Chapter Text
They finally had a new assignment.
Finally.
Six weeks of shore leave had taken its toll on his mental health. One, because he’d been stuck on the Tesleya bunking with a platoon of marines he hadn’t served with in a year who all regarded him as an admiral’s pet. Two, because Prazza had kept asking him for daily status reports and was completely oblivious to the increasing insubordination in his replies—he hadn’t quite gotten to literally nothing is happening, you dumbass, but a day or two more and he might have snapped. Three, he’d gotten used to having plenty of opportunities for target practice, and he missed his guns. Four, he was just bored.
And five—
She was over on the Neema, and so they were at least both in the Heavy Fleet, but he couldn’t exactly go over to the flagship without a reason. And somehow he wasn’t convinced “laying eyes on Tali’Zorah” was reason enough to convince Admiral Han’Gerrel vas Neema to let him aboard. Sure, he had his orders, but presumably she was safe enough within the Fleet, and anyway—
anyway, it wasn’t like she had messaged him, beyond the occasional “saw this, thought you’d like it,” and there’d only been a few of those but they’d been enough for him to get—alert when his messages dinged only to see another damn status request from Prazza—
But now they had a new assignment, and it was classified, so it would be best if they discussed it in person. Or so he suggested in a three-line message that took him half an hour to craft.
New assignment from the Admirals. Should link up, talk requisitions before P starts getting ideas. Bunch of dumb marines over here. You?
The amount of time between the notification that she’d seen it and her reply indicated that she did not spend nearly as much time thinking about it, which annoyed him.
I heard. Plenty of room here! Transfer request’s on me.
If it had been that easy—this whole time—to see her—
and those legs, and the swing of her hips, the fidget of her fingers, the swirls of her scarf, the glow in her eyes as she cut a glance in his direction, sharing a private laugh—
He boarded the shuttle, one of those that made runs throughout the Fleet, nodded to the two other passengers (one male, one female, both civilians based on the way they stared at him), and grabbed onto the railing that ran the length of the ceiling to steady himself as they cast off from the Tesleya. The fingers of his free hand drummed against his side. He stilled them. He started tapping his foot. He stopped that too.
He watched out the viewport as they flew past the Neema and out of the Heavy Fleet’s circle entirely, penetrating into the Civilian Fleet, all the way towards the Shellen, where the female disembarked and three more (two male, one female, and she at least looked like she could handle herself in a fight) got on. His foot was tapping again. He stared at it as if it belonged to someone else for a moment, and then stopped it.
They disengaged from the Shellen and continued flying away from the Neema and at this rate half the day would have gone by and he was going to see her and that didn’t—matter; he was just following orders, he—
was humming under his breath.
At this rate he was going to need a sedative.
He somehow survived the shuttle’s lazy circuit of the entire Migrant Fleet, mostly by mentally disassembling and cleaning every kind of gun he could think of, until finally the Neema and all her many, many guns filled every viewport and he was crossing through decon and into the ship herself, and just as he was realizing that he had absolutely no idea where to go and becoming appalled at his lack of planning—or just basic intelligent thought—a voice said, “Kal’Reegar vas Tesleya, is it?” and he found himself visor-to-visor with Admiral Han’Gerrel vas Neema.
“Admiral,” he said, automatically pulling to attention and snapping a salute out of sheer muscle memory, which thankfully required absolutely no thought at all.
Han’Gerrel regarded him for a moment, and then turned away and said, “Walk with me.”
Kal’s feet moved of their own accord, falling into step behind the admiral as the other quarian led him away from the crowded docking area and down a passageway. Everyone they passed carried themselves with a military bearing, though none stopped to salute, and Kal was just starting to appreciate the familiarity when Han’Gerrel turned a corner and slowed his pace.
“Reporting for duty?” the admiral asked.
He’d never interacted with Han’Gerrel directly—heard his Fleet-wide reports on the Heavy Fleet, seen the occasional interview, watched a few of the publicized meetings of the Admiralty Board, but never been in the same room with him, let alone spoken with him before. Still, he heard an unmistakable dryness in Han’Gerrel’s voice that bordered on sarcasm.
“Sir,” he said, to buy himself a moment to think, noticing that this passageway was strangely empty, as if its occupants had scattered when the Admiral appeared. “You have need of me, sir?”
“I don’t believe so, not at the moment,” the admiral said, his voice a bit of a drawl, still dry. “Just curious as to your reason for coming aboard our vessel.”
He knew a trap when he saw one, and everything from the admiral’s tone to the fractional tilt of his helmet told him to step carefully. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out just what he was trying to catch, and so he wasn’t sure what he needed to avoid.
He chose to toe the party line. “Just a rendezvous to discuss potentially sensitive intelligence prior to an upcoming deployment, sir.”
“Ah yes, Tali’Zorah informed me of her impending departure,” Han’Gerrel said. “You know, sometimes I think Rael’s jealous that she came aboard my ship, for all that he encouraged her.”
Kal blinked, decided it was safest to focus all of his energy on maintaining the correct meter-and-a-half distance between them, and said, “Sir.”
“He keeps stealing her away,” the admiral said thoughtfully, his helmet lifting as his eyes searched the overhead. “And then sending her away so she won’t notice he’s doing it. And then making idiotic gestures like reducing one of the best marines in the whole Fleet to being a glorified babysitter.” He let out a sigh while Kal stared at the bulkhead behind him. “He’s always been a bit thick when it comes to these matters. Leera’Zorah used to be able to get through to him, though he’s only gotten worse since she died. And Tali’s Pilgrimage nearly sent him over the edge.”
He paused for long enough that Kal felt obligated to say, “Sir.”
“Gone for months with no idea where she was—and that’s perfectly normal, as I kept reminding him—finally popping up aboard a top-secret human vessel, of all places, right at the heart of the first geth invasion in three centuries…” He chuckled. “I told Rael that’s what he got for raising the girl on a steady diet of ‘you’re the best hope for the Fleet,’ but he wasn’t amused. She proved herself a hero, and all he could see was that she’d nearly died. Several times over, to hear her tell it.”
“I have,” Kal said without thinking, which didn’t happen often, but Han’Gerrel had succeeded in unfooting him as few ever had, and from the swiftness with which the admiral fixed him with his gaze, he knew the admiral knew it. So he held his bearing and withheld a sigh and said, as casually as he could formally manage, “Good thing she’s so good with that shotgun.”
“Is she? I regret that I’ve never had a chance to see her in action,” Han’Gerrel said, still staring at him. He was only a centimeter or two taller than the admiral, but the other quarian somehow managed to drop his chin and make him feel like he was looming over him. “You have the best of both her father and I in that department.”
Under Han’Gerrel’s gaze he felt increasingly as though the admiral was performing a thorough inspection of every thought he’d ever had while watching Tali’Zorah in action. He pressed his lips together and kept his eyes wide and tried to retreat into his usual mental routine of firearm classification. It mostly worked, aside from the fact that he kept re-cataloguing Tali’s shotgun instead of moving onto…onto…whatever came next, damn.
The admiral continued staring at him. He gave up trying to wait him out, swallowed, and allowed real emotion to color his voice. “It’s an honor and a privilege, sir.”
“Is that so?” Han’Gerrel said, his voice still a little dry, if less sarcastic. “Not a bore? A waste of time, when you could be doing better things?”
To hell with it. “Can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be, sir,” he said, and to his surprise something in his chest eased as the words came from his speaker, as if he’d set down something heavy he hadn’t realized he was carrying, and for the first time he met the admiral’s gaze.
Han’Gerrel seemed surprised as well, keeping his gaze for only a moment before tilting his head, sweeping the rest of him in a glance before considering the overhead again. “I did try to warn Rael,” he said. “He said he’d studied you, that you were the consummate professional, a cold fish through and through. I told him he was underestimating the both of you.” He met his gaze again, eyes narrowed. “I assume the feeling is mutual?”
Any confidence or ease he’d been feeling crumbled away, leaving him feeling as if he’d been caught on Omega without a gun in his hands. “I…sir,” he said finally, lamely, wishing he could clock himself for being an idiot and put himself out of his misery.
To his credit, Han’Gerrel didn’t laugh, and if he wanted to, he hid it well enough. “So you haven’t told her? Good to know there’s still some professionalism amongst our marines.” He clapped a hand to Kal’s shoulder. “Don’t despair, Reegar. She’s a smart girl. Keep her safe. She’ll come around.”
“Sir,” he said, not looking at the hand still on his shoulder, doing his best to ignore his desire to become one with the deck. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Han’Gerrel snorted. “Granted.”
“She’s damn well capable of taking care of herself,” he said. “And this is humiliating.”
At that the admiral actually laughed aloud, without a trace of mockery. “I’m sure she is,” he said. “And I’m sure she feels better when you’re around anyway. Give it time.” And then his grip tightened on Kal’s shoulder, and he met his gaze. “Keep her safe,” he said again, more quietly. “For all of us.”
He held the admiral’s gaze, felt the weight of his hand, heard her indignant voice in his head, You really think I’m that helpless?
No, he said back. It’s not you, it’s the rest of us without you.
“Sir,” he said, and the admiral’s grip relaxed.
“Good,” he said. “And Reegar, a bit of advice?”
“Sir,” he said, letting his resignation flood his voice, and Han’Gerrel snorted again.
“Avoid the Tonbay. If Shala’Raan gets her hands on you, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Sir?” he said, but Han’Gerrel dropped his hand from his shoulder and stepped away.
“You’re looking for Tali’Zorah, is it?” he said, his voice brusque once again. “She’s not on duty at the moment, I believe. Try the barracks. Deck 3. The elevator is down this passageway, on the left.” He regarded him for a moment more, and then said, “Good luck.”
“Sir,” he said, and Han’Gerrel nodded to him once before turning and disappearing back the way they had come.
He stood in the passageway staring at the bulkhead opposite, and slowly other quarians began trickling past him until he found himself a nedasran—the one person standing still, holding up the rest of the ship. He turned and fell into step with the movement of those around him, walking until everyone else had turned aside towards their destinations and he hit the far bulkhead at the aft of the ship and had to turn around. He walked past the elevators again, mingling with the crewmembers who emerged from other passageways, other doors, kept walking until he reached the now-empty docking bay and had to turn around again.
The third time he reached the aft bulkhead, he told himself that eventually someone was going to notice the stranger walking into walls and report him, and while his current list of things he didn’t want to do was extremely long, explaining himself to Admiral Han’Gerrel again was very close to the top of it.
Explaining himself to Admiral Rael’Zorah was just above it, actually, and at the very top….
He didn’t have to explain anything to her. He wasn’t here for that. He was here to discuss their upcoming mission. And to see her. Because, since he was apparently being appallingly honest at the moment, his list of things he did want to do was very short, and it began and ended with seeing her and hearing her voice.
He took a deep, steadying breath, attempting to reconnect with reality. Kal’Reegar vas Tesleya, marine, here to discuss potentially sensitive intelligence prior to an upcoming deployment, ma’am. Nothing more.
A crock of shit, obviously, but he’d spent most of his life being told he was full of it, so that wasn’t anything new.
He boarded the elevator and sent her a message: Finally aboard. Rendezvous point?
A moment passed, then two, as if she hesitated, or was distracted, and then coordinates arrived on his omni-tool. Not exactly SOP, but sensible, given that he’d never been aboard the ship, and so he plugged them in, walked past the door to the barracks, and found himself in front of the door to what appeared to be a briefing room. He hoped she didn’t think he knew something she didn’t about their mission, because he definitely did not have enough material to make a presentation, but maybe she had diagrams—she always had diagrams—she wanted to display, or—
He took another deep breath—ma’am—and knocked, and the door slid open.
Five helmets turned in his direction.
Apparently he hadn’t entirely pulled himself back together because he rocked back on his heels before straightening to attention, at which point he realized that not only were there five people scattered across chairs and couches in the room, they were all female.
At which point his courage deserted him.
“Kal’Reegar!” Tali’Zorah vas Neema said, her voice distant beneath the pounding of his heart in his ears and what was wrong with him, they were just people, he’d faced down a squad of batarians with rifles pointed at his head. This room was significantly less hostile. Theoretically. “You made it!”
“Ma’am,” he said, and one of the helmets giggled.
Ancestors.
“Come in, come in,” she said, standing up from one of the couches and coming towards him. “We were just finishing up the latest episode of Lost Lockers of the Market Deck. Have you been watching?”
He blinked and she was standing before him and he was on fire just looking at her, drinking in the whorls of her veil, the curves of her form, the crisscross of belts at her ribs, and he clenched his hands into fists behind his back. She’d said something. “Ma’am.”
She dropped her chin and looked up at him and said, “Lost Lockers, Reegar,” and alongside the fire he went weak-kneed with—relief, because it was her, right there in front of him, still laughing at him, still laughing, and he’d missed her and hadn’t let himself think about it and now six weeks of separation were crashing upon him and he couldn’t even grab the door for support. “Please tell me you haven’t spent the past six weeks doing nothing but cleaning your guns.”
“Got a lot of guns, ma’am,” he said, somehow managing to sound far smoother than he was feeling, and his reward was a chorus of giggles that made him want to beat a fast retreat.
“That is,” she said, “so sad,” and then she turned to walk back into the room and before he could retreat he was falling in step behind her, precisely where he ought to be, and suddenly the universe righted itself and the deck was beneath his feet again and he knew exactly where he was and what he was doing.
And then he heard another giggle. He focused on her veil and muted his speakers long enough to let out a long sigh. “Friends of yours, ma’am?”
“I hope so,” she said, and two of them laughed. “Paalu'Gera and Zorya'Venn vas Neema, Shen'Daris vas Tesleya, and Kel'Tori vas Chayym, this is Kal’Reegar vas Tesleya.”
“I’ve seen you around,” Shen’Daris vas Tesleya said from one of the chairs. Her veil was red with grey striations and vaguely familiar. “I’m in navigation. You’re with the marines, right?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, coming to at ease as Tali stopped in the midst of her friends and leaned against the back of the couch she’d been sitting on, crossing her arms and watching him. “Don’t see much of the ship from there, I’m afraid.”
“You’re not a Reegar Reegar, are you?” said one of the others sitting on a different couch, her veil a dark blue with delicate silver embroidery in an antique pattern. “Like the clan Reegar?”
“Only clan Reegar I know of, ma’am,” he said, doing his best not to look at Tali.
“Ooooo,” she giggled, leaning back. “Tali, he’s a hero.”
“Can’t be that famous,” said the one who’d been sitting next to Tali, her veil a blinding shade of green he’d never seen before with black whorls that contrived to look like flowers. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s because you spend all your time reading astrobiology reports, Kel,” blue-and-silver said. “If you’d read a novel every now and then you’d know the Reegars.”
“Novels, ma’am?” he asked, and the room broke out into giggles.
“Oh they’re very good,” said the last one, her veil yellow and white. “Zorya’Venn’s written a few herself. You should look them up.”
“Don’t look them up,” Tali said, her voice somewhere between a laugh and warning, and he finally glanced at her. Her eyes darted to meet his gaze and damn, he’d missed her. “Just—don’t.”
“Aw, come on, Tali,” said Zorya’Venn of the silver embroidery. “You don’t think he’d—”
“They’re romance novels,” Kel’Tori interrupted. Startled, he looked down to discover her looking up at him. This close he could see the faint shadow of her nose, slightly wrinkled. “Extremely sordid romance novels.”
“You’d be amazed what your ancestors got up to,” Shen’Daris drawled, and shit, this might be all over the Tesleya before he ever got back there. “Apparently they were quite…promiscuous.”
“Clan Reegar’s always a favorite,” Zorya’Venn said.
“For their strength,” Paalu’Gera in yellow chimed in.
“And stamina,” Zorya’Venn added.
“All right,” Tali said, waving a hand as if to clear the air.
“I can’t believe he doesn’t know about this,” Paalu’Gera said. “Do you live in a storage locker?”
“He spent the past six weeks cleaning his guns,” Tali said in a tone that suggested he did indeed live in a storage locker, which was almost insulting.
“Permission to speak freely, ma’am?” he said.
She cut her eyes at him and he grinned from the safety of hiding behind his visor. “Granted?”
“Ooh,” Paalu’Gera said. “Is he under your command?”
“Can you give him orders, Tali?” Zorya’Venn said, waving her fingers, and, hell, he couldn’t deny he hadn’t had thoughts along a similar vein, damn.
“Is cleaning your guns a euphemism?” Kel’Tori asked.
Tali looked at him, the same look she gave him when Prazza started running off his mouth or a squadmate took a step forward without checking for explosive devices. “Never mind,” he said, which earned him another round of oohs. “Should I come back at a better time?”
“No,” she said. “These numbskulls were just leaving.”
“I thought we were going to watch Fleet and Flotilla,” Paalu’Gera said.
“We have to,” Kel’Tori said. “It’s not a proper watch party if we don’t watch Fleet and Flotilla.”
“She has a point,” Shen’Daris said. She’d seemed so practical and aloof, yet her tone belied real concern at the thought of not watching…whatever it—
“You’ve seen Fleet and Flotilla at least, right, Kal’Reegar?” Zorya’Venn said, and when he looked at her he saw eyes narrowed in a challenge, a tilt to her head suggesting satisfaction at having laid a trap from which she knew he could not escape.
Ancestors.
“I—”
“You have seen it,” said Tali, and she sounded—concerned, actively worried about his answer, as if a negative response would crush her.
So he pulled himself to full attention, focused all his willpower on maintaining a perfect posture, and said, “Seen what now, ma’am?”
“Kal’Reegar,” she said, in tones of absolute despair.
“That’s it,” Shen’Daris said. “He’s staying, and we’re watching it.”
“Is this a training video, ma’am?”
“Shut up and sit down,” Tali ordered him, and only after he’d done it, circling around the couch and sitting on the other side of Kel’Tori, did he hear Zorya’Venn snickering.
“Nice work, Tali,” she said. “Very command—”
“Shut up,” Tali said, and he hadn’t heard her sound embarrassed very often but that seemed to qualify. “And set up the movie. Paalu, get the lights.”
“You got more snacks?” Shen’Daris asked.
“I’m working on it,” she said from somewhere behind the couch. He turned his attention to the screen before them, trying to ignore Kel’Tori’s inquisitive gaze as she inspected him for far longer than felt necessary.
The title screen appeared and Zorya’Venn hit pause on her omni-tool. “Snacks, Tali’Zorah.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she said, and he heard a rustling as a hand appeared over his shoulder and dropped a pudding pack in his lap. She continued down the line as he picked it up and turned it over: caramel. His favorite.
He activated his wide-range external camera to scan Kel’Tori’s snack. Black moss. Not his favorite. A coincidence? Probably.
But as she came back to the couch and Paalu’Gera flicked off the lights, she looked at him for just a moment, almost expectantly, and he held up a finger as a nod and her shoulders relaxed and she sat down on the other side of Kel’Tori, and the movie began.
The beginning was promising. A turian named Bellicus, a lot of explosions, vorcha getting shot to pieces. A quarian diplomat sent to seek aid against an impending batarian pirate raid, implying future batarians getting shot to pieces. All good stuff.
And then Bellicus and the quarian…Shalei’Sareni vas Helash, as if a diplomat would be caught dead on the crew of the Helash…started talking.
More to the point, all the women in the room started reciting the lines right along with the actors.
He leaned his head against the back of the couch and cut his mic to sigh again, then realized that Kel’Tori had leaned forward and from this vantage point he had a fairly unobstructed view of Tali’Zorah.
“I appreciate your candor, captain,” Shalei’Sareni was saying. “But I am here seeking neither your pity nor your charity.”
“You tell him, girl,” Paalu’Gera crowed.
“Sh,” Kel’Tori said, still leaning forward with a raptness he wouldn’t have expected, given her disdain for romance novels.
“The Flotilla is hardly in a position to make demands,” Bellicus said.
“And the Fleet is hardly in a position to ignore the danger the Posse poses,” Shalei’Sareni countered. “If they are bold enough to plan an assault against the entire Flotilla, how long before they come for one of your outposts?”
“She has a point,” Shen’Daris said. “He’s just so stubborn.” She said this with a bit of an admiring sigh.
Tali’Zorah vas Neema said nothing, he noticed, though he could hear her voice reciting along with the others, faintly. The story progressed—Bellicus and Shalei’Sareni somehow ending up on a suicide mission to the heart of the Posse, surviving, returning to the Citadel to warn the Turian Hierarchy of the impending danger, trying to convince them to make a stand with the Flotilla instead of pulling back to defend their colonies. There were an adequate number of explosions and a somewhat satisfying number of dead batarians.
There was also a lot of talking. And while he was trying his best not to pay too much attention, and while the delivery was somewhat muddled by five other voices giggling along, he had to admit he—sympathized.
“You’re quite a shot,” Bellicus said at some point during the Posse raid, as the smoking remains of a batarian fell away to reveal Shalei’Sareni’s steady pistol.
“I aim to kill,” she said calmly, holstering her pistol and stepping past the remains, Bellicus hot on her heels as they paused to peer around a corner.
“I noticed,” he said (“Yeah you did,” Zorya’Venn leered), his gaze traveling downward as she continued looking around the corner. “You’re a woman of many…talents.”
Shalei’Sareni paused, her helmet turning just enough to reveal her cutting her gaze at him. “Thank you,” she said finally, as the camera lovingly lingered on the rise and fall of their chests in close proximity. “You’re not that bad yourself.”
Well, damn. He was wearing an environmentally controlled suit and he was still too warm.
Things came to a head—the Hierarchy refusing to heed the Flotilla’s call for aid, Bellicus receiving orders to pull back to Triginta Petra, Shalei’Sareni desperate to return home to help her people prepare. The scene cut to a balcony on the Citadel, and the women in the room sucked in a collective breath and leaned forward in their seats. Kel’Tori was on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped together under her helmet, giving him a clear view of Tali as she sat up straight, her hands clenched into fists in her lap.
To hell with it. She was watching the movie. He watched her.
“I suppose…this is goodbye,” Bellicus and five quarian women, in their best Bellicus voices, said.
“No,” Shalei’Sareni and five women said fiercely. “Not yet.”
“But Shalei. We can never be together. I have my duty, and you have your people,” Bellicus said. He felt for him.
“Not tonight. Tonight, I'm as free as the dust in the solar wind,” Shalei’Sareni said.
He’d seen Tali’Zorah in a dozen firefights, and something about the tension in the body called them to mind, the way she held herself so perfectly straight, her fists still clenched, her helmet unmoving even as her vocalization indicator flashed as she spoke. Kel’Tori was obviously sighing with yearning; Tali’Zorah was—angry, he thought, staring at the screen as if it were a blustering Prazza or—
The other four gasped and Tali went even tighter, if such a thing were possible, and he risked a glance at the screen and were they kissing? Holy shit, she’d taken off her mask? Did turians even have lips? What the hell was—
oh, she had a face, and every repressed instinct flared within him, a real, ancestors-blessed female face, no wonder he’d never heard of this movie, men probably weren’t supposed to watch it, she had a face, he could see her nose and her—
Tali’Zorah was crying.
He wasn’t even sure he heard her, just that one moment he was staring at a quarian making out with a turian and marveling at the existence of cheekbones and the next he was staring at Tali’Zorah again and her arms were around her waist, holding herself, and he knew without seeing—without needing to see—that she was crying, and every repressed instinct within him screamed hold her, you idiot.
Kel’Tori sighed as the scene faded to black and slumped back in her seat, saving him from himself. “She had an infection for three weeks after that scene.”
“Had to import the antibiotics from Palaven,” Shen’Daris noted.
“The turian said it was the best kiss he’d ever had,” Zorya’Venn said reverently.
“So romantic,” Paalu’Gera sighed.
Tali’Zorah said nothing, but Kel’Tori turned her head towards him with a curious tilt to her helmet and so he turned his attention back to the screen.
The lovers said their goodbyes from aboard their ships, standing in the cockpits with their crew behind them, the dialogue heavily couched in innuendo.
“Space isn’t so empty, after all,” Bellicus said. “So many worlds.”
“So many people,” Shalei’Sareni said softly, and then, with a five-voice choir supporting her, “So many feelings.”
“So many,” Bellicus echoed. “Tedesum, over and out.”
And then the shot pulled back to the two ships turning and going their separate ways, and then the credits began to roll.
“Wait,” he said. “That’s it?”
“Sh,” Kel’Tori said.
“But what about the Posse?”
“It’s fine,” Paalu’Gera said, “we totally kicked their ass—”
“They outnumbered the Heavy Fleet two to one—”
“Oh, so you were paying attention,” Zorya’Venn giggled.
“—the average batarian cruiser fires one hundred twenty slugs a round per side, which would rip through the Civilian Fleet in half an hour, tops,” he said. “This was a crisis. That’s the whole reason she went to the turians in the first place. You can’t just end with that hanging over their heads, that’s—”
Tali’Zorah laughed.
She laughed, with a hint of stuffy nose in the sound, and his not-yet-repressed instincts wanted to bodily grab Kel’Tori and shove her out the door, followed by the others, and worse than that his entire chest went—warm, with relief and pathetic happiness and a smug gladness he couldn’t quash. When he checked in with his face, he was grinning. Idiot.
“Everyone keeps hoping for a sequel,” Shen’Daris said. “But her agent won’t allow it. Too risky.”
“No official spin-off material either,” Zorya’Venn said. “Believe me. I’ve tried.”
“And written half the unofficial spin-offs on the ’net?” Kel’Tori asked.
Zorya’Venn bent her elbows, unaffected. “Of course. What else was I going to submit for their consideration?”
Paalu’Gera sighed dramatically. “All we can do is dream.”
A collective sigh passed through the rest of the group, and then Tali’Zorah said, “All right, all of you out.”
He stood automatically and she waved an exasperated hand at him. “Not you. Them.”
“Aw, but Tali—” Paalu’Gera started.
“Feeling inspired?” Zorya’Venn giggled.
Tali’Zorah leveled a stare at her and he thought it best to square his shoulders and look straight ahead at the blank screen. “He didn’t come over here just to watch movies with us,” she said finally, in a dangerously neutral tone. “I’m heading out again soon.”
“Already?” Paalu’Gera said. “But you just got back!”
Six weeks ago, he thought unhelpfully.
“Duty calls,” Tali’Zorah said, probably with an elbow bend, knowing her. “And while it was clearly and vitally important that we round out his cultural wheelhouse by viewing one of the galaxy’s greatest cinematic masterpieces—”
“Ma’am,” he said, still holding at ease and staring straight ahead.
“—we do have other things to do. Now shoo.”
“Is that why you called?” Kel’Tori asked. “Because you knew you’d be heading out?”
“Well, that,” Tali’Zorah said. “And I missed you guys. I’ll meet you on mess in a couple hours?”
A chorus of affirmatives answered her, and he didn’t turn to watch as they began to depart, flinging “Nice to meet you”s with varying levels of innuendo in his direction that he received without moving. He found, to his alarm, that he was starting to experience anticipation and excitement again, and he was really going to have to get a grip before that door closed—
“Kal’Reegar,” said Kel’Tori.
He did break at that, pivoting on one foot to meet her gaze. Standing up, she was significantly shorter than he was, a pint-sized burst of green against the drab maroons of the meeting room furniture. But she put a hand on her hip and measured him with her gaze, and he found himself feeling smaller before her.
“Nice to meet you,” she said finally.
“Ma’am,” he said, catching a glint of light out of the corner of his eye as Tali turned her head in his direction, as if she’d caught the caution in his voice.
Kel’Tori looked back to her and for a moment he was sure they were talking, helmet-to-helmet, and then she looked back at him and offered her arm. Startled, he took it and they clasped forearms in a formal farewell; and then she released him, looked back to Tali one more time, and left.
And they were alone.
He realized he couldn’t think of a time when they’d just been alone, no mission, no team, no objective, just the two of them, together. For a moment they just stared at each other. She was standing at the other end of the couch, fingers twisting together in front of her, while his arms hung uselessly at his side, held in a military posture by sheer muscle memory. The only saving grace of his inability to meet her gaze was that she apparently felt the same way, looking around the room a little, and hey, maybe she was nervous too. Maybe—
“What was that about?” he said, filling the silence, which was definitively not his job.
“Hm? Oh,” she said, finally looking at him. “Kel’s…just being Kel. Takes everything a little seriously. But it’s fine. She likes you,” she said. “That’s what that was about.”
“Oh,” he said, and her fingers twisted more and she looked over at the screen. This ground felt unstable. He tried to find his footing. “You want to look at the slides Prazza sent?”
“No,” she said, and he barked a laugh and her hands dropped to her sides. “Ancestors, I am so sick of his updates. He can’t just say ‘nothing to report,’ or keelah forbid just not send anything. So it’s always something stupid like ‘Dramda’Vael mentioned the range, should we schedule a training session?’ like anyone needs my permission to confirm that. Or, you know,” and she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, slyly, “‘Kal’Reegar was thirty minutes late submitting his report. Have issued reprimand.’”
“I came up on the shower rotation,” he said, realizing three words too late that maybe that was too much information. She crossed her arms and turned the full force of her inquisitive gaze on him and ancestors, he’d missed her.
“Oh?”
“Come on,” he said. “I don’t know how they run things on these fancy flagships, but the Tesleya only has so many clean rooms. Hell if I was going to pass up a shower to file a damn report saying ‘I’ve been sitting on my ass, thanks for asking.’”
She giggled and he grinned. “So did he actually reprimand you?”
“Sure,” he said. “We might be on downtime but he wouldn’t tolerate a breakdown in military order, have to maintain discipline at all times, you know Prazza.”
“And you just took it?”
“Sure.”
She crooked a finger on her left hand in an indication of skepticism and waited.
“I said, ‘Apologies, sir, I’m just sitting on my clean ass, thanks for asking,’” he said, as straight as he could manage.
She broke, collapsing onto the arm of the couch as she howled with laughter, and suddenly he felt like he’d gone for a good long run on the treadmill, blood pumping, adrenaline flowing, flexible and free and ready for whatever came at him. Usually it was a solid round with a punching bag before heading for the weights.
This was better.
“Keelah,” she gasped, legs dangling off the arm of the couch, resting her arms on her stomach and leaning against the back of it with her helmet tipped up towards the overhead. “I can hear him sputtering.”
“Didn’t hear back from him,” he said sagely, and she turned her head and looked at him. Looked at him for a moment or two longer than strictly necessary, looked him up and down, and he could feel the grin on her face, burned up in the glint in her eyes.
She’s a smart girl. He sat against the other arm of the couch, crossed his arms to hide the fact that his hands were trying to grab at her, and jerked a thumb towards the door. “Friends of yours?”
“Yeah,” she said with a fond sigh, looking back to the overhead, and he withheld a sigh of relief. “Shen and Kel and I grew up together on the Rayya. I just met Paalu’Gera and Zorya’Venn when I got here, but they’ve been…honest,” she said finally. “You know, not just trying to get to know an Admiral’s daughter because they think it will help their career or something. I mean, I can’t guarantee that Zorya’Venn isn’t just trying to gather material for her next novel, but,” and she bent her elbows, “she’s pretty honest about that too. I like them. And it’s good to have people to hang out with.”
“Yeah?” he said, propping a foot up on the couch, settling into his seat.
“You know how it is,” she said, “or maybe you don’t, Mr. Professional,” and the way she said that word, almost accusatory, almost flirting, sent a shiver down his spine, “but it’s good to have people to hang out with who don’t have anything to do with what you’re doing. Or what…worries you. Or…” She sighed again. “I don’t know. Maybe just to have people who know you, you know? People who see you, and not just what you can do.”
He looked at her for several moments longer than strictly necessary, looked her up and down, allowed himself the luxury of lingering in the rise and fall of her chest and nothing more. If she noticed, she didn’t indicate it, just kept staring up at the ceiling, and so when he felt the edges of his control starting to slip he said simply, “I get that.”
“Hm,” she said.
“’Course,” he said, swinging his other leg up so that both feet were propped on the cushion, “there’s not much more to me than what I can do with a rifle and a couple dozen heat sinks, so—”
She laughed again, more quietly, and turned her helmet towards him. “You don’t have to lie to me, Reegar,” she said, and then she moved so that her feet were up on the couch too, so that they were seated across from each other and suddenly he couldn’t avoid her gaze. She propped her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers together. “There’s a little more to you than that.”
“Ma’am,” he said, not exactly a challenge, though his arms were still crossed and her helmet tilted in that fractional way that suggested she heard it all the same.
“Hmph,” she said, studying him a moment more, and then suddenly breaking into, “Had you really never seen Fleet and Flotilla?”
“Look,” he said, “I’m sure it’s been playing on the mess deck before.” She threw her hands up in the air. “You’re a big fan, I take it?”
“Shen and Kel and I have been watching it together since it came out,” she said. “Shen had to beg to her parents for, like, a week before they’d agree to let her see it. They’d heard it was too ‘scandalous.’ And Kel’s dad thought the actress was setting a bad example, putting herself at risk like that, so her mom had to watch it with us. She totally loved it too, though, so it was okay.”
She was laughing and he hated to ask, but hell, he had her talking and he might not get another chance. “And your parents?”
She laughed again, but this one was cynical. “Like my father knows what a movie is,” she said. “Like he paid any attention to anything other than my grades.” She was quiet, looking at her knees, and he could’ve reached out and—done what? “My mother was cool with it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said, with a fond sad half-laugh. “She was big into being liberated from the suit, though.”
“Seriously?” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “She taught me hardware and mechanics and stuff herself. Mostly in the clean rooms. Bare hands. Drove my father crazy.”
He blinked, feeling sucker-punched, though he held still. “You—”
“They were a weird match,” she said, sorting through the jumble of thoughts in his head for him. “They both wanted the homeworld, though. Mom for the freedom, Dad for…her,” she said. “And me. But mostly to save Mom from herself, I think. I don’t know, though. He’s still crazy about it, so.” She sighed again and put a hand flat to her helmet, a gesture he didn’t recognize, though as she dragged down her faceplate he caught the gist of it. “And I think he probably liked it, though he’d never admit it. Want to know something really scandalous?”
A large part of him wanted to say no, not really, please no, but she’d dropped her chin and was looking up at him and he was a hopeless goner. Idiot. “Sure,” he said weakly.
She leaned in, elbows still on her knees, and he mirrored her movements. “So,” she said, “there’s no record of a clean room visit.”
He squinted at her. “For…”
She waved a hand to indicate herself. “Me,” she said. “They didn’t register for a clean room. I know. I checked all the records aboard the liveships and the ship they were stationed on at the time.”
His mouth actually dropped open, his brain grinding to a halt as a single word escaped him. “Why?”
“Because I was curious!” she said. “Every kid does it at some point, right?”
He emphatically waved his hands parallel to his knees. “No,” he said. “No, they really don’t.”
“Oh, well, you’re only saying that because you knew they had to,” she said, waving his words away. “All of us aboard the Rayya did it. Traded reports. Some kids’s parents did it, like, a lot. Others had parents stationed on separate ships, so it was pretty obvious. And then there were the Zorahs.”
“Did you tell everyone?” he asked, a large part of him fervently wishing never to hear that clan name again.
“Of course not!” she said, sounding appalled, though she didn’t begin to approach how he was feeling. “My dad wasn’t head of the Board yet but he was still an Admiral. I couldn’t let people know he’d gotten it on with my mom in some maintenance compartment or something. I didn’t even tell Shen, and I only told Kel by accident when we were both really drunk after our Pilgrimages. And now I’ve told you.” She straightened, leaving him hanging forward, blinking and wondering what his ancestors had done to—
well, quite a lot, apparently, according to Zorya’Venn’s books anyway—
shit.
“And you won’t tell,” she said, somewhere between a question and a satisfied statement.
He found his voice. “Hell. No,” he said, straightening and crossing his arms again and tilting his helmet almost on its side. “What—”
“You’re grossed out,” she said. A definite statement, but his instincts tingled a warning that his conscious brain stared at before throwing it into the chaotic mess of his thoughts.
“I—” he started, struggling to create a coherent phrase, let alone a sentence. Not grossed out—horrified, for so many reasons, and that normal recoil any quarian felt at the thought of taking such a risk—only an idiot resented the suit—and while he tried to sort it out words kept leaving his mouth without permission. “I mean, if you were really interested, you could have just asked—?”
“Asked?” she said, now disgusted in her own turn. “My father wouldn’t have even acknowledged the question. Mom would have told me way too much. Like,” she paused, and then shuddered, “way too much. I know enough.” She looked at her knees again and grew quiet, thankfully, and the gears slowly began to turn in his brain once more, drawing him back into himself, into a better posture, into awareness of his limbs and his breathing and his damned self-control. “It doesn’t really matter anymore, beyond just…an insight into my father, I guess.” Her shoulders moved up and down. “One that probably died with my mother.”
“The more I learn about him,” he said, apparently not as in control of his faculties as he’d thought, “the more I—”
“What have you been learning about him?” she asked, and now she’d fixed him with her gaze again, curious and a little defensive.
He shut his mouth until he was sure of what he was going to say, which took longer than he liked because she was looking at him. “Ran into Admiral Han’Gerrel when I arrived, that’s all,” he said.
“Oh,” she said, still staring at him. “He’s my father’s best friend.”
“Apparently,” he said.
“What did he say?” she asked, too lightly for his tastes.
He bent his elbows. “Nothing like that,” he said, and allowed himself a shudder and was rewarded by a snort that held in it the curve of her smile. “Just…about…orders.”
“Oh,” she said, and she relaxed a little. “Speaking of, you want to talk requisitions?”
“No,” he said frankly.
“Oh,” she said, eyes flashing up at him, and she was definitely nervous and that made him nervous but below that he was calm, strangely calm, because to hell with Prazza and the geth and the Fleet and Rael’Zorah and orders and the homeworld; he had Tali’Zorah vas Neema all to himself. “So…”
They stared at each other again, the room full of a tense silence they’d shared many times before in the moment before turning a corner and opening fire, waiting for one or the other to give the signal.
His call, this time. “You doing all right?” he asked, hooking his hands around one knee and leaning back.
“Oh,” she said, startled again, and then she blew out her breath in a long sigh and looked around the room. “Yeah,” she said. “For the most part. About as okay as I could hope for, I guess.” She was quiet, and eventually she glanced back at him; he waited her out. “Things like this…I miss the Normandy, you know? We had movie nights sometimes. Human movies are weird,” she said. “They’re all about celebrating the individual and the triumph of rule-breakers over people who are just living their lives following the rules and my father would not have approved of any of them.”
“You liked them?”
“They were great,” she said. “Weird. But great. They even had a couple that were almost as good as Fleet and Flotilla.”
“Why do you like it so much?”
“What is this, an interrogation?” she said, straightening and crossing her arms, her gaze an open invitation to combat.
He smiled behind his faceplate, held his pose, held her gaze until her arms loosened, just a fraction, the only hint of uncertainty she was willing to give. “Yeah,” he said. “Pretty much.”
“You really have been bored,” she said. “Don’t you have any hobbies?”
“No,” he said. “And you’re avoiding the question.” Her eyes cut to him. “Ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes, her helmet turning one way and then the other—shaking her head, that’s what she’d called it. “It’s…you’re going to think this is so stupid.” She glanced at him; he stared impassively back at her. “It’s complicated, all right?”
He took a deep breath and held it, not releasing the sigh until she started talking again, gesturing wildly. “Like, when we used to watch it, I just liked it because it’s a good movie, you know? So many feelings. So romantic and dangerous and exotic. But we also watched it enough times that it was…familiar and comforting. I mean, we watched it the night before Shen left on her Pilgrimage—she was first to go. We watched it when she got back, and when Kel and I left. It’s always the same and it’s always so good. They fall in love and it can never be! So tragic. But for the best, right? Because how would that even work? What is she going to do, move to the Hierarchy? Like they even know how to do a proper clean room, ew.”
He opened his mouth when she paused for breath and then her shoulders slumped, so he withheld the noncommittal “uh-huh” he’d been planning and waited. “And then we watched it when I got back from my Pilgrimage and it was—different. And I know,” she said, glancing at him again, her tone annoyed, “I know the movie didn’t change, I did, but it was just one more reminder of how different everything—and things were never going to be the same, obviously, but I couldn’t even go back to Fleet and Flotilla without wanting to—to—”
“Throw things?” he suggested as her hand shook in the air.
“Maybe?” she said, and then she made a noise of exasperation and threw up her hands before dropping them to dangle between her knees. “Have I answered the question?”
“Do you want to say more?” he countered.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” she said.
“Implying I don’t already,” he said. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Ma’am.”
“Fine,” she said, but she sighed deeply and her shoulders slumped until she was resting her helmet on her hands.
He wanted to take her hands, wanted to gather her close, let her rest the weight of it on his chest. He tightened his grip on his knee, and waited.
Finally she said, to her hands, “You know, most people go on Pilgrimage, they find something interesting or useful, they come home. They interact with other species, maybe spend some time on a colony, but they don’t…live with them. I mean for starters, most of the others don’t want us, right? A quarian’s a useful thing to have aboard a ship, but it’s also a thief just looking to steal from you and leave at the next available port. That’s what most everybody tells me they experienced. Maybe an act or two of kindness, but mostly just the cold shoulder, right?”
“Yeah,” he said, snorting a little.
She snorted in return, lifting her helmet enough to glance up at him. “Well you went to Omega, that’s just a whole different level of crazy. Point is, most people don’t live with aliens, right? I lived with them. And not just among them, or on the edges of them, but as—as a trusted member of the crew! A member of the captain’s personal squad!” Her hands slid back to grip the hoses hidden under her veil. “Me, a quarian, just—living with humans. And Kal, it’s—”
She didn’t seem to realize her slip but his hands dropped from his leg and he had to grip the arm of the couch to keep from falling over backwards. She was still talking. “They’re just constantly touching. Constantly. A hand to nudge someone out of the way, shoving someone when they make a bad joke, and—and—and they can just eat! Anything! They drink after each other, they just—they’ll just pick up someone else’s drink and take a sip and laugh about it! They try food off each other’s plates!”
“That’s—”
“Disgusting, right?” she said. “But is it? Is it? Who’s to say we didn’t do the same thing, back on the homeworld? Maybe it’s not disgusting. Maybe it’s just—normal, just something else we’ve lost. And they have so much,” she said, “don’t even get me started on the resources available, it makes me sick.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and she lifted her helmet enough to stare into the middle distance that was the middle cushion on the couch. “And they hold hands,” she said wistfully. “If they like somebody, they can just—hold hands. Put an arm around someone’s shoulder and really feel it. Brush the hair away from someone’s face. And, yes,” and she rolled her eyes, at herself or something else he wasn’t sure, “they can kiss each other. Just whenever they want. It doesn’t even have to be romantic. They just,” she smacked her lips, “just like that. Not a big deal.
“I mean it can be a big deal,” she conceded to herself, looking thoughtfully up at the overhead. “Like in their romance movies, when two people kiss for the first time, that’s a big deal. But just amongst themselves? No big deal.”
“Even on a military vessel?” he said, and then he shut his big stupid mouth.
“Well,” she said, and then she paused, and giggled a little, “technically no. They do have fraternization regs, of course. But on shore leave? Some of them got a little crazy. And Shepard—well, that’s her business. Was,” she said, and then she sucked in a breath like she’d been punched, “her business. I should…”
“Hm?” he said, as neutrally as he could.
She shook her head, which was still a weird gesture. “Check on someone. It’s nothing. I probably wasn’t even supposed to really know about—anyway. The point is—the point is…”
She heaved a sigh and stretched her neck to look up at the overhead again. “The point is now you think the movie is bullshit,” he said finally.
“But it’s not,” she said, sounding horrified as she dropped her head to look at him. “She took an incredible risk—not just Shalei, but the actress. It’s real.”
“But it’s bullshit,” he said, crossing his arms.
She crossed her arms back, her hands shaking, and glared at him. He tilted his head, just enough to goad her, and though he couldn’t see it he could almost feel the pressure as she pressed her lips together, trying to resist responding.
“It’s bullshit,” he said, still goading her, “because it’s normal for other species. Just not for us.”
“No,” she said, “what’s bullshit is that we all just—that we just accepted this. It’s bullshit that our ancestors created an AI and then fled the homeworld instead of staying and—and—I don’t know, maybe we would have lost anyway, but it’s bullshit that everyone else thinks they’re so much better than us when it could have happened to anyone! It’s not like we told the neural network to come alive! And it’s bullshit that we—they just accepted it. We decided this would be normal! We could have, I don’t know, invested resources in fixing our crappy immune system, but no, we just decided to put on the suits and deal with it later. Like we ran away from the homeworld and figured we’d deal with it later, and here we are and it’s been three centuries and we’re swooning over someone being daring enough to kiss someone else. And I just want—”
She was crying again, shit, he’d made her cry, half of what she was saying sounding like utter nonsense and the other half, well, she had a point, and the fact that he was conceding the point because of how very badly he wanted to pull her against his chest and let her hear his heart beating, feel her skin under his fingertips—well—shit—
“I just want to hold someone’s hand,” she said. “I just want—we’d land on planets with breathable atmospheres and everyone else would take their helmets off and take a big deep breath and I never could and I never could and I just want—and I want to see my father’s face. To see anyone’s face. To just…look at someone, and—and have someone look back at me.”
His chest was tight and aching and his hands had clenched into fists and he didn’t know what to do, let alone say, and he felt like an idiot, staring at her as she sat alone. And that was her whole problem, wasn’t it, that she’d felt alone with the humans and now she felt alone here and he was just useless. He wasn’t good for her for anything other than being a gun watching her six, and he was an idiot for wanting to be here and for still wanting—
“So maybe I do want the homeworld,” she said. “Maybe I’m just crazy, like my mother was.”
She sounded—hopeless, and what was he going to do, say something?
He bent his elbows. “Maybe a little.”
She startled, looking at him as if she’d almost forgotten he was there, and the light in her eyes…changed, when she focused on him. “Only a little?”
“Ma’am.”
“Reegar,” she said, with a sad despairing laugh in her voice, but that was—different from the earlier way she’d been hopeless; this was the despair of you have no friends and you have no life, and that he could handle. “I don’t know why I even—”
“Hey,” he said, and that earned him the full force of her gaze, sharp and inquisitive and hungry and desperately, hopelessly hopeful and oh, he wanted to see her face. “If it helps—” shit, he was trying to say something “—you’re probably…onto something.”
“Am I?” she said, her voice skeptical, her gaze unchanged.
“With the whole what’s normal, and we could have tried,” he waved his hand, “harder, thing. Or tried anything, hell if I know. Point is,” just stop talking, idiot, “you’re not—crazy. And—” he opened and closed his mouth and she was still watching him but her eyes were starting to narrow as if she was smiling, ancestors help him—
of course, they’d insulted the ancestors so much over the past five minutes, maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that they were sitting this one out—
“And?” she prompted, and he heard the smile in her voice and lost his completely.
“And,” he said, after another awkward pause, “just, if you ever, when we’re deployed, if we have some downtime and you want someone to, uh, you know—”
“I don’t know,” she said, and her nose was a little stuffy and her voice was smiling and he would not allow himself to think what his heart was screaming at his head.
“To watch a movie with. Or whatever,” he said. “I’m—here. For…you.”
“Because you have your orders?” she said, teasingly, but he knew instinctively that fear lay behind it.
“Because I’m here for you,” he said firmly. “Because…” and he bent his elbows and tried to look anywhere that wasn’t her intoxicating gaze. “Because.”
“Oh,” she said, maybe a little surprised, maybe a little confused, he didn’t know; he couldn’t look at her.
“Yeah,” he said, exhaling in a tight uncomfortable huff and apparently taking his turn to be uptight and awkward as he tried to seem nonchalant about the whole thing.
“Okay,” she said, holding up her finger in a nod. “You have a deal.” And then she said, more quietly, looking at him but not quite meeting his gaze, “Thanks, Kal.”
“Ma’am,” he said, his voice strangled as he crossed his arms and tried not to look like the back of the couch was the only thing keeping him from falling over sideways.
She rolled her eyes and said, “Okay, Reegar,” and thankfully, before any more idiot words came out of his mouth about how she was welcome to call him whatever she damn well pleased, she slipped down onto the couch proper and turned her attention to her omni-tool. “What do you want to watch?”
“Now?” he said, his voice still not entirely back to normal.
She turned her helmet, not enough to actually see him, and said, “I mean, unless you want to go over—”
“No,” he said, and his transition to actually sitting on the couch was not nearly so smooth as hers but she wasn’t looking anyway.
“Good,” she said, and then his omni-tool glowed as she flipped control over the screen to him. “You pick something. I’ll be back with more snacks.” As she rose and circled around the couch she added, “Do you even have, like, a favorite movie?”
“Yes,” he said, half-indignant, mostly trying to focus all his attention on not following her every move with his gaze. A thought occurred to him; he scrolled through the streaming list, found the vid he wanted, and grinned in satisfaction. And waited.
A moment later he heard the rustling of more snack packs and then an abrupt silence, followed by a, “You’re not serious.”
“Deadly serious, ma’am.”
“Reegar, no,” she said, stepping into view, arms full of snacks and gaze fixated on the screen. “Not Homeworld Rising.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “are you criticizing the greatest vid of all time?”
“It’s so bad,” she exclaimed, but when she sat back down she sat—next to him, her arm against his arm, and he had to cut off his mic and take a few deep steadying breaths while she sorted through the snacks, occasionally tossing a pack in his lap.
“I think you mean great, ma’am,” he said, ripping open another caramel. So. Not a coincidence, then. “With all due respect.”
“No respect,” she said. “Absolutely none.”
“You want to watch something else?”
“Just hit play,” she said, totally exasperated, her arm still against his as if even in the act of opening a snack pack she was determined to keep it there, and he swallowed, hard, and watched her hook the pack into her access port, only vaguely aware that he still held his uselessly in his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”
He was still staring at her. “Ma’am?”
She glanced at him, and their eyes met; and then she rolled hers again and said, “You do know how to hit play, right? I know it doesn’t have a trigger—”
“Ma’am.”
“—but I also know that the UI is designed specifically so that even a dumb marine can use it—”
“Ma’am.”
“—so if you wouldn’t mind going ahead and putting me out of my misery—”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, hitting play and settling back into his seat, into his arm being against her arm as she sat next to him, not leaning on him exactly, but—present. There.
The opening credits began; a quarian marine fired one shot and seven geth exploded, including one twenty meters away from where the slug had landed. “We’re eating dinner with my friends after this,” she said.
“Gotta report back to the Tesleya,” he said. “Ma’am.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I know an Admiral. I’m sure he could pull some strings.”
He waited a moment, then snorted; she giggled and tilted her head and for a moment it almost rested on his shoulder. Almost.
And then a quarian dove in front of a geth grenade, caught it in his gloved hands, and tossed it up to explode in a shower of fragments that settled into the title card, hovering in the air and sparking at the edges, and she leaned her head into the back of the couch so she could stare up at the overhead and groan.
He hooked his snack pack up to his access port. “Greatest. Vid. Of all time.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Noted, ma’am,” he said.
“I—”
He shushed her as a quarian with more medals than sense entered the scene. “The general is speaking, ma’am,” he whispered. “Show some respect.”
“He sounds just like an Admiral,” she whispered back. “Kind of makes the whole ‘respect’ thing difficult.”
On principle, he waited until the general’s extremely long and ultimately pointless speech ended, his eyes on her hands as her fingers tapped her leg restlessly, before snorting in response. And then he slurped up some caramel pudding, and said, as a squad scattered to the four corners of a room, “This is my favorite part.”
“They reuse this shot like five times,” she said.
“Good thing I like it,” he said, slurping again and feeling her shake her head next to him.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“Ma’am,” he said, and she shook her head again and he said, “Oh, no, come on, Lieutenant Laspar, check your six—”
“He’s going to die,” she said. “They’re all going to die. It’s Homeworld Rising.”
“Did I interrupt Bellicus when he was abusing the cooldown rate of the Crossfire?”
“He wasn’t abusing it, he was—fine,” she said, nestling down into the couch. “I’ll shut up.”
“Ma’am,” he said, and she just sighed again.
And then she said, as young Lieutenant Laspar screamed “Go for the eyes!” before dying in a horrendous explosion as his oxygen pack was pierced, “Does this mean we’re friends now?”
He turned his head to look at her and she leaned her helmet on his shoulder to look up at him and for a moment he had to close his eyes and focus on the forehead cradle of his helmet to remember it was still there. And then he opened them and said, “What?”
“You know,” she said. “We’re here, hanging out, watching a movie. There’s nothing for you to be protecting me from, aside from your terrible taste in vids. Kal’Reegar,” she said, her tone dancing between teasing and hopeful and cautious and confident, and he felt like he was tripping over his feet, trying to follow it, “are we friends?”
He opened his mouth and she rolled her eyes and added, “You can still call me ma’am, if that helps.”
He closed his mouth—how had she known? was he that transparent?—and then opened it again, though he had no idea what he was going to say. “Sure,” was what came out, which wasn’t too bad, all things considered. “Ma’am.”
She sighed, and she was leaning against him and he felt the rise and fall of her breath against his side and had to shift his gaze back to the screen, had to flatten his hands against his legs. “You’re impossible,” she told him, and she was still leaning against him, her voice practically in his ear, and sure, he was the impossible one.
“Apologies, ma’am,” he said, and she huffed but he felt her relax, settling back into her seat, her arm still touching his, her helmet just barely leaning against his shoulder.
Friends. Right.
Friends ran entirely too close to the truth, muddled the boundary where his common-sense grounding in the realities of being a quarian ran up against her wild-eyed longings for something more, because he wanted her—was going half-crazy with it just sitting here next to her, barely tasting the remnants of his pudding, barely seeing the improbable heights to which quarians were being blasted before falling to their doom. Friends was a step away from trying to give her everything she wanted and how in the hell was he even going to manage that? Because just friends didn’t exactly sync their suits so they could hang out in a clean room just to see each other’s face. Just friends didn’t sync suits, period.
And what was the other option? Win her the whole damn homeworld? Just friends didn’t try to win back homeworlds for each other, either.
She groaned as yet another quarian got interrupted mid-dramatic speech, this time by having his legs blown off, and she crossed her legs and her foot bumped into his calf.
Only an idiot resented the suit. Only an idiot wanted to breathe fresh air. Only an idiot—
and Tali’Zorah was no idiot, though he definitely was. What she wanted, she would eventually get, he had no doubt about that.
Of course, that didn’t guarantee she wanted him.
Then again, she was sitting next to him. Practically against him. Touching him casually, as if casual touch was something he did. And she’d brought him his favorite snack. She was a smart girl; she had to know what she was doing.
But maybe she didn’t know what she was doing to him, and that was his only defense, his only chance to maintain some kind of—dignity, or restraint, or discipline in the whole situation. Because he had his orders and they had a job to do and he couldn’t do friends, couldn’t cross the line between professional camaraderie and just friends without teetering on the edge of falling ass over helmet in—
and the fact that he was even thinking about it meant it had already happened, and she deserved better, or at the very least not to have him following her around like a varren in heat when he was supposed to be watching her six. He had to get this under control or else they’d both—
Her foot touched his calf again.
To hell with it.
He crossed his ankle over his knee, letting his other knee brush hers, and slung his arm across the back of the couch, and waited, his mouth pressed in a grim line of resignation.
She went still, he noticed, as he stared at the screen with all his might (lots of local flora and fauna catching fire, and actually this scene had almost burned down the whole set and had delayed production for a week, that one guy in the back? almost lost an arm). And then she leaned in a little more, until her arm was against his side, her helmet just barely brushing his chest.
Well, then.
He stared uselessly at the screen, felt her shift again as the cushion dipped her closer to him, and then she commented, “You could have made that shot.”
“Damn straight, ma’am,” he said, and she giggled, and he felt the edge of a smile trying to tug at his lips and something within him relaxed again, leaving him surprisingly still, and steady, and calm. There’d be hell to pay tomorrow, but he’d deal with it then. For now, he had Tali’Zorah vas Neema at his side, and for the length of one bad movie, he was damn well going to enjoy it.