Imorkan. (ao3)
“First Lieutenant Hawke,” Hawke says, twirling his pistol as they walk as through the fueling dome. “By the vested interest of the Systems Alliance, I am hereby charged with dereliction of duty. I am ordered to report to Alliance Headquarters for immediate court-martial.”
“It’s not funny,” Aveline insists. “It’s probably going to happen, and it’ll probably be me who has to keelhaul you back to Earth.” The artificial sky of the dome flickers and hangs, like everything else in this stupid solar system, alternating between noon-day sun and the empty black of space. A tarted up batarian and asari hang on the wall next to an ammunition machine, chain-smoking.
Even in the haze of filth, Anders looks like he’s going to burst with excitement, a pressure cooker of giddiness just so poorly masked by the worst poker face Hawke’s ever seen. “I think it’s hilarious,” he says with a smile, absently working dust from a finger joint piece. “Besides, they never came for me when I left.”
“You were only an ensign,” Aveline says. “They probably didn’t care.”
“Oh, I’m so much more than an ensign.” Anders shoots her a surprisingly lascivious grin, even winks, and something inside Hawke shivers, but he keeps it down, because at least one of them has to be able to bluff.
The intercom interrupts that chain of thought; it’s the bored turian employee. “Mister… Amell, MSV Kentucky. Your ship is fueled and we’re awaiting payment.”
“That’s us, then,” Hawke says, and before he can say another word, Aveline grasps his arm.
“You’re absolutely sure about this.” It’s a statement, not a question, and that’s when Hawke realizes how much he’ll miss her. “You’ve only known him a few weeks.”
Hawke shrugs. “It’s not about that. It’s about something more than red tape and shooting people in the head.”
“You’re an idiot,” she says quietly, somberly, “but you’ve been good to me. Good luck, Garrett Hawke.”
The red of her hair and his own armor glints in the on-and-off sun. Anders is doing his best to look like he’s ignoring them, tapping his fingers on his thigh and pretending to study the other docked ships. Hawke grins. “Lieutenant Vallen.”
In the operating station a hundred meters away, someone screams—the turian, just before dark blue blood splatters the glass.
Hawke grabs Aveline and Anders and drops to the floor, pistol ready, as the station erupts in chaos.
The intercom crackles back to life: “—stupid thing’s on… Customers, please make all payments to Gruchenk Fuel, LLC.”
*
the expression on my face is something like the pure appreciation of chaos.
I’M SO HAPPY.
moar! <3
