A/N: OK, you've heard me bitch about the other two. I really liked how this one turned out. I have to admit it was inspired by callalili's Dreadnaught:Veritas chapter of the Flotilla piece. Go read it.
Grunt/Samara: PG-13 for language and sexual implications?
It started with death. For Urdnot Grunt, most things did. Okeer's death led, in a roundabout way, to his birth. The genophage, the death of his resilient species, led, in another not-so-roundabout way, to his creation. And when Shepard had awakened him, his thoughts muddily violent, his world no longer a glass case, they had both mocked death, balancing on the edge of a blade.
His fists. Shepard's gun. It would have been a short pointless struggle, spraying the cargo hold with bone and fluids. Shepard was smart and fast, but he had a redundant nervous system and hands that could rend metal.
Bunkered down in the cargo hold, Grunt often wonders who would have won that confrontation. But he does not regret it going the way it did. Not now. Before, it had irked him that a soft, smooth human got the drop on him and sweet talked him out of violence. Now he knows better – Shepard takes him on exciting adventures and lets him kill great big things. Shepard is a battlemaster without equal. But Shepard is not the cause of his dissatisfaction. Something other than battle-lust eats away at his contentment.
Clan Urdnot will endure for thousands of years. The crew of the Normandy has maybe another century at most, if this mission doesn't kill them all. He doesn't care about longevity. He is young and krogan, nearly invincible. But realizing that everyone around him is transient, that maybe one day Shepard won't be fit to lift a pistol – that is a sobering thought. His krantt will not be with him forever - they are all so short-lived.
Except for her.
The crazy asari. The rigid justicar. That quad-busting, fun-sucking, tight-assed tentacle-headed bitch. She is all cold-calm and untouchable, steely under his hide like a knife through his crest. She sits for hours on end staring at nothing. She kills people for having fun. She is sick, boring, and so subtly twisted (If you reject my doctrine of peace and mercy – I will kill you); sometimes he wants nothing more than to head butt her through the observatory window.
But only sometimes, and that is not nearly often enough.
For this, he has to blame Okeer.
Being tank-grown has its advantages. There are many long-winded lessons he has avoided sitting through – the words and images directly implanted in his brain. History. Combat. Science. Vast archives of knowledge have been uploaded into his mind – it takes some concentration to reach the thoughts and most of the time he lacks the patience to do so. But sometimes he can focus long enough to extract something new and useful. Sometimes things come to him on their own.
Hatred for salarians and turians had grown almost overnight. There was the knowledge that he should hate them, and then there was the moment when everything clicked into place, like a fully assembled assault rifle.
Humans are a vague concept – soft, squishy cannon fodder.
Volus and hanar are downright hilarious.
Asari are altogether different.
Asari are different, my boy, he hears Okeer's outlandishly smug voice rasping in his head.
The first images are violent – slender asari commandos wreathed in blue light ripping apart krogans, salarians, turians - anything, using only their minds. Their forms are bony and anorexic. Their tiny faces are fierce. Their skin is too smooth.
Beautiful, aren't they? Okeer sounds amused. The ghost of the dirty old bastard lives on in his mind.
He sees krogan and asari wrestling in the dirt, delicate violet and blue skin chafing against leathery scales. Mind-melting joining. Loud squeals from the baser act, so high-pitched they make his teeth hurt.
Okeer had been very thorough with his education. He knows the proper ways to court a fertile female of his own kind, to appear strong and worthy, to make the experience mutually enjoyable – because if the female is unsatisfied, he will not get a second chance. He even knows the mating rites of old, archaic and almost obsolete because the females have all the power these days. He knows how to posture, when to give, and which positions are most likely to result in a successful fertilization.
The experience with the asari was less formal, less clinical, and far more…pleasurable.
He sees her, Rana Thanoptis – the name comes unbidden – massaging Okeer's crest, her eyes black, her skin as pale like ice. Briefly he feels their connection, her tendrils latching onto his, no Okeer's consciousness. It is something deeper than rutting, more awe-inspiring than space: their eternity that stretches on beyond time and death and into his own life.
Great, Grunt's own inner voice grumbles, on top of delusions of grandeur, you inherited your dad's asari fetish.
Grunt does not like his newly-developed inner voice. Sometimes it tells him not to rush headfirst into battle, to be canny and cautious, to restrain himself; it sounds a lot like Shepard. There are too many voices in his head. It is easier if he doesn't think at all.
But she's there too, silent and watchful, an unwelcome sentinel. She glows blue, like eezo and turian blood and clean water.
He likes watching her in battle – there's a tautness in her limbs and a commanding grace that no one else on the ship can replicate. Shepard is a presence, one that strikes like a storm, but his battlemaster doesn't make fighting look like dancing. The drell assassin is very limber, but he draws no attention to himself, dissolving into shadow and wind. When the justicar fights, he can't look away. Sometimes, in the heat of battle, the serenity melts off her face and he sees just passionate she can be. It's then that her alien countenance and her small soft body don't seem so disappointing. Her kills are always lightning quick but beautiful. If Shepard takes them both into battle together, he fights harder, louder, better, just so she'll notice him. It's not the smoothest tactic, though it is the most straightforward.
But after the battle, she is always stony-cool and untouchable and he's left frustrated and wishing he was back on Tuchanka where he could face another thresher maw or a camp full of curious female krogan. He wishes he'd never seen an asari before. He wishes that back on Omega, Shepard would have chosen the slick, seductive, she-varren Morinth instead of Samara.
He could smell the difference. Morinth's scent had been sickly sweet, an intoxicating head trip – like uncut batarian ale spiked with red sand. Dangerous, but ultimately something he could resist. Samara was just Samara, leather, ozone, and forests after the rain.
Urdnot Grunt has spent a lot of time becoming what he is. He has the corpses of thousands of clutchmates behind him. He completed his Rite of Passage covered in the blood of a thresher maw. He earned what no other tankborn krogan could. But when she looks at him, he wants to be more than just a krogan. More than a tankborn. More than an Urdnot. More than he is. Worse, he doesn't understand why.
When he dents the bulkhead of the cargo hold and EDI sharply tells him to desist, he wonders if this is another form of madness.
Adolescence as Shepard's turian calls it.
The first time he ventures out of his normal routine – cargo hold, elevator, mess hall, refresher – is to see the starboard observation deck.
She sits, back to him, contemplating the vastness of space. Or sleeping.
He steps inside, because the observational deck isn't exactly hers. People come to look at stuff. Like stars. And space. Because the endless void is oh so interesting to stare into. The doors whoosh shut behind him.
"Grunt." She doesn't sound surprised and he knows no one else on this ship makes quite as much noise as he does. "This is a surprise. What are you doing here?" She slowly rises, languid and peaceful, but he tenses – this is the first time he has been alone with her. His tongue feels fat in his mouth and he has never been good with words.
"Just…seeing the rest of the ship. Got…curious," he mumbles.
She turns to face him and he tries to stare right through her. He tries not to look at her head spikes, or her tiny waist, or the expanse of all that vulnerable silky skin.
She is waiting.
The silence grows between them, thick and unwieldy.
"Great view," he tries again, most definitely not staring at the plunging vee of her armor. Is he staring? Yes, he must be because the swell of her breasts look oh so inviting and he wonders how she'd feel if he…
She clears her throat and he realizes that yes indeed, he is staring.
"I should go…kill things." The words are out and as soon as they leave his mouth he knows they won't impress her or endear him to her. He turns on his heels and stalks out, already cursing his bumbling, Okeer's imprints, and the inscrutable workings of the asari mind.
It is not his way to ruminate, to dwell on past missteps, but when he does, he is no better than the drell. Worse, he is still unsure what he could have done differently. Her ways, her body, her mind are too foreign to him. He understands the mechanics of sex. He does not understand the rituals of courtship.
One cycle later, the door to the cargo bay opens. And instead of Shepard or one of the nervous, delicate human engineers, she is there, watching him.
He still doesn't know what to say to her.
"I am here, exploring the rest of the ship," she says lightly.
"OK. Not much to see here," he mumbles, and then winces inwardly. A pyjack would be better with words and for one rare moment, he envies Shepard's talent with them.
"The view here is…somewhat lacking, I admit," Samara smiles casually, and Grunt feels the blood pounding in his head.
No one finds krogan…pretty. He knows this. He doesn't expect her to be so crass as to point it out. A growl begins form in his gut, angry and embarrassed.
"You should come up to the observatory again. Sometimes, when we orbit planets, the view then can be quite beautiful," she continues, as if she can't hear it. "Though it is easier to meditate on the vastness of space."
The growl lowers to a rumble. Grunt stares as she smiles (centuries of cunning and experience in that smile), and walks away, her hips swaying.
He does not go right away. Okeer taught him that much and he has his dignity. Another cycle passes before he can wait no longer.
This time when he goes into the observatory, he plunks down beside her, unable to cross his legs quite like she does. His hide scrapes at the metal floor. She inclines her head toward him.
"You seem troubled, Grunt. Meditation soothes the mind."
He opens his mouth to tell her to stuff it. Krogans don't do that kind of thing. Krogans don't sit still for hours lost in their own minds. But something, Okeer's wisdom, Shepard's skill, Samara's calm, something silences him.
"All right," he manages.
She talks to him, her voice rich and sweet. She talks about centering oneself, about touching the edges of eternity. She talks a lot and half of what she says is lost on him anyway. They both know this. But he tries to listen – he takes deep slow breaths and closes his eyes. It is strange, he reflects, and thinks of Urdnot Wrex who is also oddly calm and thoughtful for a krogan. He thinks of time spent with aliens and realizes just how much he can learn – more surprisingly, he finds he is not disinclined to do so.
And they sit together, the silence easier, her presence hot and bright beside him.
But Grunt does not like to meditate. He has no illusions of calm and peace. Blood and adrenaline give him meaning. Shepard gives him direction. Clan Urdnot gives him belonging. Samara brings him dissatisfaction. For that he should break her skinny neck.
But he returns regularly. He does not have the discipline to stay away.
It is likely she knows why he comes, but she has never mentioned it. Initially he looks for pity or some sort of intent, a reason to stop these visits. Smooth and quiet as a lake-rolled stone, she betrays nothing. She speaks of meditation, discipline, her goddamned Code, and sometimes, if he's managed to be inoffensive, she talks about her life. Sometimes, if he can find the right words, he asks questions.
Unbroken and tenuous, there is intimacy in quiet. It is not truly silent –his breathing is rough and ragged compared to hers and her biotics hum at a high frequency, stirring the thoughts in his brain. But they sit there together and still years apart, and Grunt wonders if there's any way to bridge the gap, better yet, if there's any reason.
He understands mating and lust, at least sometimes. These things pass. Infatuation is cured with time. But time does not seem to be fixing any of this – time amplifies the constancy of it all. Time has passed and he still wants her. Time is not his friend.
And yet it is. Because now, there is something where there was nothing. Now she smiles at him, and his hearts clench so hard he forgets to breathe. Because those smiles, : they are just for him.
This is weak, but he fights harder because of it.
This is futile, but those are his favorite battles.
This is unnatural, but who is he to point fingers?
But the peace eats away at him, and he feels like he is losing a part of himself. He is no less ferocious in battle, but after spending so much time with her there are times when he does not crave the violence so much. It is un-krogan and it bothers him.
The effect is not without its benefits. In return, his head is clearer and he thinks, really thinks about the information Okeer has given him. He thinks about the genophage and Shepard's salarian. He thinks about Cerberus and what kind of enemy they would make. He thinks about Urdnot Wrex and is beginning to see the wisdom and ambition of the older krogan's goals.
His world expands, and he must grow to keep up with it.
"Take them a dead one," he says one day as Shepard complains to the turian about the Council's thickheaded refusal to acknowledge the Reaper threat.
The commander stares at him.
"Take them a dead Collector," he repeats himself slowly, though Shepard is not an idiot. "Give them…the genetic information. Since they're Protheans and apparently being an ancient race of giant bugs wins instant prestige – despite the fact they still managed to go extinct. Also, it would be hilarious if you just dumped a decomposing cockroach body in front of them and told them to sniff it."
The turian chokes out a laugh, but Shepard looks thoughtful, and favors Grunt with a lingering stare.
"I might do that, Grunt," Shepard says. "It's a good idea. Thanks."
Grunt smirks.
Sniff that, turian.
"When facing possible death, the strangest thoughts come to a person," she says one day, after the Collectors have taken their human crew and they stand in the shadow of certain destruction. .
He too is agitated – the ship still stinks of Collectors and Shepard is making preparations to go through the Omega Relay.
"In my travels, I came across the strangest dish. I think it was fish, pyjack meat, and the secret ingredient being some sort of Tuchankan tummy-tingling sauce. Eating it was…an experience."
"The idea of going into battle to the death makes you hungry?" He is smiling widely as she glances at him. And it takes her a moment to laugh.
He is getting better at making jokes.
She is rigid as fire-hardened stone and violence is her answer to anything that offends her – she does not back down. Grunt respects this, even if her Code is ridiculous and her demeanor hypocritical. Those two reasons, he accepts begrudgingly, are why this infatuation is at all bearable.
Matriarchs aren't maidens, Okeer reminds him. Matriarchs require more than a bold attitude and a cheeky slap on the ass. They want to talk, to connect, to commit. They tie down their partners, an anchor around the neck. But in the same regard, they like fortresses, loyal and wise and fiercely protective of their own.
They are worthy…companions.
The echo of Okeer's feelings is almost like the satisfaction of becoming Clan Urdnot.
Almost, but not quite.
They sit there, the oldest and the youngest creatures on the ship. They stand diametrically opposed to each other on many spectrums. The distance is across species, centuries, philosophy, and six inches of floor.
"I gave up everything to kill my daughter," she says. "Okeer gave up everything, even things that weren't his to give, so that you would live." Her tone is mild, not accusing.
Grunt doesn't know where this is going, so he waits. He is getting better at patience. But eventually he realizes he is meant to talk, so he gives an answer.
"Krogan have more trouble creating children. Okeer's duty became an obsession that helped no one. It's different," he grunts.
She stares at him for a moment. Something flickers across her face, but it is gone before he can even try to recognize it.
"I suppose you're right." Her smile is hesitant, but it is for him.
He knows he has missed something, but it would be a lie to say he doesn't feel satisfied.
Okeer gave him a lot of useless trivia: cultural antiquities of his clan, thirty seven ways to blind a batarian, and a collection of a traditional krogan recipes. Krogans do not have cuisine. Krogans have food – if they are feeling really ambitious, they might cook it first.
Gardner is gone and he has the memories of a dish matching Samara's description. Pyjack meat from Tuchanka. Fish fresh from Shepard's private tank. Tummy-Tingling Tuchanka sauce in the cook's spice cabinet.
He sears the meat and fish in oil. He does his best not to burn it – a little black adds color, right? The spicy sauce come next and by the time he's done, the softer squishier species with vulnerable mucus membranes have evacuated the area. The AI seems to understand that this is not a biological attack, but rather a foray into krogan cooking and so panic is averted somewhat – not that there are many people left to start good old fashioned stampede.
He doesn't understand the fuss. It smells good to him.
He spoons the slop onto two plates and, as an afterthought, brings the spoon with him. He goes straight to observation deck.
She turns when he enters and blinks numerous times.
"Okeer used to make this. I think." He proudly offers her the plate and the spoon.
She takes them both.
They sit, facing the observation window. Grunt slurps his down, savoring the heat of the spices in his mouth. He likes his meat and fish a little less cooked, but it isn't bad. He steals a glance at Samara who is gingerly picking at the food.
She coughs a few times, eyes watering as she swallows.
He watches eagerly. Did he add enough sauce? It's a little mild for him but…
"It's…almost exactly how I remember it. Stronger than I expected," her voice sounds rough. "Thank you, Grunt."
Pride and heat well up in his chest. She can't eat very much – being an asari and all – but he finishes her plate and is rewarded with a smile and a tentative pat on the back.
Smiles and touches: this is progress.
When he sleeps, he dreams. Sometimes he sees asari as Okeer did, lithe dancers, fleet-footed mercs, imposing matriarchs: they flit through his head, teasing and quick. He knows how the look nude, creamy blue-violet skin, long lithe legs, and soft round breasts. Coupling must be done carefully though he knows, somehow, that the luxury of asari skin is far more decadent than the roughness of krogan scales. He aches for it; the next time they go to Omega, he knows what he will do. There is no shame in it. He is young. He is male.
But there is another side to it, something he can't quite grasp in fingers. Asari meld. Their minds merge. There is intimacy and foreignness and a connection he isn't sure he wants to forge. Like stepping off land and plunging into dark rushing water. Contentment, yearning, lust, memories, they swirl together in a tangled net that threatens to overwhelm him.
And there is space, endless and black before him.
Eternity to embrace.
The concept makes him feel very small. It gives him perspective. It's like staring through the scope of a sniper rifle, the expanse of the terrain laid out clearly before him. It is not his style or his worldview, but he understands. He is here. She is there. And in between there are pitfalls and traps, varren and thresher maw. The distance will take time to cross, but he can wait. He is krogan. She is asari. They have time.
The afterimage of eternity is burned deep into his brain. Now that he has seen it, some part of it, he cannot walk away. This is something to work toward, to strive for, cultivate and create – hard concepts for a krogan to grasp, but no less important. This is a path he can't take in straight lines and shotgun blasts: foreign and alien, but inevitable as death. This is life from the long view.
Urdnot Grunt's next steps don't feel so blind.
A/N: So I don't actually believe Samara would ever do anything untoward with Grunt. It's a crush. And Grunt needs to grow up ( and he needs to stop bellowing "I AM KROGAN" every time he shoots something, but I digress). I often wonder how Wrex turned out so smart (because face it, most of the krogans you meet are pretty dumb). Maybe it was age and Clan Urdnot. Recalling the Aleena story, I just think he spent a lot of time with the asari.
OK, I have Ashley/Jacob, Joker/Tali, and Thane/Shepard/Garrus fics in the works. Miranda/Zaeed, Kelly/Conrad Verner, & a few others are spinning around my head trying to escape. Let me know what interests you and give me some suggestions.
