Mature Rating Applies - If you prefer to avoid the sexual content, you're safe to read through Garrus' repairs... and then skip to the very end for the last dose of plot.

16: Elbow Grease

Garrus
SSV Normandy
2183 CE

Garrus grunted as he forced the long chamber of the Mako cannon's propellant hoist back into position, rotating it a quarter turn clockwise to seat it back home. The housing released a satisfying, airless snnnssshh as the propellant chamber was evacuated of pressure and sucked further into the chassis. Affection rekindled, he slackened against the mechanic's creeper at his back and stared into the Mako's underbelly. With a series of slow blinks, he marveled at a slice of precise, expensive, deadly machinery... and completely lost his train of thought.

Perhaps an entire gormless minute passed before he realized Shepard was waiting for him to finish his story. He shook his head and continued.

"Sorry. So, I went to his lab, hoping to find evidence of cloned organ development, but there was nothing. No salarian hearts, no turian livers, not one krogan testicle."

"You're kidding, right?" Shepard laughed. Garrus glanced at her, then reached for the coolant magazines so he could slot them back in line. As he worked, she settled deeper into the bedroll he'd fetched for her and snickered childishly. "I mean, why would anyone want krogan testicles?"

"Some krogan believe it counteracts the genophage. Doesn't work, but they'll pay up to ten thousand credits per unit. On the black market, that's forty thousand for a full set." Garrus paused, checking the fit of the magazines with a dry chuckle. "Somebody's making a killing out there."

She laughed again, stifling a yawn. "Maybe don't tell Wrex about that."

"Agreed."

Garrus finished up his maintenance protocols on the Mako's turret while Shepard sprawled in barely conscious comfort beside him. The mood underneath the tank was relaxed - she was finally at ease. After crying her eyes out into the shoulder of a subordinate, the Commander had looked exhausted beyond telling, but nonetheless had seemed hesitant to go back above decks. Instead of crawling back to her quarters to battle her insomnia in solitude, she had opted to join Garrus for a round of maintenance on the M35's mass accelerator cannon. The friendly banter had been a surprising bonus.

Frankly, when it came right down to nuts and bolts, Shepard was no help at all. It appeared as if she know her way around the Mako's assemblage, but she seemed perfectly satisfied to watch Garrus do all the work by himself. He wasn't complaining - far from it - he relished the unexpected company. For the most part, Shepard had simply relaxed into her bedroll and lazily prodded him into recounting (and embellishing) some of his weirder exploits at C-Sec.

"So, did you get him?" she prodded again. "The mad scientist Doctor Saleon?"

She reached out to absently fiddle with one of his wrenches. Peeking out from underneath the soft shield of the bedroll, her arms were bare and pale. She was wearing little more than her plain black workout gear, and her proximal near-nudity was a constant distraction. He refocused on the task.

"No," he said, keeping his voice calm. "Once Saleon found out that C-Sec had picked through his lab, the trail went cold real fast. I wanted to pursue it further, even brought in one of his employees for questioning, but Pallin didn't like it."

"Why not? Seems like illegal organ harvesting might be a priority."

"Guess he didn't like the questions I was asking."

"You mean the threats you were making," she drawled. Even exhausted, her voice carried an authoritative note that made his skin prickle. Sounding disappointed, she added, "Was that really necessary?"

He sighed, wishing her gentle, off-duty whisper would stop resembling a booming voice of reason.

"The Executor agreed with you. I got pulled from the case and reassigned, and Saleon never got caught. As far as I know, he's still on the Citadel, doing who knows what." If he still sounded a little bitter about that, well. There was a salarian nicking organs in Garrus' precinct, and his boss didn't seem to care. It tended to put a bad taste in his mouth.

Garrus tightened the final set of parallel bolts, then dropped the ratchet ponderously against his chest. "At the time, I was furious. Still am, really. Not a fair trade, but I guess some good finally came out of it."

Her head snapped toward him, surprised. "What do you mean?"

He indulged himself a slow, sloppy grin, and took a moment to savor the smoky aftertaste of an unexpected fire warming through his chest.

"When I got reassigned, I pulled the short straw." He turned his head and met her eyes. "The Saren investigation."

And you.

The implication hung in the air between them like a subspace transmission, a thread of invisible data that had yet to be reassembled on the receiving end. When Shepard blushed all the way from the roots of her hair to the shadow of her cleavage, his grin deepened and he dropped his gaze. Grabbing a nearby rag, he began to scrub the grease from his hands - letting her regain her composure.

She tried to cover her lapse with a cough and an abrupt grab for official business.

"Well," she choked. "The Normandy will have to return to dry dock eventually. Our next stopover on the Citadel, we can do some poking around. Hell, if two Spectres and a detective can't track down one salarian, maybe he deserves to get away."

"Thanks, Commander." He slipped some bittersweet sub-vocals into his next words, hoping she'd catch his drift. "I don't like leaving things unresolved, especially when I know there's more going on than meets the eye."

No luck. She nodded stiffly, either missing his double meaning or willfully choosing to ignore it. With a sigh, he threw the rag over his shoulder and gestured to the underbelly of the tank.

"As for your gun here, I've done all I can without retooling the rammers or making a serious upgrade to the lubricants. Even without, you should see a seven percent increase in firing efficiency. I can source you a volus supplier who does experimental frictionless materials, that'll net you another three to five."

"How did you squeeze that much out of it?"

He rolled off the creeper and started to peel off the light armor around his torso, careful not to be suggestive about it. His back was stiff... That was all.

"As long as you've got some sleepless asshole like me waiting around to keep her clean and well-oiled, these parts can take a little extra push. I just tipped all her firing algorithms a few degrees past baseline, then greased up the hardware to compensate."

Stripped to his under-suit above the waist, his hands stilled on the locks around his thighs, reconsidering. He took off his boots first - much less dangerous.

"Besides, I'm good with my hands," he drawled, the words oozing out of his mouth before he could stop them. His eyes widened. Spirits, Vakarian, shut up.

She snorted, a perfect mix of fondness and disbelief.

"You're a runaway loudmouth, is what you are."

"Yeah," he agreed, wholeheartedly. "That too."

She didn't say anything else, so he decided to risk the armor on his lower body. No ulterior motive. His legs were stiff... That was all.

It got very quiet when he reached his under-suit. With a jolt to the heart, he realized she was watching him strip.

Clearing his throat of nerves, he scooted closer to her and snatched an extra bedroll for himself. The floor was cold... That was all.

He settled next to her, the shadows between them thick with discarded tools and armor and a thousand unvoiced thoughts. Shepard shifted nervously, her good mood unraveling. On instinct, he offered up another rapid-fire solution, aiming for distraction.

"Where'd this come from?" he asked, awkwardly pointing to the military necklace that dangled past her collarbones.

She'd added a new pendant between her dog-tags, sleek and dark and unquestionably Prothean. As if she'd forgotten she was wearing it, she looked down, curiously following the line of his finger. Once her attention was back on the pendant, she kept staring, transfixed, like she'd never seen it before. The sight made him nervous.

When she didn't answer, he reached out and looped one brave finger through the chain, sliding the inside of his knuckle to meet the clinking dog-tags. He ran the bare pad of his thumb across the mysterious black stone, testing for malignant spirits or brain-eating memories. If there were any, they stayed quiet.

Shepard was also staying quiet. Too quiet, too serious. He jingled the pendant against his fingers.

"What is it?" he asked again, more insistent this time.

"I don't know yet," she finally answered, her breath coming out in careful pulses. His visor noted a spike in her heart rate. "But I think it's friendly," she added, recovering.

"Hmm. Friendly is good." He hummed, relaxing slightly.

Shepard had chosen to highlight her cleavage with a priceless fifty-thousand-year-old relic, sandwiched between two crudely stamped Alliance dog tags. Flashy, no question, but at least it was harmless. The necklace glittered tantalizingly over the shadow between her breasts. He could feel the heat of her skin - millimeters away.

"And what about this?" He let the back of his hand fall softly against her chest and rubbed a slow knuckle along the flat of her sternum, outlining her heart. "Friendly?"

Immediately he could see her wheels spinning up, the cruel machinery of her overexerted brain nearly audible in its intensity. She swallowed, nodding, and spoke with the awkward stutter that only ever seemed to affect her when the subject was sex.

"Yeah. I... We're friendly. And. And we're..."

"Oh no," he whispered. "Don't worry about 'and' right now..."

He tugged gently on her necklace, and she moved with it, her face flushed, her pulse jumping under his hand, as he brought their mouths together. The Prothean pendant seemed to hum with life, sending an electric thrill through his palm.

Her kiss was sweet but stiff, and her hands jerked nervously across his carapace. Sobered by her anxious twitching, he pulled back slowly, keeping his movements submissive and relaxed. He rubbed his brow plates across her jawline and soothed her with a low hum, then pressed his face into her neck.

"Would you like me to touch you? Yes or no?" he asked, neutrally as he could manage.

He could hear her opening her mouth, searching for words, apologies, explanations. She finally squeezed out an unconvincing yes. Simple physical comfort; she needed it like air, and couldn't even admit it aloud.

Slow and easy, he brought her into a basic romantic stance: the one-armed cuddle. All hand-to-hand prowess, she was still painfully new to affectionate grappling. With some wiggling, he wedged his left arm beneath her shoulders and curled his hand around her upper arm, rubbing the bare skin with the edge of his thumb. Stiff as a board, she stared and waited for him to attack.

"Right," he sighed, mandibles flaring around a small half-smile. "How about this. Stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them." He guided one of her unconsciously balled fists to his bare right forearm, so she could hold tight and control his movements. Always, constantly, giving her the option to stop. She still looked nervous. Excited, anticipatory, and definitely a little turned on, but much too uncomfortable for his liking.

"If you want to stop-"

"I don't want to stop," she interrupted, finding a scrap of her familiar force. "I want this. I'm just... Not good at showing it."

He whispered to her through a deepening smile. "Close your eyes, Red. Let me help you out, yeah?"

She looked at him a moment longer, tightened her fingers on his arm, and then nodded. As her eyes slid shut, he touched his face to hers, rubbing his forehead lightly across her skin - her cheeks - her mouth - her jaw. Every touch was fleeting, feather-light, and stripped carefully of his own need.

"Don't think about anything," he suggested, whispering into her ear. "Just this."

He pulled back the cover of the bedroll and brought his hand down to her breast, finding her nipple already peaked with excitement and straining through the fabric of her athletic bra. Gently, lightly, he circled the sensitive flesh with his thumb. She gasped so quietly that he had to bend his head to hear it, but he savored the telling huff of hot, pleasured air that jumped from her lips.

She pressed her chest toward him by fractions of degrees, and his hand slid inside her bra to gentle and caress, massaging her tender, hidden skin until her breath caught and her head sank deeper into his arm.

He studied her as she surrendered into his arms, her face more natural and serene than he'd ever seen it. Fanned softly against her cheeks, her lashes were a pale autumn color that flattered her mismatched freckles, a universe of wild stars that she usually tried to hide. Without her usual makeup, her brows were lighter, as if the weight of her thoughts had been scrubbed out. Around her eyes, dark smears of ancient insomnia took the place of her usual warpaint, alongside that old, deep scar.

While his eyes wandered, he kept up the coaxing motions of his hand beneath her bra. Finally, he drifted his mouth to the exposed stretch of her neck, where he listened to her every trembling breath.

"Just like that," he encouraged. "Let it feel good."

He was unable to keep his mandibles from shivering when her fingers tightened on his wrist and led his fingers down, down... His hand fluttered over ribs, waist, hips, thighs, while he covered her neck with brief kisses, teasing nibbles, brushes of eager tongue.

Between it all he muttered to her affectionately, keeping his words easy and ephemeral, always asking.

"Like this?"

After a moment's uneasy pause, her hips rose to meet his hand. That was all the encouragement he needed before he cupped her groin with his whole palm. Her pulse was already throbbing, and her excitement had soaked through the cloth of her skintight shorts - she was more aroused that she was willing to admit.

"Yes..." He groaned involuntarily, voicing the desire for her. "You feel so good..."

He rubbed with deep, unhurried circles, carefully warming her up after a long thaw. Her hips rocked into the motion, uncoordinated with sleeplessness and lack of familiarity, but still... Impatient.

He didn't waste any more time, and slipped his hand into her shorts.

Her soft thatch of pubic hair felt tropically warm and dense - she was natural and unkempt, more than he was used to. Last time, he hadn't had a spare second to consider the specifics of her naked body. Now, as he ran his fingers through the unexpected alien curls, he had to quiet a greedy moan against her shoulder. Her stubborn lack of seductive pretense made his entire bloodstream surge into his erection until he was thumping erratically beneath his groin plates, hungry for more.

But this wasn't the time for him. He sucked in a deep breath and refocused.

She needed release - needed it soon and repeatedly and held tightly the arms of someone who gave a damn.

Inside her shorts, his hand cupped her groin again, this time skin-to-skin. Slowly and deliberately, he increased the pressure, using her own flesh and bones to stimulate her raw and delicate nerves.

"Do you like the way I make you feel?" he asked, suddenly breathless.

She twisted in his arms, curling tighter against him, tightening her grip on his arm. He groaned into the bony turn of her jaw, laving the tight skin with his tongue. It strained his arm to pleasure her one-handed, but it didn't matter, he didn't care. Ignoring the stiffening of his wrist, he brought his thumb down over her clitoris and fluttered, rubbed, circled, flicked, until he found the rhythm that began to take her apart.

"Oh spirits, Red, I want to see you feel good." He was moaning now, rocking his hips jealously against her thigh. As he dipped a finger into her, his dick throbbed with painful envy. He could feel every twitch, every clenching muscle as she rose higher and higher, closer and closer. Careful of his talons, he curled his fingertip against her g-spot and increased the pressure on her clit. She was close. She'd been close for days. Years, maybe.

"Red... Feel good for me... Let it all go..." Desperate, excited fingers clutched his working arm, and her other hand landed on his neck, hauling him in for a kiss. Her soft, pliant mouth opened under his, gasping sweetly and silently into his lungs, begging for more, please, more.

He begged right back. "Let it out, let go. Let it feel good, Red... yes... yes..."

He knew she was orgasming before she did, when her core clamped down around his fingers and her thighs trembled and lifted him further in. When it hit her, she didn't make a sound. She went so quiet, so still, that he could hear his own heartbeat rumbling lustily in his ears, drowning out the ship, muffling the universe.

He kept moving, pulling the pleasure from her in stubborn ribbons of heat and moisture, until she hiccoughed and let out a long, low wail. He could taste the dangerous salt of tears on her skin as he covered her face with searching kisses, but she was still wide open, riding it out, clamping down on his hand, climaxing in silence, over and over and over...

She came down slow. In gradual pulses, the pleasure shifted into a blind, empty overabundance. After a moment, she was reduced to real sobs. With a hushing breath, he removed his hand and held her to his chest, pulling the sheets around them, keeping her carefully guarded from the outside world. She could deal with it in the morning.

He embraced her - as tenderly he could manage while laying underneath a tank on a cold starship floor - without the bed or pillows or gratuitous sweet talk he usually employed for sensitive interludes like these.

Locked against him, she cried for the second time in as many hours, and he, only too grateful to be of assistance, took it all for himself.

She fell asleep in a dead heap, clinging to him like a life-preserver. Moments later, with his face buried in her hair, he closed his eyes and followed.

The sound of the elevator woke him with a start.

Luckily, his flinch was small, and Shepard slept on, undisturbed. Garrus disentangled himself from the Commander as carefully as possible, tucking his bedroll into the space he abandoned, hoping she'd sleep for a few more hours.

He peeked out around the chassis of the tank and froze. It was Kryik.

He wasn't just arriving - he was on his way back up. No way he hadn't already stumbled over the scene. Commander-Fucking-Shepard and some rookie cop named Garrus Vakarian, huddled together in a reg-shattering tangle of limbs underneath the M-35, like a couple of hungover teenagers.

Before the elevator doors closed behind him, the Spectre turned and caught Garrus' eye, a completely illegible expression on his face. Now there was a look that could have meant anything: certain doom, respectful pause, or a thousand deadlier possibilities.

True to his Spectre status, Kryik disappeared without a single word, vanishing as quietly as he'd arrived. Moments later, Garrus' omni-tool lit up with an incoming message.

From: Kryik, N.
To: Vakarian, G.

Congratulations, C-Sec. You just promoted yourself to mission specialist.

Notes

This chapter is short, but I'm trying to keep these steamy sections cordoned off so people can skip over them if they so choose.

I did some basic research into gun turret anatomy to write the calibration sequence, but given the technological marvels of the Mass Effect universe, a lot of liberties have been taken, and whatever Garrus is doing to the Mako can be filed straight under "technobabble space magic."