Chapter Summary: Shepard hates paperwork, petty arguments, and heavy furniture. She doesn't care much for Cerberus, either. But she finds talking to her hamster and fish helps a lot with anger management.
Tags/Warnings: Slow Build; Friends to Lovers; Demisexual Shepard; Garrus is a Great Best Friend; Swearing; Sexual Tension; Blood and Injury; Canon-Typical Violence; Rating Will Change Later in Story
Standard Disclaimer: Everything Mass Effect is owned by BioWare, and I receive no financial benefit from this fanfiction.
Many, many thanks and dozens of drell cookies to my amazing beta, N7Siha.
Morgan Shepard hated bureaucracy. Hated it with a passion. She detested the sheer tedium it represented, with its endless organizational tasks, finicky rules and regulations, and constant stream of "must be done NOW!" deadlines. And her hatred included the administrative datapads that kept appearing in her office. She glared at the stack on her work desk and complained to her hamster, "After more than two centuries in space, why does humanity still rely on these stupid screens of death-by-boredom?" The little creature darted out of his house and squeaked a supportive "Meep!"
"You'd think having a yeoman would mean fewer of these nasties," she protested, expanding her audience to include her fish. "But no! Now I just have an extra person to bug me about keeping up with them!" The fish wisely did not respond. Shepard hit the button to feed them anyway.
"Whatever corners Cerberus might cut regarding morality and ethics, they certainly make up for when it comes to documentation. And now with Kelly and Miranda both on my ass…. Damn," she paused, pinching the bridge of her nose as her tirade petered out. She did not look forward to the headache she knew was coming.
"Well," she huffed, "might as well get started. 'The man who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones.' Do you know that one, Meep? Fish? Ah, well. Poor Confucius gets no love."
The top datapad was the biweekly weapons requisition order from Jacob, listing various supplies required to keep the armory well stocked. But before getting to the numbers of needed replacement parts, mods, and thermal clips, he included yet another gripe about Garrus:
YOUR TURIAN FRIEND continues to insist on caring for his own weapons by using supplies from MY stock. That's FINE. I can understand a soldier going that route as long as he knows what he's doing, and I'll admit Garrus does. BUT, he needs to stop BYPASSING my security with his tech skills and start ASKING for those supplies rather than just TAKING them. Otherwise, it leaves me with NO paper trail and INACCURATE inventory. He also needs to STOP ordering the new high-end mods he wants THROUGH YOU and go through MY supply chain like our procurement process requires. Because NOW he's even got OTHER CREW going to HIM for upgrades! Soon I won't have ANY IDEA what supplies we need or whose weapons have what capabilities, which UNDERMINES my ability to do MY JOB. A CLEAR LINE needs to be drawn here and soon. AM I OR AM I NOT THE ARMORY OFFICER FOR THIS SHIP?
Shepard could almost feel Jacob's irritation leaping off the datapad. She didn't have to wade through hours of administrative crap after all; the headache had already arrived. She slammed his request down on her desk.
"Damn, Jacob," she muttered. "The stick up your ass is even bigger than the one Garrus used to have." She paced from hamster cage to fish tank and back. "And your BOSS gave you that job, not me, you xenophobic, Mышца головы, Cerberus jerk. Is féidir leat an dá póg mo thóin."
Jacob did hold the position of armory officer, assigned when the Illusive Man placed him aboard Cerberus's new version of Normandy. But Garrus was an unquestioned genius with weapons, especially when it came to individual tailoring for peak performance. She herself preferred to go to her old friend for help—he was the only person besides herself and maybe Thane that she trusted to touch her sniper rifle—though she hoped Jacob didn't know that.
But at that moment, she could have cheerfully strangled her best friend. "Garrus," she groaned, "don't you remember our conversation about staying under Jacob's radar on this?"
And then she noticed the next datapad, right under Jacob's requisition form. It was from her turian buddy, doing a complete end run around Jacob and formally requesting various armory supplies for his own use. Judging by the items and quantities he was ordering, he was likely modding and upgrading for quite a few crewmembers besides himself and her.
"Shit, shit, fuckity FUCK!" she erupted. "I am going to mangle your freaky raptor body, Garrus! I KNOW you know what 'under the radar' means, and this isn't it! And damn it, you know better than to jump the chain of command! Now what the hell am I supposed to do with you and Jacob? God, give me a Reaper shooting at me rather than this petty, personnel bullshit!"
Part of her difficulty solving the problem was that she understood the motivations behind Garrus's behavior. They shared a core-deep hatred for all things Cerberus after some nasty run-ins with the group a few years back, and he liked to throw metaphorical wrenches into the organization's gears whenever possible. It was his way of declaring, "Shepard and I might be working WITH you, but we are damn well not working FOR you and certainly will never be one OF you!"
And she needed that reminder from him, trapped as she was working with a man she considered a terrorist. She needed to know her friend would always have her back as she navigated the murky waters surrounding the Illusive Man, his sketchy data collection methods, and his God-knows-how-many hidden agendas. But as much as she might agree with Garrus's sentiments and admire his integrity, she knew she couldn't command a Cerberus vessel and a mostly Cerberus crew amid such open distrust and dislike. And that meant reining in her own hostility as well as his.
"Oh, Garrus," she protested, picking up both datapads. "I can't let you maintain a competing armory. Jacob has a point about staying on top of weapon capabilities. And I need to somehow unify this squad, not watch it fracture. What the fuck do you expect me to do here?"
Temples throbbing, the first human Spectre forced deep breaths in and out and fought down the urge to kill some of her crew. Meep and the fish stayed silent. She appreciated their restraint; at least some of her friends weren't trying to piss her off.
For a long moment, she entertained visions of pitting the ex-Alliance marine and the former vigilante against each other in various sparring scenarios, including a literal pissing contest. Eventually, laughter won out over her anger. "'Lord, what fool these mortals be!' We're all idiots, aren't we, Meep?" Her hamster gave an enthusiastic squeak in agreement.
But she was still left with two conflicting armory requisition orders, one in each hand. What to do, what to do? She idly began juggling the datapads, tossing each into the air in turn while making her way down into her living quarters. A sudden giggle escaped when her mind dug up a childhood rhyme she hadn't thought of in ages: "Eenie, meenie, miney, moe…"
"What language are you speaking, Shepard?" EDI asked.
She jerked, datapads flying through the air to land wherever. After two and a half months on the SR-2, Normandy's resident AI still managed to startle her.
The soothing computer voice continued, "Your personnel record states that you speak six Earth-specific and three non-human languages and read at least six more, but I do not recognize that particular one."
"EDI," she reprimanded, "I've asked you not to sneak up on me like that."
"Shepard, I do not 'sneak' anywhere, as I am always present."
"Not a good time to remind me of that, EDI," she sighed. "And I wasn't speaking an unknown language, just repeating a human, childhood, nonsense rhyme. By the way, did you see where the datapads went?"
"Searching. Ah, a rhyme to assist one in making a difficult choice. Interesting. But why would an accomplished Alliance commander need to rely on such—"
"Not now, EDI. Datapads?"
"Visual sensors show that the datapad from Officer Vakarian is on the floor by the coffee table corner nearest you. The datapad from Operative Taylor is lying on top of the couch back, near the corner and almost touching the wall."
"Thank you, EDI. That will be all." After a brief pause, she rushed on, "And I'm sorry I was short with you."
"You are welcome. And while unnecessary, your apology is appreciated." EDI finished in a quieter, almost sad tone, "Logging you out."
Shepard ran her hands through her hair and wondered when she had started thinking of EDI as a crewmember with emotions. Deciding to save those philosophical gymnastics until later, she picked up Garrus's requisition order. Then she shifted over to get Jacob's where the two sections of the L-shaped couch met in a ninety-degree angle.
She tried to grab his datapad while keeping her feet on the floor and reaching over the couch, but she lost her balance a little as she leaned forward. Her fingertips made glancing contact with the thin rectangle just before it skidded away. She watched helplessly as it slid down into a crack between the couch and the wall that she would have sworn moments earlier did not exist.
She stared at the spot where the stupid plastic…thing…had vanished, but it refused to magically reappear. Then she looked at the very large and heavy couch. And she noticed how perfectly it was wedged into that corner of her living quarters, as if the stairs and the half-wall of her office space had been put into place after the huge couch was moved in.
"Fuck it all to HELL!" she yelled in frustration. "I hate you, Jacob Taylor. And you, Garrus Vakarian! And EDI…never mind, EDI, I'm not really mad at you."
"Thank you, Shepard."
"I thought you'd logged me out?" she challenged.
"Twenty-two seconds ago, your vital signs rapidly escalated. Do you require assistance?"
"No, I've got this. Though, if you stay logged in, you'll get to hear even more interesting vocabulary while my vitals continue to spike," she snarked. "I'll let you know if I need help, EDI."
"Logging you out."
Shepard's temper flared up again as she stared at the couch and formulated a plan. Maybe, since Jacob could yell at his commander about her best friend through a datapad, she could act like she hadn't actually received his required request form? Then she could reprimand him for missing the deadline to order mission-necessary supplies. She could make hated bureaucracy work FOR her!
Hmm, putting Jacob on the spot like that would be amusing…and then she recalled how he'd personally hand-delivered this requisition order. He'd given it to her yesterday during breakfast instead of passing it through Kelly. There was no way to deflect the blame for the missing request form onto him or Kelly—may the cheerful yeoman forgive her for even thinking of it. Shepard sighed as she admitted that her flashes of anger just didn't translate well into premeditated revenge.
That left her no choice but to recover the pain-in-the-ass datapad. And since one of her personal rules for successful leadership was to avoid explaining her own idiotic behavior to her crew, she had to fetch the damn thing by herself.
Well, maybe she should reconsider that. Asking Garrus to help seemed only fair. Unfortunately, even if he pretended to be nice about it, he would get far too much amusement out of the situation for her comfort. She wouldn't hear the end of it for weeks. So, no Garrus.
Grunt seemed a logical choice, given his strength. And they got along well, in a weird mother/son kind of way. But the adolescent krogan was still figuring out his relationship to the "great Commander Shepard"—a human both smaller and weaker than he was but still somehow his leader. Requesting an assist for something this silly might diminish her authority. So, no Grunt.
Maybe Kasumi? The thief was about as small as the commander herself and wouldn't be able to help much. And though she was unfailingly kind, she was also a bit of a gossip. Oh, and she had that thing for Jacob. She'd probably rat Shepard out just for an excuse to talk to him. So, no Kasumi.
As for all her other team members, the "don't let them see you being stupid" rule still applied, even after weeks of working together. She just didn't yet feel comfortable enough with any of them to waive it. She was glad to have Garrus and Joker back, of course, but during times like this she really missed the rest of her close friends—Tali, Liara, and Wrex. Not knowing how they were doing bothered her. She even still worried about Kaidan and his headaches, despite how things went on Horizon.
Perhaps Thane? Though the newest recruit, she already felt a surprisingly strong connection with the philosophical assassin. She knew he would never make fun of her if she asked for his help, though his lips might quirk a bit into that half-smile she liked. They would have to converse, of course, and Shepard felt a little thrill every time she heard his voice. It was like raw silk, rough and textured but still somehow…smooth. Inviting. She swore she could actually FEEL his words during her visits to life support. She closed her eyes and just stood for a moment, lost in recollection and sensation.
A small shiver shot down her spine. Her eyes popped open in surprise—that reaction was new.
She shook off her reverie with an effort. She'd learned from reading up on drell and watching Thane in combat that his people were quite strong despite their deceptively lean builds. He could probably move the couch by himself with little effort; she could just stand back and watch. Yes, watching sounded good. He might actually take that coat off, and….
Her cheeks flushed hot. What was she thinking? No, asking Thane was definitely not a good idea. She enjoyed their developing friendship, intellectual exchanges, and amusing quotation game too much to risk gawking at him. He'd assume she was no better than Jack and Kelly. That pair could write the book How to Study Drell Physique with the way they ogled him whenever they got the chance. Plus, that sudden shiver was…unsettling. So, sadly, no Thane.
Okay, back to square one. Moving the couch toward the fish tank was a no-go from the outset; the end of the couch butted up against the stairs that divided the office from her living quarters. So that meant pulling the huge thing away from the half-wall and toward the bed. She had just enough space to play with between the end of the couch and her "personal" desk.
After shifting the coffee table and lounge chair out of the way, taking a few deep breaths, and wondering why Cerberus thought she might need two desks, she slipped her hands under the front edge of the couch near the corner and pulled hard. Nothing. "Ah, merde. C'était piteux, Morgan."
"Okay, let's try that again, you useless marine," she lectured, using her best imitation of her least-favorite N7 trainer. "My sainted grandmother can pull harder than that! Let's see those goddamn gene therapy upgrades do some work! Pull, pull, puuull!"
That got her forehead damp but netted her only about two inches of movement. She wiped her hands on her comfy workout shorts and got in position for another try. She glanced at Meep and her fish; she knew they were rooting for her.
"Now to bring out the big guns. Ready, set, pull…pull…Puck, Puck, PUCK, PUCK, PUUUUUCK!" Yes! That did it—now she had about eight or nine inches of space between the couch and the wall.
"More childhood nonsense words, Shepard?" EDI asked.
She stood bent with her hands on her knees, sucking in deep breaths and letting the sweat drip down her face and neck into her tank top. "Not nonsense…. Favorite character…. In an Earth play…. From the 1590s…," she panted.
"Searching. A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare. Puck is a male fairy in service to Oberon, king of the fairies. But why use that name in this context?"
She was now pretty sure her heart was going to stay in her chest, but her breathing was still ragged. "It was one…of my favorite things…to read…back on Mindoir…before…well, before." She paused to look over her shoulder at a framed picture near her bed. She straightened and clasped her hands, tangling her fingers like she was tying them in knots.
"Anyway…Mom didn't like it when I swore like Dad. So when she was listening…and I was really mad…I'd say 'Puck' instead of 'fuck'…or some other word she'd declared forbidden. God, she laughed so hard the first time she heard me use it." Her expression shifted into a bittersweet smile. Good memories of her family were precious.
"A human idiosyncrasy then," EDI stated.
"Yes, EDI, one of my idiosyncrasies," she confirmed. "I'm sure you'll discover many others as you get to know me better."
"I am already compiling a list of Mr. Moreau's idiosyncrasies. I will begin one for you."
"Thanks, EDI. Um, do me a favor and don't mention those lists to anyone else? Ever?"
"Yes, Shepard. Logging you out."
She turned back to the couch and eyed the narrow gap between it and the wall. Time to get that damn datapad.
Notes:
"Mышца головы" is Russian for, roughly, "muscle-headed"
"Is féidir leat an dá póg mo thóin" is Irish for "You can both kiss my ass."
"Ah, merde. C'était piteux, Morgan" is French for "Ah, shit. That was pitiful, Morgan."
This chapter is the first in a longer fic, already written out past 25 chapters, that starts out by incorporating major revisions to five earlier stories I first published nearly 3 years ago. So if any readers are familiar with those stories, please bear with me; new stuff IS coming. Many thanks and dozens of drell cookies to my wonderful beta, N7Siha as I worked through this process.
Thank you for reading! Please leave feedback if you enjoyed the story or have questions/suggestions.