Together
Still in rare-pair hell! I think Septimus Oraka and Doctor Karen Chakwas would be adorable together, okay? Karen would be a real, loving relationship for Septimus and he’d be an understanding, empathetic listener for when her nightmares flared.
To Karen’s mind, Septimus was sturdy. Not just in his physical build, which was undeniably strong despite the years, but in his soul. He was sure of himself, and despite the horrors and turmoil he’d personally witnessed during military service, he still managed to be a beacon to others. A lighthouse in the storm.
Karen wouldn’t say this out loud, of course--It’d sound too glib. Far too starry eyed and romantic for her age, at least. Instead, she allowed Septimus’ calm, understanding nature to guide her through the tempest of emotions which sometimes threatened to break her. The nightmares of the collector ship. Of people turned into pulp before her eyes as though they were vegetables and not, living, breathing, terrified sentient beings. Of the bone-rattling sonic boom of Reapers. Of young soldiers leaving the ship never to return...
Karen flew awake with a gasp. She hugged herself, hands rubbing down bare arms. In the lingering thrall of sudden-wakefulness she could still feel the cold, viscous gel from the collector’s cocoon coating her skin.
“I’m here,” Septimus said in a deep, gravelly voice.
Karen reached for him at the same moment he did her. They were wrapped in the artificial cool of the artificial night. Everything on the Citadel was artificial. Including the sense of safety. But he was real. Septimus Oraka laying naked in bed with her was warm and solid and real.
“It was the collector ship again,” she said in a strangled voice, pressing up closer against him. She ran a hand along his cowl, fingers brushing over the small hair-line cracks that had accumulated with age. The uneven, slightly rough texture grounded her. She’d traced those familiar lines with hands and lips and knew them well. They comprised the turian she loved, who existed away from the horrible images and chaos. Karen felt her heartbeat slowly return to its normal cadence.
Septimus made a low, gruff rumbling sound in his chest as a large hand moved to caress her face. “Bad memories always strike in dreams. You’re off guard and an easy target.”
“I thought they’d get better with time.” Karen sighed, focusing on the feel of Septimus’ hand and the soft, sued-like texture of his palm. “When will they end?” she whispered into the intimate space between them.
Septimus purred, moving his head to press mouth plates to her brow. “They don’t necessarily end,” he whispered just as softly. “You become stronger. You become certain of the facts and truths of things. Then, when the dreams come, no matter how vile, you know them for what they are: bad memories. And just that.”
“I’m not as strong as you.” Karen moved to intertwine their fingers. The configuration was imperfect, what with their mismatched digits, but it was an affirmation that she wasn’t alone. Not anymore. Never again.
Septimus pressed his brow to hers. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” he said with pure conviction ringing his subvocals. “Not many generals could have endured what you did. And you’re still working. Still helping others. You’re incredible, Karen.”
She angled her face, lips pressing against smooth mouth plates. Their kiss lacked the roar of passion and heat of desire from earlier that evening. There was still love and devotion in the action, but it was one of reassurance, not lust. When Karen pulled away, she tucked her head under Septimus’ chin, mindful of his mandible prongs. His resonant purr rippled out in the still air of the room like a lullaby. Maybe it was a lullaby. Turians often sang in their subvocals, just on the cusp of human hearing.
A tender hand brushed a lock of errant, silver hair behind her ear. “Whatever dreams may come,” Septimus said softly, “Know you’re not alone. I’m here, and I’m damn well not going anywhere.”
Karen smiled into the twilight of the bedroom. She could just see the outlines of holo frames on the far wall, though not the images they contained. It was enough to know they were of flowers. To remember walking in the fragrant grounds of the presidium as Septimus looked for something with orange petals because that was his favorite color. The sound of running water and rustle of leaves in the artificial breeze a soothing background to their own conversation. She’d pointed out the blooms he’d eventually photographed, later projecting them into the frames in his bedroom. Their bedroom, as he’d insisted she think of it.
“Thank you,” she murmured. He rumbled something that might have been a dismissive pish, for the thanks, but he pressed another kiss to her hairline. She wasn’t alone in her suffering and neither was he. Together, even the darkest dreams became perforated with light and hope. And that was something worth remembering and fighting for. And they would fight for their future, old as they were. Together. Always.
