AN: I've been out of action for a while because of college, and I'll probably go under again after posting this. Rest assured, I'm still working on my other projects and I haven't forgotten Myla or Sorla or the Jack piece—this idea was just bouncing around my brain and distracting me from microbiology and advanced German, so I had to get it out and get it down. I am rusty, so any constructive criticisms are more than welcome. This is basically going to be a collection of one-shots of the LIs that we (or some of us, at any rate) wanted in the Mass Effect franchise but never got. Needless to say, a certain snarky pilot should be featured heavily, but this first one belongs to James, with alternative endings/semi-resolutions for paragon/renegade alignment. Message me or comment with any requests or nit-pickings—don't be shy! J As always, none of this is mine—all glory to the Bioware writers who gave us the beautiful, violent, and heartwrenching world of Mass Effect, and all of its myriad characters.
"Lieutenant." Shepard folded her arms across her chest and shifted her weight to one hip, waiting for Vega to stop pummeling the punching bag he'd managed to fit into his little corner. The scant lighting in the cargo bay gleamed on his skin and on the small metal rectangles of his tags as they swung with his movement; he'd been at it for forty-three minutes, according to EDI. Shallow grunts of effort harmonized with the dull impacts of his fists on the old leather, both slowing their pace as he softened his blows until there was only the gentle pock of his fingertips steadying the bag.
"Commander." His eyes flicked up to hers briefly, and he began to unwind the tape on his fingers. His breathing was still heavy, but he masked it with a slight laugh. "Just getting in a little exercise before rack-time. You need me for something?"
"Push-ups for twenty-minutes, pull-ups for five, sit-ups for half-an-hour…" Shepard smirked, but not unkindly. "James. A 'little exercise' doesn't do it justice."
He shrugged, snagging a towel from his cluttered workbench. "I just needed to think. Working out helps me…work things out." He grinned at her, swiping the towel roughly over his short hair and peppering her with sweat droplets.
She grimaced, but didn't say anything. She'd had blood, brains, mud, shit, seawater, and gobbets of decayed flesh spattered on her on a near-weekly basis for the past five years, disregarding the time she'd spent deceased—a little sweat was nothing. She gestured out at the empty room.
"Working out alone? That's almost as depressing as eating alone."
"You should know, Lola."
She ignored the playful jibe. "Where's Cortez?"
Vega shrugged again, wiping down his arms. "He left for the dorms a couple hours ago."
Shepard leaned against one of the blessedly cold metal supports, watching the miniature dog-mech trundle around the armor modification array. Its bright blue scan divided the room in a blinding grid of light. Neat and orderly.
"I asked EDI to pull a few records, Lieutenant. When you're not down here, working out or whatever the hell you think you're doing with my spare armaments, you're talking to Garrus, or Joker, or even Javik."
"I'm a social butterfly, Shepard, what more do you want from me?" His smile was less sincere this time, and she could feel a rising anger radiating from him like heat. The defensive rage that made him such a damn powerful fighter in the field never left him—it just simmered when he didn't need it, boiling away so close to the surface…She made a mental note to schedule an "emotional control" training with him when the action calmed down. He'd never make N7 if he stayed so transparent.
"I want you to go to sleep, soldier." She said it lightly, but meant it in all seriousness. "Even tough guys need some shut-eye."
"Mm," he shook his head, turning to the workbench and rifling through the metal scrapes on its pitted surface. "Don't want to sleep. 'Sides, I'm plenty tough already."
Paragon:
"You need more than strength in a fight, amigo." She rolled the word around in her mouth awkwardly, and was rewarded with a deep belly-laugh from her would-be protégé.
"Mierda, Shepard, your accent is awful! Seriously," he grinned at her wickedly, "your Spanish is almost as bad as your dancing."
She bristled indignantly. "I'm a good dancer!"
"Nice try, Lola," he shook his head, smirking with superiority. "I've seen you in Purgatory."
"Well, maybe you could teach me sometime," she said without thinking, then quickly clarified when she noticed the surprise on his face. "Spanish! Maybe you could…" She trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. Inappropriate. If the galaxy hadn't fallen apart, maybe she could waste time with such pursuits, but now? Stupid. The—
"Sure," he said quietly, and she looked up, flushing automatically at the genuine kindness in his eyes, noticing the way his scars cut across his cheeks and lips. The emptiness of the cargo bay seemed to push them closer, and she thought she could almost hear his heart beating. He must have sensed something too, because he laughed nervously and ran a hand across the top of his head. "I mean, I'm probably not the best to, you know…teach and stuff, but…yeah. I'll teach you a little." It was hard to tell in the dubious lighting, but she thought he was blushing. "If you're serious, that is."
"Yeah, I'd um…" She cleared her throat and looked out toward the shuttle, resplendent with its various burns, dents, and assorted war wounds. "I'd like to learn someday."
"Great!" He rubbed an arm across his nose briskly, shaking off the dangerously serious mood that had settled around them. "So, am I going topside tomorrow? I've been itching for some combat."
"Get some sleep, soldier, and I expect you to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 0500 tomorrow morning," she ordered imperiously, a smirk slipping its way onto her lips.
He saluted, winking. "See you mañana, Lola." He quirked an eyebrow at her expectantly, backing away towards the lift.
"Man-yahn-uh," she parroted dutifully, and grinned as the elevator doors closed on his amused snort.
She put a hand on the smooth and slightly tacky leather of the punching bag, exploring the minor nicks and worn patches with the tips of her fingers. Absently, she picked up the gauze tape that the Lieutenant had discarded and began to wrap her hands. It was late, and she needed to think a few things over. Just a few minutes…her fists thudded into the reluctant mass, again, again, and she settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Renegade:
"Really?" She laughed easily, punching him lightly on the bicep. "I seem to remember kicking your ass a few weeks ago, Lieutenant."
He scowled, folding his brawny arms across his broad chest. "That was different. You cheated."
"Cheated?" Shepard spread her hands wide. "Moi? I wiped the floor with you. Literally."
"Sure…because you cheated." She could see a flush rising in his cheeks, and realized that he must have been getting flak for his defeat ever since she'd served it to him.
"I didn't cheat," she countered, wagging a finger. "I used tactics. It takes more than raw strength to finish a fight."
"It would have to, wouldn't it? Look at you." He flicked a hand out, catching her on the flat expanse of stomach made vulnerable by her open jacket. "I could snap you in half, chica."
She slapped his hand away, growing irritated herself. "You had your chance, Vega, but I'm still in one piece. Not even a bruise. I can take whatever excuse for a blow you can give."
"That so?" He stepped in closer, pupils dilated with the adrenaline rush Shepard herself always got before a fight. "Care to make a bet, Lola?"
Shepard snorted, beckoning him forward. "Hit me, then. As hard as you can. Then it's my turn."
"Assuming you're still conscious," drawled James, cracking his knuckles.
"Please," she rolled her eyes, lips curling back over her teeth in a snarl that was almost like a smile. "If I make so much as a sound, you can have whatever you want."
He raised an eyebrow. "So, like… I get your dessert rations for a month, or what?"
"If that's what you want, Lieutenant." She rolled her neck and limbered her arms, grinning ferally as he dropped into a practiced crouch. "But I get the same deal when I make you cry like a little girl."
"Whatever you say, Lola." His eyes were dark and he came in swiftly, sinking a punch deep into her stomach. All of her breath was expelled in a haggard whulp. She curled up around his fist instinctively, gasping for air in a sudden vacuum, and fell to the floor as he pulled away. With some difficulty, she rolled onto her knees, retching, but didn't throw up.
"Sorry, Shepard." Black spots cleared from her vision, and she could see a broad hand proffered in front of her face. Grudgingly, she took it, and he helped her into an upright position. A shit-eating smirk was plastered across his face, and he cocked his head in a mock-conciliatory gesture. "I guess you lost."
"Stomach…not exactly…fair." She panted, regaining her breath, and giving him a murderous glare.
"Tactics," he said pointedly, then held his arms out wide and waited for her strike. "Didn't want to go for the face."
"Oh, thanks," she drawled sarcastically, stretching her back slowly, regaining her strength. "Although I didn't expect the gut to be your soft spot of choice."
"No, not usually," he winked and a satisfied smirk curled his lips in an almost predatory expression that made her breath catch involuntarily. "I've still got my reward to think about."
"Right." She shook out her hands, loosening her arms again. She'd given her word, and she never went back on it, no matter what. It caused her a few problems in the early years, but once people realized that she wasn't the kind you could cross, they gave her more respect. One way or another, she'd teach Vega to mind her. "Try not to scream too loud, people are sleeping on the other decks."
He started to respond, but she cut him off with a vicious punch to the ribs. He twisted into the blow, biting his lower lip tightly, but a short exhalation suspiciously similar to a whimper escaped him nonetheless. Her Cerberus-guaranteed indestructible hand hurt, and for a moment she was afraid she'd broken one of his ribs.
"Are you—"
"I'm good," he lifted his shirt, indicating the expanse of skin rapidly darkening with a bruise. She could make out a few raised red lines.
"Surgery?"
"About three years back. I was wearing some shitty training armor and caught the ugly side of a frag round. Lost a couple o-ribs, got a few titanium ones." He grinned up at her. "I've heard you're not entirely organic yourself, no?"
She remembered the weird orange scars that had blazed out from her face, hands, everything those first weeks after waking up at the Cerberus facility. "No, not anymore."
He blew out his cheeks, swaggering to stand squarely in front of her. She noticed again how massive he was—the man was built like a tank. Vega cocked his head and held up a hand. "So. Whatever I want, then?" His eyes were dark again, and she felt a weird rush of anger and something like pride.
"That was the deal." She straightened proudly, determined not to let him make it some kind of power thing. She'd given her word, after all, and if he wanted to be juvenile, she could always leave him out of the mission cycle until he went insane from inaction.
He stepped in closer and brought his hands slowly up to cup her face, fingers sliding around the back of her head, broad thumbs gently stroking the lines of her cheekbones. She was too stunned to react for a moment, thought stolen by the warm rasp of his calloused palms against her cheeks and the steady insistence of his fingers on the nape of her neck, winding into the curls of her hair.
When he leaned in, she was coherent again, and eagerly pressed her mouth to his. Her hands slid up his chest and clasped around his broad neck, the chain of his dogtags imprinting itself into the underside of her wrists.
He pulled back after the first kiss, sighing with feigned sadness. "I guess that was my reward, Commander."
"Well, it's my turn, then, isn't it?" Her voice was hoarse, catching on the lust that was constricting her lungs. She pressed herself against him, kissing him fiercely. She felt his lips pull back as he grinned, and yelped in surprise as his hands slid down to her back and he hoisted her up onto the workbench with one fluid movement. The tools and scraps that had been on its surface clattered to the floor, the tinny sounds quickly fading away to join the steady background hum of the cargo bay, punctured delicately by the soft gasps that concluded each progressively passionate and complicated kiss, and the breathless thump of clothes hitting the grilled floor.