When James returned to the Normandy a few hours later, drunker than when he'd been dancing with Shepard (dios mio he still couldn't believe that happened), it was to see her in the CIC amongst the skeleton crew of the graveyard shift. She didn't look happy either. Tipsy Shepard was definitely gone, her BDUs hiding that glorious cleavage once again. His hands itched at the memory her warm hips against his hands and he could almost smell the strawberry of her hair again. Heat pooled in his belly and if he didn't stop his wandering mind then that heat would creep lower and he'd have to make an awkward, hasty retreat. Maybe he could silently back out before she noticed him.

A private came out of the cockpit and snapped to attention when she saw James, her boots ringing on the steel floor. Shepard looked up, and James gave her a much lazier salute than the private gave him. Shepard's expression didn't change. Was he in trouble?

She jerked her head to the elevator and went to summon it. He scrolled through possible reasons he might be in trouble as he followed her into the elevator. He didn't think he was late for duty. He was pretty sure he'd cleaned the guns properly before he left for Purgatory. She didn't seem mad about dancing earlier, but he supposed sobriety could've changed her mind.

They descended to the hangar deck in silence. Shepard stared at the floor, her arms crossed and a foot tapping a restless beat against the floor. So she could tap in time but not dance in time.

She broke the silence when the elevator door opened on an empty hangar deck. 'I need to let off some steam.'

'I'm flattered, but my bunk's on deck 3,' he said before his brain could catch up to his mouth.

Shepard pinned him with a look that was partially hostile and partially… not. He blinked and the heated look was gone. Great, now alcohol was making him not only stupid but hallucinate things. James trailed her to the bolted-down crate that held foam training mats, black squares that interlocked into any arrangement needed for the cramped quarters of a ship. They arranged them into a 3-by-3 metre square along the wall next to his station. The are was partially hidden from the elevator or anyone observing from the windows on the engineering deck—a space he'd sometimes used for sleeping when the crew quarters were a little too stifling.

'What are you shitty about?' he asked, bending to shuck his boots for their spar.

'Everything, but right now the Council.'

Nothing new there. She didn't elaborate, so he figured he didn't need to know.

He placed his boots out of the way and, when he stood back up, Shepard's boots and the top half of her BDUs were set aside. She stood in just her sports bra and pants. Pretty much any other woman and he'd think he was being seduced. Shepard was not seducing him. She'd started her stretches, still frowning and a faraway look in her eyes. He tried to keep his gaze from wandering, but it was hard when she reached her arms over her head, bending from side to side and backwards. Muscles shifted under her creamy skin, not as defined as his but definitely there. He wanted to taste every inch of her and hear the intake of breath when he found somewhere sensitive and—

He shook his head before he let his imagination get too far.

'No biotics,' said James after going quickly through his stretches. He was still warm from his energetic dancing at Purgatory. 'It's not fair.'

'You've got a 12-centimetre height, 10-centimetre reach and almost 30-kilo advantage. How is biotics not fair?'

'You're Commander Shepard,' he said with a shrug, like that explained everything, and it kind of did.

He held out his fist to her. She sighed and rolled her eyes, touching his fist with her own in acquiescence before stepping back into her defensive stance. Interesting. He expected to be the one who was quickly on the back foot. Four seconds of circling and he was. They traded soft blows, Shepard pointing out every now and again a too-wide opening in his defence or what would've been a more effective strike. She was taking this N7 trainer thing more seriously than he thought she would—and here he was, too booze-addled to properly take it in.

Abruptly, they went from standing to him on his back, tapping her leg as she leg-locked him.

'You didn't say we were grappling,' he said, rolling to one knee and shaking out the leg she'd submitted him with.

She grinned, her cheeks flushed and hair messy, and he wondered if that's what she looked like after sex.

'I didn't say we weren't grappling,' she said.

He scowled and got back to his feet. 'Best two out of three.'

'It's a spar, not a competition.'

'Scared?'

'You're baiting me.'

'Is it working?'

'Yes.' She rushed in and took him to the mat again.

He was ready this time though, and when he won that round she wasn't playing anymore. Neither was he. She clipped his chin with her fist; he caught her on the thigh with a kick. He took her to the mat; she turned the tables and trapped him in her guard. Their breathing became harsher, their moves less calculated. Adrenaline cleared the fog of alcohol. It even chased away the awareness of his hands dragging against Shepard's bare skin as he tried to find the fastest way to finish this. And then she slipped up. A swift turn and flip and Shepard was on her front, cheek pressed into the mat. His chest pinned her there as he tried to wriggle his arms underneath her into a better position for a submission. For the second time tonight he was attacked by the smell of strawberries and he paused.

'You know wrestling pins don't count, right?' she said through laboured breaths, flicking him an annoyed look out of the corner of her eye.

His voice was rough with more than exhaustion when he murmured in her ear, 'Maybe I just like having you under me, Lola.'

She froze, the only movement a flicker of her tongue moistening her lips. Mierda, what he wouldn't give to have those lips around his cock.

Shepard tapped her free hand on the mat and James instantly let go, sitting back on his heels and resting his hands on his thighs. He flashed her a shit-eating grin, like he hadn't just been thinking about her on her knees while he fucked her mouth.

'Damn, chica, if I'd known it'd be that easy to rattle you, I'd have won way more matches by now.'

She climbed to her feet and looked like she was going to kick him in the head. Hell, the way he was feeling, he'd probably thank her for the attention.

'Congratulations on your ill-gotten win,' she said drily.

He laughed and jumped up to grab two electrolyte drinks from his station. They weren't cold, but he at least was too hot and sweaty to care. The buzz of alcohol was still there, melding with adrenaline and the thrill of being able to say he'd beaten Shepard, even if the method was underhand. A hefty amount of lust also hovered, heightening his every sense towards her. Her fingers brushed his when she accepted the drink from him and she might as well have dragged her nails down his chest for how it affected him.

You ever gonna make good on all this flirting?

'You didn't get this completely healed,' he said, running his thumb across the pale pink scar of the gunshot wound he'd patched up.

Shepard's skin jumped under his fingers. He dropped his hand. He should've stepped away but he didn't. And she didn't.

'Chakwas has more important things to do than cosmetic surgery,' she said, taking another swig of her drink but keeping her gaze locked with his.

'You can cover it with a tattoo.' He smirked. 'You haven't put my name somewhere special yet, have you?'

'Give me a reason to and I might,' she shot back.

'Is that a challenge, Lola?'

A discrete cough interrupted them. 0600. The changing of the guard, so to speak, and here he was standing close enough to Shepard that a slight bend of his waist and he could finally, finally taste her lips.

She turned from him, swept up her BDU top and her boots and strode to the elevator. Cortez was the interloper (of course). She gave the pilot a crisp 'good morning' before she entered the elevator and disappeared without a backwards glance.

'Not a word, Esteban,' said James as he got to putting the mats back where they belonged.

Humour coloured Cortez's voice as he said, 'I wouldn't dream of trying to give you advice again.'