Rating: E, for sexual content. Also contains a limited amount of canon-typical violence/gore.
Pairing: F!Shepard/Thane
Warnings: None.
Summary: She is an angel of wrath; he follows like death's own shadow.
It starts with the file. When Joker calls her to the cockpit and says to her Commander, you need to see this, Shepard listens.
She was never meant to have access to the data, but since EDI's been unshackled, the AI isn't overly interested in keeping the Illusive Man's secrets. Funny how that works.
Now he's stockpiling tissue samples from dead Collectors, running tests on the link between the indoctrinated and Harbinger. She might have left him alone, because the storage facility is under heavy guard, but when she gets to the part of the file where he's planning on using humans for test subjects...
She's so fucking tired of his bullshit and it hadn't been a question of if they should hit the storage site, but Joker, how fast can you get us there?
She isn't exactly surprised when things go pear-shaped.
They land outside the planet-side shipping yard, which means fighting their way toward a warehouse. Aisles of cargo containers and stacks of crates. It's a nightmare of blind spots. She's on point, Garrus and Thane spread out at three and six, and they go in hard and fast and ruthless.
Thane murmurs in her ear, protector, angel of wrath; he follows like death's own shadow.
It turns into a slog. Cutting through wave after wave of Cerberus shock troops until she's exhausted and her amp burns in the base of her skull. She's covered in grime and her hair sticks to her forehead, and she'll be glad to get off of this rock.
They move up again and she grits her teeth and throws an engineer against a container. He crumples to the ground, boneless. She rushes by him, barely looking down as she puts a final slug through his forehead, taking position where she can get eyes on the personnel access door of the warehouse.
Getting to the door will mean a fifty-yard dash across an open loading zone. No cover. Just her, exposed, while Thane and Garrus try to keep her safe. An omni-tool scan shows the area is clear; she knows that trusting a scan is sloppy, but she's goddamned tired. She steps into the wide space and starts running, a flat-out desperate sprint.
Maybe the scan was right because she doesn't draw fire. She reaches a stack of crates by the smaller door and dodges behind their cover.
Another scan and she doesn't catch anything behind the door. She steps forward and the door slides open and she's facing the bore of a Carnifex. The trooper smiles, stepping forward until the muzzle is cold and hard where it presses against her forehead.
Even with augmented nerves and reaction time to match, she can't move faster than he can squeeze the trigger. Her biotics are drained and—a fucking raw recruit would know better—she hasn't swapped out the sink in the Locust. The crates are blocking Garrus entirely.
"Shepard. I don't have a shot." Thane's voice, edged with stress. "I will hit you if I fire."
"The Illusive Man wants a word with you," the trooper says, motioning at her gun.
"You can still rethink this and run," she says, raising her hands. The Locust clatters as it hits the concrete.
He grins and rests a hand on her shoulder, as though he's going to pull her into the warehouse with him. This isn't the first time she's thought about the fortune Cerberus invested in her: bone and tissue, augmented nerves. Maybe the Illusive Man wants a return on his investment.
She makes the next decision before her next breath in.
"Krios," she says his name like it's a command, "take the shot."
The troopers' smile dims with confusion and then his head snaps back—your body is dust—and blowback spatters hot against her face.
She stumbles away and ends up falling hard. Her head is ringing and it dawns on her that she's been shot. There's a line of fire along her cheek and when she touches it, she feels the jagged tear Thane's bullet left behind.
She fumbles for her medi-gel as Garrus sprints across the opening. He kicks the gun out of the corpse's hand, doing a sweep for hostiles, ducking inside the warehouse to secure the immediate area. When he returns, he kneels down in front of her, peering at her intently.
"Got it," she tells him, smearing medi-gel over the wound. "Head wounds always look worse than they are. Lots of blood."
He gives her a doubtful look and shakes his head.
"Spirits, Shepard. That was stupid," he says. Then he focuses on something behind her. "Hell of a shot, though."
She turns slowly and follows his gaze and finds Thane's position above a storage container. He's folding his rifle, too far away for her to make out his expression. He pauses and looks at her, nodding once before backing out of sight.
"Help me up," she tells Garrus. "We have a mission to finish."
He's still looking at the place where Thane disappeared, browplates lowered in a sort of puzzled turian frown. She sees the interface screen of his visor shift, like he was using the zoom feature, and wonders what he saw.
"Garrus?"
"Yeah. On it, Shepard," he says, standing and offering his hand.
Her eye swells shut by the time they find what they came for. On the shuttle ride to the Normandy, Thane says nothing, only stares out the window.
She sits on Chakwas' metal table and lets the doctor treat the swelling and seal the wound. The bonding agent stings like a son of a bitch and she tries not to flinch from it. At least by the time Chakwas is done, Shepard is able to see from her eye again.
The Illusive Man spent a fortune making sure she could bounce back fast.
"Another fraction of a millimeter, I would be reconstructing your zygomatic graft," Chakwas says, not unkindly. Her fingers above the bone are gentle. "Commander. Even for you, this was reckless."
Shepard pulls away from her, and before she can stop the words says, "You really think they just wanted to talk to me?"
"No. I suppose not." Chakwas sighs. "You don't have a concussion, but I'd prefer you remain under observation for at least overnight."
Shepard forces herself to relax. "I'll find someone to babysit."
Thane waits next to the elevator doors. They step in together, shoulder to shoulder, but the moment they're closed off from the crew he turns to her and wraps his arms around her. She rests her hands under his coat, forehead on his shoulder.
He smells like leather and spent sinks and when he murmurs siha into her hair she hears the tremor in his subvocals.
"You were aware I didn't have a clear shot," he says. "I will always follow your orders, but consider the cost before you speak the command."
She'd given the order; he'd followed it. Had he missed—if she were the one sprawled on the concrete—he would have been held blameless. Doubtful he'd feel the same.
"I did consider it."
He says nothing until the elevator arrives at Deck One, and then it's only: "I understand."
In her quarters, she stops next to her desk and tugs off her gloves, dropping them next to the terminal. The boots get kicked into a corner, but when she tries to undo the seals of her armor, the aftereffects of adrenaline hit her. Her fingers are stiff and trembling and god damn it, she's Commander Shepard and she's had close calls before and she's stronger than this.
Thane brushes her hands away and begins to undress her as though she is a child, working quickly, with an economy of motion. She watches as he releases the seals on her chestplate, setting it on her desk before undoing her pauldrons, then the vambrances. He crouches, adding her cruisse and greaves to the neat stack of armor.
The trembling in her fingers spreads through her body and she shivers. Adrenaline, she thinks again. He stands, concern clear in his eyes.
"I'm fine." She means it as a reassurance; it sounds like she's trying to convince herself.
He hums a low note of disagreement, but now his movements are slower, more deliberate, giving her time to stop him as he reaches toward the zipper of her undersuit, in the hollow of her throat.
"Really. I'm—" Commander Shepard; had close calls before, "—fine."
His fingertips are feather-gentle under her chin and his eyes are steady on hers.
"I will leave, if you'd rather."
She makes the decision before her next breath in. She covers his hand with her own, pulling down firmly.
He blinks, outer eyelids following the inner. He almost looks startled. It's a rare thing and she smiles for the first time since they got back.
She kisses him, then. And if that startles him, he doesn't show it, only slides his hands under the suit, pulling it down her shoulders. She tugs her arms free so the it hangs from her waist. She's not shaking now. Maybe it's because her skin burns.
She starts on the clasps of his vest, only to have him stop her.
"Turn around," he says, voice a rough purr in her mouth.
The command surprises her. He smiles at this rare thing and runs a finger over her bra strap.
"Turn around," he says again.
His eyes are dark and so very focused. Her breath catches and she swallows and does as he asks. His fingers graze the skin between her shoulder blades. He unhooks her bra, and that ends up somewhere by the aquarium.
Her undersuit is still around her waist, she starts to peel it down further. His hands cover hers and he pushes it over her hips. She kicks it harder than she had her boots, thinks it lands across her terminal.
She's tired and sweaty and her face hurts like hell and she doesn't care. She looks over her shoulder. Hooks a finger in the band of her underwear. Tugs.
Then she lets him push those down, too.
She turns the shower on as hot as she can stand it, until the pink water spiraling into the drain runs clear. Even with the ventilation fans on max, the steam makes his breathing rasp. She starts to tell him to leave, but his fingertips are unsteady over her clean skin, ghosting the line his bullet left.
"I'm sorry," she tells him. But probably for the wrong thing.
He frames her face between his palms. If they were normal people, now is when he'd tell her to be more careful and her I'm sorry would have been for putting a burden on him.
Neither of them speak again and he bends his head, kissing her carefully. She sighs and closes her eyes. His mouth is warm on hers, gentle.
She pulls back.
"I'm not going to break. Don't treat me like I will," she tells him. Her voice is almost hoarse. Can't blame that on the steam.
His eyes flick over her features in that expressionless way he has. Controlled. Distant. And then he cups her neck with one hand and kisses her again, and there is nothing cold about that. He's demanding, mouth hot, tongue pressing against hers.
His hands are restless over her skin, palm under the curve of her breast, thumb across her nipple, moving in slow circles until it's too much. Thane, she tells him. I need—
When he slides his hand between her legs, I need becomes a little less coherent.
The sound he makes is meant for a drell's ears. She feels it between her lungs and moans in response; he kisses her harder, teeth clicking against hers.
Christ, the way this man kisses... is nothing compared to the way he can fuck.
He pins her to the wall, one hand splayed on the tile next to her head, the other hooked under her thigh as he holds her up. Her legs around his hips, his teeth scraping her neck.
The static curtain pops when she sticks her hand through it and she laughs, until he turns them and takes two quick strides to the counter.
"Show-off," she says, kissing him.
"Hm," he says, against her mouth, moving inside of her again, long steady thrusts that hit every nerve perfectly.
She would have argued more with him, but the orgasm that washes over her makes her tip her head back against the mirror and cry out his name.
Later, when they finally reach the bed, it's slower.
He's gentle with her, like she might break. She feels like she might.
She rolls them, so she can straddle him. She lifts herself up, uses her hand first, a slow stroke up and then down, just to see the way his eyelids close involuntarily. He hums a low note, caught somewhere between a groan and sigh as she guides him inside of her, sliding down, until he fills her completely.
When she rolls her hips, his eyes and palms trace unhurried lines over her body.
This time, he's the one gasping her name, desperate, in a string of alien words as he comes, hips snapping up in an uneven cadence.
She rests her head on his chest, listens to his heart, ignores the rattle on the end of every breath. His fingertips follow the curve of her ear.
"I let the Illusive Man get into my head," she says. "Gave you an order I shouldn't have."
He says nothing, but his fingers pause as he waits for her to continue.
"How long does something like that hang over a person?"
"A million footsteps."
"What?"
"An old saying." He kisses her forehead. "At the end of a million footsteps, any trouble will have left your mind."
After the Reaper War, she sits with Garrus on his porch. He has a bottle of turian beer; she's drinking something blue that tastes like pineapples. Late evening is turning the tattered clouds and the tops of the waves orange.
They're both drunk. Comparing stories. Not a bad way to pass the time.
The boards of the porch are sun-warm and smooth under her bare feet. Rivulets of condensation run down the side of the glass at her elbow.
"My turn," she says, after a stretch of silence. "Last shot on the baby Reaper. Already used up all the ammo for the Cain, all I had left was my Locust and—"
"You've told that one already."
She snorts and picks up her drink, curling her toes against the worn wood. Wonders how long it took to wear away the sharp edges, the splinters, the grain itself.
Garrus scratches idly at the scars on his mandible.
"Hell of a shot. I know it was an order, but I don't know if I would have taken it."
"Specifics, Vakarian. Not a mind reader."
"That Cerberus shipping yard. Wasn't sure if Krios got you or the trooper..." he says, staring out at the ocean as his words trail off. "Never saw him rattled like that before. After he pulled the trigger and you dropped, I looked up there and his—"
"Garrus. Not yet," Shepard says. She sips her drink and watches the water edge up the beach.
He doesn't say anything for a long while, turning his bottle between his hands, picking at the corner of the label.
"Hear Kassa has a new Locust out. Gen five now," he says, setting the empty next to his chair.
"Hear it's a piece of shit," she answers. Then she squints at the horizon and sighs. "Thanks, Garrus. Someday, okay? I'm not—"
"Yeah. I know." He reaches into the cooler between them for another bottle. "All those Locusts were crap."
"Uh-huh," she answers, curling her toes again. How long to wear away...
The sun sets.
She pushes out of her chair.
"Shepard?" Garrus looks up at her, mandibles flexing in a smile. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Going for a walk." She smiles in return. "Care to join me?"
He looks at her. Then back at his beer. Then he holds up a hand so she can help him up.
"Why not?" he asks.
A million footsteps, she thinks.
END