Acceleration
Shepard woke to the smell of burning. It was a familiar, unpleasant smell, with a familiar, pleasant source. She groaned and threw a pillow over her head, which was a feat in and of itself.
It was a feat merely because her pillow was no ordinary pillow. It was a turian pillow, which basically meant it was a hard oval designed to fit in-between fringe and ridge, and she hated it.
Just like she hated the bed she was on, with its strange contours that seemed like they were trying to rip out her spine and beat her to death with it. And just like she hated the sheets that were as cold as plastic and just as comfortable. And just like she hated the fact that she hadn't thought to bring any of her own sheets or pillows with her.
It wasn't as if she didn't have the time to go get them, but it always seemed as if she had more important things to do. Like Nihlus… now that they had adequate supplies of EpiPens and contraceptives. Shepard did not want to relive three nights ago, when she'd made a very awkward, very uncomfortable, very terrified call to the station's clinic.
Once they were sure they hadn't accidently killed each other, they'd spent the rest of the night sitting in the clinic listening to a lengthy, embarrassing lecture on interspecies relations that very nearly killed her sex drive all together. If she heard the word 'chafing' one more time, Shepard swore she'd punch someone.
Sighing, she stretched out on the torture device he called a bed and immediately regretted it. Everything hurt. She was covered in bruises, scratches, bite marks, and every day she made it worse for herself. It was annoying. Combat meant a hardsuit which meant a regular supply of medigel. … Exercise… meant no medigel.
"I regret nothing." Shepard mumbled to herself and climbed out of bed. The smell of smoke and ruined breakfast made her wrinkle her nose. She'd asked him not to make her breakfast. He'd said he didn't mind cooking.
"That's sweet," She'd smiled wanly, sitting on his kitchen counter. Bastard had gotten an even bigger suite after Terra Libera blew his door off, "But I mind dying."
He chuffed, shaking a pan over the burner. She didn't recognize the blob inside it, and sorely hoped he was making his own breakfast first. "I'm not going to kill you."
The blob popped and gurgled inside out, hissing steam and foam. Shepard felt nauseous. "Well you're sure trying."
"Then I make a bad assassin, not a bad chef," He was wearing what she guessed was the turian equivalent of an apron, and that was all he was wearing. "I cook for myself every day."
"Turian food. For a turian," She stretched her leg out and poked him with her toe. "Human food is different… harder."
She must have chosen the wrong choice of words, as Nihlus had looked even more offended. "We beat your armies; we can cook your food."
"Beat our armies?" Shepard scoffed, hopping off the counter and folding her arms over her chest. She was naked, so it was hardly intimidating, but it was the principle of the gesture that mattered.
"If I recall correctly, you surrendered at Shanxi," He wasn't even paying attention, still focused on cooking his hissing blob. "To a turian, that's defeat."
Shepard poked him roughly in the chest, "If I recall correctly, we took Shanxi back. To a human, that's victory." They'd fought so adamantly and so long they'd forgotten about the food, and were close to storming out on each other when the pan burst into wild flames and they'd panicked to stop it from setting off the alarms. He never had told her if he'd been cooking it for her.
Rolling her shoulders back, Shepard picked up the shirt by the nightstand next to the bed and threw it on. It was originally one of Nihlus's undershirts, but was now officially hers after she'd accidently ripped the sleeves.
"It's not my fault your arms are so thin." She'd muttered, plucking at the frayed seams.
"True," He'd chuckled, thankfully taking it all in good stride. She'd been mortified. "But it is your fault yours aren't."
"Are you calling me fat?" She'd frowned. The sleeves flapped down her arms, tiny black flags of independence.
Nihlus opened and closed his mouth, wisely thinking twice on whatever he'd been about to say. "… If it's offensive, no, if it's flattering, yes."
It was a good answer, she'd decided. It had derailed into Nihlus telling her how batarian culture found more mass to be more appealing, and then just about batarian culture in general. Apparently, the slavers and raiders the Alliance encountered were the minority, and most of their people never left batarian space. Even knowing, she still had trouble not thinking of them as the 'four-eyed menace.' One race at a time, Shepard. One race at a time.
Shepard pulled at his shirt. It hung awkwardly down her chest, clung too tight about her arms and turned into a corset at her waist. Nihlus had given her a bewildered look and asked why she even wanted to wear it. "It's a human thing," had been her impromptu explanation.
She glanced at the kitchen, where the charred horror lay in wait. She heard sizzling and pops she was sure no human food was supposed to make, followed by turian cursing that made her translator fritz. Realizing he was trying to make her breakfast, Shepard decided to stay in his room until he gave up.
A stack of datapads and files lay on the nightstand, making a trail from the bed to the desk in the far corner of the room. A treasure trove of orange shimmered there, datapads and Nihlus's terminal illuminating the room as effectively as actual lights.
That marked the other half of their time together: combing through all of the intel they'd gathered on Terra Libera and the Reds; chasing down leads to dead ends or hideouts. None of it had brought them any closer to finding out who had ordered the hit, but at the risk of sounding like a sap, Shepard felt like it brought them closer together.
While their relationship with station security was strained at best, they'd managed to find the warehouse the customs' agent had used to transfer confiscated goods to the mercenary group. On a show of good faith, security had handed the tip off to the local Spectre, knowing he'd had a personal interest in Terra Libera.
They'd expected to find a large room full of crates and little else. They hadn't expected to find it full of mercenaries who'd gone to ground after the loss of their main base. Thankfully, neither Shepard nor Nihlus believed in going anywhere unprepared.
"It's our third date," She'd pointed out, crouched beneath a crate under a barrage of gunfire. "Can we frag yet?"
Nihlus popped out of cover to snipe an enemy she couldn't see, then ducked back down. "Don't pressure me."
Biotic energy swirled around her, and Shepard tried to unleash it at the mercenaries. Instead, she accidentally let go before she was ready, and sent her own cover flying up and smashing into the ceiling, which left her completely exposed.
Her kinetic barriers flickered in protest as the enemy squads redirected their fire. She didn't have time to berate herself when a huge weight struck her in the side and sent her crashing behind a new cover. Nihlus picked himself off her and resumed suppressing fire as if he hadn't just tackled her into safety.
Shepard ducked out of her new cover and launched an overload techmine, leaving two mercs vulnerable to a single shot each from her pistol. "I'm starting to think you'll never put out." Shepard continued as if nothing had happened.
"Well maybe if you took me somewhere nice for once," Nihlus shot back.
Their report back to station security had been conspicuously absent of the jokes that entertained them throughout the raid. Shepard pitied the fool who had to review the security feeds on the warehouse. They probably looked like psychopaths, putting the 'laughter' in 'slaughter,' not that anyone would question them on it. Part of her wished she had Nihlus's ability to invoke the Council's name like the right hand of God. The other part of her took one look at his paperwork and didn't begrudge him a thing.
Shepard glanced at the datapads on the nightstand. The one at the bottom of the pile was, as always, the one she'd bought from the information broker. Buried beneath mountains of others, all that showed of it was "Nihlus Kyrik" in orange letters at the top. Just a peek…
The accelerometers in her fingers chose that moment to itch. She still hadn't read it. Their fight had been resolved before it had even begun, before he'd even showed up with tequila. They'd handled their issues on their own, and just needed to see each other again to realize neither of them were really mad. Everything was fine. She had no reason to drive a rift between them.
But what did it say? Shepard growled and grabbed a different datapad without looking at it. Nihlus had likely left it there on purpose, trying to see if she'd breach his trust. But he hadn't said she couldn't read it…
"He also didn't say you could." Shepard muttered to herself. She stared down at the datapad she'd picked up. The title 'Creative Use of Mass Effect Fields' stared back up at her and she snorted. She'd downloaded it off the extranet (with Nihlus's Spectre access, of course) a day ago. He'd taken one look at the name and fled the room.
Shepard stared through the datapad without reading it. Her eyes slid back towards the intel and she yanked them away. With nothing else to focus on, they kept treacherously sliding back. After several minutes of feeling like she was watching a tennis match, Shepard finally dropped her datapad. Just a quick glance. There won't be anything interesting, and then it'll be out of your system. She leaned over the edge of the bed and reached for the datapad when a noise at the door startled her.
"I was thinking we could-"
Shepard squawked in surprise and toppled face first onto the floor. Her legs tangled in the blankets and she grabbed for the edge of the nightstand to catch herself. Instead she caught her hand on his datapad and sent them all flying. When she finally righted herself, Nihlus was watching the entire scene impassively from the doorway. "What are you smiling about?" She grumbled, though he wasn't smiling.
"Just enjoying the sight of a human on her knees." He returned immediately.
"Right," Shepard rolled her eyes and stood up, haphazardly attempting to restack all the datapads.
"Well, before that-… that," He gave up trying to find a word for her ladylike grace, "I was saying, I thought we could go out for drinks, before the Normandy docks."
Shepard spun around so quickly a datapad slipped from her hands and flung itself at him. Nihlus caught it without blinking. "That's today?"
"This evening." He clarified, setting the datapad down on the desk.
"Ass!" Shepard swore, running her hands through her hair. "I have to pack, dye my hair-"
"Dye your hair?"
"Review personnel files," Shepard paced in a quick circle, "Double ass."
"Your affinity for that word is more than a little disturbing."
"It's a human thing." Shepard replied immediately with what had become her scapegoat for all of her quirks. Shepard glanced back up at him, he looked off, and she couldn't place why. Nihlus looked as he said, more than a little disturbed, though whether it was over her diction or hair-dye, she couldn't say.
She couldn't place what seemed strange. Same face paint, same striking eyes, same -… clothes. He was wearing clothes. Her face twisted apologetically. "I can't," She sighed. She liked going out for drinks as much as she liked her new company for doing so. "I have things I need to take care of, responsibilities-"
Nihlus cut her off. "You don't need to explain."
Shepard went over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. They fit perfectly beneath his fringe and ridge, while his fit perfectly around her waist. Everything had fallen together, fallen apart, and fallen back together again, to fit in place perfectly.
His carapace was too hard, her skin was too soft, her hair caught on him, he caught on her hair, and they were allergic to each other to top it all off. She hardly noticed, she doubted he did either. She felt comfortable, she was comfortable.
"Right," She sighed with relief. "I'll see you on the ship." He understood; he always understood. Her biotics, her tendency towards explosives and tendency to explode… The only thing he hadn't understood was the Reds and- and Shepard didn't want to think about the Reds right now. Or ever again.
She needed a new color. Shepard thought of her Alliance blues, at first. Until she felt a talon tracing the scar on her face, and glanced up at Nihlus's eyes.
Maybe green.