I was pleasantly surprised by the Cortez romance in ME3, and I wanted to explore its beginning a little. Thanks for reading!
"So there I was, running for my life, while above me the thresher maw is screaming at the Reaper. I don't speak thresher, but I could swear it was saying 'get the hell off my planet.'" Shepard chuckled and shook his head.
"Can't blame him for that." Steve Cortez looked down at the manifold in his hands, hoping Shepard hadn't noticed that he'd barely touched it during the course of the story. He'd heard about the thresher maw taking down the Reaper on Tuchanka, of course—the entire galaxy knew about it by now—but this was the first time he was hearing the story from Shepard himself.
He snuck a glance over at the Commander, who was leaning against Steve's work table, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. The hips and ass leaning against the table weren't half bad, either, and the long legs, one casually crossed over the other, were utterly gorgeous. Much as Steve appreciated how much time Shepard had taken to spending in the shuttle bay, his productivity took a serious hit with that much eye candy sitting so temptingly within reach.
And not just any eye candy. This was Commander freaking Shepard, galactic sex symbol. Before Robert was killed, they sometimes used to watch Shepard's news interviews and the few vid clips of him in action to enhance the mood before sex. He hadn't just been on their list; he'd been the list. The only exception to their vows of fidelity. Of course, they'd laughed about it, because they were just two
Alliance soldiers—where were they ever going to meet Commander Shepard? Now here Steve was, on the crew of the Normandy, actually piloting the commander into and out of his infamous adventures.
"I tell you, I'm not sure I've ever seen a finer sight than that thresher dragging the Reaper down underground," Shepard said. "After what they did on Earth, and what Sovereign did to the Citadel—it was nice to see one get paid back for a change."
"It was a shot in the arm for the whole galaxy," Steve said. He glanced at Shepard again. "Thanks to you."
"Oh." Shepard looked down at the toes of his boots and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, not just me. It was Eve's idea, after all, and we wouldn't have made it there without Wrex and the rest of the krogans clearing the way—and Padok did the real work." Shepard's face, which had been unusually animated while he was telling the story, fell into the lines of melancholy it so often wore. He had really liked the salarian doctor who had died curing the genophage.
Steve felt an urge to put his arms around Shepard, to comfort him. It was Shepard who had dragged Steve out of his own funk over Robert's death, making him see that clinging to his grief, and his guilt, weren't what Robert would have wanted. Steve badly wanted to do the same for Shepard, to give him something to smile about. He had a beautiful smile, genuine and filled with humor, but it came out so rarely. Not that there was much to smile about in the middle of a war … but then, if people didn't laugh and smile, what were they fighting for anyway? Shepard was good about making sure the crew of the Normandy got regular shore leave, and he kept a relaxed atmosphere on board. And he was personally accessible and interested in every crew member's life and problems. It was a view of Commander Lucius Shepard that few people got to see—and even fewer knew existed. But he wasn't very good at taking that down time for himself, or letting other people see into his problems.
Before Steve could think of anything to say that might restore the animation to Shepard's face, the comm link in the commander's collar came to life. "Commander?" Joker's voice came through loud and clear. "We're on approach to the Citadel. You want to come up here and help get us through the red tape for landing?"
"Don't they know who we are by now, Joker?"
There was a pause. Of course they knew the Normandy and the Commander—after all, Shepard had saved the Citadel multiple times now. At last, Joker said, "Yeah … uh, I don't think they like me."
EDI's voice could be heard in the background. "Perhaps you should not have said that about the docking officer's legs when we arrived the last time."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll never live it down. Seriously, Commander, come up here and sweet talk the docking officer. I think she has a crush on you."
Shepard shook his head, sighing. "I'm on my way." He cast an apologetic smile at Steve, who mustered up one of his own in return, and headed for the elevator.
As the doors closed behind Shepard, Steve bent his head to the manifold again, trying to fix his mind on its issues and take it off of his own. Talk about jumping from the frying pan into the fire—after Shepard had been so encouraging when he was trying to say his final good-byes to Robert, Steve had realized what an incredibly special man Shepard was, on top of his fine body and sweet, serious face. What had been a crush on a famed hero had become something else, something deeper, for the man behind the famous face. The reminder that Shepard's track record was all female was necessary, Steve told himself, but he hadn't liked hearing it all the same.
Looking up from the manifold, he saw that the musclebound form of James Vega had taken Shepard's place leaning against his workbench. Steve appreciated the bulk of Vega's body—Robert had been similar, a bodybuilder, so proud of his carefully built muscles—but next to the leaner, more compact Shepard, Vega simply looked overblown.
"Yo, Esteban," Vega said now. "I don't suppose you've noticed how much time the commander has been spending down here with us grunts, have you?"
His implication was clear, but Steve didn't need the encouragement, and he didn't want his hopes raised. "Who are you calling a grunt?"
Vega grinned. "Avoiding the question, eh? Fine, have it your way, but I know it's not my finely sculpted figure the commander is down here ogling."
"He's your superior officer, James. Have a little respect," Steve snapped. In a lower tone, almost to himself, he added, "Besides, Shepard's straight."
"Yeah? I don't think he knows that, the way he tracks you everywhere you go."
Steve couldn't help it: His heart thudded in his chest, nearly audibly, at the idea. "He does not."
Vega laughed. "Sure, don't take my word for it. But I bet I'm not the only one who's noticed." He pushed himself off Steve's work table and sauntered across the shuttle bay to his own area, starting in on his daily hour on the punching bag.
Steve gave that one some thought. It wouldn't hurt to discreetly check in with one of Shepard's long-time companions and see if Vega's observations were based in any kind of reality. He thought about who he could approach. Dr. Chakwas was too formal, and too much like his sixth-grade teacher. He would be embarrassed asking her. Joker would mock him mercilessly—and couldn't be trusted to be discreet. He would tell EDI, for sure. Not that she wouldn't know anyway, but she was notably less discreet herself when Joker told her something than when she heard it in the normal course of her duties as the ship's AI.
That left Liara T'Soni and Garrus Vakarian, Shepard's closest friends. Steve decided against Liara, who was as intimidating in her own way as Dr. Chakwas. So, Garrus it was. The turian was talkative and approachable, at least, and not as much of a gossip as Joker. He spent a fair amount of time in the shuttle bay, too, telling tall tales with Vega, so Steve knew him marginally better than he did Liara.
The only problem was that they were now docked with the Citadel; even if he hadn't gone with Shepard, Vakarian might be running errands. He used to work on the Citadel and still had a lot of contacts there. Still, nothing ventured nothing gained, Steve decided. He stepped into the elevator, heading up to the Crew Deck. People were milling about in the mess hall, some just sitting down to a late lunch, some getting up from an early one.
He grabbed the arm of Ensign Copeland. "Have you seen Garrus?"
Copeland frowned. "I don't think he got off the ship. He should be around."
"Thanks."
When Garrus wasn't in the forward battery, his usual daytime haunt, Steve decided to check the lounges, just in case. Mostly they were empty during the day, but occasionally someone went in there for some peace and quiet.
Sure enough, Garrus was in the starboard lounge, sitting on one of the long couches and watching the bustle of the docking area, the ships jockeying for position. Steve drew closer to the window, his eyes fixed on the ships. They were tight squeezes, some of them, shifting past each other as one went out and another came in, the stream of them apparently endless.
"When you watch from here, you can focus on the details, how to get one ship in and the other out, and forget why there are so many of them," Garrus commented. "Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a job like that, to go home every night and feel like you did things right because nothing crashed."
"Yeah." Steve had forgotten why they were here, in his fascination with the details of each ship, and now he thought of Earth, and of Robert, with sorrow. But with hope, too. Shepard had given him that, talked him back into life. The thought gave him renewed courage. "I didn't know you could get this view from here. I love watching ships. It's very restful." He cleared his throat and turned to Garrus. "But I actually came looking for you."
"For me? Sure. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"
"I … had some questions. About Shepard."
"Shepard? What about him?"
"I just wondered—you know, what makes him tick."
Garrus chuckled. "You've met him, right?"
"Well, yeah, war and fighting and getting the job done, I get that, but—" Now that it was time to pump Shepard's best friend for information about his love life, Steve felt shy about it.
The turian was looking him over with curiosity. "All right, Lieutenant, I'm intrigued. Why don't you sit down and tell me what you really want to know. Come on, words of one syllable. Out with it."
Steve sank onto the couch opposite Garrus and took him at his word. "Has he ever been in love?"
Garrus blinked in surprise. "Not exactly the question I expected, but I'll give it a shot. Short answer? I don't think so."
"And the long answer?"
Those keen, far-seeing eyes were resting on Steve now, studying him. "You really want to know?"
"I really want to know." He hesitated. "Unless … you think he wouldn't be, um, interested." He held his breath, waiting.
"To be honest, I never gave it much thought."
"Oh. So he hasn't said anything?"
"To me? No. To Liara, maybe. She pushes more. But really, I don't think Shepard's ever talked to me about his love life."
Steve's hopes, which had crashed to the floor, began to pick themselves up and dust themselves off.
Garrus continued thoughtfully, "I can't tell you much about what might have gone on before I came on board, mind you, but Shepard was mostly married to the Alliance, from what I can tell. You should have seen him then, his first command. So brusque and businesslike all the time. It took him months to unbend."
"I can imagine that. He's not easy to get to know."
"Compared to what he was like then, he's positively chatty now. But he always has preferred to listen instead of talk. Maybe that's what drew him to Ashley—she was determined that he would hear her. And she had a lot to say. She was a hell of a gunnery chief, mind you, not saying anything against her, but …" Garrus shook his head. "Liara and Tali and Wrex and I were not her favorite shipmates, to say the least, and she spent a lot of time bending Shepard's ear about us and our unsuitability to be on a high-tech Alliance warship."
"Did he buy into that?" It sure didn't sound like the Shepard Steve had come to know.
"At the time, a little, I think. But even then he was more about the best team to get the job done and less about who looked like a human."
"Good."
Garrus nodded. "It's why we all came aboard, and stayed aboard, because he treated us equally, mostly. After he … died, it wasn't the same, and we scattered. I was on Horizon when he met Ashley again, and she was pretty cold to him about Cerberus. He didn't feel the same about her after that; I'm not sure he could have. And then there was Miranda, right there waiting for him to notice her. Apparently she was basically engineered to be irresistible to humans."
Steve had seen pictures of Miranda. She didn't do much for him, but then, he wasn't exactly her target audience. "And Shepard was into that?"
"Hard not to be into something when it's being offered so prominently—and held back with the other hand. Miranda knew just how to play it, just open enough to be intriguing and closed off enough to seem hard to get. She was a challenge—and you must have noticed that Shepard likes a challenge."
"But they're not together now." Shepard had been on Earth, held incommunicado, for a long time, and he'd been pretty busy since he left the planet; Steve couldn't imagine he'd had time to rekindle a romance.
"No," Garrus confirmed. "To the best of my knowledge, when he saw both of them on the Citadel, they each offered to pick things up where they left off and he turned them down flat."
"I thought he didn't talk to you about his love life."
Garrus coughed a little. "Well, he doesn't. But Joker does."
"I see. So …" But he couldn't seem to get the words out.
"Lieutenant."
"Sir?" The honorific was an automatic response to the title, but had also been more than earned by Garrus himself.
Garrus chuckled at the response, nevertheless. "At ease. Look, if you want to know if Shepard's interested, there's really only one thing to do."
"What's that?"
"Ask him."
"Easy as that, huh?" Steve kept his voice casual, trying to pretend the idea didn't make his palms sweaty with nervousness.
"Yeah. Easy as that. Look, Shepard's used to people asking him for things. He's not used to people asking him what he wants, or offering him things. So ask him for something you want. Ask him on a date. Make it simple for him, a yes or no. Most likely he'll say yes, because that's what he does, especially for his crew, but once you've got him there, you can get the answers you're looking for."
Steve leaned back in his seat, giving that one some thought as he watched a freighter ponderously draw away from its dock. "We're at the Citadel. I suppose I could invite him to Purgatory."
"That sounds nice. Have a few drinks—"
"Do some dancing …"
Garrus laughed so hard he choked. When he finally got himself under control, he said, "You want to take Lucky Shepard dancing? Please, I beg of you, tell Joker when you're going so he can take a vid. Please."
"Why? Does he hate it?"
"Oh, no, he likes it just fine. But he's got absolutely no rhythm at all. Just stands there and sways. Badly. Don't ask me how someone can sway badly, but Lucky manages."
Steve gave that some thought, trying to imagine it. He'd always pictured Shepard being as good at dancing as he was at fighting—but it was nice to know the galaxy's favorite hero had some flaws, too. No one could be good at everything. Besides, maybe Steve could teach him. He indulged himself in a momentary fantasy, called back to the present only by Garrus ostentatiously clearing his throat.
"So, Cortez, what is it? You going to ask Shepard dancing?"
"Yes," he said, suddenly sure of himself. "He'll almost certainly agree to come for a drink. If he agrees to dance, especially since I'm sure he knows what you all think of his dancing—"
"Oh, he does," Garrus assured him.
"Then that will be my answer, won't it?"
"Sounds like it." Garrus looked at him with concern. "It occurs to me that I don't know whether to be worried about you hurting Lucky, or him hurting you."
Steve smiled. "I appreciate the concern. But I'd rather try, I think. I protected myself for a long time, maybe too long. It's time to reach out again—and there's no one I'd rather reach for." He grimaced. "You know what I mean."
"Yes, I think I can vaguely recall what that was like," Garrus said dryly.
"Can I ask you another question?"
"We seem to be on a roll. Fire away."
"You called him 'Lucky'."
"Oh. That. Well, Lucius is so … buttoned-up. He sounds like a turian."
"Some people think he acts like one."
"Exactly. So Joker gave him the nickname a while back after he'd survived yet another impossible mission, and it kind of stuck. Suits him, doesn't it?"
Privately, Steve thought Lucius, in all its formality, suited the general air of solemnity that hung around Shepard. But he'd like to get to know a Shepard who suited the nickname Lucky—he'd like that very much. "I hope to find out."
"Yes. Well, good luck, Cortez," Garrus said as Steve got to his feet.
"Thanks."
Steve left him there watching the ships dock and depart, and went back to his quarters, opening his personal terminal. Email seemed the easiest way to get the invitation across, especially with Shepard on the Citadel no doubt in the middle of an important meeting. He hesitated, thinking maybe he should wait. There was so much going on; maybe it wasn't the right time. But he could hear Robert's reaction all too clearly: "You had a chance, any chance, with Shepard, and you hesitated! Goddamn it, Steve, what were you thinking?"
He was right. He had always been right. Life was for living right now, taking each moment as it came, not wasting an opportunity for happiness, even in the midst of chaos and sorrow. You never knew if the next moment would be worse. Steve closed his eyes, picturing Robert's face. He missed him—but for the first time, he thought he understood why it had been more important to Robert to warn him than to run. And he was ready to appreciate that sacrifice in the spirit with which it had been meant. He would not make Robert an anchor, he promised. Not ever again.
Typing in Shepard's email address, he hesitated over the subject line, but then remembered that he had never told Shepard about the meeting he'd had with his pilot friends, and their offer of help. So he started with that, and only then at the end added his appreciation for Shepard's help and an invitation to join him for drinks at Purgatory whenever it was convenient for him.
The response came in gratifyingly quickly. Shepard thanked him for his help with the pilots, promised to pass their contact information on to Hackett, and agreed to meet for drinks, suggesting 2100 hours. That was late, Steve thought. Either Shepard was incredibly busy on the Citadel and couldn't get away until that late … or he wanted to end his evening in Steve's company.
He tried to control the leap of his pulse at that idea, but it was impossible. So instead he headed back down to the shuttle bay, in search of work that would look busy and conceal the fact that he couldn't concentrate on a damn thing other than tonight.
Steve arrived at Purgatory at 2040, which was almost certainly too early. But he liked the atmosphere of the club, the music pounding in his ears. And staying aboard the Normandy any longer anxiously looking in the mirror to see if he had hit the perfect casual but sexy image would have driven him crazy. As it was, he thought he had gotten it right: fatigues, carefully cleaned and pressed but not starched, and a hint of cologne in a spicy but hopefully subtle scent.
He leaned on the bar with a beer, watching the dancers, letting his eyes follow the better ones. For the first time since Robert had died, he noticed some of them looking back. It was nice to feel those eyes on him, to feel attractive again. It had been too long since he'd even thought about being attractive, and it felt good.
Steve was still nursing his first beer, much to the irritation of the bartender, when he heard the ripple of whispers that always came with Shepard's entry into a room and saw the crowds moving aside to let him through. Shepard's reputation was too big for most people to feel comfortable approaching him. He projected a certain aloofness that seemed vaguely stuck-up—until you got to know him and realized how shy and private he really was, and how little he liked being the center of attention.
His face lit when he caught sight of Steve, and Steve's heart leaped in his chest at the look. He had to concentrate to get his breathing under control again. "Shepard, glad you could make it. Have a beer."
"Don't mind if I do." The bartender had already uncapped one and had it waiting on the bar, and Shepard nodded at him in thanks before taking a sip. "Ah, that hits the spot."
"Long day?"
"Aren't they all?" Shepard looked at Steve over the top of the beer bottle. "You look like you've had a good one, though."
"Not bad. Not particularly productive," Steve admitted, "but not bad. Besides … you had it right all along. We can't change yesterday and tomorrow is out of our hands. Today is what matters. We might as well enjoy it. And I don't intend to waste another one."
"Good." Shepard tapped the his bottle against Steve's in salute before taking a long swallow. He looked around at the darkened room and the dancers moving on the floor. "You know, I was surprised when you wanted to meet here. I wouldn't have thought a club would be to your taste."
Steve shrugged, watching a particularly talented dancer move to the music. "You don't have to get all hot and bothered to appreciate graceful dancing. When you think about it, dancing and flying a ship have a lot in common. You just have to know what to do with your machine."
"Never thought of it that way. Then again, I'm not much of a pilot. When I drove the Mako … well, let's just say that Garrus will never get into another vehicle I'm driving."
"I've heard stories," Steve admitted.
"Then you've probably heard I'm not a great dancer, either."
It was on the tip of Steve's tongue to offer to teach Shepard … but he wasn't ready to take that step. Not quite. Not yet. He finished off the beer and signaled for another, the bartender leaping to fill his order much faster now that he was here with Shepard.
"There's an energy to the dance floor," Steve said, "a rhythm. Like life, really. Maybe getting drunk and moving to the beat isn't supposed to be symbolic, but … I don't know, I feel like I'm seeing things with new eyes." He caught the eye of the talented dancer just long enough to communicate mutual attraction, then looked away to avoid sending the wrong message. "Some of the eye candy's not too shabby, either." He said it before he thought, as if Shepard was just a friend, and then realized that he'd opened the door without thinking. He held his breath, waiting for Shepard's response.
Oddly, it seemed like Shepard was holding his breath, too. Then, lightly, almost casually, he said, "I'm hurt. You're looking over there when I'm right here?"
Steve cleared his throat, trying to hear the music over the pounding in his ears. He wanted to ask if Shepard to repeat himself, to be sure he'd heard right … but there was a particular look in Shepard's eyes, half hopeful, half hesitant, that said he'd heard exactly right. "Who said I'm not?" he asked at last, trying for a smooth tone and feeling as though he fell somewhat short. This wasn't how he had practiced this conversation, but they were in the midst of it regardless, so he might as well go for broke. "I hear a few ladies have caught your eye over the years—I wasn't sure if you … uh …" He didn't want to boldly ask if Shepard was attracted to him, but he didn't know how else to end the sentence, so he left it there.
Shepard turned around, leaning against the bar and looking down at his boots, and Steve waited, familiar with the pose—part Shepard's discomfort talking about his personal life, and part his habit when he was thinking seriously about his answer. At last he looked up again, saying, "At the time, we needed certain things and we found them in each other. But that's in the past. I've … never had the right moment with the right person. Not yet, anyway."
So many questions came to Steve's mind he didn't know which to ask first. Instead, he found himself holding out a hand. "Dance with me, Shepard."
And incredibly enough, Shepard took it. "Only if you call me Lucky."
"Are you?" Steve asked as they took their place on the dance floor.
"Sometimes."
"You're still alive. That seems lucky to me, after everything you've been through," Steve told him.
"I have a very good pilot who gets me out of danger."
"Joker's very talented."
"Him, too."
Steve smiled, appreciating the compliment. "Thanks." He moved a little closer, noticing that Garrus had not exaggerated about Shepard's dancing, but not wanting to make a thing out of it. "It's good to see you like this, relaxed and enjoying yourself. You don't get enough R and R."
"Seems to me I was telling you that not too long ago."
"And you were right. Just like I am now. I'm used to seeing you step off my shuttle and right into hell. And then I wait … and I worry about whether you'll make it back."
Shepard's eyes were on his, dark and searching, and Steve wanted to drown himself in that look. "I didn't know you cared."
"I … didn't know, either, not until … Once I let go, I knew how devastated I would be if you never stepped back onto that shuttle again." God, it was dizzying, and terrifying, to be putting himself out there like this, talking to Shepard like he was just a man, but there was such a rush to it, too. "You've been there for me, Shepard—Lucky, when I needed a friend. You've been a better one than I could have imagined."
"Steve." Shepard reached out and took his hand, bringing them both to a halt, stepping in closer. "I want to be more than just your friend."
"Do you? Are you sure? I thought I felt something between us, but I was afraid I was just deluding mysel—"
Shepard cut his words off with a kiss, his hands firm and strong on Steve's waist.
They broke apart, and Steve tried to think what to say, but his mind was a blank. He curved his hand around the back of Lucky's head and kissed him again, harder this time. Vaguely he was aware of being walked backward, of his shoulders pressing against the wall. And while part of him reveled in the affection given and returned by a man he had come to know and care for, part of his mind was absolutely high on the knowledge that this was Commander Shepard making out with him on the dance floor in the middle of the Citadel's hottest club.
At last they broke apart again. "Wow," Steve said shakily.
"Yeah." Lucky was studying him, a hesitant look in his eyes. "Steve?"
"What is it?"
"I've never … I mean, this is the first time I … You know."
"Oh." He wasn't surprised. "I'm a very good teacher."
"Are you? Glad to hear it." Lucky kissed him again, lightly, but lingering.
"Today is a good day," Steve whispered. "Better than I'd imagined."
"Tonight could be even better still."
"You sure?"
Lucky nodded. "Absolutely."
By mutual agreement, they made their way back to the bar, Steve noticing and ignoring the looks they got in the process. He was a fortunate man, he thought … but if this was just another soldier standing next to him, no one the galaxy was aware of, he would be just as fortunate.
They raised their beers to one another.
"To the time we have together," Lucky said.
"And to not taking a single moment for granted."
They drank, and then they left the bar … together.