Chapter 1

When he first saw his Siha his hands were warm and tingling from the pressure it took to snap a neck, the kick of the pistol into his palm, the cradling support of Nassana's life-lost body. His palms had calmed when he'd settled to prayer but awoke again at the sight of her, at the sound of her. The completion of his purpose had been sudden and explosive, his patient waiting at an end, adrenaline surging through his system along with the satisfaction of success and the blank space of his expected death, unfilled.

For a moment all these sensations and impressions coalesced in his mind, each strand of thought pulled into an arrow aimed at the presence of this woman with hair of fire and a face that matched with rifts in her skin that glowed red, scarred in curved lines around her deeper matte red eyes and sharp cheekbones.

Something long lost stirred in his body and his heart sped an errant few beats in realization before his breathing and control brought it to heel.

His path was lit in that moment of satisfaction and expectation, of death and emptiness.

She was his Siha and she did not know it yet, but he belonged to her, a lightning flash of revelation granted by Arashu.

Her presence was a burning gift, given him by the will of the Gods.

He awoke sudden and vibrant from battle sleep, knowing this moment could be cherished, refreshed and relived whenever he chose. It would be often.

I just tore this place apart looking for you. The least you can do is look at me.

Her name was Shepard. He knew of her. As she spoke he became more certain of the landmarks, of the map, of the Rightness. Her cause was worthy and her path already set and he need only set his feet behind her on that path and watch. That choice was done before she'd finished proposing it.

The Gods rarely granted such Rightness and he would not mistake the signs, would not set a foot awry.

She was his will and he would savor discovering what that was. His hands, tingling and warm and ready, belonged to her. They shook hands, a human custom, one he'd never indulged in before. He had not put a hand on anyone in years without intending death to be the result. The tingling grew, passing up his arm with the strength of omen.

He spoke a prayer as he did before each of his endeavors of life and death, this one personal, the prayer for himself only.

Amonkira, grant that my hands be steady, my aim be true and my feet swift.

He ended the prayer there. This was not a whim of the living to end a life. There was a greater will here that would not admit failure or even the possibility of doubt. This was a command to extend a life, something that had so far been beyond his reach. If he failed he could only ask himself for forgiveness and that would be futile. He was not a man of forgiveness.

She'd asked for his willingness to die and he gave it with both committed hands, informing her of the illness building in his blood, robbing him of breath.

Robbing, but not robbed. Not yet.

His breath was his strength and his steadying will and he would not gasp. He would take each measured breath to the fullness of his ability for as long as life and breath were granted.

Her face foretold that she would neither ask for nor grant forgiveness of her own should she fail, should he fail.

The cruelty of the landmarks were written in her face, in the harsh edge of her voice, in the cold demand in her eyes. Her face comforted him. He need not fear for her. She was not an innocent unaware of what lurked in the dark. So often he dealt with ignorance and it was a sharp pleasure to look into eyes that could understand who he was and demand his service, knowing the price. Too many people took on actions without knowing the price.

She understood a dark path and her red eyes provided the only light there. She would not understand that his was lit by a will other than his own, a will whispered only to the Drell. Only to him.

He had met a Siha before, outrage and courage in her eyes. The Gods knew that he knew the ways of Siha, could coax them to his hand, could survive their death, the outrushing breath of their withdrawn inspiration. That was proven. What was not yet proven was whether or not he would grant his life to this Siha and fail. The Rightness was in giving his life, saving hers. A trade, Siha for Siha. His balance would rise from the negative that pulled at him.

He had been the cause of Irikah being taken from her life while he still lived, he would be the cause for keeping Shepard in the world while he died. That symmetry guided his hands into servitude.

His soul would travel to the shores, meet with Irikah, serve her sunset eyes.

His body, his breath, his life would serve this Siha with no less devotion and with more experience and dedication. She would not die because of him, she would live beyond the end of his life in her service.

He would not fail.

There would be no forgiveness and no apologies.

He was awake.

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He watched his teammates, watched his Siha with double lidded eyes.

Ethics were dry and rattling things to an assassin, fragile and apt to fly away in the wind, unattended. Stealth in motion and in thought were the essence of his utility and success. Any stuttering thought or rattling concern of ethics would be discarded in the same way that he would cull a shoe with a tendency to squeak. He contemplated this as he followed his path. Despite his training from Hanar and his respect for his mentors, he knew he had not been taught to possess morality, aided by the Drell philosophy of body will and spirit will. He had been used as a child, trained and indoctrinated.

Indoctrinated. Now a further insidious term and concern. Similar in many ways. Turned from family or friends or the potential of any such toward the will of others, unquestioned and unblinking.

His morality had been replaced by observation of reality. He'd been created as a weapon to serve and when he had taken it upon himself to bring about the excruciatingly painful deaths of his wife's murderers, he had shed the illusions of morality and service.

He could clothe himself in morality and service, speak of them with practiced wisdom, but they were merely his costume and it was not his costume that ended lives and brought about the will of the Gods.

It had been required to transcend the will of his Hanar masters and this was the result of disillusion. However painful, his spirit had finally risen and melded with his body's will. Morality and honor were words, never a shield against death, and his business was death. Though he had been raised with a mystical admonition against doing so, he had finally researched the lives more fully of those he had murdered at his masters' insistence. He'd killed many people of morality and honor. He'd denied even more mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, spouses and children of a loved one. He had robbed the good of time spent with family. He had robbed the wicked of redemption, their souls burdened, never to be lightened by further time or wisdom.

His words would grant no seam of conflict upon which to pry at his motivations. His words would be few and they would be like water. Cut at them and they would flow back together. His costume would be his skin and his silence and it would fit.

Each endeavor must begin with a plan. He must know her, he must learn her, he must find the path to her. In the towers he had evaded her until his purpose was done, and that showed him his further path. This lit path was only his to see. She was noise and brash destruction and he would slip unseen through her defenses.

He watched her and recognized in her an equivalent lack of morality, but she had none of the grace or restraint he had cultivated. She did not represent any level of rule of law. She was fire, a volcano, pouring and storming down wrath. She was a Soldier trained class, no biotics, no technical skills. Her fighting style was reflected in her personality. She was explosive and those around her must become accustomed to shrapnel raining down on the battlefield or in a conversation. Set her off and she would take you with her.

He'd done a great deal of research regarding his Siha since coming aboard. Much of his time had been spent surveying records and accounts of her career. She had a first name but he would not call her by it under any circumstances. She was his Siha and that was the only name she needed from him. He would call her Commander or Shepard if he must call her anything and his silence failed.

One of her names was "The Butcher of Torfan."

Shepard would grant no forgiveness and he craved the arid clarity of ruthlessness. It granted him the freedom to behave as he truly was, as she needed him to be. The Gods had put him in her hands, put her in his hands because they would fit like two twisted carved pieces, too intricate to interlock unless it had been by design.

Ruth – a feeling of pity, distress or grief.

Ruthless – having or showing no pity or compassion for others.

Irikah had been the essence of Ruth, and his passion for her had been protective, gentle and ultimately lost to the careless restlessness of his truer self. A less wise man might think that Irikah would hate him for his actions, watching him from beyond the shores with anger and condemnation.

The truth was not that. It would be easier of it were that. He could bear being castigated by Irikah. It would be justice. He would be severed from her will, rejected. But she would never hate, her internal workings immune to the corruption that would bring. He imagined her hollow, composed of light, all the horrors that life could create splashing through her as she remained unchanged. No place for hate or anger to stick to or rise from her like steam. Dead, she would redouble her ethereal insistence on kindness, forgiveness. She would always welcome him. He had developed an edge of contempt for unconditional love and that edge had cored him cleanly, softer nature cauterized and bloodless.

Ironic, Irikah, that in avenging you I defiled your memory and your light, strengthened my dedication to the things, the person you despised. It would have been better had you taken mercy on me upon our first meeting and torn my heart from my chest. I would have thanked you with blood-tinged lips.

He did not deserve forgiveness and yet she would let it fall upon him like rain and he himself would transmute it into a wash of acid upon his skin. That was his penance. That was his eternal penance, to be bound to a Siha who would dismiss his honed and hard-bought nature as insignificant, unworthy of notice, set aside for future potential as perhaps a delicacy merchant in the mountains, his value measured by the texture of the keman he peddled.

The fact that she had been right and that if he had remained useless at her side she would still be alive was the corruption born in his bones like his marred blood, passing its insidious destruction delicately through his body and mind, robbing him of his air and inspiration. He died not all at once through mercy, but with the slow immeasurable cellular suffocation he could not comprehend in its mechanism.

Being struck with Kepral's syndrome was another lesson of the Gods, a rebuke to his utility.

The venom of his skin was seemingly composed of this knowledge and of careful chemically supplemented alterations based on Hanar training to make it virulently hypnotic and hallucinogenic.

His mistake had been in the arrogance he'd undertaken to love a Siha instead of serving her. He would take this second chance and observe the lessons of his first tragic encounter and eviscerating bond.

Shepard had no defenses against venom or biotics and he could physically overpower her with ease, but it was not solely her body that he required. In order to guide her path he must be able to influence her actions, and for that he must be in her blood, in her ear, in her body. He must be able to learn her will so fully that he could suggest it to her, transfer it back to her as her own. She would not respond to rein or pull, she must want to turn as though the thought arose from her own mind.

He had no doubt he could attract her. As a Drell with the attendant mysteries and intimacies, as an assassin with his reputation and the attendant grace and danger, he was wanted. Across species lines, across genders, who he was had a language of its own that whispered to those who watched. Shepard would know him as her tool, as her weapon, and she would grow to wonder what other uses his graceful hands could serve.

Perhaps for her it would be purely lust, perhaps for him it would be service to further a goal. He had done it often enough in his career for seduction to be routine. Seduction was a tool for gathering information, for coercion, for camouflage. It was one of the most useful tools he had and the most versatile, providing leverage, information and access.

Perhaps it was ego. Perhaps the need to prove that he could. Perhaps to prove to her that he could, prove to the Gods that no task was beyond him. Comparable to finding a great predatory beast of the sea and swimming alongside until fingertips brushed skin like armored scales. To know that if he did not behave like prey, did not thrash, did not strain from the lack of oxygen in his lungs the beast would turn in curiosity, brush against his hand of its own volition because of the novelty of contact, the lack of fear.

He would not strain from the lack of oxygen in his lungs. It would kill him, but he would not strain.

She would be accustomed to fear and confusion, begging and propitiation, as he was. She would have no need for the pressured begging of someone trying to light themselves from her fire, save themselves from her wrath, ask of her something that her power could give them when nothing else would serve.

Those who wanted power might want begging and propitiation, but that was for those who never truly accustomed themselves to power. Political power was one thing and those there needed the fear of the ruled, so there was a need to fear loss of influence. Power over life and death was a different type of power entirely. There was only one vote and the will to carry out that decree. Shepard did not care about begging, need or fear unless they got her what she wanted, be that information, cooperation or surrender. Thane was the same. He needed her information, cooperation and surrender, and she would understand that fully over time. She would be distracted by the idea that he could kill her, betray her, and that would waste her time as he bound her through unquestioned obedience. His goal would remain cloaked, as she would not suspect that he did not intend her death, but his own.

He was among talented people, but his Siha bewildered and intimidated the majority of those on the Normandy. Her closest relationship approaching friendship was with Garrus Vakarian. He had noticed and had researched Garrus as well. Part of her original crew, one of those who had fought Sovereign and Saren. Deadly with a rifle. Garrus was roiling with anger from past injustices and the only time his voice softened or judgment faded from his mutilated face was when he spoke to his Siha, cajoling or supporting as it suited him. Never disagreeing, never intimidating her with his greater height or strength, never anything suggesting mutiny. Garrus would abide by her judgment, and would in fact put his own mind through impossible acrobatics to support her, contradicting ideals he held five minutes ago in anecdote to support the decision she had just made. Murder became necessary and overt cruelty became a praised tactic behind his eyes, on his skewed tongue. She saw that dichotomy, as did Thane. Garrus did not see it that way, his justifications reverse-engineering her needs and setting labels on her behavior as righteous.

She was not righteous. Along with Garrus's versions of her behavior he could see the shift in her eyes from knowing she was supported to knowing that she demanded that twisting in him, never altering her decisions to placate her second in command.

Thane wondered if she had ever been seen, ever had her armored scales brushed in the depths like the sea beast of teeth and cold. Had she not wished to be seen she would not have joined military service with ranks and medals. She would have lived in a thieves' den somewhere, amassing her hoard of treasures and dead bodies to guard. Then there would be no seeing her, only putting her body on top of that pile or becoming a part of it himself.

Thane would see her but not reveal her to others and she would know she was known.

This woman did not wish to be known by most, but she did not reject the admiration or approval of those who knew the twists and turns and blind alleys of killing. She was competitive, tracking kills callously with Garrus and arguing over the merits of a gun over a fist, up close from remote.

That was the path to her weaknesses, following the sinuous curves of her strengths to the breaks in her armor. Everyone bent somewhere and longed for motion in those places, and they were the most vulnerable spots.

He would not attribute normal motivations to her. She would not desire love or approval, but she would be a very unusual person if she had no curiosity. She would be an exception to the law of the living if she experienced no desire for like body pressed to like body, twisting together like the carvings of the Gods and taking new shape.

Garrus was the only member of the crew who knew her as a colleague, had spent time with her, had been chosen by her in days long past. Had been chosen by her again and not left to bleed to death, broken and useless on the tiles of an improvised bunker on Omega.

Garrus had been Called by his Spirits, spoken to in the tradition of the Turian past as the Drell Gods spoke to him, Called to serve. Thane approved of Garrus, this fate-shaped cross-species team displaying symmetry of purpose, something Thane had not experienced, having always worked alone.

There was no time for contemplation or prayer over the bodies of the dead. She, Garrus and Thane had piled up more bodies in a single day than Thane had in a year of his previous life. He listened while appearing not to listen as they argued over whether or not a swiftly cooling body had a shot in the middle of the forehead or slightly to the side as they stepped over it in their stalking, unhurried path to the next wave of provoked brutal slaughter. He fit into their style and strategy like water slipping between rocks, surprise and appreciation in their faces in the form of raised brows, low whistles and satisfied nods. He read the battlefield, they read him. He knew within the first few waves that Shepard would tend to go right as Garrus tended to go left, and he would choose different targets of his own, the habits of an assassin concealing his methods and occasionally the bodies themselves before passing on to a new target, his own contributions to the carnage going without counting, without demanding recognition.

The idea of having support was something he would not indulge in himself, but he needn't. He need only be supportive.

Flight Lieutenant Moreau and Dr. Chakwas had been in her crew previously, but navigation and medical assistance did not allow the opportunity to observe under combat conditions.

He respected Garrus, but he would not be competition for her…not affection…there would be no affection. Attention.

If they had any interest in that direction there was no hint of it, their relationship that of seasoned soldiers. They trusted and respected each other but that was no threat. The Turian might possibly be interested in her, but his pace of pursuing was glacial and his understanding of her character occluded by his Turian respect for command structure and his personal need for some meaning he felt compelled to give to her, mirroring his own, that she did not possess. She was not justice, and that was Garrus's ultimate love.

What she was instead was courage, audacity and brutality in pursuit of a goal worth pursuing, against those who would end all human life, all Drell life, all Turian life in their ambitions. They were only recently reunited, she and Garrus, their paths divergent over years. Death hung on her, the span like a garland, haunting those around her. Garrus had mourned her death and the death of her purpose and the shadows of that were in Garrus's face when he was not aware he was being observed. Garrus had lost his soul after Shepard had died, just as Thane had lost his when Irikah was wrenched from life. Garrus's immersion in carnage while needing to insulate himself from a repetition of such a loss was understandable. He felt a kinship with the man, an understanding of torn dreams.

Garrus would never take without permission and his Siha would never grant permission. His Siha required action, not words. He doubted that even if his Siha thought of Garrus as a possible partner, that she would risk the easy reliance they had upon each other, as though they were each a blade in a pair of perfectly honed scissors, closing together with a snap and satisfied eyes. Garrus was an enforcer, an extension of her will, able to put a shine on her motivations, make her appear noble to others, absolutely able to squelch dissent in any team composed of part Shepard, part Vakarian. He was ex C-Sec, related to fame and high in the Hierarchy himself if he chose to disclose that, reclaim that. She would not waste that potential, that influence on sex. Garrus was the definition of versatile and useful.

Garrus was an idealistic person and their relationship proved she cared enough to likely be concerned about tearing his heart from his chest, which she would do without thought, through sheer reflex and presence. She needed his rifle, needed Garrus watching interlopers such as himself, those who might have ulterior motives. She needed Garrus outside the chaotic event horizon, the tearing gravity of her inner self. She may not care about the destruction of a lover's illusions, but she would care about losing the Turian's watchful and perceptive eyes over her shoulder.

Her eyes in conversation or in order would turn over her shoulder, flash reading the attitude and intent of her squad mates. They had moved to Thane, speculative and suspicious, then later approving and surprised. Her eyes would move to another on the ship, impatient and mocking. When her eyes moved to Garrus, it was as though she was surveying her rifle or her armor. She expected him to be where he was and he was always where she expected and there was no ripple of thought. She took him entirely for granted and he in Turian fashion strove to be that for her. Necessary in battle, making Garrus indispensible.

As an obvious sign on the path, he must use that information. He must draw her attention. He must be as indispensible as Garrus, but not be what or where she expected. Being indispensible would be simple, choosing in which way to be not what she expected would require further meditation. She must be aware of him in each moment if he were in range of her sight, and she must wonder what he was thinking or doing when he was out of her sight. He must intrude upon her thoughts, expectations and patterns in each moment and elicit curiosity in her.

Thane had no purpose in the light, unlike Garrus. He was useful, but not versatile. He had no family that would be outraged by potential mistreatment, no political ties, no authoritative voice.

He had no morals.

That was his next step on his path.

Thane was best suited to her event horizon because he had no illusions and because none of the meaningful actions he had taken in his professional life had involved permission.

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He'd found a few monitoring devices in the Life Support section, which suited him well. He'd like to break into Shepard's cabin ideally, but there was no way to circumvent the AI on the ship that he had yet determined and the risk of discovery was too great.

Instead he repurposed the monitoring devices and their transmission output to more discreet and anonymous settings and placed them around the ship, primarily in the Battery where Garrus was stationed because it was private and it was his best opportunity to observe the pair and their confidences when alone behind closed doors for extended periods of time.

He set another in the common area to pick up the largest amount of conversation and gossip and he set the final device in the shuttle, which he knew would be another spot for strategic and private conversation.

Surveillance was of interest but he also needed to be out in the ship, in plain sight, integrating with crew. Although he found no reason to go up to the CIC and the Captain's cabin, everyone made their way down to the crew deck several times a day and so there he would be often.

He would retire to Life Support for meditation and data gathering, but he needed to attract her attention and the best way to do that was with his body. He learned his Siha's patterns, and discovered when it would be most likely that she would seek him out, and spent those times in physical exertion in the cargo bay, part of his normal daily ritual but something most often done in private. The exposure was jarring and he modified his practice to conceal those things that were not to be shown to others, moves he would not use in combat out in the open.

The wide open space was a challenge to his perceptions and caused a tickling awareness of how many places there were from which to attack. Crates as cover, the bulk of the shuttle itself, too many entrances. He made it part of his routine to change position to face each of these potential threat locations smoothly in turn, adding a measure of difficulty to the balance and strength exercises he knew as muscle habit. He had lost approximately 7% of his speed, his strength, his stamina since the onset of Kepral's Syndrome, but the work still moved through his muscles like water.

His pursuit of Shepard was always dual purposed, never out in the open as a motivation, and as his pursuit consisted mostly of lure, it was easy. His exercise became his exercise, with the possible goal of attracting her attention. His meals became his meals with the possibility of gaining the confidence of someone on the ship who might speak of her without prompting. If he needed to prompt he would be lost, he'd build a pattern of suspicion. His entire nature and nurture had been one of patience for the hunt and this being more of the same it was easy to simply be as he was, watch and listen.

He would ask nobody about her, ask nothing of her, merely provide opportunities for things to be told to him, questions to be asked of him.

Kelly Chambers' attention was a risk, but this was all about managed risk. Kelly had openly and demonstrably made it clear that she was available for whatever orientation to human behavior he might wish. She was tempting in a tactical sense, having all of the information and dossiers and patterns of those on board. There was no reason to discourage her.

She was not tempting as a bed mate and Thane struggled with this aspect of his mission. He had never considered being with a human. He had only known he must be with a Siha. Humans and Drell were close enough anatomically, but no venom, no shifting iridescence of skin, all the things of allure missing in creatures of only one texture and color of skin and additional inherent colors limited to eyes and hair, sometimes all three the same color, like Jacob.

His Siha was red and had scars that provided texture, glowed with color. Her eyes were exotic in their delicate small size, the reactive and ever-changing colors revealing or disguising internal workings, the muscles that formed her expressions like puppet strings.

Practicing on another human first would be ideal but also impossible.

Kelly had cornered him at meals, in meditation and had found him in his extended workout sessions in the cargo bay, effusive and curious about his practice, asking for demonstrations. He obliged. It would make him seem more social, more engaged, open to human companionship. Drell were not so great in number, not like humans or Turians. Drell were exotic and rare to the other species, even to Asari, sought out but often reclusive, finding their pleasures with their own kind.

To lack venom and therefore the visions that came with sex, to lack the rivers of bright color undulating on skin, to lack a frill…it appears that humans had inferior Gods of creation. They had structure, but little style in comparison.

Kelly was a simple tool and as such could be wielded easily, if bluntly. She was not usable for fine work, but she was not any level of threat to his plan and could be the means to further it should opportunities present themselves. He taught her the basic opening moves of a child's form, correcting her technique by pulling her to him to demonstrate, his mouth at her ear, his hands not lingering, but not leaving quickly. She was child's play and he had to remind himself to speak as an adult and not lighten or lessen his voice to reflect her transparent enthusiasm and catches of breath. Perhaps this could be practice of some sort, human physiology he could study. Dilation of pupils, sweat formation, change in scent, softening of muscles, receptive body posture.

Over time she showed no intent to politely leave him to continue his exercise, so at the appointed end of his timed study he took his own leave, thanking her for her time.

Another lesson in human physiology. Disappointment.

The days passed, his schedule solidified and he became predictable in his location. His Siha did not inform him of their schedule or their missions and his time was entirely his own. She had only come by for the most basic of discourse, history and theology lessons about Drell society. She had spoken to him only in Life Support and now he was not there. Kelly had no difficulty determining his patterns and pursuing him. He was certainly easy to pursue when he was standing still.

One day with Kelly disingenuously mistaking one form for another, a specific form that would require correction with his hands on her body, his Siha had been there, shoulders braced against the wall, watching. His heart beat hard with satisfaction and his eyes flowed around her, not seeing her. Not seeing that she leaned against the wall, watching, not caring if he saw.

He did not see, but Kelly did, and she jumped, flustered and seemingly guilty, allowing that to escape through her mouth and muscles, waving ostentatiously to Shepard and saying "Commander! What brings you here?"

Foolish question.

Shepard had kicked away from the wall and said "Just on my rounds, checking in. Krios has been difficult to find."

Thane had turned to her and said "My apologies. Had I know you sought me I would have made myself available. I am available now, if you wish."

Shepard had raised a brow and taken in Kelly's flushed face and said "I'd hate to interrupt." Her tone indicated the direct opposite and Kelly could not leave fast enough.

Shepard shook her head and said "Is she bothering you? She's supposed to be at her station, but she started disappearing during certain intervals in her shift. She's pretty much useless, but I'm relieved to see that she's doing this rather than sending out messages in a bottle to Cerberus HQ."

Thane replied "No, she is not bothering me. She appears to have an interest in Drell…" He paused fractionally and said diplomatically "Culture."

Shepard had laughed, and the sound was unexpected. Her laugh in the moment was clear, of rich humor, devoid of the strains and harshness she weighted her voice with often in the field. She said "All right, but…tell me you have better taste."

Thane regarded her, tilted his head and misunderstood her deliberately. "I have been told that I taste as a Drell should."

She had laughed again and stated "That may be one of the better translator glitches I've heard. How should a Drell taste?"

He tilted his head to consider the phrasing and said "Sweet over a note of richness, with the aftertaste of tiremit."

She shook her head "Tiremit? Didn't translate."

He explained "A light stinging on the tongue that is relieved by tasting again until the venom has saturated the blood. Like quenching deep thirst. An addictive sensation."

Shepard shook her head and said "My, my, Drell…culture is interesting. Try not to break my crew, Krios, I need them able to work."

Thane had bowed his head "Your crew is safely out of my hands. Other than any combat instruction that may be required or requested, they do not interest me." He emphasized the word 'they' carefully.

She heard it and a speculative shadow passed through her eyes. His Siha was no fool. The volcano could be subtle and could read people when she chose. She continued as though she had not heard it. "All right. I'll take your word. This isn't an Alliance ship and I never did actually care who was fucking like bunnies, but I would request that you not overburden Dr. Chakwas with hallucinating young women, or young men, or whatever you're into. Although if you could talk Zaeed into it, I'd pay to watch."

That had made him laugh, and he'd seen her in that moment, surprise on her face at his laughter, her face free of her deeper menaces. This is how she spoke with Garrus, this is where she felt comfortable. His status in the ship hierarchy was clarifying and her opinion of him rising. He could likely break Kelly's neck and his Siha would shrug and get a body bag, but if something was happening, she wanted to know.

His voice was lit with humor and warmth as he said "My arms are yours. If you could assist me with the best method to seduce a human male, I would do my best."

Her laughter surprised him again and his lips curled into a smile as she said "Oh, oh. Oh, stop. I haven't…oh, I want to. I really want to and…aah, I can't look Zaeed in the eye for a few days. Do not tempt me. That's a lot of power you're giving me there Krios."

He said "It appears human…culture is interesting as well. I look forward to future illumination on the subject."

She seemed to sober and recover, but her eyes were dancing, sparkling and she said "All right. At this rate, so do I. We understand one other." She turned to leave, but pivoted back on her heel after a few steps and said "Wait. I got distracted by vivid imagery. There was something I wanted to say. Since everyone on this ship is about to potentially die on my word, they seem to have all discovered dying wishes. Fulfilling these wishes is problematic. They're not legal, they're not military and they are as dangerous as anything else we've done, with no reward other than someone slightly more willing to focus on dying. I need to keep the content of the missions confidential to avoid more infighting bullshit. You seem to be one of the only people on this boat that can keep their mouth shut and you have not once whined about my methods. You didn't punch Jacob when he insulted you and I know I have one less feud on board because of that discretion. I promised you that I intended to survive this mission, but I need to make sure everyone else has the best chance I can give them to work together since they are putting everything on the line at my call. I know you signed up to fight Collectors, and you signed up for free and have asked for nothing in return." Her eyes clouded and her face transformed momentarily with the first glancing hints toward vulnerability he'd seen in her. Her eyes hardened when she realized she was nearing the word 'please' or positive praise rather than stating he provided not as many negative points as his contemporaries. She finished abruptly with the words "I need this bullshit squared. Think about it. Let me know." She turned to leave.

I have not asked, but I will take, and whatever is required in service will be given.

She wished to abandon the conversation and its implications, but he did not grant her time. After she'd taken a few steps he said "You have my arm and my silence. Whatever you require will be as my own will."

She had turned her head only partway, a curt acknowledgement of "Good." her only answer.

When she had gone he continued his exercise until his scheduled time had passed. As his feet whispered over the deck he recalled her laughter, searching her face for those moments that revealed her humanity rather than concealing it under layers of careful armor.

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She made pursuit easy through her blunt insistence on having no outward reaction to him.

She made pursuit difficult through remaining suspicious of his motives.

She made pursuit possible by not being suspicious enough and having her curiosity snag on him and stick.

Having attracted her attention he knew well enough not to alter his habit of exercise, it would raise suspicion of having been manufactured. Kelly had not returned, but his Siha had, in the same place, shoulders slouched against the wall in contrast to her sharp eyes, one foot kicked back against the wall in a casual observer stance as he traveled through his familiar exercises. Again he purposely did not see her, considering and attempting to decipher her behavior. Perhaps she only wished to keep Kelly at her post, but had that been the case she could have intimidated her directly and he believed Kelly to be intimidated enough for several lifetimes.

Whatever her intentions they were either for her own reasons that had nothing to do with him or she wished to get his attention. Therefore he would not give it to her. He could easily lie to her if she confronted him, explain that in Drell culture a subordinate may be seen but not heard unless addressed. It would not be true but her pride would not allow her to argue, otherwise she would have to admit that she wanted his attention as a woman and not as a commander. Why stand silently when she could command his attention with a word?

Commander Shepard, how odd.

He left her to her own thoughts, and he to his own, and at some point in the face of his determined serenity in her presence, after her eyes slipped over the sinews of his bared chest and arms, she had left and he was able to smile.

She returned day after day, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for longer, the hunger and speculation growing on her face as she assumed she was not seen and he was absorbed in the smooth form that connected his breath to his bones, muscles strained and light playing along the kaleidoscopic color of his skin.

One day she pressed the issue by staying in her accustomed place for a long time and to the point that he would end his work. That left him with no choice. He must end his workout on time, leave through his accustomed exit, where she stood, guarding it. He must finally see her, she demanded it. He had turned to incline his head to her neutrally on his way out.

She had stormed behind him into the hallway and he heard "Mother fucking Drell asshole" slip from her mouth, flavored with frustration and agitation and he knew he had her.

The pretense had worked, but she knew it as pretense.

Her volcanic wrath confronted him, pyroclastic flow in her eyes and under her skin, hands of warm, heaving stone. Her eyes met his for only a brief moment, his carefully neutral, hers searching for any suggestion of his own passion, which he denied her. She would need to convince him. He met her eyes with puzzled detachment. Her hands were on his upper arms and he allowed her to turn him and slam his back against a wall. She lunged for him and her mouth was on his, pushing his head back with force. Her lips were demanding, lacking the central rift and firmer texture that divided Drell lips into quarters. Her lips were softer, warmer and a disorienting, pleasure-slicked surprise. He restrained his reaction to her, pitching his responses to degrees below her own, enough to let her know he enjoyed her kiss, but not enough to let her know that her kiss was the goal of all the effort he had taken since he'd first seen her. When her tongue traced the surface of his lips he allowed a satisfied warm sigh on his out breath. He did not meet her tongue with his, but waited for tiremit and her mouth to do their work, fulfill their potential.

Foretold but not properly foreseen by her, he knew to the moment when venom infiltrated her nerves, creating an imperative that she had to answer with either flight or commitment to the moment.

She stiffened, pulled back, wild disbelief in her eyes. He dropped his eyes from hers, focused on the reddening curve of her lips. His own lips did not tingle as they would had she been Drell, but he vicariously enjoyed her helplessness in contrast to his straight spine, seemingly unaffected.

He had her, but she could bolt and he would let her if she chose to. She would struggle with clamoring need against self preservation. He knew his Siha was reckless and courageous and if she chose to stay she still would not admit defeat. She was not a creature of self denial, her strengths transformed into weaknesses with his venom in her blood. Self denial was his wellspring, she could not compete with him there. He was at home as a tiger in their own territory, dappled sun and leaves and not stripes and teeth. Right now he could subdue her with biotics, speak softly and have anything from her, but it would not be enough. It would not be her choice, so he would wait until the promise of tiremit wreaked its havoc on her over time. He was in her blood and when he left it would drag her back to his side, hungry.

Her eyes closed and conditional surrender tripped over her features, unknown territory. She swore "Fuck. FUCK." Without opening her eyes she lunged for him again, no longer kissing with pressed lips, but licking at him, tentative and then voracious. One hand of hers slid to the back of his head and lingered, expectations denied again. He had no hair for her seeking fingertips. As though to prove his expectations could be met as hers couldn't, he slid his hand behind her head in mimicry, tangling her hair between his fingers, imagining the familiar green against the vibrant red, sliding through and tightening but not pulling her head back. One day he would bend her head back, bend her spine with his arm around her waist as fulcrum, a hand tangled in her hair as she sought out his skin with hunger. Today he allowed her head to stay under her own control. She had her head and yet she would not do anything with it but press closer to him, closer than if he'd crushed her to him.

He needed to appear as though he kept no score, sought no power, merely gave in indulgently and obediently to her whims, as compliant as when she pointed at someone for him to kill as she took it for granted that he would. The hand of hers that was still on his arm he took in his and guided it unresisting to his upper chest, her fingertips spasming lightly against the beat of his heart and the whisper of her skin over the texture there, more things she did not know. He offered her the expanse of his skin, open to her mouth, open to her hands, which would also absorb and slowly take in venom. He gave her the subtler clue to his devotion, his elevated heart rate, but doubted that she could register it. Her body would be taken in the heated glow of building tiremit gripping her. Her fingers tangled with his and tightened and at the gesture his heart leaped further in pace.

It was not in her nature or her knowledge to go slow, to let tiremit set its own pace. The custom was of languorous sharing, trusting in the slow infusion, the mindset of pleasure setting its own tone for the visions, emotional content intensifying sensation and dictating the halos of light that bathed a lover.

His Siha would be glutted, disoriented, frantic, the isolation of her swearing assault reflected in what she felt and what she saw, unable to assimilate and reliant upon him to keep her knees from giving way soon. She was moaning, little nips of her teeth on his lips and his expectation of detached service evaporated. The way she smelled, the way she sounded, the heat sheeting from her, he knew he would not be disappointed, would crave continuing this fleeting opportunity to drive her body to the opposite wall, press her to it, feel her open under the pressure of his voice and his hands, know how it felt to drive into her as she was unable to stop her mouth from returning to him again and again.

His body insisted it was to be and he was caught in his own internal struggle, his cock hard against the form-fitted leather. His hand left her hair and traveled down her spine to cup her body at the hip, press her tight against him, a soft groan against her mouth.

His mind echoed with ardent and measured words, focusing on the control it took to not whisper them against her skin.

I have you, Siha. Having tasted me you will return to me with hunger and need. You will quake under my ready palms, open under my mouth, spread under my covering body and you will burn. I promise you this, and I promise the Gods that crowd this seemingly empty hallway, watching and waiting to see that their will comes to pass.

He had been wrong about two things. It was not only service that bent his body to hers and his lust spiked hard and fierce to the press of her. It was not lust only that drove her to grip his hand as though she were drowning and his hand her only salvation. Lust only would press her assuredly closer but she pulled back in a startle as though burned, and perhaps she had been.

Lust he would have followed alone and if she wanted to rut in a hallway he would do it and ignore anybody walking through as he had ignored her so completely in the shuttle bay.

They were both more complicated than he had given them credit in the cold contemplation of process.

She was breathing hard as she pulled entirely back and he let her go with regretful hands slipping from her body in a final caress before relinquishing his grip on her hand and delivered her back to herself and her unsteady knees.

The wall braced his own knees, which were not as steady as he would wish. His heated eyes followed her and watched as she struggled for control over her impulses, her eyes, her voice. After lingering seconds she shook her head once again and said "Fucking Drell. Dammit, Krios. I do not need this." It should have been harsh, but her voice was thick and husky with a wistful tinge to her words belaying the intended message.

His lips curled in a light smile and he said "You could have proven that by not slamming me against a wall. Have a care for the delicacy of my bones." Taking full advantage of the acute hypnotic effect that tiremit carried from his tailored venom, he suggested to her what she might do to gain his attention at any time, knowing it would simmer in her memory, through her blood when hunger for tiremit struck her again, spike along her system now while it sang to her. "I have offered you my arm in battle. I extend that invitation to include my body at your service when you so choose, in or out of battle, as you desire."

She jammed frustrated fingers through her hair, combing out where he'd tangled it. She looked at his lips and the expanse of skin on his chest with hunger and then tore herself away. She took a deep breath, kept her eyes determinedly closed, swayed and said wearily "Oh, fuck you, Thane."

He opened his arms with practiced grace and inclined his head saying "As you wish. When you wish."

With a disgusted grunt she spun and took the turn too hard, rebounding against her own lack of balance and putting a hand out to steady herself against the wall. Her head dropped and she heaved a deep sigh and said "Dammit. You didn't see that. That's an order."

He nodded solemnly and his voice was gentle, intimate "I did not see that."

She steadied herself and marched more purposefully through the corridor. "Damned right."