Kaidan turns the burner down on the risotto and cranes his neck around to look out the window. Shepard said he’d be back up from the barn half an hour ago, but there’s still no sign of him. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s dozed off sitting by a tree while Echo grazes. He wipes his hands on a towel and heads for the front door, calling Shepard’s name when he gets to the top of the hill.
Going to need a dinner bell at this rate, he thinks.
The barn door is wide open, the strains of music echoing faintly out. The sun is thinking about setting but hasn’t quite committed yet, and while it’s supposed to get cold overnight, there’s enough warmth hanging in the air still to assure that summer’s coming, and coming quick.
As Kaidan makes his way down the dirt path leading to the barn, he catches sight of Shepard’s shadow weaving around inside. The music isn’t just any music – it’s the godawful turian band that Garrus bought him tickets for as a joke last year when they came to Earth. Some joke; Kaidan is the one who had to listen to Shepard memorize every song in their catalogue – subvocal clicks and all – and got dragged to the concert against his will. It had taken all of two days for the video he’d sent Garrus, arm around Kaidan’s shoulder, warbling the words to Carapace Creep, to hit the extranet. The band had offered to bring him on stage at their next show. Kaidan declined – politely – on his behalf.
Cipritiners merchandise still shows up regularly in Shepard’s fan mail. Kaidan had to put his foot down when he tried to wear the t-shirt Garrus got him to bed. On the positive side, that’s how Kaidan got him to buy into sleeping naked.
The song playing is one Kaidan recognizes, My Plates Are Yours. At the far end of the aisle, Shepard spins in a circle around a broom, crooning into the handle, blissfully unaware his audience now consists of more than the horses who watch with heads hanging out their stall windows. Kaidan leans a shoulder against the barn door, trying not to smile as Shepard holds the broom at arms’ length in a hero pose and drops it on accident. Without missing a beat, he twirls again, drawing a carrot out of his back pocket and serenading Echo, who is uninterested in the show, but very interested in the carrot. Shepard rubs the small, white pinwheel on the mare’s forehead, taps her nose with an emphatic finger in tune to the chorus, then dramatically swipes the broom back up off the ground and belts the next verse with everything he’s got.
Kaidan chuckles. Bad turian love songs. Who would have thought.
Shepard twirls again, spotting Kaidan this time, and sashays towards him with a grin on his face that Kaidan would sell his soul to see every day until the end of time. He thrusts the broom aside, letting it clatter right into the dust pile he’d been working on, and sweeps Kaidan into his arms, still singing. The chuckle turns to a laugh as Shepard clumsily makes the barn aisle their own personal dance floor. As they pass Echo’s stall, she makes an attempt to snatch the other carrot out of Shepard’s back pocket.
Kaidan’s chuckle becomes a laugh. Shepard reels him in close, whispering the refrain in his ear with a smokey voice that sounds nothing like a turian, but is definitely an attempt.
“You’re the worst,” Kaidan informs him, goosebumps running from head to toe at the warmth of Shepard’s breath against his ear.
“Just wait for Touch Me With Your Talons,” Shepard says, waggling an eyebrow. “I’ve been working on that one.”
“No,” Kaidan says with a groan, though he snugs an arm around Shepard’s back and is a little too willing to let himself be swayed around the barn. “That’s easily the worst one.”
“You have an awful lot of confidence for an incredibly wrong opinion.”
Shepard’s corona kindles, and he lifts Kaidan off his feet to set him down on a stack of haybale, then steps between his legs, arms draped around his neck. The song ends in a slow, dramatic warble, which Shepard croons softly, nose to nose. When the notes fade away, he presses their lips together while Kaidan wraps his legs around Shepard’s waist. There’s dust on his lips, and he’s wrapped in the scent of sweat, leather, and eezo.
Far cry from gun oil, medigel, and spent heat sinks.
“Dinner’s ready,” Kaidan murmurs when they part.
The next song starts. It’s an up-tempo monstrosity called My Magnetosphere, which might contain some of the worst space metaphors Kaidan’s ever heard, but this time instead of sing along – and Kaidan can confirm Shepard knows all the words – he just gazes him, running a tender finger down his cheek.
“When you thought of us,” he says, voice uncharacteristically thick. “Is this what you imagined?”
Kaidan leans in to kiss him again, deep and sure, taking all the time in the world.
“No. But it’s what I wanted.”
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