abraxaslogs | First Count The Cost ★ Closed

Who: Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian
When: July/August
Where: Free Cities Badlands
What: Free Cities Quest: Restoring Foundations
Warnings: foul language, violence

She wasn't much given to jingoistic sentiment, these days.

Oh, as a child, she'd been as xenophobic as anyone, and well into her time in the Alliance that attitude has persevered. Shepard had been a reliable vote for the Terra Firma party right up until— Ha, it was funny to think of it now, but it hadn't been until she'd met Garrus. Not the first time she'd met him, of course; the second time. Coming up the stairs out from a shoot-out in a medical clinic, still smelling of Eezo and with a Turian's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head, she'd seen them campaigning in the commons and reevaluated a few things. Never let it be said she isn't a fast learner, nor willing to change her mind, when she's wrong.

Just like that day, those bought men waving guns at doctors, Shepard is on this day forced to admit that really it's her own damn species that's at the root of most of her problems.

"Bandits," Shepard sighs, trudging along. The sun is a high and heavy weight on her shoulders, not unlike the pack on her back; it's N-1 all over again, right down to the forced marches and rationing. Except she hadn't had to wear a stupid straw hat to keep off the heat stroke, during basic, "It's always bandits. And mercs. And slavers. You think they ever get tired of making people hate them for a living?"

Hate might be a strong word, for the mercs. At least they could argue to be offering an honest service, outside of council space. Sort of. Murder was still illegal, even on Noveria... Right?

"Garrus, you still with me?"

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"Frankly, Shepard, I have a hard time taking my eyes off you." He'll let that sit for a second before adding: "Usually because you're doing something reckless... but..."

Yeah, he's looking. He's looking respectfully. But then curiously. He can't help it, reaching out to run a careful finger along her arm. The pad of it, minding the talon. It's fascinating. It's kind of attractive, in how unusual it is.

"This is a... red hair thing?" That's what ginger means, right? He's following. In theory.

Then a low, rusty laugh. "Sun likes me, snow hates me. It's a two-edged knife."

"Red hair, pale skin, green eyes," She gestures at herself, with the hand he isn't holding, "Kelly Chambers was the same, remember her? Solar radiation is our enemy."

She lets him have her hand, for as long as he wants it, turning over her wrist to give him better access. Garrus spends so much time around humans, and she spends so much time around him... It's funny, how easy it is to forget that he's an alien, despite his face. It's not that he isn't Turian, it's that... He's Garrus. Himself, before anything else.

"When I was a kid they'd make fun of me for it. Y'know, until I caught 'em, at least," She chuckles. Even as a girl, Shepard had been a poor choice of enemy, "Talk about Reckless..."

"Right, the... one who kept calling Thane and I 'damaged', I remember." That much, he'd only found out thanks to EDI informing him. He hadn't paid much attention to her at the time, given everything else going on.

The pad of his finger is absently trailing across the marks. The spots and pale in-between. Like he's making a map. He's learned so much about humans in his time, but there are still so many surprises. Like this one.

"I almost pity them," he mutters. Almost. "But if it happens to all humans like you... why is that weird?"

"Well, we're not exactly a common genetic group, for one," Shepard replies, amused; here they go, hand in hand. Very unprofessional— but nobody's there to see it, anyways, "Humans have a long history of fixating on minor differences in appearance: there's a lot of war and bigotry there. People can be real pieces of shit. Then we discovered people from other planets, and most of that got transferred in Palaven's direction— in case you're wondering if Shanxi is the only reason Alliance soldiers love to badmouth Turians."

Most being the key word, naturally. There would always be a mean little streak of discernment in the human race, in Shepard's opinion: that ugly, tribalistic urge to separate the world into Us and Them. Humans aren't unique there, either, and Shepard's not much of a fan of the attitude, though she doubts Garrus needs to be told that. Taking on alien crewmembers had not been a popular move, back on the SR-1.

"Anyways, it's not legal to comment on someone's skin-color like that, in the Alliance. You better believe Anderson would bust anybody who said something stupid right back down to Ensign, if not kicked 'em off the ship outright, and I ran my crew the same, ergo... you won't have encountered it. Not that anybody says shit about me, anyways— they've got better reasons to hate me, if they want 'em. That's all kid stuff."

"I wasn't. I figured it was actually jealousy over our stunning good looks." There is absolutely no seriousness there. He can figure out why. Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. But humanity isn't the only species out there with that kind of history. Maybe things like appearance differences, but differences in general. The Unification Wars, for example.

At length, he lets her hand go. If only to pick their way through a rocky patch in the interim. His feet are toughening up, he's noticed. Finding a boot he can work with is no easy task in this world - so more often than not, he's gone with leather wraps, leaving his toe talons free.

"Makes sense. You got that attitude from somewhere - " He's hilarious. "No, we just got the Cerberus backtalk." A beat and he shakes his head. "Which wasn't your fault in the least, but. I know what you're getting at. Happened plenty from other angles, before I even met you, too. Not the... skin thing. Other things." And if you didn't learn to shrug it off, eventually, you'd lose your mind.

Shepard gives him a long, pointed look. She knows why he'd sweep it under the rug; the same reason he hadn't said anything about Ash's grumbling, back in the day. No point in rocking the boat, kicking up a fuss where simply knuckling under and doing the work would suffice. Don't complain. Don't make a scene. And in the end, no point in insisting on lipservice when real respect would either come, or not, based on the merits.

Still, it makes her want to hit something, imagining Garrus in those dark days, wounds still fresh— literally, as well as metaphorically. And then someone, some memeber of her crew putting a little more weight on him, even by accident.

"If any member of my crew ever says anything like that to you again, Garrus, I want you to tell me. People here on Abraxas have an excuse; most of them have never even heard of Turians before. But I—" I love you isn't appropriate here, even if it's true. Emotional attachment isn't all, or even most, of the reason why it is so absolutely vital that her people show respect to her Turian, "—You're important to me, dammit."

He blinks. His head pulling back ever so slightly, expression baffled by the sudden vehemence in her tone, in her insistence. Maybe he shouldn't be so surprised. Shepard took care of her crew. No question about that. But the whole Cerberus thing had been...

... Hadn't been nearly as long ago for her as it was him.

He takes a couple long steps forward, up to her, and ducks his head. One quick, sappy little forehead bonk. One brief moment to murmur, "Yes ma'am." In tones of absolute affection, of wry amusement. Agreement is there too, but as an afterthought.

I love you, too.

Then he's stepped back, and her sunhat goes with him. Plopped precariously on top of his crest and wobbling. "But let's keep going, before you turn into one big speckle."

She lets him soothe her, deeply grudging, and then—

"Hey!" As usual, he has the reach, and that's enough for a temporary victory in this, and she chases him with an annoyance no less affectionate than it is genuine. He doesn't stand a chance.

Cadens is coming into view, a distant smudge among the heat-haze and dunes, and together they walk through her gates, all the lighter for having taken on the work.

First Count The Cost ★ Closed

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Fin