#hvadeina

For whatever reason, Shepard had allowed him to come along on her mission, even when she hadn’t had a reason to trust him. Aside from him being a turian and she a human, he had failed to pin anything on Saren in his initial investigation. Then he quit C-Sec just to join her. It wasn’t a record that would inspire confidence in most. Now here, on the eve of the final battle, he wanted to express his gratitude to her. In a lot of ways, she was still a mystery to him, but there was one thing he was certain of: he would never regret following her.

The commander’s door slid open with an electronic hiss as he drew near. He could see her at her terminal and waited by the door, ready to back out should he be intruding. “Commander?” 

Probably it’s because Kaldar’s just down the hall. Right in the room next door. 

She stares at her reflection in the small washbasin mirror. It’s not as wrong as it was a little bit before. Her hair’s still the wrong color — gold, like the sun if the sun was sick — but her eyes are back to normal, and she rubbed off most of the shit from the disguise kit. The little scar at the corner of her forehead has reappeared. Her freckles are back. Her cheeks are bright red. 

Mercy swears. It comes out louder than she means it to, but she’s too busy burying her face in her hands to notice. Her thumb traces the edge of her lips. They didn’t look swollen in the mirror, but they’re still burning from — from before. 

Damn it. There’s a gentle pressure on her elbow. She looks up into two liquid brown eyes. They belong to the small, black fox who appeared from smoke and nothingness, and they have a question in them. Francois tilts his head. In response, Mercy mutters something from behind her fingers. It sounds like: “Mmm kmmmf hmmf.” 

Francois blinks, and looks towards the door. It’s open. Just a crack. She left it like that.

“I know, okay? I know. I want to, and I brought you back so you could see him, but — I can’t, okay? I’m not — I don’t know what to — I kissed him. All right? I kissed him. And I can’t just — yes, it felt good, but it doesn’t change the — no, I’m not going to answer that — I’m not even sure if he — I kissed him!” 

Francois slicks his ears back. His eyes turn shifty.

Mercy catches his expression and freezes. She lifts a finger. 

Francois flicks an oversized ear.

“Don’t you dare.”

And then he’s gone, like a streak of ash lightning. Francois darts out the door and beelines it down the corridor, pausing just long enough to make sure the stupid girl takes the bait. She does; she bursts out of her room so fast she slips, catches herself on the opposite wall with a clipped bananas, and — as quietly as she can — sprints after her fox. 

Here’s the thing: she’s good at quiet. So good there really ought to be a stronger word. When everything you do is loud, so is your silence. Nothing’s louder than the absence of a song that’s always been there. 

Mercy reaches Kaldar’s door. It’s open, and the panic hits almost immediately. He’s the second-most (well, to her, the first-most) wanted man in a goddamn city filled with murderers, one of whom is a hunter with no soul and rot-eyes, and what if she’d missed the signs that she was being tailed, and what if they’d followed her to him, and —

“Kaldar?!”

Madeline barges in, and damn near trips over a boy who’s grown up and is now sitting right by the door. She catches herself, though it’s not as graceful as it could’ve been on account of her right side being previously bombarded with arrows, and whirls around to slam his door shut. “You — what — why are you leaving your door open?! Are you trying to give me a heart att — oh.” 

There’s a fox on his shoulders: all black, unnoticeably arcane. As she watches, Francois rubs himself against Kaldar’s hair, nuzzling the scars on the side of Kaldar’s face with a big, wet nose. His emotions register crystal-clear in her mind: safe, happy, home. Something in Madeline’s ribcage cracks. Kaldar looks up at her.

Suddenly the words are gone. This is unusual for her. Back when she was seventeen and vain and by no means plain, Chastity had warned her about this. Careful, she’d said, after Mercy had bragged about how easy it was. It’ll be anything but when it’s someone who matters. 

“Um,” she says. “You — your door was open.”

Francois settles on Kaldar’s shoulder and kneads at his cloak with tiny paws. 

“That’s — I mean, you know who he is, but — well, um, he’s different, but not really, and — ” there’s a bit of desperation now “ — well, your door was open, and he wanted to see you, and I did, too — to make sure you were all right, I mean, um — ” Logic says if she doesn’t look at Kaldar, he won’t notice her blush, so she looks at Francois instead. His fluffy face is smug and patient. Like there’s a riddle he’s waiting for her to solve. 

Madeline’s first thoughts finally catch up to her third thoughts, and she blinks. “Wait a minute.” She points over her shoulder. “What were you doing at your door?”

“Who told you about Palaven Tree Dick.”

    “You drive a hard bargain,” Karin whispers into the shell of Zaeed’s ear. His hands, rough and calloused grab at her ass, and she laughs beneath her breath. “Take me. Make me yours.”

          The only window in this one-room basement apartment is covered in a layer of permanent, murky fog. It almost looks frosted. Light passes sparingly through it, only when the sun is in the east and only until noon. Then the shadows grow deep and long until they are so dark they shade every one of his meager belongings. His bed, the kitchenette, the bathroom, the teetering six foot stack of slightly-damp book against the far wall. All bathed in swimming, semi-transparent darkness. It’s unlike Alan to sleep through those first initial rays of sunshine, but if he does, he’ll stay in bed until they come to pass again.           He rolls over on his lumpy twin mattress and faces the wall away from her, hiking the flat sheet to his chin.           “Come on,” he mumbles, his voice too rough from sleep to express his half-pleading tone. His feet, still wearing boots, stretch until they hang over the edge. It’s useless to chase sleep now, his energy blowing unbidden into his veins like contrast medium. It always feels good, at first. Like a warm blanket, a full-body cover, like a good high. Until it doesn’t. Then it is pins and needles, a buzzing in his head, his feet, his face. His fingertips and his lips tingle, his scalp prickles, and Alan sighs at the wall. Rolling over to lie flat on his back, Alan turns his head to Six.            “Did you even buh-bring breakfast?”

𝗛𝗢𝗧 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘𝗦, 𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥. / / always accepting!                                                                        What is your hottest take on your fandom?