Ahh wow I woke up to two reviews this morning and I literally jumped for joy! Hence the longer chapter this time. :D

Please keep them coming! I appreciate it!

xoxo

THR

Chapter 6

Your name was still Commander Liz Shepard and you were starting forget that you still hadn't turned your dog tags back to the Alliance.

They hung around your neck like they always did, almost like a scarlet letter. Because they weren't always covered up by armor anymore, the soft clinking noises they made when you walked was one of the last reassuring things in your entire penthouse. When you bent down to pick up a long forgotten datapad lying on the ground, a soft metallic tapping sound would come along with them hanging down into your peripheral vision. Other mundane tasks were made better when you were able to see them. It was almost a sick obsession of yours to listen for them or look down at your chest to check them. Sometimes you wondered if they were still there.

They always were.

Staring at dog tags was only one of your many bizarre habits that you had picked up while on semi permanent shore leave. The fact that you still considered your current state to be shore leave was another one.

You also tended to look at your former armor an unhealthy amount of times during the day.

It was disassembled and shelved in the very back of your closet, which was a walk in. You had not experienced the feeling of the hard shell that had protected your body for so long in approximately a year. Although initially destroyed by a Reaper beam, your first order of business when you had usable free time was to get it repaired.

You sent it into the Presidium Commons anonymously; when given the specs, merchants figured that it had been sent in by a Shepard fan looking to have an accurate copy of her armor. You laughed when you had figured that out.

When you got it back, you were determined to not have a single scratch be inflicted on it. You needed to savor it. In the long run, you had lost the Normandy and her crew, but you didn't have to lose the one thing that had protected you until the end.

Its curves and make had been engraved in your mind since the initial purchase: metallic purple and indigo finish, Kassa Fabrications chest plate, the rest outfitted with Airmax Arsenal, white lights on the back.

You found yourself staring at it a bit too often, among other things that you probably shouldn't have been doing. Most of the things you did nowadays would be considered insane by the standards of most races. You were no longer Commander Shepard. Your reasoning behind your actions was simple; most people would go insane if they had been shoved inside a place that they didn't belong.

It was like an alien on Earth or a civilian on a warship. It couldn't work, it wouldn't work, and they would try to find some way to leave no matter what.

Because no matter what, the ends would always justify the means. You were Commander Shepard, god damn it. You could tell yourself that you weren't, but you always would be.

At least you would be on the inside.

For now, to feel like a commander on the outside, you would have to take certain measures.

Your name was Commander Liz Shepard and you were sitting on your couch in full uniform.

You felt stupid. You were stupid. Reminiscing wouldn't get you anywhere.

The small bit of rationality in your brain was making you seethe. Why were you doing this to yourself? Would a once great hero like you die in a penthouse from utter boredom just because of restrictions that had put on you? Were you even a hero anymore? Would you have to try and fake your status by wearing armor around while doing petty things like cleaning and watching dumb vids?

No, that wasn't going to happen.

As the Presidium ogled back at you from your floor to ceiling living room window, you did something that you had wanted to do for a long time.

"Don't use your biotics." they had told you. Who "they" were had never been important to you; you were prone to insubordination to begin with.

They could try to take out your L2s (which didn't exactly work), they could put you on house arrest, they could let you off with a warning, but nobody was about to try and stop you now.

It was 19:30 on the Citadel. The false, simulated sunset was approaching and all was quiet. For a second, your attention drifted away from the blue haze welling up in your hand. As fake as it was, there was a watercolor painting being formed up in the Presidium's skyway. The light cerulean faded into purple, your favorite. Then there was the dark red, and then the other colors of fire that somehow made their way up into the sky. It was beautiful, yes, but fake. Everything on the Presidium was fake. The fakeness combined with the quiet was soon too much, and while you were engrossed, your hands began to go out of control. It felt numb, and for the first time, you felt like you couldn't even stop an urge that you had in check for years.

That is, until the cracking of a series of windows elicited a tiny crowd below you. Six meters worth of glass was either partially shattered or scarred on the metal deck that was outside of your personal balcony. Power surged through your body again, and as you looked down to see scratches on the violet finish of your suit, you fell to your knees.

You couldn't let that happen again, yet before you could control yourself, it did.

Your name was Garrus Vakarian and you had never been more afraid to do something in your life.

Military manners and combat techniques had been embedded in your brain since you were a teen. If someone lunged at you, you could have them on the ground. If someone pulled a gun on you, you could have them dead in seconds. If someone sniped you, you'd snipe back and make each shot better than your last.

But when it came to women, you couldn't help but deadpan sometimes.

You did have emotions and feelings for females, of course. However, they had never been strong enough for you to have the desire to initiate something meaningful. Many a time you had been with a turian woman and got lucky. Every single encounter had been nothing more than a non-passionate fling; you could wake up and have her gone so you could return to life as normal. You were not a player whatsoever.

Hell, you were just plain confused.

That is, until you met a woman.

A human woman.

Your story had been unbelievably cliché. Some of the human crew aboard the Normandy had called you star crossed lovers, and you rolled your eyes every single time because it really was just a silly pun.

But sometimes, you couldn't help but believe it.

What was once thought to be nothing more than "blowing off steam" turned into a sudden whirlwind that you couldn't explain. It wasn't a fling; it was dependence.

It was, dare you say, love.

You needed her as much as she needed you. You knew what guns she liked and she knew when you would be busy with calibrations. She didn't mind cheap champagne and staying in for the night to look at stars. Dates weren't either of your styles, anyway. You were both a little too rigid for that. Harsh combat and watching each other's back was good enough for you most of the time. When you were both feeling cozy, other things would go on in the privacy of the Main Battery or the Captain's Quarters. It wasn't necessarily sex; heartfelt discussions or a few properly planted kisses made both of your hearts start beating faster than they should have.

Other than domestic needs, your sexual ones were more than just satisfied by this woman.

There was an obvious species difference. The two of you had been aware of this when starting things out. The first time it had been awkward. Weird angles and asking if the other one was ok led to scars and allergic reactions. You had been frazzled and thought that you had turned her off. Time revealed to you that you had done the absolute opposite.

Your kisses had to be kept to a minimum due to skin reactions with your saliva. You didn't want to hurt her, but you couldn't help but embrace her when she gave you deep kisses with her always chapped lips.

You stared down at the datapad in your hand and reviewed your current appearance. You had been in armor, not civvies. Exhaling, you brushed your clothing off and regretted your choice in attire.

After checking yourself over externally, you recalled what Hackett had said and began to ponder why he had even sent you after her to begin with.

Shepard wasn't stable. You saw firsthand what she had put herself through. The last thing you wanted to do was set her off.

There hadn't been any no-no subjects presented to you before you had left. In fact, you had been given nothing more than a brief warning, which was also quite strange. In retrospect, though, this entire thing was strange and unexpected.

You figured that you would assume nothing until you saw her again. The moment would reveal itself to you soon enough and you began to relax a little bit. There was no sense in being tense, anyway.

You then realized that you should have known better. Out of the blue, the elevator that you were currently travelling in shook in a violent manner. Within seconds, you heard a loud blast and the lights turned off. Backup lights turned on, and so did your sense that made you want to keep going.

Something was wrong, and you needed to get the hell out of that elevator and up to Shepard's supposed penthouse. Just as fast as the elevator had stopped, you pulled out your omni-tool and got to work.

Because if something happened to her and you were this close, you knew that you couldn't forgive yourself. It was a primal instinct, one that you couldn't control nor did you want to curb it.

And you loved every minute of it.