"You have to make him scream a little. He's not going to tell you everything just cos you ask." Indie roleplay blog for Commander Armando-Owen Bailey from Mass Effect. [Tracking tag "zakeracop". Will RP any time period within Mass Effect and with any and all characters; just send a message or follow me to get things rolling.] Skype:
blackjackkent Personal blog:
blackjackkent.tumblr.com Other characters:
Aria T'Loak
Jenna Shepard
Philip Shepard
Matthias Shepard
Thane Krios
Mordin Solus
Wings, PROS: You can fly, if your wings has an injury (from hitting something, being shot at etc) they will regenerate quick (5 to 9 minutes) CONS: They're big, somewhat hard to control when nervous (wings expand when nervous) Invisibility, PROS: you can turn invisible at will and stay cloaked as long as you want, CONS: Whatever clothing you have on will NOT turn invisible (Mean you have to have no clothes on)
Look, is there a point t’ this little ramble, because while I’d really love t’ have superpowers, as it is I’m still human and have t’ beat feet to my next patrol.
She doesn’t know what he means. A few ideas float around in her mind, but she doesn’t like to dwell on a single one. Either they are horrible and would make her hate him, or they are far too wonderful for a person like her. Why can’t he just be quiet and enjoy what they have?
Her hands pull away from beneath his shirt, instead coming up to rest on his chest, gently pushing on it, a gentle sign to stop she trusts him to understand. “I don’t belong to anyone. You’d want me to stop, wouldn’t you?” It’s what she wants. She wants to stop, but now when someone is offering her a chance, she’s scared. It has to be a trick. He doesn’t even know what she’s done.
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Obediently he stops, the motion of his fingers stilling and then dropping away from her body. His pale eyebrows tighten down over his eyes. “Never said you belonged to me,” he says gruffly with a slight frown. “But sure, I won’t lie...I want you t’ stop -- for your sake, much as mine. I--”
Her question stops him dead silent. Do you love me? They have never brushed close to the question, not out loud, even though he’s known his answer for a while, deep in his heart in a place he’s avoided looking at to spare himself the difficult emotion of it. He knew he cared about her, all along...but with the question the full brunt of the affection bursts up in his chest and his breath catches. Yes...
But she’s still talking. You can’t, she says, and then the story pours out of her in a rush, heartbreaking and chaotic. He has expected none of this, and sits in stunned silence as she speaks, describing her little boy, the loss of him, with pain that strikes him to the core. His heart turns over thinking of her suffering through this alone, punishing herself every day for something that no doubt nearly destroyed her.
“My God...” he murmurs, reaching out to cup her face...but it’s not there, she’s turned away.
It would be best if we don’t see each other again.
For a moment he stares, almost too long, for she almost moves beyond his grasp, but he reaches out, catches her by the arm to stop her motion, turns her back to look at him. “Nadya...” he says quietly. She called him Bailey, as if he was merely a customer again, and it stung, but he knows...he hopes...she didn’t mean it. “I’m sorry, I...”
He trails off, trying to get his thoughts in order. “I had no idea,” he finally says softly, his gravelly voice twisting the words with sympathy and weary sadness. “I’m so sorry. Not out ‘a pity, either, since you’ve said plain that you don’t want it. But I understand, I know...what it’s like to lose a child...”
He hasn’t talked to anyone about this either -- not even Shepard, though he hinted to her about the news. “My ex-wife and my daughter were in Seattle when the Reapers rolled through. And my boy was in New York.”
He says it quietly, hoarsely, almost tonelessly; he registered the facts of the matter a long time ago, but speaking it out loud wrenches more than he expected. “So I know...I know what you mean, about the grief, the guilt. I was s’pposed to see them last year...and then I got upped and stayed on the Citadel, and then it was all over...nothing left t’ do but regret it.”
He looks up, meets her eyes with a grave, sad expression. He has no wish to marginalize her pain in favor of his, but all the same he doesn’t want her to go. “If bein’ elsewhere instead of there for your kid sends you to hell, sister,” he says softly, the old nickname slipping off his tongue with a raw edge to it, “then I’ll be goin’ there beside you. And that’s okay...because next t’ you is where I want to be, if you decide you want me around.”
His head tips forward, almost without volition; his lips brush hers gently for the first time. She tastes of the everpresent smoke that always lingers over the refugee camp, and he wants more, wants her warmth...but he stops himself, pulls back, blue eyes firm and intent. “I do love you,” he answers simply. “But what you do with that’s your decision.”
Stepping aside slightly to allow him room, Samantha pulled up the list. Some of the scarcer necessities these days jumped out at her: over-the-counter medications, children’s clothing, toiletries, all commonly requested since the war had ended. She had to stop herself from picturing all the people going without such things, especially the younger children. It didn’t do any good, and just left her upset.
“I’ll…consider it. Sir.” She clasped her hands behind her back, falling into parade rest out of habit. “It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the offer. I’m just not at all sure of where I’ll be in a few weeks’ time…” …Or if the Alliance will even want me back. Would they trust her to be all right after she’d been on leave for her psychological health twice? If they didn’t, where would she go? She had to stop that train of thought, too.
“Should I pass along your contact information to my CO, or call you directly?” Sam flicked her wrist to activate her omni, ready to write down the information should he choose the latter. “I’m afraid I haven’t got it already…we had such information saved, but it was all classified…”
The glowing numbers of her clock app burned brightly. Ought to be off to the airport soon… But she couldn’t bring herself to pull away from the first real conversation she’d had in weeks in order to play hurry-up-and-wait some more. She could manage another half hour, perhaps.
“Whichever you prefer,” he said with a shrug. “Here’s my info.” He lifted one hand, tapped his own omnitool to transmit the data to her. “That’s the internal C-Sec line; most of the public comm lines are as bad as this one.” He gestured at the beleagured terminal she had been working on fixing. “That line’ll generally get through to me sooner or later; I’m one of the higher-ranking people left.”
He rubbed his jaw, looked at her sideways, registered the distance in her eyes. She looked as tired as he felt, he reflected. He hoped she’d be all right. She had a long road ahead of her and a difficult one. Hell, they both did. I hope I’ll be all right, too, he thought ruefully.
He straightened his back unconsciously, lifted one hand in a sharp, respectful salute. “Specialist,” he said quietly. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you; I know we all thank you for th’ help. Give my regards to the rest of the Normandy crew, if you’re in touch with ‘em. And...take care of yourself.”
“Nobody will come looking for them,” she promises, shivering just a bit as his lips graze her ear, rough voice heavy in it. “It’s not dangerous at all.” She leans closer, nuzzling her nose against him affectionately, carefully placing a kiss just on the corner of his mouth. Never on the lips, no matter how badly she wants to or how natural it seems like it would be. She craves that sort of intimacy, but practices great restraint, seeking out other forms of sweet and innocent physical contact.
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“Flattery...” he murmurs. Of course her flattery works wonders on him; it always has. He’s already responding to her touch and it’d be easy to just lie back and let her work on him and forget the day’s events. The fighting has lessened; the Reapers haven’t attacked for days, and most of his work these days is spent struggling towards some form of civilization while they wait for contact from the rest of the Alliance. He’s tired and her touch is a balm on his aches.
But it means something to him, damn it. And he wonders...he wonders...
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he murmurs, pulling her close, his words muffled as his lips press against her neck. “You don’t need t’ be out there at all. You could stay with me. All you’d have to do is ask...”
It’s something he’s been thinking about, on and off. Deep in his heart he knows it’s not what she’s looking for, not consciously at least. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting it, from asking. After all I’ve been through, I’m allowed to want good things, god damn it.
Her fingers slip under his shirt and he gives a soft sigh, hands cupping her breasts in return, but he’s still listening, wondering how she’ll reply.
There’s something about Bailey these days that makes Nadya feel as warm and comfortable as a kitten in the sun. She practically purrs as he pulls her into his lap, chest still as broad and strong as ever even if they’re both a good deal thinner now. Sometimes she’ll tease him that she’ll fatten him up quick again as soon as this is all over, as soon as things are normal again. She likes it when they talk and joke between the sheets, not even about sex, but about anything. She loves it.
“I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re asking, Officer Bailey,” she teases, running the tips of her fingers down the front of his chest. She’s missed him. The other men of the resistance are no fun, not even interesting. She wants to rid him of his clothes, see for herself just how much weight he’s lost, feel the muscle and bone until he makes her forget absolutely everything save for the warmth that always feels like home. She doesn’t even think about payment from him anymore.
Sometimes she feels an overwhelming guilt about it. How many times has she told herself that she doesn’t deserve this sort of happiness? She’s not fit for caring for others. She’s meant to die cold, alone, preferably with a small shred of dignity at least for her son’s memory, and with the Canadian winter fast approaching, that’s all she can think about. But then there’s Bailey.
“You could trade one in for a new blanket—a warm one,” she reminds him. “Or a few extra meals. Some men will go a bit hungry for a different kind of meal, starved in other ways.” Nadya winks at him. “But I want you to feel full again, at least for a meal or two.”
“Kind ‘a you...” he murmurs softly. Her fingers on his chest are very good at getting his attention, even when she isn’t perhaps really intending them to. And he’s touched by the gift. There’s very little of warmth and friendship about the resistance or the refugees; everyone is angry and betrayed and frightened and it’s a recipe for danger, for disaster.
But he’s worried, nevertheless. She claims she didn’t steal the cards, and yet... “Nadya, if somebody’s going to come looking for these, I want to know,” he says, raising his head slightly, his lips brushing past her ear. “I don’t want you t’ be in danger on my account. Well, in more danger,” he amends, shaking his head slightly. Danger is part of life around here -- but at least he wants to reduce it as much as possible for her. It’s his job, as a cop, as a lover...as a friend.
With one hand he turns the cards in his fingers. Small things and yet worth so much in this wasteland that had once been his homeworld. In fact it’s hard to figure things that are worth much more around here. If she didn’t steal them, it’s hard to picture what else Nadya might have found to trade for them, unless...
Ah.
“You’re working again, aren’t you?” he asks, softly and without inflection. There’s a flicker of betrayal in his gut and he hates the feeling; they’ve made no promises to each other, and yet he let himself believe. He let himself hope...
He removes his hands briefly from his jacket pockets, giving a haphazard salute as he walked toward Bailey’s desk. Fine day when he’s not asking for his tabs to be cleared by C-Sec.
“Well, if you’re in the mood for some fun,
then yeah.
Got anything case-wise you’re caught up in right now?”
Armando leans back in his seat and snorts. “Trust me, Dewitt, until the war’s over there will always be somethin’ or other demandin’ my attention. Which isn’t to say I always want to listen to it. What exactly’ve you got in mind?”
There’s a noticeable change in Nadya’s treatment of Bailey after he’s released from the hospital. She’s still pleasant as always, still takes his money as they pass her bedroom door’s threshold, still cries out his first name as he moves inside her.
But it doesn’t stop there. She calls him Armando over dinner as if she always had, kisses his cheek as she passes by. Never in public, but throughout her apartment, yes, always.
Nadya clearly has come to care for Bailey in a way she can only subtly express, and she isn’t sure what he feels until the day of the evacuation.
He came to get her. She doesn’t deserve it. It would be right to die now. But he makes sure she boards an evacuation shuttle with him, and her heart is in her throat the entire time. Death and destruction are happening all around and this is what she’s focused on. It makes her hate herself all the more, but so long as she’s with Bailey, everything feels alright.
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He’s in his makeshift dwelling when she sneaks up on him. The ragtag militia in this area fighting under the banner of the resistance has better quarters, better food, and access to doctors. It’s not her place, but the guards let her pass. They know her all too well.
“Armando,” she hums, wrapping her arms around him from behind, her habit long gone, her nun get-up just a simple black dress at this point. “I have something for you.”
She flashes the green ration cards in front of his face, waiting for him to turn around in her embrace. “Five wonderful little cards~! And I’m giving them to you. Consider it a debt repaid for saving my life.” She’s smiling, white teeth no longer bordered by crimson red. Nobody has lipstick or makeup of any kind anymore. “Of course, I can give you other gifts, too. But those I like. This is much less selfish.”
Armando is tired. The mad escape from the Citadel in the wake of its travel to Earth was some of the most terrifying hours of his life. The image of the invading Reapers seems to be burned into the inside of his eyelids whenever he tries to sleep, along with the neverending count of the people he wasn’t able to save.
He did his best with his Presidium authority to organize evac plans in the wake of Cerberus’s coup; they had their test when the Reapers came. He doesn’t know how well it all worked, of course; he went straight to Zakera during the attack and did what he could there, but the Citadel is so monstrously huge that there is no way to know how many survived across the whole station.
Perhaps he will never know.
But he made it out, with Nadya, who he helped escape her apartment; they and the rest of Zakera’s evacuees ended up crashing somewhere in North America -- Canada, according to the shaky signals his omni can pick up -- and banded up with the resistance there, and life has taken on a sort of horrible routine. Run, fight, protect, eat meager rations, sleep fitfully, repeat.
So it’s a messy business. But in some ways it feels like the most purpose he’s had in a long time. It’s like being a cop again -- not quite a soldier, but not a desk jockey either.
And there’s Nadya, of course. Somewhere the familiarity turned to warmth and she’s comfortable enough to embrace him, to kiss his cheek. Small things, perhaps, but in dark days like these, even the small things are enormous to him.
He smiles slightly, turns in her arms as she hugs him and flashes the ration cards that represent extra meals on a chronically empty stomach. Even so soon after the crash, they’re both a good bit skinnier than they were; she feels lighter than normal in his arms. “Well, now,” he drawls, tugging her into his lap with a grunt. “Quite a gift. Where’d you managed to pick those from?”
“We were mostly fine, as long as you remained indoors. What would Cerberus want with us? You were probably much more useful on the Presidium,” Nadya consoled in her own roundabout way. She knew how he felt about the politicians he had to deal with, and while she sympathized, having had her own, unique run-in with a few, she also knew he was a man of duty. Bailey might bend the rules to achieve results, but she’d never call him a bad cop.
“Can’t it be both?” she teased lightly, passing him a fork. “I don’t plan on staying in this line of work forever, you know. One day, you’ll have to pay for my cakes, so enjoy getting hooked on them while you can.” Not that she knew when she’d ever get a chance to leave her current profession. Any savings she had had been dipped into thanks to the lack of business in the wake of Cerberus’s attack. “I’m sorry it’s not sock-eyed salmon. Maybe the next time you visit we can plan on that, so long as you provide the fish. You don’t even have to pay for the time. It’ll be my treat.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Nadya sees Cecilia Cosmas pass through the halls. Not wanting to get in trouble with a rather strict doctor, she quickly gathers herself to say goodbye, leaving the cake for Bailey. “Take care of yourself, Armando.” Her hand lingers on his shoulder for a moment before she leans in and kisses his cheek for the first time. It’s a small token of affection that means so much. “Come visit me soon.”
“Useful...well, I hope so, anyway.” He cherished his own secret doubts about that. He’d let Udina up him in the first place; the man had probably taken him for a damned fool and acted accordingly. And without Shepard’s help, he’d have been completely right. But he’d done what he could to fix the situation. He’d tried his best. Couldn’t ask for more than that, right?
In any case, Nadya’s reassurance was soothing, and he let himself be warmed by it, watching as she unloaded the food next to his bed. “God, I haven’t had a good salmon in years...” he said with a rough laugh. “You’d be the first person around this station I might trust to cook it properly...” A wave of homesickness went through him mixed with the rueful reflection that she had him wrapped around her finger; somewhere along the line their regular rendezvous had become important to him.
Just business, 'mando...
But the thought was cut off by the sudden gentle warmth of her lips against his cheek, and he stared at her in silence as she pulled back. That was new. She’d put her mouth plenty of places on him but never above the neck before, never said his first name outside the bedroom -- and he knew what the distinction meant to her.
“I will,” he said quietly. “Thanks for the cake, Nadya. It’s...damn good t’ see a friendly face. You’ll see me before long. I’m a creature of habit, y’know...” His pale blue eyes followed her intently as she drew back.
Sam managed a very weak smile, relatively sure he was only joking. “You’d have to take that up with Sh - my commanding officer.” Even after this many weeks, she still caught herself slipping up. “I’m only on leave for now. The Alliance is holding a place for me.” The officer who’d come to deliver the news a few days ago had been very clear about that. They didn’t want to lose someone who’d served on the Normandy, not after everything that had happened.
Eight weeks’ leave, Traynor, paid in full. We can discuss unpaid time after that if you aren’t ready. For now, go home, get yourself back in order. Report back to me in a month with your progress.
Aye, sir. Thank you.
She’d done medical leave once before, after narrowly escaping becoming a casualty in the Collector attack on Horizon. If it went half as smoothly this time as it had then, she’d be thrilled, yet something deep down told her things weren’t going to be that simple.
Setting that train of thought aside, she glanced from the console to him and back again. “It doesn’t look specific to this station - just a general alert they’re putting out to everyone in the area, asking for certain supplies. Did you want a look?”
He winced sympathetically at her slip of the tongue. His own military career had been straightforward enough (indeed, working as a cop had proved more of a headache in its way), but he’d seen enough good people go down to know that it took a long time to get used to them being gone. And for someone who had been really close to Shepard...
Losing loved ones hurt like hell. He knew that for damn sure.
“Yeah...I’ll take a look. God knows we haven’t got much to spare -- but keeping the lines moving is important.” He felt suddenly inexpressibly tired, and there was a slight hunch to his back as he stood and moved to her side. As expected, most of the requisition was stuff that the Presidium was as short on as everywhere else, but somehow seeing it all listed out made him deeply frustrated. God damn. I’ve got to get back down to Zakera. That was home, not here -- and they were no doubt hurting even worse than the more posh areas were.
“'m guessing your CO’d be loathe t’ lose you,” he commented as he looked over the request manifest. “If you would want to stay around here when your leave’s up, I’ll see what I can do. If not, I won’t. Simple as that.”
He glanced sideways, smiled crookedly at her. “I may not be a marine anymore but I’m not above stealing good marines t’ help me if the opportunity arises.”
She smirked, folding her arms as she glanced down at Bailey. “Right now… it’s the same thing going on.” The war, but she didn’t want to mention it right now. Everyone knew a war was going on. Except for most of the people on the Citadel, who seemed to ignore it entirely. “I heard you got promoted to Commander. Just coming in to see how you like it so far.”
He snorted. “I’d rather be back in Zakera, believe me. I was never buckin’ for a promotion; just wanted to do my job. But you never can predict politicians.” He shook his head, eyed her up and down. “What about you, Shepard? I would have thought you’d earned at least one promotion by now.”
Maybe she did appear concerned, but it wasn’t like she should be completely indifferent towards Bailey given her own circumstances. “Business is slow,” she explained casually, placing her small parcel of goods on a chair before walking over to his bedside, getting a better look at him. “Some clients dead, some swearing to their wives they’ll be faithful, and then some like you are recovering. I’ve got plenty of time to make visits and bake cakes.”
She moved to at least let him try a forkful of her baked good, opening the box and cutting a small piece with the utensils she had brought along, not even caring for a moment that the staff might protest. “Besides, you’ve invested in my time, but it’s not a one way street. I think a little kindness in return is hardly anything but good business sense.”
They might as well have been in her kitchen, the way she carried on as if this were all normal. “Now try this. It’s chocolate, caramel icing though. I know the buttercream was a big hit, and I’ve been skeptical about caramel icing, but I really think this could be something unique.”
But Nadya had never felt so relieved. He was alive, and doing quite well by the looks of it. It was almost nice she had no clients to meet today. She could spend as much time as she wished with him. She was lonely too.
“Did you worry about me, Armando?” she teased, sitting on the edge of his hospital bed. She was honestly curious. Not many of her clients had, though that didn’t surprise her.
The absolute normalcy of the conversation was slightly bewildering; it felt somewhat surreal in the weird tension that generally permeated Huerta in the aftermath of the attack. The effort she was expending in making this seem like an everyday situation was not lost on him -- and he appreciated it. He didn’t want people fawning over his injuries. Mostly he just wanted to go back to work. And...he was glad to see she was all right.
“Worried a little, maybe,” he said, keeping his tone light to match hers. “Zakera got hit hard, and I was stuck up on the Presidium tryin’ to keep the stuffed-shirts safe. Not my idea of a good time...I wanted to be down there.” And of the people he knew in Zakera, she was the one he saw most regularly, the one he had conversations with that didn’t involve Citadel security and crime statistics. He would say that he did care what happened to her, that he had certainly worried about whether he’d see her again for more than the obvious reasons...but he was struck with a sudden strange fear that she would laugh at him, and so kept his own counsel and simply looked at her quietly as she moved.
He huffed out a breath, eyes drifting to the box of cake she was cutting. “God damn...good business sense maybe, but I think you might be close to spoilin’ me...” he drawled, his mouth watering. “Don’t let the doctors see; they’ve been feeding me nutrient paste and bad bedside manner.”
