After the tragic death of her squad in a turian attack, Camille Picard never thought she'd find comfort...

In The Arms of The Enemy

It's an encrypted, blandly named .txt file Shepard would never admit to owning. She hides it in a folder on her datapad labelled "Old Files." It's possible anybody who could go snooping through her data would know she doesn't actually have any old files anymore, but that's a risk she'll take.

It's one of the first books she replaced, once she had time to go re-building her book collection.

She remembers being twelve, reading the paperback Najwa, her father's chaplain's daughter, smuggled onto Arcturus with her. They stayed up nights, each reading a chapter to the other. They even did voices.

In order to voice Lael Qaien, they would both read the lines together. Sometimes, when she re-reads, she still hears the quiet echoing of the voice she and Najwa gave him.

Shepard collapses into bed and loads the file. The ancient plaintext editor appears instantly. She scrolls through, recognizing her favorite passages by shape alone.

"And maybe you won't wake up at all," the turian said.

Yet again, Camille found herself listening to the under-echoes of his voice. It seemed to her sometimes that what he said mattered less than how he said it.

And he was almost certainly bluffing. Maybe he wasn't a typical turian — he couldn't be, if he was willing to travel with the enemy — but Lael was honorable. If he was going to kill her, she would be awake, armed, and facing him directly.

"You're a badass, Qaien, but we both know that's not going to happen."

He looked over at her. His bone-jaws flared for a moment as he drew in a breath. And then he made a hum-whistle that just as easily could have been an infuriated shriek as it could have been a chuckle.

"Maybe we do."

Shepard feels a smile spread across her lips. Perhaps she and Najwa were irreverent. They certainly lacked the modesty and innocence their fathers expected of them.

But they, world-weary souls they'd been at twelve, had never thought to consider key facts. Like just how a human spacer and a turian soldier could have communicated in the early days of the First Contact War.

Even back in 2166, nine years after the First Contact War, life without the translators had been unthinkable. How else could Najwa, who had spoken mostly Arabic, and Shepard, who had spoken mostly English, ever have read a book together?

Apparently, L. Z. Reichardt had foreseen their agreement.

Shepard skips most of the conversations, these days. Reichardt knew precious little about turians, and even less of that had been accurate. She's seen that through a decade of service in space, in living close-quarters with Garrus. In loving him.

But she still reads a few choice conversations. And the sex scenes.

Camille raked her nails down Lael's back. Her inner fires blazed at the way he hissed appreciatively.

Lael returned the gesture. She felt the red lines blossom, but it only left her gasping for breath, aching for more.

"Don't stop," she panted into his throat.

"Don't worry," he replied, his claws tearing the flesh of her waist, her hips, into sweet shreds. "I won't."

Camille ran her fingers over Lael's crest. She'd long admired it; Lael kept it long. She'd thought it would get in the way, but it stayed swept back. More practical than she'd thought.

Lael made a sound that started as a whistle and turned into a whine.

"That can't be all that interests you," the turian moaned.

That dragged a laugh out of Camille. She shook her head, scraping her teeth against the soft flesh of Lael's throat. Her trick brought forth a pleased hiss from Lael.

"All right," Lael grated, "clothes off. I'm going to make sure you can't walk tomorrow."

Camille smiled and pulled off her shirt. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Lael stared. He reached a finger up, traced her breast lightly. At Camille's gasp, he traced a claw along her flesh. Pain bloomed at once hot and cool, the pleasure lingering coppery under her tongue like a taste of sugar.

Shepard can remember when she and Najwa talked once a week. Either through vidmail, or extranet letters, or the vanishingly rare real-time calls.

Those days are over. Her father jokes that it's only fitting: the daughter of a chaplain married an imam; the daughter of a soldier married her job. He doesn't know what they were to each other. Not that he needs to.

But the vid-mail gradually slowed, and when it was gone the extranet mail stopped, and the calls had long been over.

Shepard thinks of Najwa every time she sees her blandly named file — Arcturus Station Tax Return 2182 — and sometimes even starts an email.

She never gets past It's been too long.

Camille wrapped her legs around Lael's waist. His breathing quickened, while his grip on her back tightened. She could feel the sharp edges of his talons slip under.

But that only made it better.

She gasped as he moved inside her. One moment she felt as if she were being stabbed, but the next moment the sensation flowed smoothly into warmth that melted her core. She felt as if she were catching on fire from the inside, but every noise he made — two-toned and beautiful with it — seemed to quench a thirst in her.

"Qaien," she moaned.

Lael whistle-hum chuckled in her ear. She closed her eyes and tightened her grip on him. His chuckle turned into a whine, then a moan that seemed to spring from two places in his throat.

The sound echoed through her, touching every nerve ending. It raced through her like something hot and raging, left her body throbbing with need.

All at once, Lael stopped moving. How could he slide from perfect motion to perfect stillness?

Camille wondered if this was the moment he would betray her. Or if he was stopping because she wasn't turian.

"Ask for it," he growled.

They should have been enemies. She should have been taking this opportunity to hurt him. But she couldn't do it. She couldn't make herself.

The words seemed to pour out of her mouth: "Qaien. Lael. Please. This is what I need. This is what we both need."

He hummed against her throat again. The sound jangled along her nerves, rippling down every limb. The fire inside leapt, sparked, blazed, and she shuddered and gasped. He moved inside her again; she thrust her hips to match. Between the two of them it became a push-pull rhythm.

His touch, the feel of him moving inside of her, the burn of moving to match — it stole her breath.

It seemed like only moments passed before ecstasy bloomed, unfurling under her skin like a banner. She cried out into his neck, tightened her grip on him.

When he went over the edge, he laughed.

"Slide over, slide over," Najwa whispers, motioning with her hands.

Rather than reply, she scoots over in the bed, putting her back to the wall. She digs through the compartment in her headboard for a moment before removing a small LED flashlight.

Najwa is the one who holds onto the book. A soldier's child could easily come into contact with any number of unsavory ideas or objects, but the child of an imam is almost above suspicion.

The book falls open easily. It only takes them a few moments to pick up where they left off.

Together, they read Lael's line: "Is it a human thing? Who will you be in the morning?"

"I'll be me," Camille says in the voice of a soldier's daughter, rather than a soldier. "And God willing, I'll be right here still. And so will you."

"I might even let you wake up," they read together.

"You wouldn't kill me now. We've had too much fun."

"What's the honorable thing here, Picard? The lines are blurring. Do I turn you in? Do I let you run?"

And the soldier's daughter reads, "Camille said nothing in response. What was there to say? His honor was as rigid as something else had been just moments ago. For now, she could trust. She would be content to lie in his arms."

TO: Hassan, Najwa
FROM: Cdr. Y Shepard, SSV Normandy
SUBJ: Book Recomendation
ATTCH: In The Eyes Of a

Najwa,

It's been too long. I know some of it's my fault for spending a couple of years MIA, and I know we're leading very different lives now, but I miss hearing from you.

I saw this in an online book store and thought of you. I'm sure it's even worse than the first one was (and I don't recommend reading it with a drink in hand), but I thought I'd send it your way regardless. Actually, I don't really recommend it.

Whether or not you end up reading it, I'd still like to hear how things have been going for you. If you ever have time, drop me a note.

Commander Y. Shepard, SSV Normandy