The Competition

John's asleep.  I get up quietly, careful not to disturb him, and walk over to where I've left my armor.  I retrieve the ring and examine the inscription again.  John Shepard,  2074.12.07.  I notice a faint vertical line next to the engraving, running from the top edge to the bottom.  It's almost imperceptible, only visible because it's not as reflective as the surrounding metal.  I stare at it.  Then I activate my omnitool and go searching on the extranet.

When I'm done with my research, I pick up a pillow and swing it at John's face.  He wakes instantly and launches himself off the bed at me.  We wrestle, both trying to put the other in a hold.  I manage to gain the upper hand for a moment and use the opportunity to hold the ring out in front of his face.

"There's a line in this."  I point it out with a talon.

"So what?"  He could roll me over now, but he doesn't. 

"That's not the question," I say.  "The question is why?" 

He sighs.  "That thing's a hundred years old, Garrus.  I don't know all its history."

"I looked up some information about your Alliance tradition.  This isn't regulation size for a sniper's challenge ring.  It's just a little under, a few millimeters."

"Maybe they weren't a standard size back then," he says.

I glare at him.  "You're being deliberately obtuse.  My point is, someone resized this.  Changed it from the original size."

He shrugs, as best he can while lying on the floor with my weight on him.  "I guess someone wanted to wear it, and it had to fit.  Humans sometimes do that, by the way."

"Yes, I know all about that human tradition," I say meaningfully.  "I just wanted to know if perhaps someone in your family happens to have a finger the same size as mine."  I slide the ring on to the last finger of my left hand.  It fits perfectly below the base of the talon.

His eyebrows lift.  "That's convenient.  A hell of a coincidence."

"That's your story, is it?"  I dig my talons into his sides.   

He gasps in pain, and his eyes squeeze shut.   I apply more pressure, and watch his face. 

When his eyes open again, they're dark, hungry.  He smiles slowly, a smile of heated promise.  "That's my story," he says, his breathing deep.  "And I'm sticking to it."  One arm pulls me down and his lips trail over my face.  Swiftly he rolls us over and pins me.   I put up a token struggle, but not for long.  It's only encouraging him.  I can feel his erection swelling against me, my plates shifting in response.

"Again?" I say.  "Already?"

"Maybe winning excites me."

"You haven't won," I say.  "This conversation isn't over.  And you know I'll get the truth out of you."

"Then maybe losing excites me."

I growl at him.  He laughs and looks into my eyes.  I don't quite understand what I see there, in his.  But whatever it is, it can wait.

--END--