man, who are all off doing wildly varying activities.
Lieutenants Tiso and Lace are hanging off one another as they lean against their sixth bar of the night. Their parties were in alternate places, but they’ve now met up after the dancing and drinking were over to continue the fun. Lace is covered in bits of glitter, and Tiso stinks of high-quality cigarettes. They’re three sheets to the wind and the both of them think that they could probably add a fourth if they’re really tenacious. Although, that’s dependent on whether or not the bartender will serve them anything else.
Of course, the bride and groom have left as well— yet, that means nothing when there’s celebrations to be had and alcohol to ease the burn of the coming day.
Commanders Hornet and Quirrel have instead rendezvoused at a nearby beach.
It’s weird, Quirrel thinks, that Earth is a destination wedding for him. At some point, Earth was his home, the little blue marble that he’d expected to while away his years on. Now, he’s returned to it as a grown man about to be married.
Brides and grooms aren’t meant to see one another before the wedding day. Neither Quirrel nor Hornet care. The wind hums soundlessly and the waves roll over the shore in mesmerizing patterns. Quirrel stares at how the waterlogged sand drifts back into the ocean currents before making its way to land again.
In his hands is a small box. It’s wrapped in silvery paper with a bow on top, joined by a note card tangled in the ribbon. It reads, For your Wedding Eve.
“I almost don’t want to open it,” he chuckles. “She left me so many other letters I never got to read. Things like ‘For your PhD’ and ‘For your seminal paper.’”
“She definitely thought you’d stay in research.”
“Yes,” he says. “Thankfully, I didn’t.”
Dr. Monomon had always been a sentimental woman. She cried at sad movies, helped out in soup kitchens, and did her best to push humanity forward— one petri dish at a time. It’s part of why she enlisted in the Navy, she told Quirrel once. She wanted to do something worthwhile with her MD— not just work in a laboratory day in and day out, unaware of where or who her research was going to. She longed to have a real impact that would help people directly.
She never thought about herself. Only others. The fact that she left piles upon piles of situation-specific letters for Quirrel just adds to that fact. All he can do now is wonder how she ever had the energy to write these while laid up in her hospice bed, blinking machines surrounding her like gravediggers waiting for their chance to lay the dirt upon her head.
Quirrel pulls the ribbon and Hornet watches in rapt attention. The box comes apart in one swift move, the sides landing in the cradle of his legs. Inside, there is a smooth case and a letter.
He doesn’t want to read the letter. The finality of it all reminds him of those last days he spent by his professor’s bedside, weeping that he won’t ever hear her voice again. Won’t ever be able to deliver her morning coffee. Won’t ever have her arms around him, holding him tight as if a mother.
He reads the letter anyways.
Quirrel,
Today is the day. Unless you’ve opened this letter for some other reason, you will soon be standing at the altar as you await your bride. Or husband. I’m not judgey— you know that, my good student.
I would like to wish you a most heartfelt congratulations. Whoever you are to marry, I know they are the perfect fit for you. Perhaps they are kind. Perhaps they are wise. Whatever their personality may be, as long as you love them for it— not in spite of it— I am sure you will have much wealth in happiness and life. That, my student, is a wonderful and rare thing. I am so glad you have found it.
Sadly, I do not have much to give in terms of a wedding gift. In fact, I have given you all I have in knowledge and lessons. You were always a dutiful one, and for that I am grateful. But never will I scrimp on a gift for you, and so please find enclosed in this gift box a small token of my congratulations. It is not much, and you are not obligated to wear them, but I thought you may like it. I wore them back when I was in the Navy, although only ever for special events. And this event is quite a special one, too.
Quirrel, how proud I am that you’ve come this far. Please, let your new spouse know that I am happy for you both, and that I wish the merry couple many, many years of love.
Here’s to a lifetime of happiness,
Dr. Monomon
Quirrel’s eyes are rimmed with tears. Hornet’s hand is a comfort, rubbing circular motions along the small of his back. He swallows down a sob, but the success of that is a variable thing. He never speaks about Monomon, never more than a simple mention in passing. If he does go in-depth about her— who she was, what she did, why he can’t think about her for too long lest he be swept in a tidal wave of grief— the end result is always this, and he likes to avoid the shuddering cries if he can.
When he opens the gift, the tears finally break through the dam.
“I’m too old to be drinking like that anymore,” Lace moans, hand on her head. There’s a bright light overhead that’s shining directly into her eyes. She’s pretty sure it’s burning straight through her retinas.
“Shut up. You’re too fuckin’ loud,” Tiso grits out beside her. If she liked women any less, she’d be scared they slept together. Thankfully, they both have all of their clothes on; but confusingly, they’re piled up against one another in what seems to be a forest, if her eyes aren’t deceiving her. She blinks once, and yup— they’re in the middle of some woods, bracketed by tall trees and low-hanging branches.
Lace is about to make an assortment of complaints that range all the way from why they ended up here in the first place to never drinking again when she pats her pockets, grabs her phone, and checks the time.
“Oh, shit,” she says. Scrambling to her feet, she accidentally sends her heel into Tiso’s stomach and he curls in on himself. He looks like he’s trying extremely hard to not keel over, even though he’s already in a fetal position on top of a pile of leaves. “It’s the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“The wedding! Hornet and Quirrel’s wedding!”
“Oh, right. Wake me up when the ceremony is over. I heard they’re having an open bar at the reception.”
This time, the kick Lace sends into Tiso is purposeful. He groans loudly as she dusts herself of twigs and dirt.
“You’re the Best Man, and I’m the Maid of Honour. Get the hell up— we’re going.”
Quirrel fiddles with his cufflinks and mentally thanks Dr. Monomon for having the foresight to give him something to play with while he waits for Hornet to make her entrance. All of this standing around is making him antsy, and while there’s nothing more he’d like to do than sweep his bride into his arms, he knows that there are proceedings and last-minute makeup touches that need to be done.
Still, he can’t help his fidgeting. The cufflinks were a beautiful gift— one of the best he’s ever received from anyone. Even beyond the grave, Dr. Monomon always knows what to do. Quirrel runs a finger over the metal’s engraving, the Alliance Navy’s logo forming a collection of deep indents on the pad of his thumb.
Tiso gives him a light nudge. The lieutenant looks a little worse for wear with deep bags under his eyes and the scent of heavy cologne weighing around him, but he manages to break Quirrel out of his dazed state.
Out of everyone at the wedding, Quirrel is perhaps most glad that Tiso is here. He’s not sure what he’d do without his friend standing by his side on such a big day, in spite of all that the two of them have been through. The ups and the downs; maybe it was fate that lead them back onto this path, meeting one another in the middle to lend support in these times of happiness and peacetime. Quirrel flashes him a furtive smile and Tiso rolls his eyes. No doubt he’s thinking, man, this lovesick fool.
Quirrel takes a glance over at the bridesmaids on the other side of the altar. Technically, only one of them is a maid— the other two are Hornet’s long and lanky siblings, real Army folk. Quirrel knows basically nothing about them other than the fact that they’re in a task force that does… interesting work, to say the least. Something about CIA missions and intel gathering and a lot of hostage situations.
All of those musings go right out the window when the music begins to swell and everyone rises from the pews. It’s not a huge wedding. Most of the seats are occupied by COs and friendly co-workers and people they’ve met along the way in their missions, and yet it seems as if the entire galaxy turns their attention and freezes the moment Hornet appears at the end of the chapel.
Quirrel is, for lack of a better word, breathless. Hornet is a vision, a long veil covering her slim face as she slowly makes her way across the chapel. On her side is Captain Vespa, who leads the commander down the aisle and to the altar. Quirrel can barely think, let alone say his vows, when Hornet is handed off into his grasp.
But the vows happen anyways. The officiant goes on and on about promises, the importance of understanding, and fostering a love that will not only sustain them, but flourish into the late years of their lives. Quirrel smiles through it all as Hornet rocks on the backs of her heels. He wonders if all to-be-weds are as impatient as them to become newlyweds.
The officiant gives them the go-ahead once the two of them have repeated their lines. Quirrel lifts the veil from Hornet’s face and Heaven itself is revealed in a single flick of translucent silk. She is a picture of perfection, the beautiful bride glowing on her wedding day. The stark juxtaposition between her softness here and her harsh growl on the battlefield has Quirrel’s stomach twisting— this, she gives to him. Her gentleness, her honeysuckle smiles. The part that she shows to no one but him.
They kiss under the stained glass sunlight as Quirrel thinks that this must be what every being in the galaxy dreams of in their hearts.
Maybe making the reception open bar was a bad idea, Quirrel ponders as he looks out over the sea of drunk soldiers and occasional civvies who are all doing their best impression of being in their twenties.
Captains Iselda and Vespa are laughing near the bar itself, Iselda’s husband nursing two of his wife’s drinks in his clutches. As she’s finished one, he easily slips the next into Iselda’s hands. Vespa has the bartender on call— on shake of her wine glass, and it’s refilled without a beat in between.
Tiso and Lace are chatting up Hornet’s siblings. The four of them (or three— Ghost doesn’t seem to talk that much) are busy going on and on about which provides more value to humanity: the Army or the Navy. Obviously, Tiso and Lace are on the Navy’s side, whereas Hollow and Ghost are providing every counterargument in existence. Quirrel wishes it won’t end in some kind of fight, although with how their voices are rising, it just might. All their faces are flushed with potent alcoholic combinations, shades of pink and red under moody string lights.
How did that saying go? Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear; beer before liquor, never sicker?
Whichever it is, Quirrel hopes they’re drinking mostly responsibly.
There are other pockets of people scattered throughout the party. Shakra nar Moreh is on the dance floor with Hornet, alongside a few other plus-one quarians who surround the bride. While elegant on the battlefield, Hornet has two left feet when it comes to keeping to the rhythm. It doesn’t matter, though; her face is split into a smile so wide that it outshines any of her questionable dance moves. Her arms are raised in the air as the stereos play whatever best hits are popular these days. She must be right on the edge of tipsy and drunk if she’s letting loose this much. Regardless, Quirrel’s just happy to see her happy while off-duty.
He’s about to get a refill of his drink when Hornet suddenly leaps from the dance floor and into his grasp. His cup clatters to the ground, empty clutches now replaced with an armful of his wife. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she drags him back to where the quarians are dancing like nobody’s watching. He laughs and tries to scurry back to his table, but he should have known better— Hornet’s grip is firm and sure, harder than steel. She won’t let go.
He muses that that’s probably a good thing. She won’t let go of him. He won’t let go of her.
That doesn’t change the fact that he dances just as badly as her. Thankfully, she doesn’t care that her new husband could probably do with taking a few classes on how to move his body to the beat.
“You reek.”
“You reek.”
“And you’re immature,” Lace retorts. She takes a sip of her drink and decides it’s not strong enough. The only issue is that she’s feeling too lazy, too apathetic, and too who-cares-anymore to bother making her way over to the bar when Hornet and Quirrel are actively leaving the reception, sneaking out through some side path to head to the nearby hotel. Lace can’t take her eyes off Hornet’s short reception dress, the slit riding up her milky thigh.
Fuck. She needs to get laid. Or die immediately— whichever comes first.
“C’mon, Lt.,” Tiso says as he bumps her shoulder. “Let’s raise a glass.”
In one hand, he has a clinking cup of whiskey; and in the other, a cigarette that’s far too expensive-looking for his usual tastes. Lace immediately wants to tease him, prod him about where (or who) he got it from, but lets the jab fall flat when she sees the quiet twinkle in the corner of his eye, wet and watery. He doesn’t dare blink, even while he’s nearing blacking out.
Lace can respect that. More than she should, really.
“You should’ve been cut off hours ago,” she tells him, although she raises her mostly-empty cup next to his. “What are we drinking to?”
“To us,” Tiso slurs. “Survivors.”
They miss the cheers and their arms go in two separate directions. The both of them fumble when they realize they’ve overshot their celebration, dropping their drinks onto the dewy grass below.
The party is probably still going on, but Quirrel can’t find it in himself to care as he rolls over in bed to see Hornet still picking out bobby pins from her hair. She sits at the hotel vanity, tongue sticking out as she plucks each little piece out with all the precision of a sniper. No pins will remain while the commander’s on the job.
The task is complete a short while later. Hornet pads over to the bed and pulls the cover back, shoving her cold hands against Quirrel’s bare chest. It makes a shiver roll up his spine and he instinctively laughs, nudging his wife away as she snickers, pushing herself even further against him. Her touch is cold, but in a good way— she leaves a trail of ice in her wake, cooling the boiling heat in his stomach. It sates him like nothing else in this galaxy ever has.
“Can you believe it?”
“Believe what, dear?”
“Me, married before becoming a Spectre. Never thought I’d see the day,” Hornet says, which gets her a shove from Quirrel. She goes down onto the mattress with a chuckle.
“It’s always about work with you.”
“Don’t act like you don’t love it.”
Isn’t that the truth. Quirrel could go on and on about Hornet, describe every part of her that he loves and adores; the loud parts, the quiet parts, the way she moves on the field and the way she hums while she makes coffee in the morning. How she prefers to choose the film on movie nights, and how she hates the taste of sour candies. Why she joined the Navy, and why she fights for the Alliance with every bit of her big heart.
He could tell this all to her, but he won’t. He won’t because he knows how much she hates to hear him prattle endlessly about her, and that she would rather him show it. Act first, talk later— that’s Hornet. His Hornet.
Quirrel pulls his wife into his arms, and the night wears on. Like with most things in the universe, this moment won’t last forever. All stars eventually grow brighter and brighter until they burn into nothing, and every planet has only so many resources to give.
But every human is a helplessly hopeful fool. They think they can change the laws of the universe. They believe they can alter history when it’s already passed. And just like all of them, Quirrel knows that this day has shattered the concept of time by becoming immortally imprinted into his mind— entropy be damned.
He knows that every time he closes his eyes, he will see Hornet at the end of the aisle in her pretty white dress, walking down to meet him at the altar to kiss him soundly.