Garrus, if somebody were to ask about his whereabouts that day, would have to draw a blank starting from when Shepard went to pay and this moment, where he was watching her unclasp and step out of her rad suit. He had no ability to recall how he found this bathhouse, where it was, or how they got there.

Just.

Skin.

She's looking at him, really looking at him once he's out of his clothes and it's making him feel squeezed in the gizzard with how she smiles again before going to drop her clothes bin off at the desk.

She chooses an alcove on the perimeter, lays her towel down on a bench. He moves to do the same and takes a seat next to where she's laid her towel. His mind has cleared just enough on the walk over to fall back on habit; they were going to actually bathe first and then... and then.

He doesn't question why Shepard remained standing as he starts rubbing oil over his forearms. The rote familiarity of bathing serves as a calming center.

He's promptly knocked off of it as Shepard raises one leg and puts it on the bench, oiling her foot and calf. At his current angle and the tilt on her hips he can see everything. Whoa, okay. Human vulva. And it's pink.

It was something whispered and laughed about in C-Sec. How humans went around all the time with their genitalia out, how it was a wonder they'd even managed civilization when they were primed for copulation all the time and so undisciplined that they must spend all their time rutting. Overgrown, tail-less pyjacks.

Garrus knew better. Learned better, actually. Apparently humans compensated by developing confusingly prudish cultural and social standards in regards to... well. Everything. On the Normandy, they bathed alone in isolated shower stalls, nobody looking at anybody else, let alone speaking or sharing pleasure, rushing through streams of water and scrubbing at a frantic pace at their skin before hustling off with towels around their midsections. The men did at least and Garrus came to understand that the act was the same for the women. They called it the Two Minute Shower.

Travesty.

Especially compared to what Garrus was witnessing at that moment, Shepard smoothing oil over a knee and along her thigh, tantalizingly moving up, close-

She stepped down and put her other leg up, blocking his view.

He caught her smile after he'd thrummed again and it got him hotter, how she knew just how to tease. He had no idea that she had this side to her.

They watched each other, Shepard finishing up her other leg, him moving on to his cowl and keel.

Shepard stepped over the bench and took a seat, straddling it.

"Budge over. I want to help you first."

Garrus moved so that he was straddling the bench also, moving closer to her. Not seeing her, but feeling her hands on him, was good in an entirely different way. His head drooped and he closed his eyes. He didn't get to relax for long. Shepard was actually knocking on his carapace with a knuckle.

"... What are you doing?"

"Can you feel that?"

"Yes, Shepard. And that? That's not really helping the mood, here."

"Oh, sorry," she smoothed her palms down and got her many fingers on his waist and started kneading. "... Is this... better?"

Garrus had no words, just a desperate thrumming whimper.

She traced out a track of fire over his hips, oiling up his abdominal plates, back across his sides and Garrus started panting as both hands came down, framing his groin plates.

"Still inside, I see," Shepard traced one finger lightly over his seam. Too lightly. He squirmed, hitching his hips up.

"...Please. Oh, please..."

"I think you're forgetting. You need. To help. With my back."

Garrus forced his eyes open. Yes. Yes, he needed to do that, things can't go on without doing it properly.

Plus, Shepard was much too smug and gleeful. He was going to have to fix that.

tbc