Sweat is dripping from his every pore; his plates are all lifted, straining against his one-size-too-small shirt. He wipes behind his fringe with a moist sleeve and it comes back with great wet patches. Damn it.
Shaking his head (and releasing a fine mist of sweat into the surrounding air, he can be sure), Nihlus refocuses on the console. Think, brain, think. There has to be a way around that encrypted key. He can almost see it, like an actual key dangling just out of reach outside a dirt cell. Except it’s too damn hot, and he can’t fucking remember. He rubs his jaw. Works a little tension out of his face, unknots a couple of muscles. Better. But not there yet.
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“And third…” Nihlus says, his voice lowering an almost imperceptible degree at a time, “we’ll take a shower. Together.”
Saren narrows his eyes. This is getting preposterous. But Nihlus just smiles at him from across the narrow table. Brushes a leg against his. Saren scowls and pulls away.
“And last?”
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“Are you sure you did these thoroughly enough?”
Yep. Too easy. That look says: you can’t make a simple snack without charring something, pickling something, or, on one memorable occasion, causing something to explode — so shut up and eat, you ingrate.
Ah. It’s good to be home.
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“Well,” Nihlus began.
“Don’t.”
“You left a gap in your platinum line.” They watched the enemy Rachni Brood Tank spew sludge all over it. “That was filled fast. No pun intended.”
And then, a stream of Turian Archangels lept up the cliff to join in the attack. “They sure jumped on that one. No pun intended.”
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“Look at them.”
Saren ignored him.
“You don’t see Alliance looking this relaxed much. Or this hot.”
He was doing it on purpose.
“They almost got the asari good looks.”
He wasn’t drunk, but more than half of the way there.
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Nihlus dropped his half-eaten biscuit as soon as his ears picked up the tiniest hiss from the airlock. He put Saren’s much-too-expensive plate on the counter, then shoved the rest–some documents, an omni-tool, a few OSDs–off the worktable, narrowly missing the portable terminal. There was just enough time to pull his rumpled shirt into shape before Saren walked in, laden with at least five metal cases.
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