Title: A Night Out

Characters: Male Shepard, Garrus, Grunt

Genre: Humor

Shepard was pretty sure Garrus hadn't actually been serious when he'd suggested their krogan problem could be taken care of by a round of drinks and a dance, but hell, it was worth trying before they subjected themselves to whatever horrifying ritual krogan went through to prove their manhood. Omega had been out for obvious reasons, so they'd headed to Ilium, which had almost as many cheap dives and marginally better odds of getting through an entire night with all your organs and most of your credits.

The decision had been impulsive - Wrex had been wearing that smug look that usually meant he was about to get the best of someone in an especially graphic way - but the longer he was here, the more he thought it had been a good idea. They were on a goddamned suicide mission. They deserved some downtime before they bit the big one.

He squinted across the bar at an asari with sky blue skin and startlingly dark eye-markings highlighted by iridescent paint.

"Her."

Garrus eyed him with something suspiciously like amusement. "You're drunk, Shepard."

"I was dead," he clarified. "I deserve a drink. Drinks. You're allowed to get drunk after you've been dead." He found the asari again after a moment's disorientation in the crowd. "Seriously, you should talk to her. Chicks dig scars."

Garrus' raised a brow plate archly. "As touched as I am by your concern for my love life, you deputized me two drinks ago."

"Oh." He frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe I should talk to her. Ask her to dance."

Garrus' whole frame shook violently, and he produced a few strange-sounding coughs before replying, mandibles quivering, "I don't think that's a good idea. But you know what? Go ahead if you want. I'll watch."

Shepard stared at him for a second, plagued by the feeling that something was off about that response, but it soon passed. "Maybe I will," he said defiantly.

Before he could get any farther, a hand clamped down hard on his shoulder and spun him around on his stool. At his side, he heard Garrus curse and get up. He found himself staring up at a tall, formidably built asari. Her other hand had a firm grip on Grunt's jowls. She looked pretty angry.

"Does this belong to you?"

The question threw him for a bit until he recalled that they were on Ilium.

"No," he said.

"Shepard," said Grunt in deafening tones, grinning widely.

Garrus sighed. "Yes, he's with us."

The asari gave Grunt a hard shove in their direction. "Well, get him out of here. He won't stop staring at the girls and he's chased everyone else off the floor."

Grunt swayed in place. "Ah heh. Heh. Heh."

Shepard drew himself up, suddenly angry at the interruption to what had been shaping up to be a fine night. "Do you know who I am? I'm Commander -"

The asari glowered and he felt his jaw snap shut. "I don't care who you are. Can't you read?" She pointed to a sign over the bar. "No. Krogan. On. The dancefloor."

He blinked. "That's racist."

"It's a safety measure."

He inhaled, and then almost overbalanced on the stool as Garrus' hand descended heavily over his mouth.

"We'll get him home. What do we owe you for the damages?"

The asari said something cutting and things sort of blurred together after that. He had a vague recollection of leaning against Garrus and trying to explain what the lines about the halls of Montezuma and the shores of Tripoli meant. He thought he might have complimented Grunt's singing voice at some point.

It was a long trip back to Tuchanka.