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After Horizon	By : logsig123 Category: +M through R > Mass Effect Views: 5502 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mass Effect series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 8
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I’ve made it up to the top deck, and I’m standing outside Shepard’s quarters with my mug in one hand and the beer in the other. I feel stupid. But Joker’s got me: I have the Commander’s beer, and the very least I can do is give it to him. So I walk up to the door, which opens.
Shepard’s sitting at his desk, reading something on a datapad. I catch a glimpse of what looks almost like the insignia of the Palaven University System before he shuts it down. He swivels round, and smiles. “Garrus. What can I do for you?”
I hold out the beer, awkwardly. “Joker asked me to bring this to you.”
He grins and reaches for it. “Thanks,” he says. He opens the bottle the same way Joker did and takes a swig. “Damn, that’s good. Come on in.” He leads the way down the short flight of stairs to the lower level.
I follow, staring at the gigantic built-in fish tank. Shepard doesn’t strike me as the fish-keeping sort of person, and sure enough, the tank is empty. On the other hand, the display case above his desk is filled with polished model ships. All carefully assembled, with attention to detail. Shepard sits down at one end of the couch. I take the other, still looking around me. The place is huge, and nice by anyone’s standards.
“Privileges of rank, “ I say, appreciatively.
Shepard smiles. “Yeah, I like it. The fish tank’s a waste of space, but hey.” He leans forward. “How are you, Garrus?”
“I’m good,” I say, automatically. “I want to thank you again for helping me with Sidonis. It’s been a weight off my mind, having that situation resolved.”
“What else are friends for?” Shepard grins at me and takes another drink of his beer. “But there’s something else on your mind.”
I shift restlessly. Yes, I want to say. I’m fucked up, and you’re right in the middle of this mess in my head. I want to tell you all about it. So you can help me figure out exactly what this is and what I should do about it. But I can’t. The enormity of this fucked-upness is too big and I don’t even know where to start.
Shepard raises an eyebrow at me and says, slowly, “Would it help if I told you that you’re very attractive?”
Laughter bursts out of me, in spite of everything. I marshal my forces and say, “You’re not telling me anything new. I know I’m irresistible.” I lean back with my best attempt at casual arrogance. “I guess it’s not only chicks that dig scars.”
Shepard nods, gravely. I don’t know why, but I do feel a little better.
He’s turning the beer bottle around in his hand, staring at the label. “Is it the xeno thing?” he asks softly. “Or specifically the human-turian thing?” He looks up. “The commander-subordinate thing? Or the same-sex thing? Or the fact that I shoot way better than you?”
The tension in my chest releases and I laugh again. Spirits. How does he do this? I take a deep breath. “I don’t know. It’s… it’s everything, I guess. Except the shooting thing, ‘cause you don’t.” I stare into my mug. “I know it’s stupid. It’s definitely not the sort of attitude you expect from a cosmopolitan citizen of the galaxy. I feel… there’s this… guilt. Like I’m betraying something. It’s…” I shake my head. “There’s no one I respect more than you. There’s no reason… I know it’s insane.”
“No, it’s not,” he says. “You’re not responsible for your upbringing, Garrus. Parents, society, whatever. The principles and expectations that were ingrained into us when we were young. It’s still part of us, even when we know it and try to escape it.” He smiles, and says lightly, “But if you want to give it a shot, then as your commanding officer, I offer my full support.”
I sigh. “Shepard—“
“John,” he says.
“What?”
“John,” he repeats. “It’s my first name.” He adds ironically, “You must have heard it before. Maybe on the news vids?”
“Well, I assume that’s what your mother calls you,” I reply. “But nobody else does. I thought maybe there was some sort of licensing fee involved.”
He makes the middle-finger gesture that humans are so fond of, but he’s trying not to laugh. “Please,” he says. “It’s just the two of us in here, Garrus.” He motions towards the door, which shows a red light indicating it’s locked. “Even EDI’s not listening. Much.”
I can’t imagine how he managed that, but I don’t doubt his word. “Alright… John,” I say. The word feels strange. I try it again, tasting it. “John.” There’s a tightness in my throat now, and I can feel my heart rate increasing. It’s several moments before I realize that the flashing numbers in my visor are telling me his heart rate is elevating too. I pitch my voice low and say it a third time, slowly, quietly. “John...”
“Christ, Garrus,” he says. “Don’t wear it out.” He sounds breathless. He slides closer along the couch till our shoulders are almost touching. Without looking away , he puts his empty beer bottle down on the table and does the same with my mug, taken from my unresisting hands. Then he reaches out and slowly runs his fingers down the right side of my face, over the new scars.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper.
He drops his hand, traces the blasted edge of my armor with a finger and shakes his head in mock sorrow.
“This armor has saved your life more times than I can count,” he says. “And that’s up to four more than you can. So I understand if you want to wear it all the time. But it does tend to make doing some other things very difficult.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” I say. “But your superior counting ability doesn’t make up for your crappy observational skills. I don’t actually wear it all the time. You’ve seen me without it before.”
“And I’d like to again,” he says drily.
I stand up, step away from the couch and begin undoing the clasps of my armor. The process, normally so mundane, seems slightly surreal here. Never stripped for a human before. I drop the pieces haphazardly, in the middle of the floor. He watches with disconcerting intensity. When I’m down to my undersuit, he stands up and closes the distance between us.
“Better,” he says. His hand again, this time tracing my jawline and moving around the back of my head. He moves closer, and I feel the astounding sensation of his lips caressing my left mandible. My breath catches. His other arm slides around my waist with agonizing slowness. Even through the fabric of my suit, his touch makes me groan. He laughs softly and is still, leaning his forehead against mine, giving me space. I slide one hand uncertainly onto his arm, then, more boldly, under the sleeve of his shirt. He sighs and shifts his hips, pressing his erection against me. I feel myself unplating and in that moment the formless fear, the unreasonable guilt and shame, grip my chest. I stumble a half step back.
He reads it in my eyes. He must, because there’s understanding in his. A different kind of shame overcomes me, and I have to look away.
“Garrus,” he says softly. He closes the distance again. Both hands rest lightly on my face, gentle but insistent, until I gather the courage to look up again. His eyes are dark, deep, trusting. He holds my gaze for three heartbeats. Then in one movement he pulls my visor off, tosses it without looking onto the table, throws his head back and pulls mine down, so my face is pressed against his neck. The scent of him surrounds me, overwhelms my senses. My teeth are scant millimeters from the soft flesh of his exposed throat, from the pulsing vein that carries his life blood. A wave of desire rises in me, driving out all thought. My hands slide onto his hips, grip them possessively, and it takes all the willpower I have to stop myself from crushing his body against mine.
“John,” I hiss through clenched teeth, into the skin of his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He laughs, a low vibration that makes my cock throb.
“Submitting,” he whispers huskily. I shudder and a growl escapes from deep within my chest.
I twist to the left and sweep his legs out from under him so he falls backwards, square onto the bed. He’s laughing, trying to say something about tactical awareness but I’m on him, pulling his shirt off over his head, and his voice is muffled. One talon accidentally grazes his skin, and John shivers at the contact, his laughter cutting off. I do it again, this time deliberately drawing the point slowly down his chest and across his belly, across the network of healed scars, deep enough to draw blood, and more than hard enough for pain. He moans desperately.
“You like that,” I say. It’s more a statement than a question, but he looks me in the eye, breathing hard, and answers yes anyway.
I roll off him, off the bed. He sits up to see what I’m doing. I’m taking off my undersuit. He watches me, and I watch him watching me. His eyes follow the peeling back of my second skin. First at my neck, off the shoulders and arms, then down my chest. But once the suit peels down off my groin his gaze fixes on my cock, and doesn’t move. I wonder what he’s thinking.
I step out of the suit and toss it to the side. I suppose I should be feeling self-conscious, maybe a little embarrassed, under the close scrutiny. But I don’t. Maybe because it’s John, and in the end, he never has to be afraid of making me uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s the burning hunger in his eyes, revealing how much he wants me.
I step to the edge of the bed in front of him and he reaches out for my cock. He strokes me slowly, first tracing the ridges with one finger, then using his whole hand, squeezing, moving, making me groan. “John,” I hear myself say, “I want you.”
“One second,” he whispers. He lets go of me and rolls over, towards the left bedside table. He pulls open the drawer, grabs something and tosses it to me. I catch it and read the label.
“You’re very well prepared.” I shake my head in admiration. “Definitely officer material.” I open the box and remove one of the condoms. Doubt they’re standard issue on Cerberus vessels. I’m also pretty sure I’m the only turian on the Normandy, and these aren’t mine. So clearly John has been out shopping. I can imagine the look on the shopkeeper’s face. I smile as I roll the condom on.
He tosses me something else. A tube of lube. Well, I know what it’s for. Then he flicks his eyes downward, drawing my attention to the fact that his lower half is still clothed.
“So why are you still dressed?” I ask him pointedly.
He smirks and unbuttons his pants, pulling them off together with his underwear. I don’t believe it’s possible for me to be any more aroused than I am already, but when John is lying naked in front of me I realize how wrong I am. I growl and reach for his cock, which is, unlike mine, smooth and dry. Well, almost dry. I find a little fluid at the tip and swirl it around over his slit. His moan reminds me of other things he enjoys, so I rake the talons of my other hand down the inside of his thigh and am rewarded by a stifled cry and the sight of his fingers digging into the mattress.
I open the lube and squeeze some onto on to my hand. John lifts his hips to help me, and I slide one talon carefully into him. Inwardly I marvel at the trust he has in me. He knows how sharp I keep them. Hell, not two minutes ago they were drawing his blood. Well, I suppose it isn’t that surprising. The instinct for self-preservation seems to be lacking in him. And right now, as I work the lube into him, he seems to be enjoying himself tremendously. Spirits, what have I done to deserve this?
I slowly pull my talon out, again with care, and John rolls over. He catches my gaze, and moves on to his hands and knees, each movement wanton, a deliberate provocation, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Fuck me, Garrus.” His voice is heavy with desire. Something ignites in me. I thrust savagely into him. My talons, digging into his hips, penetrate deep, and blood drips down the sides of his legs. His spine arches and he cries out. I’m afraid I’ve hurt him too much, but no. “God, don’t stop,” he groans. I ride the sounds of his pleasure, the sensations of him under me and around me. When I feel the pressure building I slow down and reach for his cock. There’s lube left on my palm, and John’s using it, thrusting into my hand and back against my cock. “God, Garrus…” he spits through gritted teeth. I feel him clenching around me and I can’t hold back any longer. The orgasm rolls over me like a tidal wave and I’m fairly certain I call out his name.
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After Horizon