(A/N - This just exploded out of my head in a big rush, today - odd things come out of headcanon conversations with other authors - thanks Caracal22)
Armando leaned in through the service window, sliding a large, white plate before him. "Hey, chef! Dude at table seven sent this back. Said it wasn't medium."
"What…what the fuck are you talking about?" The sweaty, rail-thin biotic - her cotton tank-top sticking to her like a second skin - straightened from the hot grill she had been bending over. Dropping the basting brush into a small pot - she'd been delicately brushing lemon, marjoram, and thyme-infused olive oil over the surface of organic pheasants - she wiped her hands on her apron and took the offered plate from her floor manager with a fierce scowl.
Taking knife and fork, she expertly slivered off a center sample of Eden Prime's finest 24-day dry-aged beef and held it up in the light.
Warm, pink center; lightly charred exterior; flecked with freshly ground pepper; juicy.
Fucking perfect.
Tossing her gum into the waste bin with an irate gesture, the former convict folded the thin strip of tender meat into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as she closed her black-rimmed eyes in concentration. Despite their strictly professional and respected relationship, Armando could not help but watch her generous, brick-red lips as they rhythmically undulated in the center of her scarred but undeniably beautiful face.
It had been five and half years since the defeat of the Reapers, and three since she'd left the official employ of Grissom Academy. Once "her kids" had finally moved on, there had been tears from both sides - and she'd spent two months in her apartment, wallowing in abject misery.
Three days before the start of a new term with new students, she had abruptly submitted her resignation. The agony of parting with those beloved first students was something she never wanted to experience again.
Not long thereafter, Jack had suffered from a minor but terrifying seizure - leading to the discovery of some evidence of neurological decay - caused by her unique, wildly experimental biotic implants that had long outlived their projected service life. The aggressive biotic he'd been strongly cautioned to avoid habitual biotic usage until a treatment or method of replacement was found, unless she wished to cause herself irreversible neurological damage - meaning that going back to being a one-person corporation named Kicking Ass, Inc. was out of the question for the time being.
That also meant finding a new, regular job - her current tenuous and largely unofficial relationship with the Alliance hinged on her lengthy list of criminal offenses being permanently suspended if she more or less kept her shit together, in thanks for her efforts against the Collectors, Cerberus, and the Reaper invasion in general.
Having learned to be a decent home-cook since the war - mostly to fuel her own voracious appetite, truth be told - she'd discovered she was good at it and that she enjoyed the emotional outlet immensely - it was like writing crappy poetry, only you could eat it afterwards. Win-win.
As it turned out, this new path ended in a chef's jacket. Which she had worn on graduation day and never since.
But it looked real nice on her apartment wall.
Having friends in powerful places had played some role in her quickly securing her own kitchen (as did talent and passion, of course, as well as foul-mouthed showmanship that brought in ten customers for every one that it turned off), as was evidenced by the obligatory framed photos throughout the restaurant of famous Normandy alumni - many of whom posed with arms draped around the slender shoulders of the diminutive biotic chef - and who on occasion stopped by for a quiet meal, lending the place a bit of star power (the restaurant had a strictly enforced Don't Bother Galactic Saviours While They're Eating rule).
There were few places in existence where one could find the combination of a turian primarch, a newly-minted quarian councilor, a krogan warlord, both human Spectres, and the (unknown to the public, of course) fucking Shadow Broker all crowded around the rare, genuine smile of the former Subject Zero - all in one vid-capture.
At the last moment, of course, they'd been photobombed by the brilliant smile of a small, hooded asian woman who'd popped into the bottom-left corner.
The past several months had passed more quietly outside of the job itself - after nearly two years of healing, recovery, and re-training his broken body, Major Shepard (he'd declined promotion above that standing) had finally returned to duty, reclaiming the SR-2 from Captain "was just keeping the seat warm for you, Skipper" Williams, who'd then moved on to her own well-deserved command aboard the SSV Big Nose, as Jack had jokingly named it over drinks at Ashley's launch party.
Shepard had elbowed her ribs hard enough to make her inhale a bit of her blended whiskey, which had hurt like a motherfucker.
Jack had not seen Shepard in three months, as he was off cleaning up fuck-knows what problem with his first officer, Commander Do-You-Even-Lift Vega, and - of recent - Mission Consultant Cold-Panties Lawson, who had finally worked her way out of the Council Shit List with her admittedly dedicated work to shut down lingering Cerberus cells in the immediate post-war times.
Swallowing the morsel, Jack opened her eyes with a disgusted scoff, and she dropped the fork back onto the plate and slid it back through the window.
"Tell that moron he doesn't know a beautiful grilled steak from a salarian's braised asshole, and that Burger King is two kilometers down the fuckin' road. Now, throw that piece of beefy perfection into the garbage, say a prayer for the poor, noble beast that sacrificed its life in the cause of being goddamned delicious, and tell that ignorant fuckhead to never darken our doors with his shadow ever again," she sneered. "I'm not wasting time on the fuckin' troglodytes today."
Armando rubbed the back of his neck. "I dunno, chef. He seemed like a bit of a VIP. Knows René." René was the absentee owner of Géraud's Brasserie, named for his grandfather.
"Oh, for fuck's sake…then he should know better!" the biotic exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. In annoyance, she ran a tattooed hand through her long, damp mohawk that trailed down the back of her neck and bounced between her shoulders at every move. "You know what? Fuck him, he's still an idiot. Just tell him, you know, the same thing but...nicer," she said, pronouncing the last word with the same inflection people usually reserved for the word "gonorrhea".
"Aaaaaaand he, um, said that the, uh, port reduction brown butter sauce was bland," Armando added, cringing slightly and leaning back slightly. "And," he added, swallowing, "he, well...asked for a salt shaker to be brought to his table."
"Oh, shit," muttered Miguel, the sous-chef, from behind her. She heard the shuffle of his shoes as he took a protective step away to stand beside Lisa, the nervous-looking teen-aged dishwasher. "Here we go," she whispered as Miguel nodded.
"Show me this mother-" Jack ripped the apron from her neck as she straight-armed the kitchen doors open, marching furiously into the dining room - missing the sudden, sly smile that spread across Armando's face as she went by him, soon mirrored by the grins on the faces of Miguel and Lisa, also, as they rushed to the window to watch.
"-fuck-"
She pulled up short, her large, brown eyes wide with shock.
"-er?"
The man seated at seven stood up slowly, revealing his full and impressive height - even as the other patrons slowly took notice of the silent stare between the woman in the kitchen doorway and the broad, muscular customer. When he reached up and slowly removed his hat to reveal a nearly-shaved dark stubble for hair, one nearby, well-dressed patron made a sound of recognition and dropped her fork on her plate with a loud clink.
Silver-blue eyes crinkled in amusement at her open-mouthed reaction.
"Hi Jack."
An instant later, the Hero of the Citadel, Lion of Elysium, and numerous over-the-top titles from the Reaper War was flat on his back - having fallen over his own chair when the much smaller biotic had flung herself into the center of his chest. Together, they tumbled in a pile of limbs, Jack crashing her lips hungrily into his while bearing him down into the floor - and narrowly avoiding taking the next table with them.
After a shocked moment, the room burst into applause and laughter. Shepard had carefully shushed the room when he'd arrived, and let them in on his general plan, but they'd not expected this.
Straddling his waist on the rich dining room carpet, she held his face in both hands as she nibbled at his bottom lip. "You asshole," she murmured, kissing his lips between words. "You didn't even tell me you were headed back."
"Wanted. To. Surprise. You," he managed to say in between breaths as she continued to work over his mouth with her own. "Missed you. Too. But. Let me. Up. People. Staring. At us."
"Fuck 'em," she muttered in reply, and - just to show him what he'd been missing - playfully swiped her tongue along his upper lip before reluctantly standing. Offering a hand, she pulled him to his feet with a biotic tingle and a grunt of effort as clapping and encouragement rose again from those around them.
"With service like that, no wonder this place is popular, chica." Jack - still firmly holding Shepard's hand - turned in surprise, to see a smirking Commander Vega leaning against the bar in his officer's formal jacket.
"Hey, it's Meathead," she said with a grin, punching him on a beefy bicep before turning to his companion with a skeptical eyebrow raised. "Princess. Been a while."
Miranda, dressed in a striking white business suit with a scandalously short skirt and matching heels, gave a tolerant nod and looked about the room, taking in the tasteful French decor and the well-to-do customers. "Jack, you look well. This place is…actually rather pleasant. I assume they keep you locked in the back."
Vega made a face, and gently touched the former Cerberus operative on the forearm, giving her a disapproving look that she returned with a raised eyebrow. " Don't worry, this is a thing we do, James. It's...traditional."
Jack looked back and forth between them with disbelief, wagging a pointed finger between them. "Waaaait a sec. Wait. Stop. You two?" At Vega's guilty look, and Miranda's sudden interest in the ceiling, she snickered. "Wow. I mean, wow. I guess you two must average out to one person with normal intelligence, huh? And, like, do you two actually sex it up 'n stuff - or are ya both too busy admiring yourselves in separate mirrors to find the time?"
Vega blanched, while Miranda actually blinked owlishly in surprise - actually the more extreme reaction, given her reserved nature - and the very new couple, who had crossed that little bridge exactly once, looked hilariously awkward in Jack's opinion.
"Jack," Shepard muttered, squeezing her hand in warning even as she sputtered in laughter, pointing at Vega's face.
"Oh, shut up, Golden Boy - like Cheer-Bear said, this is a thing. Anyway, you two stay here for a bit, get a table - Armando will take care of ya, and Miguel is a fucking talent - try his roasted mushroom raviolo and you'll crap yourselves with happiness. And you," she continued, yanking Shepard towards the door, "Are coming with me. Excuse me, guys, we'll be back in an hour or so - I need to go fuck the ever living shit out of your boss."
Shepard groaned and dropped his face into his free hand, Vega's mouth dropped open wordlessly as Jack dragged the famous Spectre out into the street, and a seated customer seated next to Vega's stool coughed, nearly choking on his grilled salmon.
As Shepard passed by the front window, he grinned and shrugged at them both before another insistent tug at his arm took him out of sight.
Miranda's lips twitched into the ghost of a grin before she nodded primly and touched the arm of the nearest waiter.
"Table for two, please - and may I see the wine list?"