Chapter Text
Williams is three drinks in when she mentions the batarian.
“You know, the one that tried to poison you and didn’t realize you could survive purely on spite?”
Garrus remembers. How could he forget? He thought Shepard was dead until he stumbled into a corner, vomited, and mumbled ‘I’ll fucking kill him’.
Shepard had a bad night that night, but the batarian had it far worse.
Shepard snorts a laugh into his drink. It’s an obnoxious orange color and if Garrus knows Shepard, tastes like a fruit nightmare. From this vantage point, Garrus can spot the bar where the batarian served Shepard that laced drink. All evidence of the batarian, and the mess Shepard made of him, is long gone. Aria is nothing if not efficient. Tonight, Afterlife is packed wall to wall, with no murderous intentions in sight, at least Garrus hopes.
For all its charms, Omega is the perfect place for pirates to regroup, unwind, and find new jobs.
There’s only a moment of hesitation before Shepard sits back, a fond smile on his face. “Making him choke on his own murder attempt certainly made me feel better.”
Maybe he’d targeted Shepard because he's human. Likely, it was because of who else he was. The Butcher of Torfan. A mantle Shepard would likely carry for the rest of his life.
Even though he’d done exactly what was asked of him. Even though he crippled the batarian slave trade in the area, albeit at the cost of so many human lives. In the end, all the public saw was the blood and bodies, not the sacrifice. And they’d vilified him for it.
Garrus knew all of this before he even met Shepard. Everyone on the Citadel had their opinions on the matter. Humanity had been pushing for a council seat and for the chance to put one of their own up as a Spectre candidate.
After the news of what happened on Torfan reached the Council, those plans were waylaid for many, many years.
Some saw Torfan as proof the council should have let the turians wipe out humanity when they’d had the chance. Others thought that was a little extreme; offering something less final like forcing them back behind the Sol relay and out of council space.
In the end, humanity laid low and bided their time. They have a council seat now, and a Spectre.
From what Garrus can tell, Shepard doesn’t seem to care. He seems content to live a life of piracy, away from rules.
Still, Shepard is an open book, except when it comes to Torfan. Garrus only learned what really happened on that moon from Williams.
An asari server comes by with refills on their drinks. Her hands lingers on Shepard’s wrist when she passes his over, the smile on her face and the look in her eyes an open invitation. Shepard winks at her, his gaze tracking her with similar interest as she retreats back to the bar.
“I really thought Aria was going to kick us off the station for good.” The volume of Williams’ voice overcompensates for the volume of the music, to the point she’s nearly yelling.
“Nah,” Shepard replies, turning his attention away from the asari and back towards the group. How they managed to find this out of the way table is a question Garrus isn’t sure he wants answered. Probably it took threats – or promises – on Shepard’s part. “She loves me too much.”
“I think ‘love’ is a bit of a strong word, Skipper,” Williams tells him, but Shepard just winks at her.
It’s the same wink Shepard had given to Garrus on that day several years ago, when Garrus had arrested Shepard in the Bachjret ward for stealing a sky-car, as if he knew all of Garrus’ C-Sec given authority meant exactly jack shit.
And it didn’t. Several hours later, Garrus’ omni-tool pinged him to an alert that his prisoner had managed to escape. After the reports had been filed and Garrus’ carapace had been chewed out for letting it happen – even though he wasn’t even there – he received another anonymous message on his omni-tool.
Thanks for a lovely time. With a tiny picture of human lips in a pucker, as if ready for a kiss.
At the time Garrus thought, ignorant prick. Which was true and remained true, but he couldn’t help but respect the man. Despite all the pressure on him from all sides, and all the people telling him who he should be, Shepard has never been afraid to be unapologetically himself.
“Of everyone at this table, I think Garrus caused more problems for Aria than Shepard,” Joker put in, peeling the label off the bottle in front of him.
Garrus’ sub-vocals thrum. Leave it to Joker to bring up his time on Omega as if Garrus is over it. As if he doesn’t think about his team – doesn’t think about Sidonis – every day. About his failure to save them.
Garrus isn’t always a model turian, but he suffers from their pride. Only two people on the Normandy know about Sidnois and how many nights it continues to keep Garrus awake. Shepard, who was there when he hunted Sidonis down and put a bullet in his head, and Tali, who he told voluntarily when Sidonis’ death didn't miraculously make everything better.
Shepard elbows Garrus. “Went a hell of a lot better than our first date, didn’t it?”
Garrus’ mandibles flutter. Arrogant prick that he is, Shepard always manages to say something ridiculous enough to make him smile.
“You have a very strange definition of a ‘date’, Shepard.”
Shepard winks at him again, chewing on the end of his straw. He rests one elbow on the chair back behind him, so his hand dangles casually.
Garrus rolls his eyes, a very human gesture he picked up from Williams. There had been about twenty seconds after Garrus had joined the Normandy – after Shepard had saved his carapace from Omega’s mercenaries and asked him if he wanted a job – that Garrus thought Shepard was actually flirting with him.
He’d politely turned him down, Williams about passed out from laughing so hard, and Shepard slapped him on the arm and walked away, grinning.
“He’s just…like that,” Williams said. “Part of his charm.”
Williams rises from her seat, all smiles. She’s dressed in a similar outfit to Shepard: denim pants and a form-fitting t-shirt. Shepard’s topped his with a new looking leather jacket, but whereas Williams’ pants look as new as his jacket, Shepard’s pants look to be falling apart. There’re holes in both the knees and one on the back of his thigh that – if he bends just right – shows more of Shepard than Garrus ever wants to see.
“I’ve got an ass to shake,” she says, hands on her hips. “Skipper, you coming?”
Shepard gives her a lazy grin. “Wouldn’t want to show you up, Williams.”
Williams rolls her eyes. “Very little chance of that happening, Shepard.”
Shepard doesn’t have rhythm, but what he does have is more confidence and charisma than anyone Garrus has ever known and an ability to not give a damn what anyone thinks of him. Somehow, despite his lack of natural talent, he always ends up with an enthusiastic dance partner.
“Oh, I’d love to dance!” Tali says, nearly jumping from her seat.
Williams grabs her hand and pulls her towards the dance floor. Garrus watches them go; the crowd parting around Williams like a general parading through their troops as she makes room for her and Tali. Shepard shakes his head, but there’s a fond smirk on his face. Then, his eyes drift to a table nearby, solely occupied by Liara. Her head is bowed over the light of a data-pad, a half-full glass of wine sitting next to her.
“And you say I don’t know how to relax,” Joker mutters, his gaze drifting to Liara’s table along with Shepard’s.
“You don’t,” Shepard agrees, chewing on the end of his straw.
His gaze shifts to the bar close to Liara’s table, landing on a human man that’s studying her with a look that sets Garrus’ teeth on edge. Shepard must feel the same as Garrus, because he rises from his seat, grabs his drink, and heads in her direction.
Garrus’ shifts in his chair, watching him go. Liara can take care of herself, but Shepard is oddly protective when it comes to her.
If Shepard gets a whiff of something he doesn’t like, the guy is in for a world of hurt.
When Liara was a child, she used to dream of working in places like Omega. Of meetings with secret contacts and markets that smelled of spices and cooking food. Of shops with hidden treasures and adventure only a shuttle ride away.
For the most part, Omega has been everything it was supposed to be, though as an adult it does not have the charm Liara imagined when she was younger.
And the smell is very different. In a lot of ways, Omega is like Illium, on a smaller scale. On the surface, the markets of Omega do smell of spices and exotic foods. Of life. But under that, just one wrong turn away, is the stench of desperation, addiction, and death. Illium can keep these realities separated from their wealthier residents. Omega doe not have that luxury.
But she still has secret meetings, and adventure is just a shuttle ride away. Omega is an excellent place to find work for a crew that is not on the level with galactic law. Liara had not realized how much money was in piracy until she was in it herself.
The Normandy and her crew are flush with credits, but when she joined, Liara was dismayed to discover that Shepard could not have cared less about maintaining the finances. Each crew member maintains their own accounts, but there was no one whose job it was to maintain the ship-wide finances.
When Liara mentioned it to Shepard, he shrugged, said ‘job’s yours if you want it’ and had already put the conversation aside.
So, Liara maintains the Normandy’s books, as well as Shepard’s. She does not mind. She finds it relaxing, and it frees up Shepard’s time so he can do what he is good at. Tactics. Finding jobs for the crew and putting together and executing a plan.
She pulls her wine glass closer to take a sip as she studies the data-pad in front of her. The wine selection in Afterlife is better than Liara had expected, but she should not have been surprised. Aria T’Loak would only surround herself with the best.
She looks up briefly and catches the gaze of a human man sitting at the bar. He has been eyeing her almost since she walked in, and she has tried to avoid his stare up until now. He grins at her when he realizes he has her attention and she quickly looks away, hoping it will get the hint.
Out of her periphery she sees him get up from his seat and she sighs. Apparently, she will need to take the more direct approach.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks when he reaches her table. No introduction, no attempt at conversation.
Liara glances at her wineglass – over half full – then back to the human.
“No, thank you,” she replies, pleasant but firm.
A muscle in the man’s cheek twitches, his lips forming a thin line. He opens his mouth to say something when another presence invades his space, squeezing between him and Liara’s table with a fake ‘excuse me’ and slipping into the chair across from her.
Shepard flashes her a toothy grin before taking a loud sip from his drink. The man stares at the back of Shepard’s head for a moment before scooting around to another side of the table, between Liara and Shepard.
“We were having a conversation,” he says.
One of Shepard’s eyebrows raises nearly to his hairline. A rattling noise echoes in his now empty glass and he attempts to get the remaining drink with his straw. His gaze shifts to Liara.
“Oh yeah? What’s the titillating conversation topic?”
“He asked if he could buy me a drink.”
Shepard’s eyes drop briefly to Liara’s wine glass, a moment before he barks out a laugh so sudden that Liara is momentarily startled.
“That’s the best you can do?” he says to the man, whose face is turning as red as Liara’s wine.
“The hell is your problem?” the man snaps, and Liara sighs. She appreciates what Shepard is attempting to do, but sometimes he makes things worse.
“Doc,” Shepard says to Liara, not taking his eyes off the man, and it does not escape Liara’s notice that he has not used either of her names, instead opting for a nickname he has never used with her. “Did that lame ass pick up line work? Are you interested in having him buy a drink for you when the one you have is nearly full?”
Liara purses her lips, leaning back and scooting the data-pad closer to her. Just in case. “No, I am not.”
Shepard gives the man a ‘see? Told you’ look.
But Liara knows a bruised ego when she sees it, even in a human. And Shepard has hit a nerve. He turns his glare to Liara.
“Man, the whores are rude here. Is that part of the schtick?”
Liara’s gaze flicks to Shepard, whose entire expression shifts. Gone is the humor and confidence, replaced with something cold enough to have been earned by a man called The Butcher of Torfan.
Shepard’s nerves have been struck this time.
On her early days on the Normandy, as she and Shepard had gotten to know each other, Liara had been shocked how casually Shepard had discussed his time living in the slums on Earth. Of the gang he ran with – The Tenth Street Reds – and what he had done not only for the gang but also for himself. In order to survive.
He was never ashamed of it, but he also did not tolerate disrespect towards those that sold their bodies.
“Walk away right now and you’ll still have a shot with your hand tonight,” Shepard says, his voice pitched low and menacing.
Liara reaches for Shepard’s arm, to tell him they can go back to the others and forget this, but then the man seals his fate when he laughs.
“Or what?” he says. “You’ve got a big mouth on you. Maybe I can help you put it to better use.”
Liara has heard about the gene mods the Alliance uses on their soldiers. Modifications to make them stronger, faster, and apt to heal quicker. And she has seen them in action, too, serving alongside Shepard and Williams.
But the gene mods are not everything. There is also the training; spec ops training that catches even the turians’ eyes. And before the Alliance had pushed him aside after Torfan, Shepard had gotten every bit of that training.
The man puts his hands on the table and leans in closer to Shepard in an attempt to intimidate him. In the space of an eye blink, Shepard has a hand fisted in the man’s hair and has slammed his face into the table. Liara winces at the pop of a breaking nose, then gasps a moment later when Shepard grabs the man’s wrist with his free hand and snaps it like a pencil.
The man cries out in pain, slumping to the ground. Shepard is on his feet, glaring down at him like he’s nothing more than something on the bottom of his shoe.
“You still have lefty,” Shepard says. “I suggest you call it a night.”
The man bellows with rage, launching himself at Shepard. Shepard captures his uninjured wrist, torques it in a direction it isn’t supposed to go, and shoves him away, into a group of turians at the bar behind him.
Liara sighs.
The turians stumble, looking down at the fallen human, thenup at the source of the commotion. They must decide Shepard is the cause of their problems because they rush him.
One does not make it more than a couple of steps before he is stopped by Williams, who grabs him around the carapace, spins him around, and punches him across the jaw. Shepard laughs, a moment before one of the two remaining turians barrels into him, taking them both to the ground.
With a flick of her wrist, Liara uses a mnemonic to snare the turian in dark energy and lift him off Shepard.
Shepard gives her a nod of thanks before kicking the turian in the stomach and sending him back into his friend, where they both crumple to the ground.
The bellow of a krogan pieces the air and Liara sighs again. Goddess.
“Shepard, you are making it worse.”
Shepard shrugs, climbing to his feet in time to catch Garrus, who has made his way from his table to help, only to be tossed by the krogan now making his way towards them.
“Did you really think I was going to let him talk to you like that?” Shepard replies, ducking to avoid a krogan fist.
Liara grabs her wine and data-pad, stepping over an unconscious turian and heading towards the safety of Joker’s table.
Best to let him get it out of his system.
“Shepard, you’re becoming quite the pain in my ass.”
Liara purses her lips to avoid agreeing with Aria, applying a dermal patch to Shepard’s inflamed cheek.
After the brawl had ended, the offenders had been promptly kicked out of Afterlife, except Shepard, Williams, and Vakarian, who are sitting together on one of Aria’s couches like school children waiting for punishment.
Of the three of them, Ashley looks the least worst for way, holding an ice pack to bloody knuckles. Garrus has a gash on his already scarred cheek and is favoring his left arm. Shepard looks like his entire face met the bar top, which Liara does remember happening at one point.
“Hey, Limp Wrists started it,” Shepard explains, holding an ice pack to his eye.
Liara shoots him a withering look.
Aria scoffs. “I could have you banned from the station for this. I’ve done it for less.”
Shepard shrugs. “But you won’t. I’m good for business.”
“How is this good for business?” Aria counters, waving an arm towards the lower level of Afterlife, where several tables have been overturned, even more chairs have been tossed, and dozens of glasses shattered on the ground.
“We have a good thing going, Aria,” Shepard says. “You point me in the direction of jobs, we go halfsies on the profits, and I patronize your establishments.”
Aria glares at him. “We have never once gone ‘halfsies’. Remember Therum? We agreed to 70/30 for whatever you found there, which turned out to be nothing.”
Liara does not open her mouth to disagree, though she wants to. Therum was, in fact, full of valuable artifacts. That fact was so well known that plenty of merceries had also shown up to try to get their share, which put Liara in a world of trouble.
Shepard saved her. He could have gone for the artifacts and left her to die, but he didn’t. Instead, he left with nothing to show for it but a young asari barely into her maiden years.
“However,” Aria continues, calmer now. “I think I have a way you can make it up to me.”
She activates her omni-tool, and a moment later Shepard’s pings.
“My sources tell me there’s a cache of prothean artifacts on the planet Namakli in the Pylos Nebula. Get what you can find, and we will be going 70/30 this time. Details on the artifacts are in the files I just sent to your omni-tool.”
Shepard studies the data on his omni-tool. Liara leans in closer to see what she can see.
“What’s the catch?” Shepard asks.
Aria leans back against the sofa, arms over her chest. “This is valuable stuff, Shepard. No one has quite seen anything like it before. We’re talking millions of credits. But word is the council has learned about it, too. Beat them to the punch and the money is ours.”
Shepard raises an eyebrow. Anything that has the council’s attention is indeed something Liara would love to get her hands on. She snags Shepard’s wrist to send the data to her own omni-tool to look at later. He does not notice, too pre-occupied with catching the eye of the server that comes by with a tray of drinks. Liara recognizes them as the server that had been taking the drink orders at Shepard’s table all night. They shoot Shepard a flirty smile on their way out of the VIP longue. Shepard tracks them with his eyes, then stands and begins to follow them.
Over his shoulder, he calls to Aria, “You’ve got a deal.”