#desandra/ic.

[womanlives]

i healed up alright, but it took a long time. ( but also clar/des)

Desandra looks up from the scrap she’s sorting through. Spacer stations — ‘specially the ones near bigger planets — got the best shit, if you know where to look for it. Clarence is on the other side of the scrap pile, wrestling with an old, broken-down console. There’s a window behind him: two feet of fused silica glass. The view is incredible. Too many stars to count. The occasional freight ship cutting across the dark. The orange-sized outline of a planet she’s never been to, with three looping moons.

Her brow furrows. “I’m sorry,” she says, slowly, and a little bit hesitantly. Because she knows she wasn’t the one who hurt him — but it’s also her fault she couldn’t know him sooner. She picks up a half-shorn drone-armor frame and rips into the metal with her bare hands. Metal whines. It hurts, but she doesn’t stop. The anger has to go somewhere. Beneath her fingers, the frame twists, but does not snap.

Her eyes never leave Clarence.

“Do you think — ”

Another metal screech. The rough edge of the drone-armor bites hungrily into her palms. She should let go. She doesn’t. Desandra closes her eyes, tightens her grip, and tries again.

“People like us. You and me.” No need to elaborate what she means by that. He’ll get it. She knows he will. They’re both people who should’ve died tens of times ago. Now it’s strange. Now it’s a weird in-between. Now sometimes she wonders whether it’s a matter of can’t, or won’t. “Sometimes, when you’re not around, I think I might never heal up. All right, I mean. Heal up all right.” Heal up whole.

She finally looks down at the frame in her hands. It’s twisted beyond all belief, but still stands. Something catches her eye: a small, bright sticker, clinging for dear life near its edge. Des blinks, brings it closer to her face. “Hey.” She lifts the frame for Clarence to see. There’s a grin on her face as she points to the sticker. “Look.”

In bold, pink tacky lettering: PAPARINA’S ORCHARDS. And underneath it: a basket of fruit. Some she recognizes, others she doesn’t. And, last but not least, Grown organically on Planet XZ-II. The last few roman numerals are faded off, but that doesn’t matter. There’s a faint but undeniable glow in the depths of Desandra’s eyes. Excitement.

“We should go, yeah? Can’t remember the last time we got you fresh fruit. Think you can decipher the planet? Plot us a course?” Hole gone, fear forgotten. Even if it’s far away, she won’t mind. She could use it. The long time.

@tewwor babies only

[womanlives]

“Life?”

Desandra’s voice is strained. She’s stripped down to her racerback, top-suit tied around her waist so the whole fuckin’ thing doesn’t slide off. Her muscles strain and her body ripples with a crackling blue glow. Biotics. Your classic space bad bitch maneuver: she’s lifting the heavy rust-frames of scrap with her mind. Like a strong breeze fucking up an overripe dandelion. So Clarence can pick through the fun goodies hidden underneath.

Her teeth clench. She flexes the fingers of her hands — clawed, condensed — and mimes throwing something off to the left. A sheared-off back-thruster the size of a pickup rockets off the ground, does a flip, and rockets off fifty feet to the side. CLANG. It echoes in the red-rock canyons off to the right.

-Ang-ang-ang-aaaaang —

Des wipes sweat off her brow — thank God this planet’s got an atmosphere that doesn’t suffocate them — and wades over to Clarence’s pit. She blinks, and her eyes go wide. There it is, in the middle of chaos. A cute little patch of green. “Holy fuck.” He isn’t kidding. “Life.” Which is good, because their nav capacitor’s gone to shit. Meaning whenever they fly, they’re effectively flying blind. They need to find a fix before they can safely get their ship back into the sky.

It takes a couple seconds to safely slide down the wall of rubble he’s dug through. Des gives Clarence’s shoulder a squeeze as she rolls up beside him, then drops into a crouch next to the plant. Her head tilts, and her biotics fade. She smells like ozone. The aftermath of a lightning strike.

“Do — ” She’s afraid to touch it. “Do we…pick it?” A glance at the scrap-choked ground. She drops her fingertips to run along a piece of age-worn metal. “There more, you think? Under this?” Oh. Before she forgets. She reaches behind her to unclip her canteen. Passes it to Clarence with a little, happy smile. For him to do with as he will. “Real good find. Proud of you, ámawala.” Always am.

* & plots plots plots @womanlives

At first glance, there's nothing special about this barely planet. Organically, it's mostly barren. Hardly any wildlife to be seen or lush landscapes to hide in — just stretches of rust-red dust as far as the eye can see. Now, inorganically, it's like landing on the biggest treasure trove in existence.

It's scraps galore!

Like digging into the best dirt patch in someone else's backyard as a mangy ass dog. Except there's no hidden bones waiting to be found ( this time ). No, it's even better than that. The more Clarence plows through, the more goodies pop up until —

"Des!" Winded, but still incredibly exuberant, he shoots up from the giant pit with a million watt grin. "I found— Christ on a roller coaster. I found it! Life! Leafy greens!" There, in the middle of his self-made crater, Clarence points to the tiniest shoot of plant life. "Er, well, it's green— dunno if these can be considered as leaves? Dunno if that can be considered as fruit either." The weird lumpen mass of pocked fruit-like skin is practically choking the stem.

[womanlives]

“SO YOUR BODY JUST ... changes, yeah? To keep you alive?” 

Desandra sits across from Clarence at the small table in the even smaller living space of the latest ship she’s hijacked. She thinks about this for several seconds. Her lips twist, making the sharp fluorescents turn her expression feral. “Huh.”

On one hand, survival’s pretty fuckin’ rad. What she’s worked for damn near every day, really. On the other — well. Des doesn’t do well in situations where she’s not in control. 

She leans back in her seat. The metal’s cool and uncomfortable against her spine. Shitty ship, but it’s all she’s got. For now. Maybe she can convince him to trade it in next time they go planet-side. Have to do a couple jobs, sure, scrape up a few more credits. But she’s capable. So’s he. Strange and spacey, but she can’t deny the convenience: having someone around who don’t die.

Des taps the edge of the table with blunt nails and tilts her chin. The wall behind her features one of the few small windows on this ship, round and filled with nothing and stars. “It ever fuck you over before? Your body? The changing?” Curiosity: genuine. Even if she’s pretty sure she already knows the answer. (Somewhere, someplace, nestled between the lines: it gonna fuck me over, if we fly together?)

@tewwor for clarbear. 

[womanlives]

a kiss after grabbing the other’s arm and pulling them back close -> i just think des and max

Ever since she picked him up out of the stars and cradled him gently in her palms, Des and Max don’t really leave each other’s sides. Much.

Blame their jobs, maybe. She’s used to commanding; he’s used to being the right hand. They’re technically from two different crews, but that hardly seems to matter. Any decision that runs up the chain to her she shares with him. Talks it over, considers his opinion, makes her call. Then Maximilian runs it back down again, and ensures that whatever it is, it’s followed.

Or blame the impostors. Blame what he told her, way back when, how many cycles has it been now, in the sterile-white fluorescents of the med bay. Things that look like your crew, but not. Maybe it helps the pain that’s noted but never mentioned. Spending so much time together. Learning each other’s patterns. Preferences.

Knowing they can’t be anything else.

All else fails, fuck it. Blame Desandra. She was spaced too, once. Thought how fucking ironic it was, for the stars to be so goddamn beautiful all the while she was floating out there to die. Alone. So when she saw him, adrift, through the portside windows — well. Suppose whatever started it doesn’t really matter now. It’s already long since begun.

They sit, one across from the other, in the Normandy’s ‘loft.’ Otherwise known as the captain’s quarters. It spans the entire topmost deck, and while it’s smaller than you’d think, it’s — nice. Full-sized bed, bathroom, office desk. Coffee table in the corner. Chairs. One wall has a large fish tank embedded in it, and the other’s got a panel that slides back to reveal a small window of stars.

Desandra’s perched on the edge of the bed. Max sits across from her in one of the chairs, pulled close so the two of them can review some files. Des requested them just for him: everything she could get with her elevated clearance on extraterrestrial lifeforms. Discovered, speculated, and theories. They’re sprawled out on the covers in between them. She made sure to get hard copies. Actual, honest-to-God paper, this far out into space. So they can make notes. Off-the-record, untraceable.

Above them, the lights in the loft dim. Not a lot. Just a little. They’re programmed this way: a poor attempt to simulate the circadian cycle, but hey. Anything to help this place feel like home. Des looks up from the report she’s reading. It’s late. Has to be. How long have they been sitting like this? “Kopeng mi.” Murmured, under her breath. Not a swear: the opposite, really. A term of endearment. When Max lifts his head, she nods at the paper in his hands. “Find anything?”

Doesn’t specify what. Already knows the answer, too. Max doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. It’s written all over his face. More than that: etched in every part of his body, too. The furrow of his brow. The way his fingers dig sharp creases into the report that he’s holding. Frustration pours in rivulets between them, turning the air thick, and humid, and tense. Their eyes meet. Desandra isn’t sure exactly what it is, but something — happens. Blame, blame, circle back to the blame. Blame the stupid, auto-dimming lights. Her lips part. Blame the way his gaze drops, snags on it. Max exhales. Turns his head, starts to move away.

“Wait.”

Desandra grabs his bicep. Desperate, but not uncertain. She pulls him back, but not just to his seat. More. Closer. So he’s standing directly over her, a question on his lips. She doesn’t give him a chance. Her other hand reaches up, curls itself into the hair at the nape of his neck. Something in the air catches the spark that’s in her eyes. Waits until she guides him down to her, steals his lips in a kiss. Then ignites.

Des takes her time with this. With kissing him. How he feels, how he tastes. The scrape of his beard against her skin as she angles for another. For all the time they’ve spent together, this part is new, and she’ll be damned if she won’t memorize every bit of it. She tries to be gentle. She does. But it’s just — he’s just — there’s too much to think about, all at once. By the time she breaks off, out of air, his bicep’s got a fresh set of pressure-white crescents. Courtesy of her nails.

“Let’s — ” a sharp inhale “ — use this.” Another kiss, this one soft, this one quick. Doesn’t matter. Still makes her blood boil hot. “To check if we’re us. If we’re real.” Desandra’s grip loosens on his hair, but only just. She releases his bicep and brings her thumb to brush along the edge of his lips. Her eyes narrow. Satisfied, but only just. Still hungry.

“I don’t kiss you like that, throw me off the goddamn ship.”

SEND ME KISSES feat. @criticalfai1ure

[womanlives]

♤ - @ Shep!

honestly — what they thought about your muse when first meeting.

Desandra takes a moment or two to think. "Back on Eden Prime, yeah?" This is tricky; she's never been good with feelings, and separating out opinion from the crystal-sharp concentration of active combat complicates it further. "First thought — " she holds up a finger " — selfish. Thank fuckin' God. Two-man squad's a nightmare; three's so much easier to watch sixes. Looks like she shoots better'n Jenkins. Second." Another finger. "Tough soldier. Don't rattle easy, falls under command like it's second nature. Reminded me of me. Made me sad, until I got to know more about you. Third."

Here, Desandra falters. She's never been the most expressive, but right now her eyes are somewhere between guilty and sad.

"Alone. She's alone. Lost her squad, and it's all our fault. Have to make sure she gets out alive." Des inclines her head. "Owe you that much, Williams." Will until the day she she dies.

[womanlives]

SHE’S SUPPOSED TO BE WATCHING THE NAV CONSOLES. Especially considering the last planet had a bit of a hot exit situation. They’ve had hotter. Least this one didn’t have live gunfire. Least this time, Clarence didn’t get hurt. 

So Desandra should’ve been watching the nav consoles, making sure no one caught their trail, no one tried to follow ‘em back to black space. Except she couldn’t shake the last time, when Clarence had been hit and gone to bed with a face like a man burning alive. Hard to watch nav consoles with a memory like that. 

She’s been watching him instead. Or trying to, long as her eyes could stay open. It’s like she’s eight and back with her kid-sister again. Staying up past 3am, ready to take the nightmares away. Foolish girl. Didn’t learn then, didn’t learn now. Some things in life Des can’t fix. Doesn’t mean she won’t still try. 

Only he’s caught her slipping, hasn’t he? The blanket’s new: warm, and welcome, and lulling her back from that dreamless state. Des furrows her brows but doesn’t open her eyes. Not until she hears Clarence’s voice. Clarence. Right. Her watch; it hasn’t ended. Is he okay? 

Des sits up in the bunk opposite his with a grunt. Her hands reach out to clutch the blanket possessively — warm, welcoming, home — and blinks blearily up at Clarence. A brief moment of alarm as she searches his face for any sign of discomfort. None. Aside from the haystack hair, he looks great. She relaxes, lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“If I get killed by a cold,” Des says, voice softened by the blanket, “shoot me. I’d never live that down.” It’s meant to be a joke, but it comes out flattened by irony.  She lifts a hand, motions him to lean down. Closer. “C’mere.” Her fingers splay when he’s close enough, run themselves through the waves of his hair. Smoothing them down, putting stray locks back where they belong. She’s not normally one for touch, but she’s gotten used to this — used to him — in the same way she’s gotten used to the creaks and groans and shudders of the ship. Their little haven. One well-placed blaster beam from certain destruction, maybe, but what’s that matter? It’s theirs.

“How’d you sleep?” Her eyes search his. For what, she doesn’t know. Peace, maybe? Impossible to say.

✧･ﾟ very niche & tender interaction call ( accepting ) | @womanlives ･ﾟ✧

A head of haystack hair rouses like the sunrise. Slow, gradual, and a sight to behold. There's no sense of urgency this time around, and the lack of it feels.. wholly alien. Half of the time Clarence wakes in agonizing pain. Whether it be from his heart restarting, limbs reforming, nerves intertwining - so on and so forth. Then the other half of that half is a series of dire situations that leaves him little choice than to snap to; lest he'd like to hand over his jolly life and reawaken at a later point in the aforementioned agonizing pain.

Point is - he's awake without the familiar sense of panic. And it's because of that absence that he actually takes a moment to observe. Just a casual look around to make sure everything's still in place. Can't be too surprised or cautious when this tin can of a spaceship frequently rattles.

That's when he sees her.

There, nearby, in some level of rest. It's funny how often he finds himself privy to such a sight; all of which could be counted on one hand. Gently, he rises from the cot - makes the extra effort to be quiet with his steps. "Can't be catching a cold now," he murmurs, more to himself than anything, as the still warmed blanket is carefully draped around Des.

[womanlives]

♤ ( des / clar just for nostalgia )

honestly — what they thought about your muse when first meeting.

"THOUGHT YOU WERE GONNA SHOOT YOURSELF'N THE FOOT, Clarbear. Or worse. The face, maybe, when you started wavin' that blaster around." Des wrinkles her nose, remembering. Her eyes are uncharacteristically alive. "Thought that'd be a shame. Your face is nice. I like looking at it."

She tilts her head to the side.

"Thought we were gonna fight, too," she continues, tapping the tips of her fingers together. A smile, albeit small. "Glad we didn't. Don't think I woulda got this far without you." She points at him. "Your gun etiquette's still shit, though. No way in hell am I ever letting you near a shottie."

[womanlives]

“SO WHO WERE THEY?”

Desandra sits in an uncomfortable metal chair in the Normandy’s medbay. Dr. Chakwas left an hour ago to get some sleep, leaving Des alone with the floater her ship had pulled from empty space two days ago. He’s been out this entire time, leaving the rest of the crew to puzzle over who he is, why he was left abandoned in uncharted territories, and how the fuck he isn’t dead yet. That last part’s her fault. Oops.

Des leans in. Her face shines, and on it is a war: the stark white fluorescents of the medbay battle with the deep orange glow of her omni-tool. It shimmers on her wrist, holographic and brilliant, with all of the information of the known universes at her fingertips. Right now it displays a name. JOHN DOE. It’s bold and flickering and then gone as Desandra closes her omni-tool with a tap on her forearm. She’s already got his medical charts memorized.

No reason to waste time. He’s barely regained consciousness, and she goes for the jugular.

“The people who tortured you.”

There’s a lot you can learn from the robust medical examination of a man for two straight days. Dental records: no match found. Genetic disorders: none detected. Physical condition: robust, strong. Surprising, considering the amount of fractures and breaks found on various bones in his body. Christ, there’s three fucking paragraphs on his scars alone. 

Her eyes narrow. Not maliciously. She just doesn’t understand, and she’d like to, so she can figure out if she needs to rebreak all those bones, reopen all those scars, and toss him out the airlock. This time without a helmet. 

“Who were they?”

@mirafirstmate​ / 🖤

[womanlives]

❛ How does that thick butt fit in this tent? ❜ ( des / clarence & he's talking about his own ass `pensive emoji` )

“UH.” Desandra looks at Clarence’s butt. Really looks at it, like she’s never seen it before. She takes a step to the left, then to the right. A half-circle: nothing predatory about it, simply curious. She’s not really sure how to answer this. “With...difficulty? I dunno. Is this you sayin’ you wanna go shoppin’ for new pants? Er. Tents?” Is that what they’re calling them nowadays? She looks confused. She is confused. 

Des bends down a little to get a better vantage point. 

“It’s a nice — I’m allowed to look, right? It’s a nice ass.” Because it is. Why would she lie about something like that? Clarence could get it, if he wasn’t so busy tripping all over his own feet. “Just take off your pants if you’re feelin’ that confined.” Shrug.  “Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.”

@supes-up / ms Marbles sentence starters

[womanlives]

i don't know what kind of kiss but one for des !!

[saruman vc: so u have chosen: ⋆✴  🎀  𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽  🎀  ✴⋆ ]

EVERYTHING HURTS. Everything’s hurt before, but never quite like this. Desandra should’ve known this would be a different kind of churn when she and Rojas first crash-landed back on Earth after it’d all gone to hell — God, how long’s it been now? Trying to count the days is a welcome relief from the pain. But thinking is hard when you’re half-drowned and nursing what you suspect is three broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a fractured leg. 

She shouldn’t have tried to travel the hunting trail in the storm. This is her fault. She knows it. But the cabin they’ve been holed up in for the past — month? two? fuck, it hurts — has been running lower and lower on rations and water. They should’ve moved, but it’s safer up here in the mountains. And the quiet seems to do Rojas good. Sometimes Des watches him when she’s supposed to be on lookout in the dead of night. Used to be he’d always have this awful expression on his face. Like he was being murdered in his sleep. Maybe he was. But a couple weeks — days? hours? keep moving; just keep moving — ago it stopped. The expression went away. She hopes he doesn’t dream about being spaced anymore. 

She hopes he never dreamed about being spaced at all.

There’s a crack of thunder overhead. Desandra flinches on instinct. Relax; not a bullet. Gotta get back. Gotta get back before Rojas gets it in his dumb head to go out and look for her and makes the same mistake she does. Would he even look for her? Who cares. All it takes is one tumble, and the mud-trail is slick; Des went over the shallow cliffs in no time, straight into the rapids. Didn’t even have time to scream. 

The thought of Rojas getting caught up in them makes Desandra sick. She hasn’t felt this way in a long time. Not since her kid-sister got diagnosed and put into a hospital. Cruelly, her mind conjures up a memory of the stark-white room — only instead of her kid-sister withering away in the bed, it’s Rojas, stuck to hell with tubes, with a monitor going flatline. 

Is he even looking for her? Does he even care?

Desandra’s stomach flips. She coughs up water and pushes herself to her feet, favoring her good leg. Doesn’t matter. Got to get back. Got to get home. Home? No time to think about that. She puts her head down, snarls through gritted teeth, and moves. 

And, eventually, falls.

He finds her down by the pine grove. She’d gotten about a third of the way back to the trail before her body gave out. She’s only human, after all. It’s a humiliating sight: Desandra’s sprawled out, soaked and bruised, in a small nest of pine needles she managed to pull around her for some semblance of warmth. Her head is canted upwards towards the sky. Angry gray raindrops hit her cheeks, but she doesn’t care. She’s been watching a family of robins squabble as they shelter from the storm. Can’t see the stars. Can’t remember missing them.

She doesn’t react to his voice. Not at first. Truth be told, Desandra’s been imagining what he’d sound like calling her name for hours — years? centuries? — now. It isn’t until she feels warm hands on her shoulders — it isn’t until her vision goes from black sky to brown eyes — that she finally snaps back to the present. “Roj — ?” Her voice sounds like sandpaper, and her throat feels even worse. Des forces his name out anyway. 

But seeing isn’t believing. Feeling is. She reaches out and touches him: his hair, his face, his neck, his shoulders. Taking inventory, taking stock. There’s questions in the fine lines of her fingerprints. He responds in kind, lifting her chin to get a better look at the cut on her brow, trailing a thumb down her pulse, putting a hand to her heartbeat. 

Still here. Still with you. Fucking moron. Shouldn’t be out in this rain. 

It’s not so much an embrace as it is two people collapsing against each other like they’re the last ones left in the whole goddamn world. And they’re all the other has for support. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it isn’t. Desandra doesn’t care. She leans into Rojas as he buries his face in the crook of her neck. It’s the only way the two of them will stay upright. 

And she doesn’t — she doesn’t see the kiss. But she feels it. Right against the underside of her jaw. It’s small and desperate and warm in spite of the pelting rain. Desandra gets it. She’s never been kissed that way, but she gets it. She feels it. It burns, when you realize it. How much you need to be needed. 

Desandra doesn’t say anything. Instead she locks her arms around him, pulls him under the pines, and kisses him back. 

@mirafirstmate / kisses!

[womanlives]

“ — HEY.” 

It’s quiet, tentative. Desandra places one hand on the entryway to the Main Battery. There’s something anticipatory about the way she stands. This is Garrus’ safe haven, not hers. She won’t enter unless she has his permission, especially considering he’s still in recovery from getting half his goddamn face nearly blown off. 

“About Omega.” Des pauses, frowning. This is hard. She isn’t sure what the right words are to say. “There were a lot of people down there that wanted you dead. Lot of bodies we had to mow through.” 

Her expression is open. There’s no judgment in her eyes, or her tone. 

“You still one of the good guys?” 

@mantis-scope :^)

[womanlives]

tali sits quietly, thinking, before: "commander shepard? what are the robot husbands courier six speaks of?"

OH BOY. Ohhhhhhh boy. Maybe if Desandra closes her eyes and pretends she didn’t hear the question, Tali will get the message and go away. Des closes her eyes. Opens them. Tali’s staring her dead in the face. Damn. It was worth a try.

“So, like — ” 

There’s a strain in her voice. This is unusual for her. Night and day, rain or shine, meditation or murder, Desandra’s as steady as an anchor. Except now apparently, because she’s rubbing the back of her neck and shifting her gaze in a way not unlike a caged animal. 

“So, uh — ”

Fuck it. Might as well just rip the bandaid off. 

“Quarians have kinks, right? You’ve heard of those? That’s a thing for you?” Too bad if she hasn’t. Des is already barreling onto her next sentence. “Well, Six’s is robot husbands or something. I think. Fuck, I don’t know. Why are you asking me?” 

@lumenblooms​ WHY

[womanlives]

“ — That wasn’t very cash money of you.”

[womanlives]

DESANDRA STANDS, SILHOUETTED IN THE FLASHING LIGHTS of Omega’s Afterlife.  Before her a batarian curls into a fetal position on the floor. Half of him is covered in drink. The other half of him is covered in blood. And Desandra’s knuckles are scraped raw.

He’s whimpering. The music’s loud as fuck — shakes her ribs, rattles her bones with each pulse — so her omni-translator has trouble picking up exactly what he’s saying. It comes in snippets, but that’s okay. His tone of voice tells her all she needs to know. Sorry (hcckh) so sorry (kskssh) wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t (hhhsh) my brother died (kccch) she doesn’t give a shit. He poisoned her. Made her wake up, nauseous and shaking and drooling, on the bathroom floor of some shitty club. Des is pissed.

She hikes her dress up a half-inch. Needs the extra clearance if she wants to curbstomp this fucker in the corners behind the dance floor. Desandra lost her kid sister, too. You don’t see her going around poisoning motherfuckers about it. Coping mechanisms. Look it up.

Desandra squares up, lifts her heel.

And feels something snap in the middle of her back.

The dress she’s wearing takes a dangerous slip as its zipper gives the fuck up and goes to hell. Cool air rushes over Desandra’s shoulder blades.There’s a low whistle somewhere off to her left, and suddenly she’s thirteen again, back on the streets, wearing shit no kid should ever be forced to wear. Desandra’s jaw clenches. She whirls. Who the fuck did that?

She sees Garrus instead. He’s cutting straight for her. Not to her rescue — the both of them know Des isn’t that type of person — but to her aid, and that’s immeasurably better. One of his clawed talons swishes a circle in the air. There’s an awkward pause as Omega’s bass system shuffles from one song to the next. For a brief moment their eyes meet, and there’s nothing but silence and the intake of her breath. Then it picks up and blasts her eardrums out. Desandra does a 360 and shows Garrus her back.

“He poisoned me,” she yells over the bass. It’s not an excuse, because it doesn’t need to be. She doesn’t feel guilty. She can’t help it. The only thing she feels is bad about disappearing after she told the crew she’d get drinks tonight. Des pulls her hair up to the nape of her neck to give Garrus easy access. Her skin prickles at the scrape of his talons up her spine. She can’t help that, either.

It takes a minute or two. With some finagling from Garrus and some shifting from Desandra, they only manage to zip it halfway up. Des gives her body an experimental shake. The dress stays on. She nods, satisfied, and looks up at the turian with eyes that catch the strobe lights and flash red, then blue, the pink, then blue again, before darkening.

“Wanna dance?”

Behind them, the batarian coughs blood, and passes out.

@mantis-scope​ said: laces 

[womanlives]

DESANDRA SITS BACK AND LISTENS. Her whole focus is on Clarence. She hangs hard onto every word, brows furrowed, trying to piece it all together in her mind: his tone, his expression, his narration. What he’s describing is in some ways what she was expecting and in others even more horrific. She has never been very good at empathy, but for Clarence she tries. Tries to imagine what it feels like to drown. She once got put in airlock as a threat for a solid minute. It’s not the same thing, but it’s the closest she has to compare. Then Clarence tells her about what happened when he came back up, and Des closes her eyes in a grimace. Fuck.

He moves to fire. Desandra opens her eyes again, because she needs to see, needs as many clues as she can possibly get. Her eyes are as dark as the space that envelops their ship, only without the promise of stars. She watches his lips compress; she hears the slight rattle of his knuckles against the metal table. After I’m put out — she understands, then, even if she’ll never fully be able to relate, and her expression turns melancholy. This is the first she thinks about what she’s really asking of him when she does anything that puts him at risk. It’s sobering, and Desandra is ashamed. Stupid, stupid welwala. Clear as day, it is. Selfish of her never to think of it.

Clarence falls silent. Desandra shifts in her seat, still watching, unsure of what to do. He’s distressed — her fault, but it’s important information, and she’d ask it again knowing what she knows now. Even she can see that. She’s just never been very good at cheering people up. Doesn’t have a whole lot of practice, neither. But that’s no excuse.

Desandra stands abruptly, picking up her chair. Without preamble she carries it slowly to the other side of the table, right next to Clarence. Her movements are hesitant. Skittish, almost, because she’s trying to give him enough space to pull away if he wants it. She puts her chair down next to him, sits, and then places a hand on his wrist. “Sorry,” she says, and means it. She looks down at his clasped hands. Then, very slowly, her fingers move to his, slip in between his palms, and wrap around one of his hands. Hesitant. Earnest. Like she’s holding a baby bird.

What next. What next, what next, what next.

“When I was little I liked it when I got held. It helped sometimes.” She looks down and sees her own blurred reflection in the table: malnourished and tiny, back when her eyes still had lights. She blinks, once, then turns back to Clarence. “If it doesn’t help, that’s okay. We can try other things until something does.” It sounds like a promise. Maybe it is. Desandra gives his hand a small squeeze, then releases him. Doesn’t want to overstay her welcome. As if she even knows what a welcome is.

Still, though. She doesn’t move her chair away.

“We can stay away from water-planets, yeah? Just treat it like death’s still final, so you don’t gotta burn anymore.” She’s watching him closely. For any more hints, any more clues. “Does talking about it help or hurt?”

Everyone has their moments when a bad storm blows through. An expectation falls short, everything goes to shit, the other shoe finally drops. But that’s just the way of life, he’d always reason. There’s bound to be just as many rotten fruits as there are ripe ones in this basket woven by the marriage of time and fate.

Doesn’t mean it’s anymore enjoyable, though.

The awaiting pill doesn’t get any smaller to swallow or easier to stomach. It’s just there. Handed to him without preamble and stamped with the message of ‘no refunds’ in big bold letters.

Life hands him these things and all he can do is sit with it. Roll the hurt between shaky hands — back and forth and back again. Until maybe, hopefully, the mess turns into wool, the wool into yarn, the yarn into a bridge so he can make it out to the other side.

Reasonable the coasting conversation may be, he’s suddenly really down in the dumps. As seen by the exaggerated slumped shoulders, downcast puppy eyes and all. For a man that’s usually chock-full of life and unrivaled optimism, he’s stepped outside of it. Let that skin slough off and reveal all the vulnerable bits to the only person that’s bothered to stick around. Well, besides… No, too soon. He still can’t think about it, him — much less speak it.

Clarence knows how lucky he is, practically stupid with luck, crammed with it where it shouldn’t count. “Changes, yeah.“ Dejection radiates tenfold as a sudden clutch of fear grips him. "Always happens when I’m in danger. Cool in theory, but I’m tired of changin’, mate— sick of it. Can’t exactly die ‘cause I’ll always come back— immortality’s what they call it I guess. And it’s so highly sought after, yeah? People wanna live forever n’ ever, but what they don’t tell you 'bout is the pain. It’s always there. Always hurts more than what one fella should be experiencin’ in a single lifetime.

"But I’ve been… I’ve drowned, only to not drown a few seconds later. Got these, uh, gills that kick in here.” A single finger tails along the side of his neck. Five lines, to be exact. “Got all this water in my lungs already— gotta expel that. go to breach the surface and then I’m suffocating in plain air 'cause of the gills that just saved my life.”

“Got set on fire a few.. hundred times and I’m fine. Just can’t tell when that part'a me’s gonna also change into that sorta fire. Just 'cause I’m immune to it sure don’t mean that others are.” Lips tighten at that. His hands seek shelter within each other, clasping to help ease the slight tremors that begin to set in. “Which totally makes sense talking 'bout it after I’m put out, but in the moment? Hard to tell what’s up, down, or around town. So sometimes it doesn’t click that I don’t gotta be brandishing a gun to hurt someone.”