39 – Grounded II
Purgatory.
I am re-thinking this, hard.
The queue has given me precious little time to come up with a reason to about-turn and scurry back to my apartment, as every damn person we've been standing near has insisted we cut in front. Politely declining just leads to shoving.
Sure, we could have tried the VIP line but I had thought my clearance would be revoked and we should just wait like everybody else – that would give Tali a chance to sober up and feel sick, and Garrus time to get a headache, and them both to blow out so it doesn't look like I'm the washout.
But, no. There is no such time as we filter up the queue by way of well-meaning party-goers pushing us ahead of them in honour of our service.
The bouncers stare at me. Hard. I expect them to pull me out of the queue and send me packing, but no such luck. Maybe they're under orders to let me do the long walk after a knockback at the door.
But no. Again.
We're all waved through without incident, the door opening before us to the dark world they call Purgatory and this den of iniquity invites us to her dark bosom with the dirty beat and strobe lights.
The thrum of the club is in my breast like it never left, and my head throbs in sync with the light changes. Garrus and Tali have wasted no time in approaching the bar, while I'm supposed to look for James.
My search goes first to the right, towards the exclusive area and its couch.
It appears empty. No guards. No sycophants. Nothing in the area.
I don't think she's here. How am I supposed to steadfastly ignore her and have a great time with my friends if she isn't even here to ignore?
Pushing away the thought, I head to join the group. I am very surprised to find that James has enticed not only Steve, Traynor, Joker, Gabriella, Kenneth, Privates Westmoreland and Campbell on this night out, but Liara herself (and moreover, that she accepted the invite).
Liara notices me notice her, and she awkwardly looks away.
Sometimes we're OK, we're great. Sometimes we can talk like we did this morning. We can support each other, mostly in a professional capacity, but with exchanges that reveal an emotional intimacy well beyond what we are now. The easy flow of teasing, and playfulness, and button pushing is damn near flirtatious; but there always comes a hard stop when it goes too far.
We got past the breakup. We got past the three of us on one warship. We got past the Ontorom audio.
Even with all of that, sometimes catching her eye when one of us is truly looking at the other is as painfully discomfiting as this is.
I need to break it.
"Colour me shocked and delighted that you've left the Normandy," I say to Liara, with my most winning smile. "How did that happen?"
"I manhandled her out the airlock," James shouts over the music. "Just picked her up and carried her off the ship."
Liara nods and shrugs, placing the beer bottle to her lips and tipping it back (I suspect to avoid meeting my eye).
I won't let her. While she is taking a drink, I lean forward and whisper conspiratorially into her ear: "If you're here, who's running the galaxy?"
Not the wittiest but enough to make her choke on the beer. I hand her a bar napkin to help to clean up the mess I made. With a smile, she thanks me.
The night becomes one of those unforgettable revelries with good friends, belly-deep laughter and fast drinks. One minute we're crowded around the booth, laughing, joking, drinking all together, then we shatter into heartfelt groups of two or three at the bar, in the bathrooms, or on the dancefloor to gush, confess or dance. Then we come back together – more booze, more games, more laughs. It transcends any fear of rank as Gabriella Daniels penalises me with my third shot in a row for failing to name the top sub-FTL speed of the original Normandy.
I commanded it, I told them. I didn't clock it, nor did I crash it – How would I know?
Joker's face was turning purple. Even Liara laughed and she can rarely raise a giggle regarding the demise of the SR-1 (and my accordant demise).
Daniels just fills up the glass and orders the shot. I take it.
This is our last shore leave. I think we all know that.
I love this part. When the perfect inebriation level meets the perfect song.
When my head is just a little gone, a little light, feels strange and absent. Now my limbs are in control, from my toes to my fingertips, all matching the beat, being shaped by it.
And all the claims that I can't dance for shit don't matter when you really feel it.
Tali is tearing it up on one side of me with hips that don't quit; James is on the other side confidently relying on his dance choreography of pointing a finger in the air and moving his feet interminably; and Liara bops in front of me to complete our dance circle.
Halfway through the song I am vaguely aware of James sidling into a human female and enjoying the grind with his new acquaintance. Soon, my quarian friend retreats, but not before manoeuvring the two remaining dancers of Normandy clan together. It's not a gentle manoeuvre: she shoves me into Liara's embrace.
I sling my arms over each of Liara's shoulders, face to face, and grateful of the solid scaffolding as I feel increasingly hanar-like in the lower half. Still, the music urges movement.
My neck sways my head from side to side, in sync with my hips. By the time I feel her fingertips on my lower back, am arched away from her, pelvis forward and head thrown back in worship of the bass. I feel her hold tighten around my back. She's tethering me to the dance floor and to her.
I open my eyes and the falseness of the coloured lighting above me sobers me slightly. I pull myself forward again and straighten my back, still within Liara's hold.
"Sorry," I shout in her ear, my palms on her shoulders as I lean in. "Lost it."
"That's OK," she mouths, her words lost in the noise. She smiles, dazily, dreamily, drunkenly.
The heat is uncomfortable. It's not just any historical or emotional awkwardness, but it is literally too warm in this club to be physically close to the body heat of another. The dried sweat clings to my skin in tacky fashion, and adheres me well to her exposed flesh. It's the separation that will smart.
Liara doesn't seem concerned with all of that. She is concentrating resolutely on me. I'm not lucid enough to understand what she is communicating silently, but the parting of her lips and rising heat would certainly indicate that words are bubbling beneath.
I have to pull apart. It's easier to stay here, particularly when she is practicably supporting my wish to remain upright, but I need to break the connection.
I don't know what is going to happen, but I am certain that one of us will get hurt.
I unstick and push away from her, free-standing and facing what I think is disappointment writ large on her face.
"I need water," I croak, gesturing towards the bar.
She nods, and points in the other direction, I think towards the bathroom.
We part.
I prop up the bar to order a water, drain it, and then order another. I'm on my fourth cup when Tali approaches, blue canister with straw in hand.
"I don't know if you or Garrus are more stupid when it comes to the obvious," she says as she pulls alongside me.
"No matter the question the answer is 'Garrus'," I tell her.
She ignores my useless reply.
"Shepard…" Tali purrs, leaning an arm my shoulder. "Why don't you and Liara get back together?"
"Tali, I'm about three pints of water, a dirty poutine, and eight hours of sleep away from being sober enough to answer that competently," I tell her, pleased at the verbal swerve.
"You're single. She's single. There's so much history," she says, the last syllables drawing out as she sprawls out.
"History isn't now," I mutter, fraying the bar mat, unwilling to engage with the crux of the question. There's no point even raising the complication of Aria in this conversation.
"Don't lie to me," she says sharply, her words staggered, with a thump on the bar-top for emphasis. "I know what I know. You love each other, and I know that war doesn't wait for love."
"I know that."
It hits me then.
I always assumed that my friends could give a shit about what I do and who I'm with, but I think they want Liara and I to get back together.
I cast a glance over to Liara, who is with conversing deeply with Steve in a booth, and I wonder if any of the crew has whispered these same suggestions into her inebriated ear.
Or, is she the one planting the seeds?
Liara is a very powerful woman – she can orchestrate nations and armies from a keyboard. There's no doubt she could arrange for us all to be out in the same place and for certain people to have certain conversations.
I see her furrowed brow as Steve is the one doing the heart-pouring while she has her hand on his shoulder. She's a good listener. I can't imagine anyone better for Steve to lean on.
I don't believe she's manipulated this.
It's just our friends doing the scheming.
"Tali, did you know Liara was out tonight before we came?"
"Of course," she says, patting my hand. "We told James and Steve to get her out. Garrus ordered 'by any means'. I guess that meant carrying her."
There's little point in continuing, and I physically can't as I feel the revenge of the imbibed liquor burning in my stomach and now my throat. Without words (because one really can't afford to open one's mouth at times like these) I rush from the upper dancefloor, careening down the stairs (miraculously not falling) and into the bathroom in the far side of the club.
Yes. That bathroom.
I don't have time to consider that as I force my way into a cubicle with just the modicum of dignity to ensure that the door is locked behind me.
My face, my back burns; my stomach twists and my throat is seared.
When it's over, I pull myself off my knees and onto the closed lid. The automatic flush of the water allows me a moment to reset. I let the swimming sensation in my own head drain away.
After the water flows, I sit up, fully in charge of my own body once more now that I have discharged the poison that ailed it. My insides are more settled, my vision is clearer, my senses reawakening from their dull drunk slumber.
I emerge from the cubicle a new woman, and splash my face vigorously with water from the tap. Only once I have wiped my eyes clean and patted dry my skin do I look at my reflection.
Yes. This bathroom. This mirror.
Perhaps safe to say it is not this mirror, as that mirror shattered under the force of conjoined biotic orgasms.
I laugh.
What other sane response is there?
I avail myself of the strong mints from the complimentary toiletries as I study myself again, noting the pink colour coming back to my cheeks.
Tonight will end in tears, or confusion, or mistakes that cannot be undone.
This is where I get off.
As I emerge from the bathroom, a Batarian approaches. He holds his wrist aloft and taps twice, and points at my wrist. I don't recognise him as a regular goon, but I do note the security insignia on his shoulder.
I check my omni-tool to see a new message from sender: .
"Know this: When you are in my lair I see you, even in absentia."
No sign off, but it's clear from whom it originates.
"Out," the Batarian commands, a thumb jabbed over his shoulder towards the exit.
My first reaction is to be a little pissed. I had already decided that I was going, but now I have the ignominy of being thrown out of a shithole.
However, I hold my tongue and look at the message on my omni-tool again.
Is she monitoring me via her lackeys, or via cams? If it's camera, I'd like to know which one to give the finger to. Theoretically.
Aria wouldn't waste her time watching vid-feeds unless she wanted to. Maybe she cares. Or maybe it's the insult of seeing me drunkenly dance with my ex in her club that requires action. Is it spite, or pride, or love?
I look back up at the Batarian and can see his patience is running out, and he's close to the 'physically removing me from the premises' part.
It's only me the removal order is addressed to and I don't want to ruin the night for the rest of the group. I go quietly, not so much as letting them know of my ejection to avoid escalating the situation. There are still good dancing hours to be had, albeit someone else will need to hold Tali up.
My feet shuffle from side to side in the slow taxi-rank to keep from falling asleep. Traffic is slow moving tonight as I watch the sky-cab I've ordered on the mini-map on my omni-tool.
I don't do that well staying up late without adrenaline (due to violence or sex, really), and continue to stitch together the evening in my partially sobering mind as I wait.
Was it coincidence that Aria wasn't there tonight? Or did she know I was in the queue outside and decided to avoid that situation?
Would it have caused too much of a scene with her patrons if the Normandy crew had been thrown out en masse, and was her man instructed to oust me as soon as I was separated from the group?
Did she always plan to use the strongarm of her bouncers in this relationship breakdown, or did I piss her off by dancing with my friends?
Or did she allow it all to unfold this way to try and get my attention?
When my sky-cab does arrive, I tell the driver there's been a slight change of destination.
My feet are sore with regret.
I could have gone home. I could have gotten that poutine and fallen asleep next to it, then woken up next to it two hours later needing to pee because of the copious amounts of water I've drank directly from the faucet.
But no. I asked the sky-cab to drop me the other side of the Upper Rikard district, which happens to be away from the fast-food places and further away from my/Anderson's apartment.
Why am I here?
Whether my expulsion tonight was due to hate, love, jealousy or contempt, I need to know. And, ideally, I need to know whether this is it for us or not. And I don't want to wait any longer.
It's war. The cycle of our relationship could euphemistically be regarded in terms of slaughter, ceasefire, then intense negotiations, followed by a period of peace across the land, until escalation of tensions broken by a single, errant gunshot – and then we start again like it's the first time.
Is this even worth it?
Why am I even in this cycle?
This is more like being a teenager labouring under the trials and tribulations of primitive love (which is happily experienced at that age, for what else would you gossip with your friends about) rather than a fully-formed adult swept up in a passionate, volatile affair; or the convergence of two souls that could blossom into a lifelong partnership.
I tell myself that I don't want to be this way, but still I come back to her (or more accurately, let her come back to me) as if nothing adverse ever occurred.
I haven't cast a shadow upon her door for some time.
It's been a few weeks since our last docking at the Citadel – the docking so brief I think it set Citadel records for quickest refuel, cursory external inspection, with swift exit-march of any unwilling passengers (namely the one residing in this abode), before departing for the black once more. But we're talking about before then: before everything, before Liara and before Thessia was when I last stood at this threshold.
As Aria wasn't at the club tonight, I can only assume that she is at home.
I did think about calling ahead, or messaging, but that came fraught with its own pitfalls (mostly the writing and the talking parts). I carefully analysed my options and decided (somehow) that this, arriving without announcement, was the best course of action.
You could say that her message was actually an invitation, if you squint hard enough.
Aria never gave me an ident holopass for the door. She doesn't trust me. One could say I'm proving the point as I hack her door code with my omni-tool. While she has a level of security beyond what you would expect in this neighbourhood, my omni-tool has broken the doors of bigger bads than her. You shouldn't need to hack the doors of your lovers, but here we are anyway.
Not to mention, she did it to me first.
About twelve arguments ago, Aria snuck on board of the Normandy, "gained" access to my Quarters and waited in bed for me. Yes, it was a shock, but a pleasant one to be sure. The flowers and the rum helped me recover from that fright. I am not so well equipped tonight,
My omni-tool glows green. The work is done, and the door slides open to comply with the request for access.
What I find takes the wind from me.
There is a reason you shouldn't break into the apartment of a paramour. That reason is finding a leggy Asari of unknown origin, purpose or identity in the lounge: bent over and appearing to rummage through a handbag. That is, after all, how crimes of passion happen.
I specifically highlight the legs as it is the feature I can see most of. She is wearing either hotpants or just straight underpants, but either way, her entire height is about 85% made of leg.
No sign of Aria.
The Unknown Asari is taller than me, and slighter in body. She like she is built more for show and less for action. Someone soft and without a war-faring bone in her body. She's darker in skin tone than Liara, but with more prominent markings on her face, carving out her features in dark purple. She is oblivious to my presence.
She's objectively pretty. If her porcelain features were crafted and refined by an old earth Italian master, then my rugged and scarred features were as if chiselled by krogan from a block of granite with a buzz-saw.
"Amara – what is keeping you so?"
It's Aria. Her voice comes from the upstairs master bedroom. I can almost pinpoint it within that room from the experience of being on the food/booze run while she reclines in the sheets, barking orders.
This Unknown Asari does not seem to be in our line of work as she is still unaware that I'm here. An operative of any stripe would not be so fooled – meaning that she is either not employed for her technical skill (in preference to other attributes and services) or she is simply the new object of Aria's affection and torment.
I think about what Aria would do in this situation if she were me.
Would she cause a scene? Unleash her emotions in an assault of words and, possibly, biotics.
Would she take a seat? Wait to be noticed, accumulating the moral power while she does so.
Or, would she silently slit the throat of the mistress while her back is turned?
I'm not cool or evil enough for the latter two, and I have never been good enough under pressure to excel at making a scene. My words end up like soup spewed in the face: Messy, doesn't make sense, and I certainly come off worse for it.
Instead, I ignore the Unknown Asari and continue towards the stairs leading to the mezzanine level of the apartment. She still is unaware of anyone's presence but her own. That seems like critically dangerous levels of self-absorption to me.
I ascend the stairs, and am hidden from her sightline as soon as I reach the walled mezzanine area at the top. This lounge area is not unlike my new apartment.
I rest against the door frame of the master bedroom, where I find the pirate Queen herself.
Aria: fully clothed and sitting upright with a data-pad in her hand, unruffled and apparently unmolested. She lifts her gaze from what she is reading, raising an eyebrow as she confirms my presence.
"Shepard," she says smoothly, without inflection of anger. "Did you break into my apartment?"
"Sort of."
She smirks. There have been a couple of times I've managed to get away with being an outrageous smart arse because she finds it enchanting.
"Thought it might be better to ask you in person why I got chucked out of your club."
"The clue is in the premise," she snipes, lifting herself out of bed and brushing past me to lead out to the upstairs lounge. "It's my club. It's my prerogative."
"We'll see how you like it when I get a club and throw you out of it," I mutter, folding my arms and standing while she sits on the pale pink couch.
She rolls her eyes, as if indicating that my charm is wearing thin. "Shepard, how drunk are you?"
"I've sobered up a lot," I say defensively. "From the vomit, to the taxi wait, to the walk, and then hacking your-"
"Shepard – what are you doing here?" she says, her exasperation expelled in a sigh and her eyes looking more tired than I've seen before.
"Ah, should I not be here?" I challenge. " 'Cause you already seem to have company. Was I interrupting you?"
"Intruding is what you are," she says in a tight voice.
Aria makes no attempt to explain the Unknown Asari, but that tells me nothing because I'm pretty sure she wouldn't tell me a thing no matter which was the cheating sword was falling.
"I don't know if hot pants are the standard uniform for your goon squad, but if she's been hired as some form of home security then she's doing a terrible job," I say, struggling to disguise my anger or my pettiness. "I barely crouched to get by her. It's not as if advanced stealth was required."
She barely rises to the bait. "She's not security."
"Good. You'd be out of business." I bite my lip to stop myself saying something more vitriolic, but it's frustrating not being able to squeeze a damn drop out of her. There she sits, with all of the power in this relationship. As usual. "You've gotta admit the optics are bad."
"The 'optics' are what you make them to be, Shepard – they're your eyes."
"That you're parading hotpants in front of," I snipe back.
"How can one parade if one takes for guaranteed that no one is watching?" she counters. "A perfectly reasonable expectation, you could argue, in one's own home."
A harsh growl scours the back of my throat. I'm pacing now. "You knew…"
I stop myself from hurling any more accusations. My hangover headache is in play and shortening my temper by half.
I cease all activity. I wait. I dare to breathe, in and out, as she holds tight to the silence.
Aria still doesn't move. I can see the taut line of her muscle on her inner arm as she pushes the palm of each hand flat down on the sofa at either side of her, as if controlling her emotions through the force.
"So, what? I set this up on the off-chance that you'd dock again at the Citadel, in the midst of war, and use whatever short time ashore to run over here, break into my apartment, to find my carefully curated set-up?" she retorts.
"I've had enough of the mind games, Aria," I say.
"I haven't," she snaps, pushing herself up from the sofa. "Not when it's telling me more about you than all of the Alliance service records, the Cerberus psyche reports, and my dossier, as bought from the old Shadow Broker, as elaborated upon by Omega detectives, ever could."
She reaches for one of the crystal decanters atop the liquor cabinet, pulls out the stopper, and empties silvery liquid into one glass. She pauses. Then fills a second and passes it to me.
I sit on the pale pink sofa, while she sits opposite on the red chaise lounge. Aria leans back against the head of the chaise lounge and brings the glass to her lips. She's thinking as she takes a sip.
"And why did you come here unannounced? It's not like you," she says softly, rubbing the glass against her lip. "You usually have more common courtesy than that."
"You kicked me out your club."
She scoffs, and it is not without genuine expression of disgust and irritation.
"Pathetic, Shepard. You and I both know that's pathetic. You came over here to get an explanation for your night out cut short," Aria snorts. "Apologies if I ruined your chances to 'score'."
"That is not helpful," I remark, turning my head away to drink for the sake of putting something in my mouth so less words will come out of it.
"And your shock and outrage at Amara's presence here is entirely manufactured," she accuses. "You showed up forewarned and forearmed, because a certain Shadow Broker is keeping tabs for you."
She slams her glass back down on the liquor cabinet, and refills. I don't ask for a top up. I don't think that I'm imagining that the mention of Liara added some spice to the proceedings.
"Liara's not spying on you," I say. "If she is, she hasn't told me about it. But I'm pretty sure she's not wasting her time amidst the galactic crisis."
"Oh good, I was worried that your Liara-tinted Glasses may have faded since I left you, but they seem to be as clear as ever."
She turns to stand behind the chaise lounge, as if she considers it wise to put a physical barrier between us.
I clench my jaw. I stop. I breathe.
"This is not helping, Aria. Fighting isn't what I came here for."
She refuses to look at me as her nails worry the fabric on the back of the chaise lounge. It's the first sign that she's feeling any sort of anxiety on this matter.
"And what was that?"
And now for the question that I really came here to ask.
"Are we over?"
Aria leans forward, her hands resting on the raised back of the chaise lounge as she stares at me intently. She is quite serious now – the sarcastic veneer has been shed and the anger abated, momentarily. "Do you want to be over?"
"Do you?" I volley back, not quite able to take the pressure.
"I think you and I know that you have to answer first," she says.
I lean forward, knee on the lounger to steady myself and to bridge the gap – I use both of my hands to reach out and grasp her cheeks. I pull our faces together in a kiss that I use to convey one very simple message – I don't care who was wrong, and who was right. I've missed you, sometimes desperately.
The expression of a kiss rather than converting these feelings into words is surely the way to go with Aria, but as I relinquish hold of her face, I am not assured that it is enough.
She cracks – It's a flicker of a muscle above her eyebrow and the dissipation of the tight jawline as she unclenches her teeth that lets me know that everything's going to be OK.
The rush of relief carries me off downstream, and before I know it, those mythical words are tumbling from my lips: "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" she says softly, but not letting herself relax just yet. "What for?"
"For not coming sooner," I say, stealing another brush of her lips. "And for everything I said. Everything I have ever or will ever say – just sorry for it all."
"Jest and apology make poor bedfellows," Aria says, an eyebrow raising dangerously.
"I'm not trying to be funny."
"Good," she says, kissing me back. "You're rarely successful at that endeavour."