Chapter Two: Soaked in Gin
As much as he hated to admit it, even to just himself, she did surprise him. When they took a quick blood-alcohol level test during her booking, she should have been unconscious at the amount she had in her bloodstream, but she passed a field-vision and balance test like she hadn't had a drink her entire life.
Alliance N5 training makes you stay awake for 72 hours straight, she had said. That's equivalent to being laced up with Red Sand and about three bottles of Krogan whiskey.
They didn't put her in the hot box, much to another officer's disappointment, but she did sit in a cell while Garrus waited for a statement from the bartender. She had caused quite a fuss in the wards, and he had a feeling they would press charges.
As he waited, he snuck a glance at what he could of her public file. Since she was high up in the Alliance military, some of her missions were classified, something that frustrated him to no end, but it also made him curious.
The Turian glanced down at the vid feed coming to his data pad of the woman's cell. She was sitting on the bunk, legs crossed under her and hands up near her chest to braid, unbraid, and rebraid her hair over and over again. Who knew how long he had been watching her, the way her chest rose under the tight sleeveless shirt she wore, pants taunt against her muscular thighs and calves. There was a dark mark painted on her skin; it stretched from underneath her top to across both shoulders and down to cover most of her left arm.
He couldn't make out the design from the blurry feed, and he had completely ignored it when booking her earlier.
"Got yourself a trouble-maker, Vakarian?"
He looked up from the feed, eyes focusing on his cubicle-mate as the fellow Turian sat in his chair. Garrus flicked a mandible in annoyance. Sevro held his hands up in defeat, leaving his fellow officer alone. Garrus felt the vibrations of annoyance again before turning the vid back on and watching.
She was no longer braiding her hair, but instead pacing the room. There was a sheen of sweat on her face and arms, and her skin looked pale under the florescent lighting.
He watched her, confused at the sudden change of her posture before she ran for the small toiletry facility in the corner of the cell and doubled over. Garrus cursed loudly, body humming with a mix of worry and urgency as he kicked himself out of his chair and ran for the cells.
Garrus pressed harder on the keypad that was necessary as he tried to get the door open, and he squeezed through the slowly moving doors once unlocked.
She was on her knees now, retching into the toilet bowl at an alarming rate. He could smell the acidic twang of her stomach fluids sloshing in the bowl. He opened his comm.
"I need a medical assistant in cell block J, holding number two-five-one."
He rested a hand on the woman's back, frowning at the moisture that soaked through her shirt and into his glove. She groaned lowly, the sound making him trill in worry again. She tensed up at the sound, and glanced over her shoulder at him. It was then that he noticed the thick scar across the bridge of her nose and both cheeks. There was also another small marking just behind her left ear.
49.
"It would be foolish of me to ask if you are okay," he grumbled, and she held a quick smirk before her cheeks relaxed and she rested her head on the cool metal of the bowl. Garrus flinched at the unhygienic motion, but could understand her need to cool off.
Her body temperature had rocketed up in the few moments of her sickness, making her skin clammy and flushed a sickly yellow.
At the sound of scurrying feet, Garrus looks up at the salarian medic that rushes in, med-bag clutched between its fingers.
"Move! Move!" he shouts, and Garrus simply puts a little pressure on her back, his way of saying he won't be far, before standing out of the way. The medic pulls the Lieutenant from the bowl, muttering to himself as he flushes away the sick, before checking the woman's vitals.
"I just had too much to drink," she mutters, swatting away at the cold hand that checks her pulse. "I drank enough to get alcohol poisoning. Lucky for you, I don't die so easily." She swats at the medic again, a growl deep in her throat. It surprises both Garrus and the doctor. "You touch me again and I won't be able to say the same for you, you damn bilge slug."
Garrus felt a mandible flick up in amusement at the insult. Where did she get all of them from? They were more humorous than degrading, but he wasn't about to tell her that.
The salarian huffed in annoyance before gathering his things and leaving the cell. Garrus walked back over to the woman, offering a gloved hand. She took it, weakly getting to her feet, and it would have taken her longer to gather her balance if he hadn't gripped her other arm to steady her.
"Thanks," she hummed, staggering back to the bunk to lie down, cheek pressed against the cooling metal. "I just need to sleep it off. This happens every year."
His mandibles quirked up, but she didn't see.
"Every year?" he questioned, sitting on the edge of the bunk, elbows resting on his knees.
She nods, eyes closed and her arm acting as her pillow. He almost felt bad, but he couldn't treat her any different. She was a criminal, public intoxication and drunken disorderliness. She would more than likely be charged and forced to pay a fine and go before a circuit court. It wouldn't look very good on her file.
"Every year," she repeats, fingers twitching against the surface. "Colony. Thresher Maw. Couldn't hear. Couldn't see. So many dead."
Her breath caught in her throat, almost like a sob, before her breathing evened out and she fell into a tense sleep.
Garrus sat there, contemplating what he had heard. Her file was blacked and he didn't hold a high enough security clearance to see even the smallest of missions.
Back at his desk, he sat and waited, looking for anything to kill time as he held off on submitting his report. When the other officers finally returned, statements in hand, he was surprised to find that they wouldn't press charges.
She was just forever banned from coming back.
Hours later, once his report had been sent in and he found a way to keep himself in the offices, Garrus was clocking out of his shift, and happy that there were no more knots in the night to get through, when a familiar face walked through the doors of the C-Sec offices.
They walked up to the front counter, speaking softly to the secretary.
"I've got this, Helani," Garrus says to the Asari, and she nods to him, handing over the paperwork. He looks up at them over the counter. "Officer Vakarian. I'm the one that took in your friend."
"Yeah, I know," they say with a nod. "I recognize your facial markings. Max." They offer a hand in greeting. Garrus, now use to human customs – to an extent – takes it in his gloved hand and gives it a firm shake before pulling away.
"Come, I'll go get her. She should be awake now."
Max nods, not questioning the officer.
Once to the holding cell, Garrus punches in his passcode and allows Max into the cell first. They walk over to bed, the Lieutenant still sound asleep. Her skin has its pink blush back, eyes are not so sunken in, and the scar across her nose seems to blend in with the rest of her complexion.
"Toni, wake up," Max says gruffly, shaking the Lieutenant by her shoulder.
Toni is groggy, obviously hungover from the amount of alcohol still in her system and the dehydration from being sick just hours before, but gives Garrus a small smile and a nod as she stumbles out.
He rubs at the back of his neck, digging his fingers under his fringe and into the soft tissue, hoping to ease a headache that is starting to form.
Garrus leaves C-Sec for the next few shifts, going to his small apartment to fall into his comfortable bed and not wake up for a few extra sleep cycles than normal.
A week later, just as he's coming in for his shift, Garrus finds an envelope on his desk. Inside it is a credit chit for one of the nicer Turian-based restaurants in the presidium, along with a note.
Hope this makes up for all the trouble I gave you.
-TS
He quirks a mandible, a happy hum vibrating in his belly, before slipping the envelope into his pocket.