Title: No Contracts, Just a Handshake
Author: Lucky Gun
Description: Three times Kaidan met Shepard before he finally shook her hand and learned her name. An imagining of the lieutenant coming across the commander before the Normandy, immediately pre-ME1. FemShep, implied pre-Shenko. Language
A/N: I took a few liberties with the weapons here. Some of the pistols, rifles, amps, and the like aren't available in ME1. Also, some disciplines, which would normally be mutually exclusive, are referenced as being married. This is a creative license only. But I'll tell you, if you pick up on that...bravo, mate.
The first time he met her, he never even saw her face.
She was in front of him at the range, getting ready at the firing line. He was next and waiting a respectful distance away, his arms behind him, standing at ease. He watched her move, the red and white N7 on her shoulders catching his attention. He blinked, tilting his head, and stared hard at the logo. He wasn't aware of too many females in the N program that were stationed on Arcturus, and figured she must be passing through, like him. He had been there two weeks as he awaited reassignment, and he was getting cabin fever, hence his presence at the range.
He watched, curious, as she knelt and adjusted her left greave. Her armor was light, thin, and it flexed easily. Her blond hair, darker than normal and long, slipped to the side as she she shifted to her other shin. There was a glint of metal at the base of her neck, and he felt the unusual urge to grin outright.
An N7 biotic? Now, that was certainly interesting.
Her ponytail shifted further, and he could just make out the blue ring around the inside of her implant.
She's got the L3, he figured quickly, knowing he wouldn't find an L2 that high up the ranks.
Not that he couldn't prove himself to that level, no. There was just too much distrust and too much bias against L2s. Given some of the side effects, he couldn't put all the blame on others for being suspicious. After all, insanity was just one of the lesser consequences for some L2s. He was lucky to get away with just migraines.
She stood, rolling her shoulders, and stepped to the table at the barrier. It held a two blocks of universal thermal clips, plus three cases that had that same N7 logo emblazoned on the sides. She reached for the first one, fingers sure, and he could hear the cool click of metal snapping into place, preparation taking more than two minutes. When she stepped back and a small pistol appeared in her right hand, it was almost anticlimactic.
Then he looked at it, really looked, and took in the smooth black grip, the red paint along the front, and the bright glow from the middle. It had a longer barrel than looked normal, and he swallowed, placing the weapon. It was the M-6 Carnifex hand cannon, with an additional shim barrel and a deeper heat sink than he saw on most rifles. In anyone's hands, it was an intimidating piece of equipment.
While he was studying the weapon, the first target moved off to the distance, pre-programmed, apparently, and the soldier in front of him raised the gun in one smooth motion. She looked relaxed as she squeezed the trigger, aiming carefully, and a rapid report spat out of the pistol. He was too used to weapons fire to jump, but he still stiffened at the sound. Fire and smoke belched from the long black barrel, and he counted the shots, waiting.
She ended her round before she had to eject her thermal clip. He frowned and thought about how many shots he'd marked – seventy eight, he was certain – and glanced at the heat indicator as her hand fell. It wasn't even orange. It still glowed blue, cold, not even registering the amount of power she'd forced through it.
Her armor shimmered briefly and she tapped something on her omni tool as the display popped up. He saw the weaving and identified it as a medical exoskeleton plugged into her suit. He cocked his head again, thinking hard, and abruptly figured out that she had come across the perfect combination to create a 'heatless' weapon.
He chuckled softly, gentle amazement seeping through him, and it was tinged with the kind of humbleness he'd learned growing up on the farm.
His thoughts switched to Jump Zero, and he straightened quickly, falling into military training to subdue that particular line of thinking. Distracted, it took him longer than he would have liked to change his thought processes, and he almost missed her replacing that gun in its case and putting together her next weapon. This one was a sniper rifle, and he couldn't stop his mouth from dropping open, jaw slack.
It was huge.
The soldier in front of him couldn't have been more than sixty six or sixty seven inches tall, and the butt of the rifle sat on the floor as she inspected the barrel from her tip toes. His eyes trailed downward, taking in the corporate markings, and he knew it: the Naginata V, and, by the looks of it, it had an additional heat sink, as well. He couldn't place the second modification – every gun had two – and he found himself holding his breath in anticipation.
She hefted the rifle with an ease born of practice, and he disregarded the absurdity, the strangeness of a biotic having a specialty in long-range weaponry, just as he refused to let his eyes drift lower as she bent over the table. Her hips shifted with her movements as she lined up a shot on her second target. It was further, at least three times the distance of her pistol track, and he could see the bend in the plating around the back sides of her ribs as she exhaled slowly.
These shots were louder, further apart, and he was thankful for the sound absorbency of the room. In the distance, her target wavered in green fire, and he realized she was using plutonium rounds. He hiked his collar up a little tighter on his throat, silently thankful for the twin shots in his ass that gave him protection against shells like that. It was still a few minutes before she finished sniping, standing up and taking a few deep breaths. She'd fired carefully, taking her time, but she'd had to replace her thermal clip four times in the process. Still, as the exoskeleton flashed over her gray armor again, he acknowledged that it was half as many times as she normally would have had to stop.
It took her longer to put the sniper rifled away, and he bounced on his toes a few times, fingers flexing. It was hard, the waiting, and he chewed the inside of his cheek, searching for the patience he was known for.
The last case was smaller, just the size of his fist, maybe, and he knew what it held. She pulled it towards her and opened it at an angle he couldn't see. Her fingers reached back and pushed her ponytail to the side, her other hand coming up to pull the dust cover from her port. The clear plastic fell into her hand and she pocketed it with extreme familiarity, and he squinted, trying to get a clear look at the hardware she was bringing up.
He actually started when he could make out the emblem on the back of it. The Savant VII, a piece of technology that he couldn't afford in five years of pay, not with the way Serrice Council marked up their products. He should've looked away as she pushed it into her headjack; it was unwritten protocol among biotics, as intimate as the movement was. Instead, he stared openly, watching as the yellow-tinted amp sunk into her port. She jerked a little, just as he always did, and he knew she was feeling the pressure behind her eyes, the buzz in her jaw, the hum of her biotics dancing at the back of her consciousness. In all his life, his fifteen years of living as an L2, he'd never watched someone insert an amp.
With a flash of shame, he knew this was why.
Even not knowing her – nothing of her profile, her creed, her religion – he knew what her nerves were doing, the reason her fingers tensed in a tight grip, the science behind the small hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. It was incredible, and disturbing, that with one smooth motion he could know so much about a stranger.
The moment passed, though his face was still flushed with his self-hatred, and he pulled his eyes away as his jaw worked in annoyance.
She danced in place a moment, the tips of her fingers dancing along her thighs, and knew she was running through the same kinesiological exercises he put himself through whenever placing an amp. She rolled her neck again, the tanned skin of her cheeks touching one shoulder then the other, and he kept his gaze down. Her hands flexed, light glowed, and he couldn't stop himself from looking.
His biotics were a deep cobalt, very similar to most L3s, but maybe tending a little more blue than the greener hues of his comrades. His energy also tended to spark at intervals, unlike other biotics he'd encountered. But hers were colored and reacted similarly, though not as often, and as she tapped her fingers against her thumb, fireworks erupted in her palm.
He couldn't look away, then, not if she'd had a gun to his head.
She spun and threw a ball of energy at the mid-range target, movements practiced and clean. It stuck hard, the metal shivering in place, and she twisted again. This movement was ancient, closer to the old Terran martial arts than Alliance training, and the explosion of power from her fingertips caught him off guard. A full body twist encompassed her motions as she pushed one last time towards the target, a passionate growl accompanying her movements. Her amp flashed and her body glowed as her biotics flared, a thick tendril of dark mass energy flinging down the range. It struck solid, cleanly, and she exhaled sharply. Her armor glowed and smoked as the cooldown took effect, and he couldn't stop the small smile that came at her display: this was what biotics were meant to be about.
In that same smooth motion as before, she extracted her amp and replaced her dust cover, stretching in place to pop her back. She slid the hardware back in its carrier before she bundled up her cases under her arms, turning away and walking towards the door as her targets started moving to the shooting barrier. She glanced at him sideways as she passed, the placement of spotlights doing him no favors, but he still caught the flash of green eyes and a quick smirk on her lips. He nodded once to her – rank mattered little in the firing range, no matter the training – and tried to keep himself from looking too interested. She pushed through the entry door without a pause, and he breathed deeply. As she walked by him, her implant, still wound up, and danced off of his, and he could taste eezo. It had been a long time since he'd been this close to a fellow biotic, and he rubbed his tongue along the roof of his mouth, savoring the metallic taste.
Then he stepped forward, bringing his own weapons cases onto the table, and glanced up as the targets came to a stop at him, awaiting reset. He stared at them, eyes darting from one to another, the honey brown in his eyes startled before he closed them as he laughed. The black and white targets were pocked, scorched, and worse, and the three of them spelled out a very simple message.
Your. Turn. LT.
The second time he met her, he heard her voice.
It was at the bar, Paradise, which was anything but. He had gotten pulled there as a third wheel with a friend, though being a wingman wasn't his idea of a relaxing night out. His buddy had snagged them a corner booth with a view of the dancers, and while he appreciated art, he was more inclined to nurse his beer with a dedicated interest.
Still, he nodded at all the right times, gave an ooh and aah at all the right parts in his friend's stories, and feigned interest in the Asari stripper who made her way over their table. It took an hour, but finally, over the course of the night, he found something that held his interest. A woman's voice at the table behind him, her seated at his back, didn't rise over the din so much as cut through it, and he found himself listening in between the conversation at his table.
"You can't be so afraid of failure that you forget to try," the woman admonished, and he found himself smiling at the old adage, tipping his beer for a heavy swallow.
There was a response he couldn't hear, but he could make out her scoff well enough.
"Bullshit, soldier," she snapped, some hidden authority in her tone making even his spine stiffen. "You asked for this, so get out your spade and start shoveling. What the fuck are you so afraid of?"
He snorted softly, buzzed, and felt a tingle at his biotics. He shoved the sensation away as he rolled his neck, debating signaling for another beer.
"So...you're afraid. That's your answer? You're afraid? Goddamn Marine tenderfoot!" she growled, and there was something familiar enough in the sound that he didn't chug the last of his beer as fast as he normally would've.
"You think Akuze or Elysium or Torfan would've had room for your wasted space?"
At this, he paused, a hard glint shading his eyes. It didn't disappear as he downed his drink and immediately raised a hand for another one, ignoring the glare of the bartender. In truth, he didn't care what the man behind the bar thought about him. He could only picture the images on public file from those missions, the threshers, the Batarians, the slavers, all of the dead lying around. He gripped the glass in his hand, hard, alcohol rolling through his veins.
"Damn straight I'm right, Callahan. Now get home, get on your knees, beg your wife for forgiveness, and kiss your fucking baby."
As fast as it had come, the anger fled, though he wasn't sure why, on either count. There was a shifting behind him, something he could barely hear over the pounding music, and he saw the backside of a man leaving from the booth behind him. He was standing tall, shoulders square, like he was expecting a whipping he knew he deserved. The fatigues proved him to be military.
While he watched that man go, he saw another coming towards him, and he recognized the emblem on his chest if not his face. But while there were dog tags around his own neck, he wasn't wearing a uniform, and he gave the man a simple tip of his beer in salute. The man in the captain's uniform nodded once at him in passing before sliding into the booth beyond.
"Little hard on Callahan? Boy looked like he was about to be tarred and feathered."
There was a quick silence broken only by music, and he found himself pressing back into the padding, completely ignoring what was happening at his own table. He didn't even realize when the dancer left their table with a pout.
"Hell, Anderson. He's here drinking with me when he should be home with his family. Needed to be reminded what real loss was all about, that's all."
Her voice was apologetic, quiet, something he could barely pick out in the harsh sounds of the bar, and he winced at a sudden throbbing near his implant.
"Still, you could've done something less than traumatize him. Did you really need to bring up all the shit you've been through to get the lesson to stick in his head?"
There was a teasing tone in her voice as she laughed, "Come on, David. You know as well as I do that all those records are sealed. Nobody knows and nobody gives a shit."
The captain's tone was warning as he rebuked, "Until they need to know. Until that's what's holding them together, your fire and brimstone and what it's made you. Don't turn a tempering fire into a burning one."
There were a few minutes of silence, long enough for him to get down to the last swigs of his beer, and the pulse in the base of his skull came in even tempo with the music.
"I know, captain. I know. Just...fuck. When someone with it that good, complains that much...it gets to me, you know?"
It was the captain's turn to chuckle as he responded, "And this is why you'll never be a politician. You can only hold your temper but a few minutes at a time. You'd be no good in a negotiation."
The flare of white hot pain from his port caught him off caught, and he cussed as he leaned forward, hand immediately going to his neck. He ignored his friend's question – the man didn't even know he was an L2, so why would he care? – and pulled a few bills from his pocket without counting the change. He didn't so much walk as stumble from the bar, his palm wrapped tightly over his port, his eyes picking up auras.
He made it away from the music, blind, staggering, looking to the rest of the world a drunk out and about at midnight. Nausea was crawling up his throat fast and he had no choice but to obey. He was in an alley, or what he hoped was an alley, leaning up against the cool wall while he emptied his stomach over the concrete. Tears of agony pricked the edges of his eyes and he felt his knees give as his world reduced to flashes behind his lids.
"Whoa, soldier."
The words were soft and didn't startle him half as much as the pair of arms that abruptly encircled his chest. He didn't have the strength or the coordination to fight and simply flowed as he was set upright, his back against the wall.
"I'd say you've had too much but you seemed to be pacing yourself pretty well there for awhile. Figure you've got something else going on."
It was the same voice from the bar, the same feminine lilt with a diamond-tipped edge, and he stiffened.
"Don't...not drunk."
His words were slurred and his voice was dazed, and he would wonder, for a long while, why she believed him.
"Yeah, I know. You're not drunk. But you're still puking your guts up behind a ramen stand."
With one hand still clamped over his implant, he brought the other up to wipe futilely at his mouth. He tried to open his eyes, tried to see who stood quietly in front of him with one hand carefully pressed against his shoulder. But when he opened his eyes, the bright streetlight seared into his brain like a laser and he lost a bit of time.
Next he knew, he was a few streets down, laying back on a cool bench in a small park, and there was something wet on his eyes. The second he raised his hands, slightly smaller ones slapped them back down.
"Don't touch it. I can't turn off all the lights around here and that compress is the only thing standing between you and unconsciousness," she said quietly, and he exhaled slowly as her tone didn't make the pain worse. It only took him a minute to figure she was sitting on the bench next to him.
"You don't owe me," he breathed softly, the inbred suspicion of being an L2 from Jump Zero locking around his chest, and he felt his throat tighten.
There was another compress then, cold and calming, pressed against his neck. Water trickled down the back and he hoped his port was still protected. He tensed, reaching for it, groaning as every movement pulled like fire behind his eyes.
Then her fingers beat him there, firmly and carefully pressing the dust cover down, and she huffed, "No, I don't. But that doesn't mean I expect anything either."
Her hands didn't stop what they were doing and kept moving, kneading tension away in his shoulders and pressing hard at pressure points he had completely forgotten existed. He sighed, resigned, and dropped his arm. His hand fell somewhere warm, somewhere living, and he gripped what he knew was her thigh as she eased the migraine from his head. Minutes passed, and he had no idea what time it was.
She hit a sore point, sending lightning bolts into his teeth as his implant responded, and he jerked, hand tightening to bruising on her leg. She didn't pull away or lash out, just simply shifted her fingers and attacked the knot from a different angle.
"Easy, lieutenant. Almost there," she said quietly, and he would've wondered how she knew his rank if he had the mental capacity.
Instead, all he could do was give a strangled thanks as she worked the last of the torment from his implant, leaving him exhausted and weak. He barely remembered her pulling his dog tags from his tee shirt and speaking softly into her omni tool, her half-carrying him into a cab and settling him against her with that thick and cold blindfold still on his eyes. He remembered lithe shoulders under his arm and his own voice speaking a string of numbers that didn't make sense at the time.
When he woke up twelve hours later, in his bed, in his apartment, he could only blink at the ceiling. He glanced around, feeling better than he normally did after a migraine, and froze halfway up to sitting when he saw his bedside table. There was a glass of water with two of his pills next to it and a simple note in fluid writing.
Take care of yourself LT. That's an order.
The third time he met her, her hair was shorter.
A week after Paradise, he found himself leaving the barber and running a self-conscious hand over his skull. He often let his hair grow a little longer than regulations permitted when he was between assignments, if only to partially hide his implant. The slight curl to his hair usually dipped low enough to disguise the giveaway notch in the top of his port. But he was four days from his posting, and he didn't want to be caught outside of standard.
His shoulders itched, and he resisted the urge the scratch at his neck. He also needed a shave, and he bit his tongue. Some simple math added up in his head, and he headed back to his apartment. He grabbed one of his jump bags and took a cab to the base gym, passing through their biometric systems without a hitch. He slipped into the co-ed locker room and changed quickly, brushing off any excess hair he could see.
He probably shouldn't have been so concerned, given that haircuts and the like were so necessary and commonplace in the military. But still, his hair was half as long as he liked it, and it would take some getting used to. Until then, his usual confidence was going to hit a few speed bumps, and he wanted to avoid more than the usual at any opportunity.
So he grabbed his towel and headed into the gym, nodding at the faces he knew. They were few and far between, and he wasn't surprised. There were dozens of thousands of people permanently stationed on the base, not including the constantly rotating influx of crews and troops, and the odds of running into anybody more than once were low.
He was all the way through his free weights and headed towards his cardio when he saw her. She was just getting onto one of the last open treadmills, her fingers pulling up some music on her omni tool. He glanced at her as he walked up, wiping away sweat, and grabbed the last machine next to her. Her frame was as slight as it had been in her armor, a little smaller, and it filled out her shorts and sports bra the way he figured it would. He saw a shadow on her thigh but didn't think much of it. She didn't glance at him as he stepped up, engrossed in her playlist, and he adjusted some settings on his unit. She began with at a light jog, just after he started, and they ran in silence for awhile.
It was maybe thirty minutes later, when they were both glistening with sweat in a hard run, when she suddenly spoke, not even removing the wireless earbuds from her ears.
"How was the range?"
It took him a few seconds to realize she was talking to him, and he instantly placed her voice as the one on the other side of his migraine. Suddenly, he felt very guilty about that bruise on her leg.
"It was quiet. Decent. Been working on some new rifle mods, some snowblind jackets and recoil reducers. Enjoyed playing with those for an hour."
Their movements were becoming closer as they talked, their steps nearly falling in line as they paced themselves against each other.
"Yeah, I saw your case. The M-96 Mattock, right? Serious piece of hardware. Wouldn't want to be caught on the wrong side of that scope," she panted, and glanced over at him.
He grinned back at her green eyes, gesturing to where he could see her port openly, her brand new medium pixie cut giving him a clear view.
"Says the woman with the Savant VII. That thing packs a punch, I'm told."
She ran a hand along the back of her neck, fingers dancing over the edges of her implant, and he saw the same shudder that worked up his spine dance down hers. The metal was always sensitive, tapped directly into the nervous system as it was, and he forced his eyes ahead again.
"Yeah, but you've got an advantage with the L2. What do you have, the Prodigy?" she asked over the pounding of their feet, and he nodded absently.
"The IX, yeah."
She made a simple sound of agreement as she sipped from the water bottle in front of her. She finished and handed it to him. It seemed so simple, so normal, and he didn't hesitate to down a few swallows; he'd forgotten his in his apartment.
"Makes sense," she figured while he drank. "You don't need the power assist; you need the cool down and the duration bonuses. The Prodigy is a good fit, no matter if you operate defensively, offensively, or both. How's your head? Migraine fade out okay?"
He swished his last mouthful over his tongue and finally swallowed, handing the bottle back to her as he nodded with, what he hoped, was a sincere smile of thanks. She took it and place it back on her stand even as she returned his appreciation with a simple inclination of her own chin. They ran in companionable silence for another half hour, both entering the hard phases of their cardio, the edges of the treadmills angling up. He closed his eyes, reaching for the same breathing exercises he'd learned when he was sixteen, and was almost startled into a misstep when he felt a tap on his arm.
She was holding her right hand out, an earbud in her fingers, and she huffed, "Trust me, works better than Lamaze or whatever shit they taught you."
He looked down at the audio wrap and took it carefully, trying not to drop it. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye while he slid it over his ear, an abrupt sound flooding through his senses.
"Up in the mornin', before day.
I don't like it, no way.
Eat my breakfast, too soon.
Hungry as hell, before noon.
Went to the chow hall, on my knees.
Said mess sergeant, mess sergeant,
Feed me please.
Mess sergeant said with
A big fat grin.
If you wanna be Marine Corps
Ya gotta be thin."
He snorted, biotic appetite and metabolism not withstanding, and he choked on a laugh as a new cadence started up, her grin matching his.
"Mama, mama, can't you see,
What this corp has done for me?
They put me in a barber's chair,
Snip snap there goes my hair!
Dress right and cover down,
Forty inches all around.
I used to eat at Mickey Dees,
Now I'm eating MRE's.
I used to drive a Cadillac,
Now I wear one on my back.
I used to date a beauty queen,
Now I love my M-16!
Mama, mama, can't you see,
What this corp has done for me?"
The cadences rolled through his head, and he knew his step was falling even tighter in line than before, hers matching his exactly. He smiled broadly, for the first time in a long time, at the ridiculous and obscene phrases that came across, and he found himself chuckling even though he was having a difficult time breathing. He wasn't sad when the rubber beneath his feet started to slow and slip down, but he wasn't dying inside as much as he usually was, either.
She was still going, though from the flush of her cheeks and the deep pants from her mouth, he doubted she was planning on running much longer. He walked slowly, cooling down, popping his palms on the back of his head, his thumbs framing his implant. The muscles in his legs itched like they usually did, and he used his teeth to scrape the thick saliva from his tongue before swallowing it. Finally, breathing halfway normal, he handed the earbud back to her as her own treadmill lowered a bit, a beep at her console advising the near end of her workout.
"Thanks again. That was...exceptionally entertaining," he said honestly, and she smirked as she took it back.
"Better than Lamaze?" she asked with a quirk of her eyebrow, and he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, think that beat it hands down. I appreciate it."
She tipped her water bottle in his direction and he gave a little half wave in response as he headed towards the showers. He hadn't planned on such a workout since he'd been at the gym for four hours the previous day, but still, even though he would regret it later, he had to admit that he'd actually enjoyed himself more than usual. The fact that she had surreptitiously given him more than a once over as he left made it a little more fun, too.
He grabbed his bag and jumped in an empty shower stall, enjoying the needling hot water a minute or two longer than normal. He scrubbed a hand over his face as soap ran down his back, and he washed away the workout. His implant tingled as the water dripped over the edges, and the shiver that rocked his body was bone deep and cathartic. He sighed, finally stepping from the scalding spray, and grabbed his towel from the bench. The gym was luxurious, by co-ed standards. Each stall had a changing area attached to it, complete with sink and mirror, and he found himself already missing these luxuries with his next assignment.
He patted his skin dry with his towel before wrapping it around his hips and grabbing the shaving cream and razor from his bag. He turned towards the mirror, saw the haze from the steam, reached forward to wipe it off, and froze. There was familiar handwriting in the steam, too clear to be old, and he grinned at the words.
Nice haircut. Don't hide your L2. Need more guys like you LT.
The fourth time he met her, he shook her hand, and learned her name.
The Normandy was as exceptional a flying machine as any he'd seen before. It dwarfed every expectation he had in his classified briefing, and considering how long he'd been around Alliance vessels, that was a telling bit of information.
He reported as ordered at 0600 on Friday, nearly two days before they were scheduled to ship out. He did his usual duty, including drafting up liberty rotations and going over dossiers. He went over every inch of the ship and got on a quick first name basis with nearly all of the crew. As a ground-side field medic, he ensured their medbay was properly stocked, their armors were filled with medi-gel, and the correct assistance protocols were loaded into the VI programs in the infirmary.
This he finished in twelve hours, and stared at the airlock for close to the next twenty four hours. It was a long enough time to develop a rapid understanding of the ship's pilot, a crippled hotshot who threatened to beat him to death with his crutches for using the C word. They spent their time in the mess that evening joking and playing poker, and their free time the next day coordinating several consoles with the pilot systems for additional control. Then a beep at his wrist told him it was time, and he stood, tugging on his shirt and brushing creases from his pants. He ignored the pilot's comment that could have been considered inappropriate, and ran a hand through his hair.
The tips of his fingers brushed his port, the rigid plastic cool under his fingers, the bump of the notch catching under his nail. He smiled for a second, then schooled his face into a mask of professionalism just as there was a hiss on the other side of the door.
The computer's soft voice announced the imminent arrival of the captain and commanding officer, and the twelve other members of the bridge instantly scrambled to standing.
"Attention on deck!" he snapped as the airlock twisted open, his arm raising in a perfect textbook salute along with a dozen other men and women.
He was glad he had routine to fall back on, because there was nothing routine about the people that he faced. The captain, he remembered, if only briefly, from Paradise. His uniform was the same cut and style, his eyes a little harder, maybe, and the only new addition was his cap. Anderson lifted his own arm and returned the salute before he dropped it to shake his hand.
"Lieutenant, I appreciate the welcome. Ship shape?"
He nodded and replied formally, "Affirmative, sir. Boards are green and dock controls read ready. We can leave at your order, sir."
The captain nodded once, then stepped to the side, looking back at his companion.
"Have you had a chance to meet any of the crew?"
She took a half step forward, green eyes twinkling even though her face was impassive, and he was able to keep himself from reacting, barely.
"One or two, maybe. Commander Shepard, Captain Anderson's XO. And you are?" she asked with a tilt of her head, one hand out. He stared at it for a second before swallowing hard and shaking it. Her grip was just as tight as when she'd carried him back to his apartment the previous week.
"Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko, ma'am," he said tightly, wondering if her biotics tingled like his did. From the slight tug at the corners of her mouth, he thought they might. "Lieutenant Alenko, a pleasure. I'm sure you won't have any problem working under a woman?"
His hand was still tight in her grip, and he blinked twice as he felt her implant spark a dark mass firecracker in his palm. Her mouth was definitely raising into a smile, now, and he felt his L2 hum appreciatively in the back of his head. Some of his tension eased, and he allowed himself his own small grin.
"I can tell you honestly, ma'am, I am looking forward to it."
~ The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed. ~