Summary: James manages to gain Shepard access to a secure gym where she can blow off a little steam and dance with him.
a/n: Inspired by a prompt from VorchaGirl on July 15: quote writing prompts #15 for Shega! "You really think you can beat me? That's cute." Thank you for this. It was fun.
Uncaged
The resounding sound of measured footsteps replaced the soft swish of the door opening. James looked up and observed for a moment. Her back and forth track in front of the large windows reminded him instantly of that old saying about a caged tiger, which Feign captured completely. Her white blond hair curved wildly upwards, like it could have been on edge, though he knew that was just the style. Her sharp eyes were locked on something beyond the glass that captured her attention so intently that she ignored his arrival. Then there was the tension in the muscles of her back and shoulders; the definition, while always sculpted beneath her white tank, was taut and hard.
He stepped through the doors and rather loudly called, "Commander."
Her pacing halted and she turned toward him. Piercing gray eyes turned on him, Shepard's look lay somewhere in that hazy area between intimidating and enticing. Of course, James was nearly certain he was the only person to equate that gaze in such a way. Then again, he guessed that not too many people received it in the kinds of moments he had.
Her eyes moved over him, stopping on the datapad in his hands for a moment before continuing back upwards to stop at his face. "Lieutenant," she answered, her attention returning to whatever had her rapt when he entered.
"What's going on?" he asked crossing toward her.
If anyone else had been in the room, he likely would have maintained his distance. Instead, he crossed the room with a modicum of caution, given her mood, and stopped right behind her. James was blatantly aware of the fact that all he had to do was dip his head and he could brush his lips over her burnished skin. He didn't that wasn't the reason he was there.
"Nothing. Just watching that guy," she said, pointing out the window, "let his buddy kick his ass."
James observed the same session, without moving, for quite a while. "I don't know. I think he's holding his own. He just can't match Red Shirt's power."
Feign turned just enough to let him see the incredulous look on her face. "Except White Shorts is pulling punches." She looked back out the window shaking her head, though James couldn't be sure if it was at him or the fella on the next room. "Ha!" Her hand clapped against the glass when the man she'd been critiquing took a hit he could have easily dodged. "See? He's kicking his own ass."
A rumble of disapproval reverberated in her throat. The tightness in her shoulders returned and spread to her chest when she crossed her arms. James wondered if she was aware of the judgmental growling.
Red Shirt finally knocked White Shorts on his ass, then when he offered him a hand up, he pulled the other man into a hug with a passionate kiss.
"Ugh," she grumbled in disgust. "That explains it. He let him kick his ass to get some. Pathetic."
When she turned and started to skirt around James, he held out a hand, catching her waist and pulling her against him. "And you've never pulled a punch."
Feign stared him in the eyes, studying him. "Not for a piece of ass." It wasn't really an answer, but then she had a tendency to do that. "How about you? Would you let someone win just to get into their pants?"
James' mind raced. It wasn't just a question. He'd gotten to know Feign well enough to know the difference between mere questions and challenges. "No," he finally answered.
A tingle ran down his spine when that predatory grin curved her mouth and peppered her gaze with sparkling mischief. The tip of her nose nudged his and the low, slow tone of her voice wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed. "Prove it."
He tightened the arm around her waist, tilting his head just enough to tease at a kiss. "Yes, ma'am," he teased, lips brushing hers, before he let her go and crossed the room. James took a calming breath before he reached the panel near the door and keyed it open. "Let's go, Commander."
It was only for a moment, but the open-mouthed shock on her face when he walked away gave James a minute sense of accomplishment. Feign did not react that way, so to cause and to see it, that was something else. He gave her a quick smirk, which brought the challenge back to her eyes.
"Where are we going, Lieutenant?" she asked, crossing the room. She grabbed her uniform shirt, conspicuously lacking any insignia, and slipped her arms into it as she exited her quarters.
James didn't answer immediately so she just buttoned up her shirt in silence. When she loosened her belt and the top two buttons of her fly, a passing officer noticed it, too. He gave James a wide-eyed look, and Vega merely replied with a respectful, yet dismissive nod. Some of the officers at Alliance HQ were far too soft than he expected, too easily shocked. That kept him on his toes at least as much as Feign did. Anyone who balked at someone tucking in their shirt on the go was someone who, as far as he could tell, had never seen a duty station where an emergency call out could and did interrupt a meal or sleep. The corners of his mouth twitched as the jangle of Feign's belt rang off the flat hard surfaces of the corridor.
"Left," he said when they reached the second hall. She complied. And just like that, with one word directions and no other exchanges, he led her into the bowels of the building.
James lengthened his stride and overtook Shepard. Keying the lock, he entered first, eyes scanning and clearing the room as she followed him. The small area could have been a storage closet at one point, but it had the basics—a treadmill, heavy bag, and a weight bar. Vega wouldn't need to explain the purpose of the space—a prisoner's recreation area—she'd know it by the lack of free weights and the fact that everything was well secured to the floor.
Feign walked right to the center of the room, then placed her hands on her hips. James observed her, arms crossed over his chest. The door closed and secured behind him. The silence drew out.
"Wanna dance, Loca?" he finally said, when she still hadn't said anything.
Her head whipped around, that mischievous look and dangerous smirk were back. It didn't matter how it went down—a fight or a fuck—James welcomed it. Welcomed the pain, the ecstasy. From their first meeting, Feign continued to offer something Vega had been missing for a while. Sensation—pain, pleasure—the things that reminded a person they were still alive. She was good at both.
James watched the shirt she'd just put on come off in a smooth motion. Her eyes returned to his, and his heart sped up as adrenaline flooded his system. When she rushed at him, he tried to brace himself to grapple her, but she led with her shoulder, ramming him into the door and knocking the wind out of him. Shepard did not give an inch, she hauled back and aimed a punch at his jaw. James redirected it and pulled her through her follow through, getting his arm around her neck.
She pushed back into him, bring her heel down on his instep. Gritting his teeth against the pain he held fast, though his grip loosened more than he would have liked. She pulled and leaned.
James pulled tighter, pulling her back against his chest. "I was ready for you this time, Shepard." He groaned when her elbow jabbed into his ribs. This time when his arm tightened he heard the gasp telling him he had her dead to rights. "You really think you can beat me? That's cute," he breathed into her ear.
The retaliation came fast—instep, ribs, nose. The combination left him reeling. Feign slipped out of his grip, turned and nailed him again with a powerful left hook. She grabbed his wrist and used his own weight against him. The wind left his chest, his back stinging as it made forceful contact with the ground. The texture of her boot sole ground into his wrist, as her weight shifted to that foot, the other came caught him in the ribs, before being planted on his throat. He swallowed hard against the pressure as she leaned on that knee, smirking down at him. "You're right. It's adorable."
James refused to give up. He pushed at her foot, getting her off balance enough to free his neck. When she stumbled back a step, he grabbed at the other ankle and yanked her off her feet. He scrambled over the floor in an attempt to reach her before she regained her bearings. Landing one good jab, the second was rebuffed by the taut constriction of her legs around his chest. He traded off pushing at her legs to delivering punches to her body, while she pummeled him methodically.
Getting free, he didn't question whether if he found a good pressure point, or if she let him go, he went right back to trying to win this fight. So far, he was down 3-4. He attributed the difference to the first fight, when she'd surprised him and he'd been slow to respond. Unlike that fight, this one lasted a while, as they traded advantage back and forth until they were both bloody, sore, and exhausted. Their breathing echoed through the room, their ears, their heads.
"So, wanna call it a draw?" James offered from his back as he stared at the ceiling.
He heard her moving, then groaned when she straddled his chest, gulping under the pressure of her forearm on his throat.
"What do you think, Marine?" she countered.
Her eye was blackened, her lip split, but that didn't dampen the electricity that shot through him with her proximity and the intimate weight of her atop him. His reversal was quick and left her breathless on her back. His hands wrestled hers over her head with great effort. James kept his weight on her wrists as he leaned over her.
"I think I was giving you the chance to save face, Commander."
She still didn't give up, struggling and wriggling beneath him, looking for any hint of leverage. Breathing heavily, he felt the determination lessen as her shoulders dropped back against the floor.
"All right, Vega. We're finally even, for now."
"That makes two in a row for me. I think the tides have changed." He gave her a red-toothed grin, which she mirrored.
Always the one to have the last word, Feign rolled her hips against his. "You think so?"
She knew there wasn't a damn thing he could do. Even if she wasn't officially a prisoner, this room was still monitored by security. James couldn't do more than return the same gesture, then he loosed her and got to his feet before went far enough to leave him trying to camouflage an erection as he escorted her back to her quarters. He should have expected it. Exertion—exercise and fighting—seemed to work on Feign like foreplay. At least two of their fights ended with sex, and his body was quick to respond to her instigations no matter how it started.
James left her there on the floor, her and that hint of a pout in her bottom lip. She did it not because she knew it drove him to distraction and Feign liked to distract—told him it was a solid combat tactic no matter the battlefield. And he was noticing that for Shepard, battlefields were everywhere. He grabbed a drink from the fountain on the wall leaned by the door, glad for the distance as she went and retrieved her shirt. She too rinsed the blood from her mouth and leaned over the fountain, taking large, loud gulps.
Dragging her hand across her bottom lip, she closed on him in a matter of steps. James pressed his back against the wall, as her eyes danced back and forth. Thankfully, she kept a few steps of distance between them. Then her gaze rose to the small bubble camera above the door.
"Almost makes me wonder where the blind spots are," she said, wearing a look that made him wonder if getting caught might not be part of the reason she mentioned it.
James' gaze flicked toward the other camera on the other side of the room. "I think you might be out of luck there, Commander."
Feign turned and looked over her shoulder. "You forget—"
"No I don't," he assured her. James stepped forward enough that his mouth wouldn't be visible, then he whispered, "I know exactly where your skills lie. But I also know that the minute those cameras get down this room will be flooded with a tactical response."
Shepard grinned at him. "Always so practical, James."
He turned and tapped the panel at the door, placing a hand on her shoulder and ushering her through. The state of them drew more than a bit of attention as he walked her back. Neither of them acknowledged the stares, glares, or curious looks. Though James did have a moment where his career flashed before his eyes, when they encountered Admiral Anderson in the hall.
"The hell happened to you two?" he asked, looking right at Vega. He shook off the question before either of them could come up with an answer. "Doesn't matter. Shepard, your legal team needs to brief you." The officer placed a hand on her shoulder and guided them down another corridor.
James breathed a sigh of relief and followed. Walking behind the pair of them Vega let his imagination run away with him. If this meeting had sprung up five minutes later, he could just see it. With the way she was acting, and the way he had been responding to her, he was more than 100 percent certain Anderson might well have walked in to find the lieutenant balls deep in the commander. That worry lingered in the back of his head.
Of course, staring at the swirl of ink that crept up the back of her neck, the concern lessened. He could imagine the way that intricate pattern wrapped along her spine, intertwining with the scar that followed the same route. He tightened his jaw and straightened his shoulders trying to will away the vivid memory of the first time he saw it. When the other officers entered the conference room, James stopped at the door, clasping his hands in front of him.