Chapter Three:
She lasted fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes after she took her seat, stretching out to take up as much room as possible without actively touching him, her back started to cramp. She was used to dealing with uncomfortable positions, but that was a long time ago. She hadn't had to practice that particular skill set for five years now, and she hated to admit it but she was a little rusty. It was with a begrudging frown that she sat up, arching her back and popping the sore muscles that seemed to scream out in relief. She couldn't hold back the soft exhale that pushed past her lips and the subtle fluttering of her eyelashes. God, that felt good.
The turian was looking at her when she opened her eyes. Not directly of course – no, he was all too aware of the game they were playing. Her eyes met his in the reflection, and her resolved hardened. She was getting this goddamn bench back.
She shifted positions, leaning away from the turian and bracing her upper body on the arm of the bench; time for a different tactic. She braced her foot against the seat of the bench, centimeters from brushing the armor protecting his leg, and stretched the other out in front of her. The definition of "personal bubble" had been quite vigorously popped at that point, and she didn't even bother to apologize. She propped her head up on her palm, staring out into space.
To be completely honest, she didn't know what kind of reaction she had expected. A part of her thought he would just sigh in that weird flanging voice that all turians had and get up to find a new seat. Another part of her thought that he would just confront her, tell her to stop being a bench hog before he physically removed her.
No. The bastard didn't do any of those things.
He stretched his arms, working his shoulder joint with a subtle trill that made the hairs on her arm perk up. Her exhaled, his mandibles fluttering as he relaxed into his spot and braced his arm on the back of the bench. Were he human she might have punched him, but she doubted turians knew the old yawn-and-stretch trick. His limbs were long compared to hers, and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rustle as his fingers stirred the air. Every subtle twitch brushed against the fine strands, tickling the back of her neck, and she forced herself to just grin and bear it. Metaphorically speaking. She wasn't grinning at all.
If there was one thing she hated, it was when people touched her neck. It drove her insane – and not in a good way. He was a hair away from getting a fist to the face – literally. Despite how much his nearness irked her, she was the one who had started this stupid game and she would be damned if she let him win.
She shifted to run her fingers over her neck and tuck the stray strands of hair back into place, pretending not to notice as her fingers just barely brushed against the material of his gloves. This position was significantly more comfortable than the last, but it didn't make it any less stressful. She knew within a few minutes her back would protest yet again and she would have to move. Now was just a matter of one-upping him.
Thirty minutes passed before she finally couldn't ignore the protests of her calf and her side. She sat up, not so quickly as to succumb to vertigo, and shifted yet again. The relief that went through her tense muscles was instantaneous and she attempted to keep the groans that built in her throat to a minimum. She shifted her weight to the other side, bracing her back at an angle against the bench that allowed her to lean into him without actually touching him. She tossed one leg over the rail she'd previously leaned against and kept her other foot braced against the floor. It made it more difficult for her to read his reaction, but the reflection pulled through yet again.
'One-up this, bitch' she thought, and she realized with a shock that there was actually a part of her that was enjoying this little battle of the wills. That wasn't something that happened often.
He didn't move for a long moment and she could feel his eyes on her, though he still faced straight ahead. A few moments passed before he crossed his legs as best as a turian could, placing his foot closer to her torso and letting his hand drape over the back of the bench. If she made a move, either his hand or his foot would brush against her. She nearly cursed, instead feeling her eyebrow tick in irritation. She'd accidentally handed this game to him on a silver platter.
Forced into a corner, she made a decision: she was not moving until he did. She didn't know how long he had been on this bench before she'd attempted to reclaim it, but it was a decent ways into the night cycle. He would either have to sleep or eat or hell even pee sometime. If she just outlasted him then she had this game in the bag.
Not moving was harder than it sounded. Her legs were cramping, her sides aching, and the most she could do to alleviate the aching in her neck without leaning into him was to rest her head against the bench. At least his hand wasn't near her neck, anymore.
Fifteen more minutes passed, and she realized they had been at it for an hour. Surely he had to get up soon?
As if her prayers were answered the turian sighed, pulling his arm back and uncrossing his legs as he stood. She pretended not to notice as he rolled his shoulders and shook out his leg – it had probably fallen asleep. He left his duffle as he headed off to God knows where, and she had the decency to wait until he was out of sight before standing and reclaiming her seat. She couldn't even brush the cocky smile off her lips, and she hesitantly admitted that it wasn't just due to the fact that she'd won their mini battle of the wills.
She looked down, considering his duffel, and sighed. She carefully nudged it over to the other side of the bench before settling in, curling up in her newly reclaimed spot and propping her head up on her palm.
Two minutes passed and the turian returned with two drinks in his hand. He quirked a brow plate at the new arrangement, but when she made no move to deter his return he simply settled down in his new seat. He handed her a drink and she accepted it hesitantly, giving him a suspicious look. Surely he hadn't gotten her a dextro drink?
"It's just water," he said, speaking for the first time. She was surprised at the tone of his voice – it wasn't nearly as deep as she had anticipated, though that wasn't to say it was high pitched. His tone – dry and humored – added a point in his favor. Clearly, unlike many of his brethren, the stick shoved up his half was at least half the size of the usual model.
She only hesitated to sniff at the liquid, searching for any discernable scent other than the clear tones of water. The likelihood of her catching anything through scent alone was slim, but ignoring the instinctive search would have left her feeling about a thousand times more paranoid. She hesitated a moment more before taking a drink, relaxing as the cold liquid rushed down her parched throat and soothed her almost instantly.
She waited until nothing happened before managing a smile. "Thanks."
He nodded. "I've never met a human so territorial over a bench before," he commented, watching as she lounged back.
"I've never met a turian who thought he could out last me," she retorted quickly, taking another sip. "Most would have just let me have the bench."
He grinned – or at least, that's what she thought the wide flaring of his mandibles meant, she wasn't certain. "Most turians aren't me."
She snorted, nearly choking on her water. He was a cocky bastard. She offered a grin in return, "I'm starting to see that."
She had recovered nicely from her near-death-experience, but she couldn't help the next thought that slithered through her mind and nearly made her drop her drink: was he flirting with her? And shit, was she flirting back? Shepard could almost hear the Reds now. Leave the group for one goddamn minute and suddenly you're a fuckin' alien lover. What happened to you, Shep?
She pushed the imaginary words of her old childhood friends away, shoving them deep into a chest and locking them away for at least the rest of the night. No good came from letting old prejudices that weren't even hers to begin with colour a conversation.
If he noticed the dark turn of her thoughts he didn't say anything. He leaned back in his seat, bracing his arm along the back as he sipped at his own drink. It wasn't water, she could tell by the smell alone, but aside from that she had no clue. She didn't know anything about dextro-drinks, let alone what they tasted like.
"So, why were you so insistent on reclaiming this bench?" the turian asked – and shit, she didn't even know his name. It would be awkward to ask now, right?
"It's got the best view," she responded, pointing towards the far end of the deck. "This side stays clear of too many stragglers, I have a clear view of the exits, and I can see the stars. It's a win-win."
"Those are good reasons," he admitted, the faintest tone of surprise lacing his words. "Military?"
"Ex," she shrugged nonchalantly. No need to mention her 'extreme case of paranoia', as her therapist had so gently put it. "You?"
"Ex," he echoed with a nod.
They didn't say anything after that for a long while, and Shepard turned her attention back to space. This time she wasn't using it as a cover to look at him. The subtle edge of panic had worked its way into her brain, making her constantly aware of how close he was and silently cataloguing all her escape routes. She didn't let the relatively-irrational fear cripple her – on the outside she remained as cool and collected as she'd always been. She knew that he could tell she wasn't, though. Those visors were good for more than just sniping.
It wasn't that he made her uncomfortable, per se. It was moreso she was making herself uncomfortable. You didn't go through the shit she did without earning a few scars on the way, and unfortunately not all of hers had healed yet. She wondered how long it would take him to notice that she was just another broken toy.
She took a long, slow drink to distract herself and realized that maybe this was a game she should have left well enough alone.
