#; isabela 'izzy' shepard & garrus vakarian ❯ compact izzy and canon garrus ❪ anderwhohn / connection. ❫

[smokedanced]

It’s strange, being on Omega without his helmet and armour to mark him as  Archangel.  No one looks at him twice; some of these people wanted him dead, not so long ago. He was anonymous as Archangel, and now he is anonymous as Garrus Vakarian... In theory, someone could put two and two together from the bandage covering half his face, what with Archangel being shot to the head with a rocket, but... a lot of people here, are scrappy. Most probably don’t think Archangel survived. What a way to let that legend die.

Garrus doesn’t want to reclaim the title. Archangel was reckless, grieving, and ultimately, alone (even before his team was murdered, he hardly formed bonds with his teammates, keeping a distance at all times). Garrus, while he can’t be accused of not being reckless, has been given a miracle... his bondmate, alive. Scrappy, they all are that, but... alive.

Chakwas argued with him half-heartedly when she had caught him leaving the Normandy. He shouldn’t be going out in his condition, he’s lucky she lets him be on his feet and working on the ship’s guns instead of strapping him to a hospital bed, and so forth... but there’s a warmth in the doctor, as well, an understanding. Of course he will go after Izzy, to seek her out, when he notices she’s ventured somewhere on her own. How can any of them resist seeking her out as much as possible, now that she’s alive?

A new concern is presented when he saunters into Afterlife and spots her among the several people clearly giving her eyes. Garrus gives a subvocal growl as a warning to a turian hovering near her, wordless communication; she is his mate. Back off. & the turian doesn’t know he’s Archangel, but clearly Garrus has something rugged and intimidating about him; the guy disperses quickly. Garrus is a little pleased with himself.

And more than a little... jealous is not... possessive, maybe. All these eyes on Izzy.

He rests a hand on the small of her back, firmly, to assert his claim further. Unless Izzy herself wants to flirt with these people, Garrus isn’t going to have any of it. If she does, he’s not a controlling dick; she can do what she wants. But he can’t say he wouldn’t feel... insecure about it. Even if he’d know it would never go further, without his consent; same as it wouldn’t for him, not that he’s flirted with anyone in over two years.

She died, but she’s his bondmate not only for her life, but for his, as well, as far as he is concerned. He had not intended to get involved with anyone, ever again. Naïve, perhaps, yes. Perhaps he would have changed his mind in a few decades. But fortunately he now does not need to concern himself with such thoughts. (Unless she dies again, permanently. He grips at her jacket a little, before sitting down next to her.)

When she addresses him, he realises how tense he is. Forcing himself to let his uninjured mandible relax and unpin from his face, he tries to match Izzy’s softer look.    ❝ Yeah. I wanted to come and find you, that’s all. Chakwas tried to give me trouble about it... ❞    His face plates lift into a turian version of a smile. His hand is still resting on her back; he slides it onto her thigh, and immediately burns with a twinge of flustered embarrassment, but leaves it there anyway, observing her, ready to back off if it’s... unwelcome. It’s been two years (even if it hasn’t, for her); he doesn’t know if she wants the public displays of... affection.

@smokedanced asked: [ possessive ] your muse resting their hand on mine’s leg or the small of their back while they’re sitting beside each other . / garrus for izzy

While she would never admit to it aloud, there is one thing that Isabela was in complete agreement with Miranda Lawson on: Omega is a piss hole…

And yet, she herself finds some comfort in the strange familiarity of the place after the few years she spent on the streets of Earth, running with gangs that wouldn't put too much thought to her oddly alien behaviour as she adjusted to being human again before approaching the next phase of her assigned mission in her youth. Though it's probably that comfort, even among criminals, murderers, and thieves, that draws more than a little of the attention that she's gained to her, even as all she's done is to take a seat at the bar after putting her drink order in with the turian bartender.

While never fully taking her eyes off the turian handling her drink, she does spare enough of her attention to her surroundings, taking note of the piqued interest a number of the other patrons have taken in her. It's flattering, in a way, particularly when she knows how many of the other species view humans, and yet a wasted endeavour for anyone who decides to try their luck with her.

Emerald eyes focus back on the bartender as she nods in thanks when her drink is placed on the bar in front of her, taking it in hand to sip at. At least until a familiar weight and warmth of a three-fingered hand comes to rest on the small of her back as a different turian invites himself to the stool next to hers.

A wry smirk tugs at her lips as she looks up at Garrus, a single brow raised in silent question at the way his talons curl slightly into the material of the jacket she wears, though there's a hint of uncertainty that lingers in her gaze as she's still clearly thrown by the lack of the auditory implants that once allowed her to fully hear subvocalisations. Between her missing implants and his claim on her as bondmates, she is certainly finding herself at odds with this strange new galaxy two years past what she last remembers…

Another sleepless night had led her to leaving the docked ship to venture alone into Afterlife, but she hadn't expected any of the crew to follow her. Though, in hindsight, she should have known her mate would track her down as soon as he realised she was no longer on the Normandy…

"Hey, you," she murmurs in quiet greeting, head tilting to the side slightly in curious interest as she eyes him while taking another sip of her drink. "Everything okay on the ship?"

[smokedanced]

Pallin has it out for him. Not exactly Garrus’s usual job description, as an investigator; he keeps being sent on milk runs way below his expertise. A human behaving shadily by the public terminals... can’t they send, well, one of the humans? He should have better things to do with his time, but... the reality of it is, he doesn’t. Maybe this is a good thing. He enjoyed his job more, when he could see tangible results as he worked, even if if the crime he resolved had been petty, unexciting.

Nowadays, it’s more paperwork and bureocracy than anything. He doesn’t feel like he’s making a difference, doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything good.

This human does have an odd stance, though, he has to admit, as he watches her from a distance as he makes his way closer. Loitering around suspiciously may not be a crime, but there could be more to it than that.

❝ You tell me, ma’am, ❞    Garrus responds, casually, despite the polite language.    ❝ Could you show me some identification and state your business here. ❞   It’s a command rather than a request.

@smokedanced || semiplotted starter.

She should have known better. The last time she spent any significant time on the Citadel, she was much younger, only a child at the time, one of the many 'duct rats' as they have come to be called. Or, as she knows of them herself now, the drala'fa - 'the ignored'.

Now, however, she's an adult, and at this exact moment, one her handlers would no doubt be frowning in disapproval at had they been around to see her at any point in the last several hours as she has waited by the public terminals, growing increasingly more antsy the longer time passes without a message received.

She's awaiting orders, and not from who most would assume based on her species and the Systems Alliance dog tags tucked away under her shirt. She's not in uniform, instead having opted to spend what time she has left on this shore leave in standard civilian clothing, only neither does she hold herself as most human soldiers do, even those who had undergone the rigorous training of the N7 program.

Just as she also manages not to hold herself as one would expect of an untrained human civilian, her training under the Compact giving her a harder edge than most humans on the Citadel, more of what you'd expect to see from one of the few drell that occasionally board the station.

So to say that Isabela is annoyed at herself when she's approached by a turian in C-Sec armour is an understatement, her emerald green eyes narrowing even as she quickly scans the area for any other officers.

Just the one…

She knows it's far too late to try to look like a perfectly innocent civilian tourist, so she doesn't even try to change her demeanour, simply shifting her weight to better position herself in case she needs to bolt. But for now, she'll at least try to see if she can talk her way out of this - it wouldn't be the first time.

"Is there a problem, Officer?" she asks, crossing her arms as she subtly disconnects her omnitool from the network, not wanting to risk the message from the Primacy coming in with C-Sec actively watching her.