IN LOVE AND WAR
A Mass Effect Fanfiction
Felix Marlowe-Cain
AN: I don't write a heck of a lot of short stories, so this was kind of a challenge I set myself. I hope I pulled it off! This fic is somewhat AU, though I've kept to the in-game storyline and timeline as much as I can with my crappy maths skills and the help of the Mass Effect Wiki!
He was young, charismatic…ambitious. His career was 'on the fast track' according to Galactic Weekly. The Relay 314 incident had left his rival's reputation in tatters right before the election. Now was the moment to strike. All he needed some grand overture to get his name out that extra mile; some way to reassure the galaxy that he and his people were as tolerant as they were duty bound. Sacrifice had to be made for peace and order. Turians respected that more than any of the other races.
A girl was chosen. One of a dozen dossiers his assistants collected. She was the best candidate. His advisors had been so sure of it that he'd barely given her profile a glance. It didn't matter what she was like or where she was from. All that mattered was making the biggest statement. Advisors told him her family was respected Alliance. Her parents had died on Shanxi, but she held an admirable lack of ill will. Marrying the poor war orphan would be a service. There'd be mountains of positive press for weeks, right before the vote. Job done. He gave the order and his assistants and publicity team rushed to make the arrangements.
They cooked up all manner of bullshit about how the pair had met. A scandalous love affair culminating in the fairy-tale ending that came with the peace between their two species. Some of his people spat on his name for it, certainly. Many still believed the humans got off far too light. Privately, he quite agreed. But that wasn't popular opinion, and popular opinion won elections. It was only temporary anyway. Opposition would forgive him eventually. Especially after a divorce - quietly done - and a quick new match with one of his own kind once the occasion called for it. Such was the game of politics.
He'd been so stupid.
The moment he lifted her white veil in the infuriatingly human ceremony, he knew he'd made a terrible miscalculation.
Fierce gold eyes looked up at him with all the indomitable will her kind were so infamous for. A treacherous heart leapt into his throat and hammered with all the nervous anxiety he'd neglected to feel until then.
He'd never regarded humans as particularly attractive, but he'd only ever seen them in combat or in diplomatic meetings.
Hair yellow enough to compliment the shade of her eyes tumbled in silky waves around shoulders left naked by the sleeveless gown she wore. His gaze travelled the length of her flawless neck to the prominence of her collarbones, she softness of her chest and… spirits… was that her waist? He didn't know human midriffs came that narrow! Many turian women would, no doubt, be rightly envious.
But she was so… young. He was no expert on human ages, but she could not have been more than sixteen, surely? Damn it! Why?! Why hadn't he read her dossier himself?! A careful inhalation as he bent low enough to place a mockery of a kiss on her squishy lips confirmed it. Her innocence was potent. Maddeningly so. It rolled from her body in beckoning wave of pheromone after pheromone. He clenched his talons as he led her away, accompanied by a cheerful fanfare and a shower of rice. It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing her and giving the press something far more scandalous to report in their morning papers...
He won the election. 'Councillor Sparatus' had a nice ring to it, though, not enough to douse the permanent stress that had now taken residence with him.
His bride. So pure. So infuriatingly tempting. He could just have her – a wicked voice in the back of his head kept insisting – she was his now. Indeed, the girl seemed to resign herself to the inevitable. Her back straightened whenever he entered the room; those cursed pheromones suddenly spiking with her blushing heat… But no matter how much he wanted it… He couldn't. She didn't desire him. Not really. He could be an arrogant bastard - he'd happily confess that much - but he wasn't a rapist. He'd die before he sank that low.
In an attempt to reassure her that her duty to her people was quite satisfied, he arranged for her to have her own rooms at home. A bedroom, bathroom, and a space to do with as she pleased. He wasn't sure what her personal interests or pursuits were so he gave her credits and told her to get help from the housekeeper if she needed it. He had hoped that she might relax once she realised he expected nothing truly intimate of her. Perhaps that would be enough to rid her taunting scent from every shadow of his stately apartment.
It wasn't. Spirits be damned, it was even on his clothes!
Years of torment… decades of carrying it with him; unable to bring himself to divorce his trophy wife…to let her go… to lose her. Charisma turned to stubbornness. Tolerance and dedication to duty became an almost tyrannical grip on his power, softened only by the efforts of the other two councillors. Dislike of humanity, became outright anger. They crowned their first human spectre – a woman as fierce and as lovely as his untouched bride – and he felt something inside snap.
The usual asari fare wasn't going to cut it. He sent instruction to his most trusted aide and by the time he reached the hotel she was already waiting for him. Golden hair, dark eyes… a little wider around the waist, but he was too riled up to care.
He took her like an animal. All the rage. All the lust. He released the tirade against her soft body, stunned and then euphoric when she took everything he gave her with pleasure. It seemed humanity could rival his people on more than just the battlefield.
After, he felt guilt. He couldn't quite understand it. He'd never felt guilty with the asari whores, what made this one different? He lay against her chest, mulling it over miserably as the woman ran soothing fingers up and down his neck. Cheap perfume and sex. She didn't smell right… but she would do. He kept her for a pet. An apartment of her own close enough to his offices to avoid too much suspicion. Someone somewhere would know, certainly, but his aide did a fine job of keeping the press quiet… and his beautiful wife oblivious.
His work improved marginally. For a time he found a strained contentment. His new mistress had expensive taste that sometimes caused a problem, but she was friendly… kindly… even if she was too stupid to hold an in-depth conversation. But that was a pleasure his wife could indulge him in.
She studied hard over the past years. Eventually she was offered a diplomatic role in the human embassies where – he was informed – she did quite well. She was perhaps the only creature in existence that could tolerate the human ambassador and of course, that made her quite valuable. She'd matured well too, he considered as he subtly admired her one evening; never getting any taller or wider. Truthfully it was only her eyes and face that had really changed. That fierceness grew ever more powerful… ever more hypnotic, coupled now with wisdom that came as a trophy of adversity.
It became a routine of the evening for her to bring to him any concerns and for them to discuss how they might help each other. To further the cause they married for, naturally. It was a refreshing challenge. They often debated matters quite fiercely, but she was a worthy adversary. A pity she would not engage in any conversation outside of work topics. He was sure she would be quite fascinating. Perhaps she hated him.
That was a depressing notion. It clung to him, biting a little deeper every time she brushed him off.
He took it out on his pet, though, not quite consciously. He was short with her. Cold to her. The guilt after sex… It hurt more now and he started to blame her for it. That should have been his first clue. He should have seen then the threads as they started to unravel.
His bride's scent… changed. He noticed it as soon as he walked through the door of his apartment; returning from a business trip to Palavan. His home was cold without it. Worse, invaded! Encroached upon! A trespasser sullying his territory.
Beastly, primal instincts uncurled in his chest and set blood roaring in his ears. He stormed up the stairs, across the hall and slammed his fist against the holographic console. Metal doors slid open-
She was alone. Laying naked in ruffled sheets. The stench was overwhelming. He had to fight not to throw up. Defiled. She was…!
Weary eyes opened. Fierceness settled on him. She accused him of being early. Early.
Answers. He demanded them and she settled him with a glare worthy of a now dead spectre. His accusations were turned on him. Each and every one of his sins thrown like bullets. She knew. She'd always known. Of course she had. She was not half the fool he'd taken her for. His every secret was cast at his feet… all but one… the most important, of course.
In that moment, he'd have told her if she'd asked… But she didn't. She didn't want to know why. She didn't care for the chivalry of his motivations. She gave her reasons though. With angry tears in her eyes she told him all of her childish dreams of love, unity and peace… Dreams he'd slaughtered with his pride. The shame almost killed him.
He was such an idiot.
She didn't divorce him. She believed in their cause, even if she no longer believed in him. But the punishment she did sentence him to was far worse.
He lived in hell. He could smell the other on her. Infuriating. Maddening. Justified. He accepted it because he was a good turian. Because it was his mistake to own. He lived two years in the same prison he'd confined her to for nearly thirty.
He didn't let it affect his work. In fact, it gave him a focus he didn't have before. Buried in heaps of paperwork, kept busy at meeting after event, that was the only time the guilt stopped. Collector attacks and the abrupt return of humanity's spectre certainly helped keep the mountain piled high… But his private life? It crumbled around him.
He didn't take care of his pet. The taste of her had gone sour and he could no longer stomach it. He paid her off. The price was high; vindictive whore she turned out to be. A bigger apartment. A hefty fine of credits, diamonds... But then she was gone and he no longer had to bare the stench of her cheap perfume.
He tried to make amends to his beautiful bride. On request his aide brought him every scrap of information on humans – and their women specifically – that could be found. He actually read her dossier, memorised it, cursed himself for being so arrogant as to leave it so long. She'd wanted to be a painter. She'd won a scholarship, but declined it in favour of marrying him… for peace. Because her parents had died at the hands of his people and she didn't want anyone else – human or turian – to feel pain of that kind. Because she was ten times the person he ever was. She'd lost friends, even family for the scandal of marrying him. They saw it as betrayal. The more he learned of her, the more he hated himself. How could he expect her to forgive him?
It didn't stop him from trying. Every trick in the book was practised and performed. Every possible ritual and mating dance. Every painfully desperate attempt. It didn't help. She was already lost to another. She glowed for her lover. She smiled. Laughed. Painted. He'd never known her this way because he'd never seen her happy. But…it helped; watching her elation. It allowed him to hope for her.
Time healed some of the rest; took the edge off the wound and let him accept. He wished them well. Was there anything he could do? Send them on a retreat? Boost the man's career?... Welcome him into their home? Anything if only she'd stay happy. The offers were rewarded with a gentle touch to his face and a small smile that he could treasure as his own. She was fine, she promised. She needed nothing from him.
He didn't have long to stew in the despair of uselessness and redundancy. The reapers were, by then, an almost welcome distraction. It stung what remained of his pride to admit that Shepard had been right to spout her prophecies of their return. His apology was her reinstatement and advice regarding the primarch. Advice she utilised most efficiently. She didn't receive the leader she'd expected, but, in his opinion, she'd found a better one. He'd fought with Victus during his service years. He was a fine man. A fine turian. A strong leader. They would need his way of thinking before the war was done, he was sure.
With purpose in his work and a truce at home, he could find some small shred of peace. It was enough to get him through the horror of war. He held his head a little higher. He stood a little taller. He found himself a little kinder. A shred of his old self – his better self – returned, reminding him why he'd come to politics in the first place. For duty and honour. To serve his people. To serve the galaxy. He could do that.
A call came in on his emergency channel, interrupting his attempt to justify Shepard's reckless behaviour with the dalatrass. The housekeeper begged him home. His wife… she was not well.
He could not excuse himself fast enough. He drove his own car – when was the last time he'd done that? – and received no less than ten speeding fines. The housekeeper met him at the door, brows arched in worry, trembling in fear for her mistress.
The apartment was broken. Windows smashed. Furniture upturned. Priceless works of art destroyed. His audio receptors burned with the shrill shriek of her screams. She could not be consoled. Attempts to do so had her launching anything in arms reach at his head. His old military training was put to the test as he dodged each and every projectile to reach her. Talons settled over her shoulders and pulled her in, grasping her against him until her knees gave out and her cries dulled to low, pitiful sobbing. A doctor had arrived in the chaos and took the opportunity to sedate her. A single word – name – escaped her lips as a forced façade of calm claimed her.
"Tarquin."
It chilled his bones.
The doctor and housekeeper put her to bed. Out of concern – and perhaps a hint of jealousy – he went through her morning mail. And there it was. A note from the Shadow Broker himself expressing condolences for her loss. She deserved to know before it was made public so as not to shock her when it hit the front-page news. Tarquin Victus – son of the new primarch – was dead. He'd died a hero.
He had to sit a while, the information stewing in his head. He knew the boy. A fine turian, much like his father. Worthy. He bowed his head in respect and silently entreated the spirits to accept what Tarquin could offer.
He covered his face with his hand as the reality sunk in. What now? How would his wife endure? What could he do to make her strong? He vaguely considered introducing her to Adrian. Perhaps in knowing the father, she might feel some echo of the son? Or would that be counterproductive? He knew nothing of human grief. A turian would want solitude to come to terms with it. A turian would seek comfort from others if and when they needed it… But humans he knew to be stubborn. His wife, he knew to be proud. He asked and he researched but there seemed to be no definitive answer.
She was more turian than he gave her credit for.
He fell into bed that night exhausted, but wound too tight to sleep. His troubles flitted in and out of his mind, haunting and taunting. He closed his eyes, even tried old meditations in an attempt to dismiss them…
Soft fingers on his hide. He thought he was hallucinating. Overstressed. Overworked. They ran the length of his fringe and the bed dipped. Belatedly, green eyes snapped open.
She hovered over him, one knee either side of his hips. Thin silk clung to her skin, accentuating the sinfully narrow dip of her waist. Blonde hair brushed his chest as she leaned forwards to nip at the softer skin of his neck. Of all her possible responses, this was so unexpected that he found himself quite paralysed. It wasn't unheard of among his people, of course. It was a base instinct, to seek out a quick replacement for the treasure that was lost. But humans? They were usually so… uptight.
She ground her hips against his as if to protest that she didn't care. He could smell her. Those pheromones… not as pure as once they were, but no longer tainted by another. When had Tarquin left for duty? When had she last seen him? Why was he thinking of that now?!
Because it was her dead lover's name she was murmuring against his skin. Each syllable was a knife in his chest. This was wrong. Even in his culture. She wasn't replacing. She was delirious. From the sedatives perhaps?
A deft hand had unbuckled his trousers with unnerving expertise. She grasped his emerging length and robbed him of any sense of morality. He grasped that small waist and, after thirty years of curiosity, found that, yes, he could indeed wrap his talons right the way around her. The silk was soft under his touch, the skin beneath warm and inviting. He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as she bit a little harder on his neck, asking in an ever so turian way, for him to have her.
His sub-vocals sang poetry she couldn't hope to understand. He pulled her down and against him, pressing their hips together and letting out a primal growl when he realised she wore nothing under that short camisole. The straps fell over her arms, the fabric caught teasingly over her breasts. She released his length to take a balancing hold on his wrists, her head falling back to expose her long neck. Still it was her lovers name she called but… She was ready. He could feel the wetness as she moved against him. He could smell it on her skin. She begged. Every plea in her language falling from her.
In one, sharp movement he turned them over and pressed her against the bed. She didn't struggle in the slightest. Lifting her nightdress to her waist, she spread her legs invitingly.
What little thread of control remained snapped. He buried himself deep inside her tight, wet, heat. Spirits! His wife… His bride… He should have done this decades ago! She was as divine as she'd always promised.
Knees clamped against his waist. Her legs hooked around his hips and found balance against his spurs. Soft hands clutched his neck, running up to taunt the tender plates just beneath his fringe.
He snarled and set a punishing rhythm. Some small vindictive part of him wanted her to feel this in the morning; wanted to force her to remember what she'd done and who she'd done it with. He tangled talons in her golden hair and pressed his forehead against hers. Green gazed into gold with all the things he wanted to say but was too proud to put into words. Every apology. Every declaration. Every plea. 'Remember this. Remember me.'
"Sparatus…"
The painful pleasure twisted his every muscle then imploded. Three decades of unspent emotion poured between them. She clung to him, her knees pulling tight, her grip on his neck hard enough to bruise even him.
And then there was quiet. A few moments of heavy breathing. A flash of recognition in her gaze as she came down. A jolt of fear in his stomach. Would she hate him now?
She pulled her nightdress straight and rolled onto her side… But she didn't leave. Or shout. Or curse him. Slowly he settled behind her, his heart leaping towards his throat when she took his hand and pulled him tight against her, like a blanket. 'Spooning' humans called it. He liked it. He liked the feel of her hair against his chest. He loved the way it ran through his talons. He nuzzled into her neck to catch her scent, to imprint it upon his mind before the need to sleep overcame him.
She was still there in the morning. She slept beside him so peacefully, he didn't have the heart to disturb her. Getting up for work that day was the hardest of his life.
When he returned that evening, listless melancholy had set in. She barely spoke two words. It wasn't awkwardness or regret he didn't think… just… grief. She spent days on the terrace staring down at the presidium with empty eyes. She didn't come to him again.
She quit her job. He had to hear about it from an aide passing on a message of concern from her boss. He must have spent thirty minute lecturing her before giving her a chance to offer a defence. She'd been offered a non-combatant roll with the alliance, liaising between his people and humanity; doing her part to keep the fragile union between their people sound. She answered directly to Hackett and Shepard now… a massive step up from her previous post.
He was still an idiot… but he was striving to be a better one at least. After a moment of silently berating himself, he braced his pride and outright apologised. Could he make it up to her? A new sushi restaurant had opened in Silversun Strip, maybe they both needed a break? They could talk; catch up on things to avoid future misunderstandings.
He hadn't really expected her to agree. When had she gotten that dress? It was borderline improper! He fumbled through the evening, using every trick in the book to ensure he didn't appear as nervous as he felt.
They talked. They had what was perhaps the first truly successful conversation of their marriage. She smiled a little. She leaned towards him and touched his hand… But she didn't go to bed with him. In fact, the moment the car came to pick them up she closed off, retreating back into her grief.
Explanations for her overly cordial behaviour were blazed on the front page of the morning newspaper. A journalist had been sitting at the table next to them… quite 'by chance'. In an instant, the galaxy was reminded that Councillor Sparatus had a human wife. A union that appeared strong despite decades of silence on their private affairs. The accompanying image of her sitting close and smiling at him sparked an unexpected morale boost. Their people looked up to them as a shining example. The citadel gossiped relentlessly. He couldn't understand it, but it gave people hope to see them together.
He should have been angry at being so used, but as he read yet another article speculating about their fairy-tale romance and enduring marital bliss, he could feel nothing but smug pride. So cunning. His clever, clever wife.
He sent her flowers… A gossip worthy bouquet. Perhaps she'd like to take in a show tomorrow night? There was a turian drama he was particularly fond of.
She enjoyed it. Perhaps as much as he enjoyed the charity concert she took him to the following week. The car ride home was less awkward as they talked, discussing the best and worst aspects of the performance and all the benefits the alliance would reap from the sizable donations pouring in.
For months they sang and danced for the papers. Tevos personally congratulated him. Even she couldn't see the strings on their puppet marriage anymore. The knowing smile she gave as she left his office was infuriating.
When had it become like this? He was looking forward to going home and talking with her. He was sending her messages during the day just to ask how she was. Private notes the press would have no way of knowing about. He complimented her; little remarks that escaped his notice until her eyes flashed and her cheeks dusted with rose in reply. He finally got around to telling her how wonderfully slender her waist was. She'd liked that a great deal. She adopted a style of clothing he was sure was meant as some kind of reward. Short tops or dresses that had cut outs around the middle. He voiced his bemusement to his best aide one evening and the amused asari was kind enough to mention how human women were stereotypically partial to compliments regarding their weight and build. Apparently human diversity in their outward appearance caused all kinds of vicious debates on what the standard of beauty was. He was sure to remember that, much to his wife's budding confidence.
Around six months after Tarquin's death, she voiced a puzzling question. Was it culturally appropriate for turians to temporarily alter their face markings? Or even change them completely?
In older days perhaps not, but since it became apparent that some other races struggled to tell turians apart it had become a standard practice for stealth and subterfuge operations. Why?
The smile she cast him had his heart thudding like a nervous recruit again. She had a subterfuge mission for him.
They dressed down. She put some colour in her hair to alter the shade, even found something that could hide the distinctive gold in her eyes. He chose markings usually seen among mercenaries out in the terminas systems.
This was not a publicity stunt. He couldn't help but wonder exactly what it was as he entered a pseudonym into the armax arena's computer. Did she even fight? He glanced over to her and saw her casually enter a name already high up on the scoreboard. She came here often. Stress-relief. How had he not known that?!
His old heart wasn't sure he could take it. The combat was no problem – exhilarating actually. When had he last done something like that? Why had he ever stopped? – But the fluid way his wife moved. The ferocity with which she met each and every holographic enemy. Could a man die from desire? Their tryst some months ago aside, he hadn't gotten a good lay in years. The smell of her reached him across the battlefield, infuriatingly distracting. He took it out on the computerised opposition, boosting their score in a way that had her beaming at him. Beaming. She was competitive. Why hadn't he known that? They'd have to go head to head sometime. Maybe he could teach her a few things.
The euphoria was rudely interrupted by explosions that were all too real. He could feel them thrumming beneath the holographic terrain, shaking the entire station! Grasping her arm he pulled her down into cover as their once enraptured audience screamed and scattered. Cerberus soldiers swarmed the venue!
In the time it took for her to become extremely alarmed, he'd worked a little old magic on the pistols they'd brought into the arena and bypassed all the safeties. Handing her back her now lethal gun, he clasped her shoulder, calming her with a steady gaze. She had to be strong now. She had to shoot anything in black and yellow armour. Could she do that?
Of course she could. She was neither a child nor a coward. She was a quick learner though. Observation was all the instruction she apparently needed. How to throw a grenade effectively. How to handle an assault rifle they picked up from one of the dead c-sec officers. How to roll in and out of cover quick enough to infuriate the enemy and draw their fire so he could dive for the abandoned missile launcher and take out the atlas mech. She was good. She was beautiful.
They got to the shuttle and he couldn't keep his hands off her. Autopilot would take them to the Destiny Ascension… if her scent didn't kill him first. Sweat, blood, and beneath the muck of the fight that haunting smell that was her. Adrenaline made her heart thunder. He could hear it in her chest as she wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed herself against him. It was a quick, dirty rutting, the kind he hadn't had since his military days. But Spirits she felt so damn good! And this time she was conscious. It was his name she called as she pulled back on his fringe and touched her forehead to his.
Udina was killed. His treachery hurt her deeper than she liked to admit. She confided it to him, though. She'd thought the ambassador was stronger than that. Brash, arrogant, difficult, certainly, but at least with the galaxy's best interests at heart. But no. He'd been Cerberus all along.
He tried to impart some wisdom that sounded weak even to him. Some nonsense about how people sometimes got in over their heads. Privately he cursed his idiotic peer and she knew it. She smiled and thanked him for his efforts; rewarded him for it by curling up against his chest in the bed of their hotel room.
Home had been damaged in the attack so they would have to make do with closer quarters. She didn't seem to mind. She ran her fingers over the plates of his chest, her lovely hair tickling at all the spaces between. He let out several involuntary sub-tones that, had they been in her hearing range, would have been extremely embarrassing. The moment could not have been more perfect… Or so he'd thought.
She lifted her head enough to gaze up at him, an earnest request in her eyes. A little spark of almost childish hope. They were going to have to renovate their home anyway, yes? Could she… maybe… share his room? As a wife – a mate – was supposed to? Please? Please. Could they put thirty years behind them and start again?
Something old and broken healed over.
Yes… yes they could. He was sorry. There wasn't a sincere enough apology in either of their languages… but he was.
She was sorry too… though what she had to apologise for he wasn't certain.
They renewed their vows. A small, private ceremony. Just close friends and family. No journalists. Shepard's pet krogan saw to that. Who'd have thought. Krogan at his wedding… Wait... Shepard?
The spectre jabbed his arm with her pistol, warning him he better take better care of her aunt this time or she and him were gonna 'have it out'. Her aunt. Of course she was. They had the same spirit. The same resolute will. He really should have read Shepard's dossier back when she was put forward as a spectre candidate…
Very few women of any specie could boast being able to wear the same dress thirty years apart and still shine in it, but she did. This time when he lifted her veil she smiled at him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with all the passion humans were capable of.
Three decades of mistakes were swept under the rug, as humans say. He had a second chance. He'd do it right this time. He'd treasure as he was supposed to. Foreheads touched and this time he let out a purr that was definitely audible. His beautiful bride. His clever wife. His perfect mate.
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