Rating: M

Pairing: f!Shepard/Thane

Warnings: None.

Notes: More bittersweet than you can shake a stick at. Written as an exercise; see end notes for details. Set after ME2, assumes 'Arrival' DLC has been completed.

-o-

Abstracted

ab·stract·ed (abˈstraktid). adj. 1. Removed or separated from something else; apart. 2. Lost or deep in thought; preoccupied.

Their time in the painted desert is far too brief, their moment of hard-earned peace shattered all too soon. It ends not with violence so typical of their lives, but with a simple transmission from the Normandy.

They stand together on the landing pad, eyes skyward, waiting. The wind teases Shepard's hair; she tugs off her gloves and tucks the loose strands behind her ear. It's a futile gesture she makes from habit, one Thane has seen countless times before.

He touches the small of her back, thumb moving in a slow arc over the contour of her armor. The ballistic cloth is coarser than it appears and one corner of his thumbnail catches and rasps along the rough surface, the sound swallowed by the wind.

It would be an easy thing to revisit the memory of her skin bare under his hands, or the taste of strawberries on her tongue. For now, he is content when she responds to his touch by leaning into the caress.

The shuttle sweeps in, leaving dust-devils in its wake. Her smile fades and he lets his hand drop away. They both know their time in this quiet place is finished, the precious days and nights of casual touch are over.

Garrus raises the shuttle door, scarred face grim as they toss their bags into the hold. He is tense, everything in his bearing says he bears another burden for the commander to carry. When they climb into the shuttle and finish stowing their gear under the seats, the turian takes the seat beside her.

Thane chooses a place opposite as they lift into the air. Sand billows up again, obscuring the landscape from view until the craft gains altitude. He scans the desert until he spots the grey slate roof of the rented cottage through the haze of sand and distance.

There is no need to watch it recede from sight when he can recall it perfectly; it is mere sentimentality which dictates his actions.

"Sorry, folks," the pilot's voice is tinny, "gonna be a longer trip, need to skirt a storm."

Thane presses his temple against the hull as the shuttle cuts through the thin desert air. The metal is smooth and unyielding, and he feels the vibration of the small craft in his bones. He's spent a lifetime of returning to the void of space, of leaving; it was only when Shepard awoke him from his slumber that he felt the cold once again.

In the desert, he and Shepard sat on a windswept plateau of stone. Evening fell and they watched twin moons sweep the sky as the chill of night crept over them. Shepard had worn white silk, shivering until he trapped her body between his and the sun-warmed stones. She had slipped one hand to the back of his neck pulling him into a kiss, laughing when her fingers had fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons on the shirt he wore.

Now, she is protected by black armor and the familiar lines of command around her eyes. She snorts at something Garrus says, but it's harsh and dry, a sound between soldiers.

Garrus' voice is low as he speaks with her, clawed hand moving to emphasize some point he makes.

"Can't say I'm surprised." Shepard's tone is flat, her voice carrying over the noise the engine makes. She pushes a hand through her hair. "How long they giving me?"

"A week."

"Shit." She meets Thane's eyes and gives the smallest shake of her head. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and he doesn't fail to note the way her fingers drum a slow march against her thigh, or the set of her jaw which means she's grinding her teeth.

She breaths out, relaxing slightly as she touches Garrus' shoulder. "Thank you. For telling me first," she says, voice so low the comment is likely meant for turian's ears alone. Then she leans back in her seat, staring at the ceiling.

Thane blinks, eyes closing and opening with deliberate slowness as, far below, the desert floor scrolls by. Then, for a moment, he allows himself to remember.

-o-

In his work for the hanar he has seen many things, has been to many places, but never the desert. His targets have always been taken from the darkest corners in cities of metal and glass, surrounded by beings who looked through him, unseeing. This empty stretch of white sand, swept into cresting dunes and punctuated by spires of stone, is infinitely more humbling.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"It is... remarkable," he answers. When she steps closer to him, gently bumping her shoulder against his, he smiles and turns his face to the sun, closing both sets of eyelids.

-o-

The cottage they rent is on an abandoned mining planet with twin moons. Long spines of sandstone lift from the dunes like the ragged backs of sea creatures breaching waves. The shuttle deposits them on a pad between two of these towering walls of stone, in a lonely place where the wind cannot shout. A human colony once stood here, now only tourists visit.

The brochure EDI provided them boasts of safety; the first thing they do upon arriving is establish where defensive weaknesses lie. Shepard hides a pistol next to the bed, and another in the living area.

She stands in the kitchen, the glass of water at her elbow forming condensation rings on the counter as she shakes white tablets from a vial.

"Professor Solus?" he asks, as though the name serves an explanation as well as question. He has endured the doctor's advice as well and can think of no one else she would trust enough to medicate her.

"Yes. Don't care how safe the brochure says this place is. I'm not taking chances," she says, tossing back the tablets. She drinks and then smirks at him above the rim of the glass. "Avoiding oral contact isn't exactly an option either."

Neither of them name the reason for their care, but both think it: Cerberus.

-o-

If it is the endless expanse of sand which attracts him, the walled-off area behind the small house draws Shepard. He finds her kneeling between neat rows of tilled earth and vining plants. She glances up at him when he approaches, clearly pleased. When she holds out her hand, three red berries rest in her palm.

The expression she wears is enough to make him ask, "What are they?"

"Strawberries," she says, brushing the dirt on the knees of her pants with her free hand. She steps around him, walking toward the cottage. "The owner's a human. Must have brought clones from Earth."

He follows her inside, bemused, watching as she rinses the berries at the sink, picking the green stems from them. When they're clean she places them in a dish on the counter and then runs her omni-tool over them, reading the information displayed in front of her.

"They're safe. For you, I mean." She looks at him expectantly, picking up one and popping in her mouth. Her lips turn up in a grin. "Go ahead."

He shakes his head, picking another up, holding it out. He can feel the texture of the berry between fingers, the surface covered with a quilted pattern of dimples. "Perhaps when there are more."

"Fine," she says, shrugging.

She reaches forward, but surprises him by grasping his wrist with her sun-warmed fingers. Her eyes are bold on his as she leans in, taking his finger and thumb into her mouth. A thrill runs through him at the sudden flush of heat. Her tongue flicks the berry from him and as she pulls away, she sucks gently.

He makes no attempt to conceal the way this makes his eyelids flicker, or the slight involuntary shiver.

"Care to see how effective those tablets really are?" she asks, eating the last berry, looking at him smugly.

-o-

The third day, she is in the garden once more when a storm rolls in. He stands under the awning, arms crossed as he leans against an upright support column, watching her with a faint smile.

"Just our luck, Krios." She tilts her head back, opens her mouth to catch raindrops. Her clothes darken with water, the garment clinging to her frame. "Only we would pick a desert where it rains."

She looks at him, then runs a hand over her face and hair. "Come out here with me."

"I have endured enough rain to last several lifetimes, Siha." He straightens from the support and extends his hand to her. "Come in here with me."

Something in her expression changes, her lips part slightly as she looks at him, rainwater clinging to her eyelashes. She closes the space between them, taking his hand.

Her eyes widen when he pulls her roughly against him, their joined hands trapped between their bodies as he slides his palm to her back, under the shirt she wears. Her skin is hot and smooth, a sharp contrast to the cooling, wet fabric. He holds her like this, watching her eyes flick over his face.

"Thane." She speaks his name with care, lips brushing his as she squeezes the hand between them tightly and says, very simply, "I love you."

His breath catches with the weight of these words. It has been so very long since he last heard them. Before he can utter a reply, she kisses him again, this time without reserve. Her mouth is hot on his; she tastes of strawberries. He pushes her then, backing her against the counter, and she reaches behind herself blindly, sweeping the dish to the floor.

As he lifts her and she wraps her legs around him, he hums a sound below the range of her hearing, knowing she'll feel it instead. It's something he does again, later, when he is inside of her, and they move as one.

-o-

The storm has passed when she rises from the bed, padding into the kitchen without bothering to dress. He takes a blanket from the bed and follows her.

"Are you unwell?" he asks.

She turns from the sink and he sees her pupils have expanded into green-edged pools of black. In one hand she hold the vial of medication Solus had given her, in the other a glass of water.

"Just a little... " she grips the vial so tightly her nail beds blanch, "… high?"

He winces, unable to imagine being incapacitated in an unfamiliar place. He rarely drinks, with good reason; death comes quickly to those with lowered awareness. "Let me assist you." He places the blanket around her shoulders and gently takes the container from her.

"You don't have to," she says. "I'm not an invalid. Just..."

"A 'little high'." He completes the sentence and shakes two tablets from the bottle, handing them to her wordlessly, watching as she rinses them down with a swallow of water. He stands in front of her, feeling unsure; it's not as though his training has prepared him for this.

"Also a consenting adult, obviously. So stop beating yourself up." She steps forward to wrap her blanketed arms around him and rest her chin on his shoulder. He pulls her body closer, listening to her breathing.

They stand like that for some time, leaning on one another, until she moves against him. "So. Let's be clear. Does this mean you don't want to see if there are more strawberries left?"

The memory takes him without his consent.

"Her mouth is hot. A thrill of pleasure uncoils from my chest. Quilted surface of sun-ripe berry against my fingers and then the flick of her tongue. Desire in my gut; I need to feel her skin, taste the bittersweet flavor the fruit has left in her mouth."

He breaks from the memory, breathing hard while a flush of heat spreads through his body.

"Sounds good to me," she says, and kisses his neck.

-o-

They curl together on the bed wrapped in thin sheets and the rise and fall of the wind. She tells him it reminds her of engine noise and admits she's glad for it.

Some places are too quiet, she says.

He doesn't need to ask if she thinks of the destruction of the original Normandy, and the absolute silence of space as her suit crumbled around her.

-o-

He wakes to the feeling of drowning. He pulls himself up, back curved and hands braced on the mattress as he struggles to fill diseased lungs.

She has always slept so lightly. The first shift of his body wakes her and he cannot find the air to call to her. She has the pistol from the nightstand beside the bed before he can stop her.

Between bouts of coughing which tear at him, he tries to speak the words, tell her I am sorry; she gives him a dark look for daring to apologize.

She sits beside him, waiting. When each of his ragged breaths becomes measured she touches his hand. He wants to reassure her, take some of her worry, so he clasps his fingers with hers, squeezing gently.

"It seems I will live to see another day."

"Good thing," she says, voice stretched tight and thin with strained humor, and he knows her well enough to recognize when she is concealing unwanted emotion. "EDI tells me someone started a pool on this trip killing you."

"So I heard."

"I thought Joker put her up to pulling my chain."

"Ah. Well, that is because he did." He chuckles, and forces himself not to flinch at the pain this causes.

"You knew? Pretty sure conspiracy is still considered mutiny, even if you are sleeping with the commander." She traces the webbing between his joined fingers. "Hypothetically. Would you put money into this imaginary pool?"

"There is a certain amount of black humor to be found in wagering on your own survival."

She snorts, but it's genuine, and he'll gladly take this over false cheer. "I'll remember that next time we go save the galaxy."

Outside, the larger moon breaks over the stone wall, chased by the smaller orb. Both climb into the night sky, so bright they overwhelm the glitter of distant suns. Light spills though the shuttered window, the slats of the louvers cutting stark ribbons of light and dark across the bed.

He lifts their linked hands, turning hers to press a slow kiss to the inside of her wrist. Her skin is fine and fragile where his is not; her pulse beats strong and sure.

She sighs, and it sounds as though she whispers his name. He feels an ache is his chest which has nothing to do with Kepral's. He shifts, moving to lay down once more, not releasing his hold on her hand.

When he pulls, she doesn't resist, and he draws her into his embrace. Her head rests on his shoulder and she drapes a leg across his. The pale of her skin against his scales is a contrast as sharp as any moonlight ribbon.

"I don't spend too much of my time dwelling on regrets," she pauses, sounding as though she shares his pain when she continues, "but I regret not meeting you sooner."

"I was asleep for too long." He kisses her forehead. He will remember that her hair smells of flowers and the faintest traces of rain. "I struggle to be content with the short time we will have together."

"I wish..." she says, trailing off, the words fading into darkness as easily as shadow slides from skin. They both know there is nothing to be gained by speaking the words.

The moons continue their orbit and the slanted light moves over their limbs, shadows catching in the places where skin and scale meet. He releases her only to trace one such line where it follows the curve of her hip and falls across his abdomen. She shifts under his caress and the line slips away from him, as intangible as a regret or wish.

Her eyes become over-bright with unshed sorrow and she pulls away from him, rolling to her back. She wipes her eyes and makes a frustrated noise. "Damn. Sorry."

Her pain is almost more than he is able to bear. He captures her hand again and feels the damp of her tears.

"Siha," he says, forcing a smile he doesn't feel. He props himself on his elbow and looks down at her.

"Shall I tell you my wish?"

"Please."

"I wish..." he brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, "...to tell you I love you as well."

-o-

Joker's voice crackles over the comms as the shuttle clears the landing bay door. "Hey, Commander. Welcome back." Under normal circumstances, the helmsman would laugh and banter with Shepard, but now his voice is flat and without humor. "So... you and Krios get back okay?"

"Yeah, Joker," Shepard answers. "We're good."

The shuttle settles on the deck with a gentle thump as the thrusters are extinguished. The hatch's locking-mechanisms trigger, there's a puff of air as the environmental seals release, and then the door panel lifts. Garrus is on his feet before it's completely raised, hesitating in the opening with one clawed hand gripping the frame.

"I... have some calibrations to run. Come see me when you have a minute?" He speaks to Shepard, his expression rigid and inscrutable, but Thane hears the unhappiness in the turian's voice, registering far at the end of his hearing spectrum

Garrus gives him a short nod before stepping from the shuttle, crossing the bay with purposeful steps. Thane's attention is on Shepard as he wills himself into well-practiced stillness. She leans forward, her face a controlled mask as she rests her forearms on her knees, clasping her hands in front of her.

Distantly they hear the sounds of the door opening, then closing with a soft hiss, and Thane knows he and Shepard are alone once more. He rises soundlessly from his seat and sits beside her.

"Shepard," he says, "Siha. Tell me."

"The Alliance and the batarians are ready to go to war over what happened to the Bahak system." The muscles around her eyes tighten. "Hackett told me when the time came I should be ready to take the hit."

"You've said as much."

Her words are clipped, spoken with military precision. "Thane. The Alliance is recalling me to Earth."

"How long?" He remains calm, allowing none of the emotion he feels color his question. She deserves his strength. It seems it is the last of what he can offer her.

"A week. " She clears her throat and says, "We're headed for the Citadel now. The Alliance won't risk an incident there, not now. You'll all be safe enough there. After that, anyone who doesn't want to be arrested for having ties to Cerberus needs to be off the boat."

"I see," he says, knowing she will face this as she does every obstacle which has crossed her path, with fearless honor. A cold weight settles in his chest knowing he has no place beside her in this battle. "You fear there are those in your government who would -"

She interrupts him -surprises him- by cupping the sides of his face with gloved hands, kissing him without any pretense of gentleness.

He has become accustomed to her reserve, the absolute lines of professionalism she maintains while in the public areas of the ship. Her actions now are unexpected, underscored with something unfamiliar and unsettling.

It is wanting and needing and regret crafted into physical, abstract forced to become tangible. One day, far in the future, he will remember this moment and it will surely make him weep. He feels the curve of her lower lip, the sharp line of her teeth, and then meets her tongue with his own.

It's then he forces himself to see the truth. The kiss is bitter with the taste of goodbye.

He hadn't anticipated that facing the actuality of leaving her would cause such anguish within him. They are both all too aware of the speed at which his end rushes toward him. The sea will embrace him well before any tribunal can reach a conclusion.

She will neither hear nor feel the sound he makes, and it cannot be translated into mere words, so he echoes her gesture, framing her face with his hands. He answers every press of her mouth against his with equal desperation, as though he can pour the sorrow he feels into a physical act.

They hold one another like this until their shared pain begins to fade to a dull ache, and she rests her forehead against his, eyes closed.

When she speaks, he can hear fatigue on the edges of her words. "I'll make them understand. It's cost too much for them not to."

He knows exactly the costs of which she speaks.

"You intend to surrender a Cerberus vessel to the Alliance?" He intentionally deflects with the question. There will be time to grieve later.

She laughs, a short, choppy sound which echoes within the confines of the shuttle. If she's aware of his tactic, she doesn't comment. "Yeah. Just thinking of the Illusive Man's face when he learns I boosted his ship makes me warm inside."

"One could hope it will strengthen your claims, prove your loyalties. You are, after all, returning to them despite the technicality of no longer being an Alliance soldier."

She draws away from him, back into herself, and he allows his hands to fall from her, curling his fingers into his palms.

"Right. Humans call that grasping at straws." Another laugh, and the mantle of a soldier settles around her once more. It is as though she never faltered. "Garrus, Joker, and EDI are the only ones who know. I'm going to tell the rest of the crew now."

She stands and rolls her shoulder in a slow circle until the joint pops, then pulls her duffel from under the seats, letting it swing beside her. "I really don't want to be... would you come up later?"

"Of course." He inclines his head. "As ever, my time is yours."

She sighs, but squares her shoulders before stepping from of the shuttle. She follows the same route across the bay as Garrus had taken, her spine stiff .

Thane remains in his seat, watching as the doors open and close, obscuring her from his sight.

"All things must go to the sea," he says, softly, as he rises and begins collecting his bag.

Yes. All things must end, but before he meets his, he will remember every moment of these few days perfectly, whether it is a wish sliding from skin and scale, or the quilted thrill of strawberries.

END

A/N:

First time writing in this fandom, complete with first-time jitters. Feedback, concrit, etc always welcomed.

So… There were two goals in this writing exercise. The first was to see if I could incorporate a specific, abstract phrase ('quilted thrill of strawberries'**) into a fic, while making some sort of sense, story-wise.

If I'm honest with myself, the prose feels cyclic and overblown, but attempting to link the abstract with concrete took more words than I expected. While I'm not unhappy with the result, I'm guessing there's probably a cleaner way to do this.

OTOH, I've entirely, %100, lost perspective at this point.

The second goal was, naturally, fangirling over Thane. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

**Via the exquisite missl0nelyhearts on Tumblr.