Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She taught him that the only way to make sure the problem was dealt with was with death.

She taught him to pursue his goal, no matter the amount of red tape tangling around his feet. When she stole the Normandy, he was in awe. A turian commander would have been executed for such an act, but she knew she was right and she did it anyway.

Ruthless and determined, she was everything he ever wanted to be.

And then, she died. Spaced, they said. Cold and alone, drifting in the uncaring cosmos, gasping her final breaths into the abyss.

The light went out from his galaxy, and he wandered aimlessly without her. He nursed the dreams of becoming a Spectre himself, and joining her once more, perhaps for a few missions or as a permanent partner.

But then, she was gone. And he realized that was the only reason he really wanted to be a Spectre anymore. He couldn’t serve on a human ship forever, but if he were a Spectre… but now the dream has lost all meaning.

He left the Council space without looking back and wandered the Terminus Systems. He drifted from planet to planet, city to city. Looking for something, something he didn’t know what.

And then, he saw another turian shoot a civilian in cold blood. Enraged at the injustice, he fired back. The skirmish continued for an hour before the turian managed to get away from him long enough to hop on a departing freighter.

He checked the destination. Omega.

It was the place he tried to avoid. The infamous station teeming with mercs and gangs and thugs, the cast-offs of the galaxy.

Cast-offs… like he had any right to look down on them, with the way he himself was.

He booked the passage and took off in pursuit.

She taught him that the only way to make sure the problem was dealt with was with death, and his was close.

He is so tired. Physically, it is beginning to be hard to react, to pick off the attackers as they peeked from around their hiding places. Mentally, his brain is racing through the possible solution to the dilemma he found himself in and finding only dead ends.

And emotionally, he is grieving and he is numb.

At least, soon, it will all be over. But he won’t go gently into the night.

That is not what she taught him after all. She always fought to the end.

But as he calls his father for the first and last time in years, the rifle scope finds another merc. Black carbon fiber hardsuit, so much better than what the freelance rabble has been wearing. But it’s the insignia that gives him a pause.

N7. It can’t be, it must be some other soldier with the designation, but…

His eyes widen as the sights lift up and find a face he never thought to see again. Is he hallucinating from exhaustion?

He fires a concussive round at her. If it’s a mirage, she wouldn’t… but the shields around her pulse in faint blue, deflecting the shot. She ducks behind a pillar as do two other humans trailing her.

Has she come to kill him? She might not know who he is. Or she might know and not care.

Was her death fabricated? Why didn’t she tell him? Was she away on secret Spectre business? Did someone get her to investigate him?

But when she opens fire at the backs of his attackers, his heart soars for the first time in two years.

She hasn’t changed, and yet she has. There is tiredness behind her eyes, or maybe it was always there and he just didn’t notice it before. The scars crisscrossing her cheekbones are new, angry red, a perverse mirror image of his colony markings.

He has to lean on his sniper rifle to get up, lest his knees give out from exhaustion. She is guarded, cautious, her weapon still half-raised, but it’s her. She is here. Alive.

He takes off his helmet and sits down on the edge of the table. Green eyes widen at the shock as recognition dawns on her face.

“Garrus! What are you doing here?”

She sounds… happy. Relieved. All the careful distanced air falls away as she takes a step towards him, grinning, arms spread as if she wanted to give him… a hug? That thing humans and asari are so fond of.

Her companions are less welcoming, but even they relax at Shepard recognizing him, calling him by name.

But there is no time to waste, as the new wave is coming soon.

He remembers little of the encounter with Tarak’s gunship. Not the first time he got shot, though not with his kind of caliber. His leg and side took a few rounds, though shields deflected them, making the shots that would have shattered his bones to barely graze his body.

But that was the limit. So when the rocket came flying, he had no shields left.

He faintly remembers her, Shepard, his commander, his friend, his mentor, kneeling above him. Her face, always so calm, is a mask of horror. He feels the cold sting of the medigel on his face and neck.

He wants to speak. Wants to say her name one last time, wants to thank her for being here in his final moments. All that comes out of his throat is a wet gurgle, and his right mandible doesn’t move right.

“Just hold on…”

“He’s not gonna make it…”

And then, there was nothing. He doesn’t know how they got him to a medical facility except that when he finally cracks his eyes open, the air smells crisp and cool, with a strong tinge of disinfectant. Blinding white surfaces, clean and modern. Nothing like anything on Omega.

“Ah, Garrus. You’re awake.”

Another voice that is familiar, from the past, from another life. Karin Chakwas, Normandy’s medical officer… Where the hell is he?

She tries to stop him from getting up, but he is relentless. An elderly human woman couldn’t wrestle him back to the cot even if she wanted to. She stands aside with a stern instruction to come see her once he checks in with Shepard.

If it is afterlife, he can live with that. The ship he walks through is familiar but is not. Brighter, cleaner, larger, but unmistakable. Normandy, it has to be.

“She's in the conference room, it’s behind the CIC. Second deck.”

Another familiar voice, this time through the intercom, and he nearly stumbles. Joker. The last time he saw the man he was a pile of misery in the corner at Shepard’s memorial service. Now he sounds as chipper and insufferable as ever.

His blood still pumped full of painkillers, he makes his entrance and sees something odd on her face. A tremor in her lower lip, almost like a nervous tick.

In a turian, this would be a cause for concern, uncontrollable tremble of the mandibles pointing at neurodegeneration, one he is unfortunately familiar with.

But the little shake is gone in a few seconds, though her voice is tight, warbled. But he cracks a terrible joke about his scars, and she fires back and it is all back to how it should be.

For the first time in two years, he feels right. Even though his squad is gone… and that he will never forgive, not Sidonis and definitely not himself.

She checks in on him soon after, as meds start to wear off. He braves through the conversation for as long as he can, until he can’t anymore. After talking about the betrayal, he is unable to suppress the pain any longer.

“That’s for coming by Shepard, I have some things I need to take care of.”

He can feel her piercing eyes on his back but that is something he can deal with later. Shutting and locking the door, he lowers himself to the cold floor and tries to weather through the worst of the pain, physical and mental.

He watches her just like he had always watched her. She brings him in every mission, him being the only one she trusts implicitly, though he notices that she is warming up to the rest of her new crew.

He watches her six, watches as she speaks, confident and brazen, strong in ways he always wanted to be. Somehow she always knows what to say.

He watched her for so long, on SR-1 and now too. He admires her, respects her, like nobody else in the galaxy.

With all his incessant staring he can’t help but notice that she has changed somehow. Before that, in pursuit of Saren, she was completely single-minded. Utterly ruthless, unconcerned with casualties, calculating to the very end.

Now though… she is still a tempest on the battlefield, but there are glimpses of mercy.

Like when she gives a wounded salarian medigel and comforts him, helps him on his feet. Not what he expected from her. Small things that add up. She stops Jack from killing Aresh, stops Mordin from killing his student.

Something has changed in her since her own death. She is still abrasive and ruthless, but that side of her is balanced with mercy.

He doesn’t want to see it. Not really. He has built his world around who she was before, and now she has changed. Is she seeking redemption? Should he seek it too?

Too many questions, none of them he asks of her.

But when his old contacts on Citadel come through and locate Sidonis, all those thoughts disappear like a puff of smoke in a raging storm.

“Are you sure it’s the only way?”

He has to do a double-take, looking up at her from his crouching position. She is calm, steady, and cool… but the thin lines of scars crossing her face pulsate with a red glow, faster than usual.

“You are the one who taught me that killing is the only way to deal with things.”

Her eyes dart away from him.

She doesn’t stop him from roughing up Harkin until he is in real danger of snapping the bastard’s neck. Her pointed look reminds him: we haven’t gotten the information yet, lay off.

She always kept a cooler head than him. But there is satisfaction in her eyes as he shoots Harkin through the knee.

“You seem gleeful,” he murmurs as they walk out.

“He called me ‘princess’, back in Chora’s Den. His sleazy eyes were all over my tits. I wanted to shoot him so badly, but I was in a rush and there were lots of krogan bouncers.”

Her eyes pulse with red light.

“I don’t forget things like that. He tried to demean me because I was a woman.”

“I see.”

They climb into the car, with Thane silently taking the seat in the back. Figures she’d bring the assassin to an assassination. But this is his shot.

He tells her the plan, and she nods. They land in the Wards, and the engine quietens down.

“It’s not too late to turn back, Garrus.”

When did she grow a conscience? Where did this mercy come from? No words can sway him, no matter how charismatic of a talker she is.

Not when ten good men lie in unmarked graves. If they were lucky, that is. Their bodies most likely got spaced or thrown into trash incinerators.

Because of Sidonis.

And because of him.

He sends her down to meet with the traitor, and she obediently does so, beckoning him closer, into his sights. His mandibles flutter in anger and anxiety and anticipation, his finger steady on the trigger.

The fiery red hair is almost all he can see through the scope, with but a sliver of Sidonis’ crest. She is tall for a human woman, he noted for the first time.

“You’re in my sights, move to the side.”

But then… she does not. His finger trembles. He can’t. He could aim for the top of the traitor’s head but… he would never risk such a thing.

And she is blocking his view, intentionally, knowing full well that he won’t take the shot. He curses and grits his teeth, growling back his responses until Shepard steps in and… and he gives in to her. Like he always does.

“Just… just go, tell him to go.”

The maelstrom within him is unbearable. He should take the shot as he walks away. He should ignore Shepard’s voice. He should leave the team and never come back. He should push back on her, grow a goddamn quad as Wrex would say.

He knows he can do none of those, and it is infuriating. He is powerless, helplessly sucked into the vortex that is commander Shepard, unable to resist her will.

She taught him how to be her, and then she decided that it no longer suits her?

The heavy steps come to rest behind him and he snaps.

With a snarl, he swirls on the heel and smashes her into a wall with one hand. His talons squeezing her throat, he leans over towards her.

“Why, Shepard? Why?!”

She meets his eyes - they must be absolutely crazed right now but he doesn’t care - and shakes her head slowly.

“It was better that way.”

“How exactly,” he can see Thane climbing out of the car, his hand on the Locust at his hip, “is that better? Justice must be served, you taught me that, you taught me how to be you!”

“I did.”

“And would you have taken the shot?”

“Yes.”

He snarls, pressing her into the wall harder, not caring about Thane’s SMG aimed at his head.

“Then why ?!”

“Because you are better than me , Garrus.”

And in her eyes, he sees nothing but utter sincerity and truth. Kindness, tenderness even as his talons are leaving marks on her neck.

He lets go, and she stumbles slightly as he backs away, his fists clenching and unclenching.

“You are better than me, you are better than this,” she says to his back. He leans on the railing heavily.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. And it was my mistake to not recognize it sooner. You shouldn’t strive to be me… I am broken in more ways than one. You…”

“Also broken. A washed-out cop, failed vigilante, Hierarchy cast-off. Spirits, I don't even deserve my own colony markings.”

He scratches the peeling face paint with a talon, watching the blue flakes drifting to the floor below.

“There is no need to add to it. Give it time, Garrus.”

“Maybe.”

“If you wish to leave the crew, I understand.”

He laughs, bitter and exhausted. He can’t, she knows he can’t. He has nowhere else to be… and besides, how could he let her walk into hell without him?

“Let’s go, Shepard. I need some distance from this place.”

You are better than me.

She said it like she really meant it. Garrus’ head spins on the ride back, remembering her earnest eyes. The same eyes are now hiding behind the long dark… lashes? Is that what they are called?… he can never remember.

She looks almost asleep, but he can tell by the pattern of her breath she is not.

Back on the Normandy, he heads straight for the Main Battery as Shepard is stopped by Yeoman Chambers in the CIC. He doesn’t look back as the doors of the elevator close.

“Shepard reminds me of my wife, Irikah,” a voice says quietly behind him.

Garrus growls low in his subvocals. Warning, though he isn’t sure if the man behind him can hear it.

“Irikah had seen the laser dot of my scope on my target and threw herself in between us. It… it reminds me of what Shepard did.”

“He didn’t deserve to be saved,” he hisses at the drell who responds with a thin, serene smile.

“No. But you were.”

“I… was?…”

Garrus stands in the elevator, dazed until the lights wink out and he realizes that he needs to get a move on.

You are better than me.

They are both soldiers. They’ve killed countless people, it is in their job description. Why stop him now? What is so different about this?

He crosses the lively mess hall ignoring several voices calling out to him, instead marching right into the refuge of the Main Battery and leans heavily on the console awash in dim red light.

Is this him, she asked over the shoulder, never removing her piercing green eyes away from the salarian in front of them. Absolutely, he confirms, cold rage boiling inside, his hand gripping a sidearm tightly. Saleon, he’d recognize the bastard everywhere.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Shepard drew a pistol faster than he could see.

“I’m Commander Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. And you, Doctor Saleon, are a dead man.”

The shot rang out in the confined space, and he winced at the piercing sound. The body of the salarian folded to the ground and she turned to leave. The walls and ceiling were painted deep green from blood and brains and his stomach turned. Not that he hasn’t seen things worse than this. No, it was the cold, clinical execution that made him uneasy. 

“That was satisfying,” he murmured and caught her eyes. They were glassy, hard, and devoid of any emotion. It scared and awed him at the same time, “though I wish I could have taken the shot.”

“If you do it it’s a murder, Garrus. I’m a Spectre… and I crossed that bridge a long, long time ago.”

He didn’t understand it but kept his silence.

If you do it, it’s murder.

You are not a murderer, she called out to Mordin as he pointed a gun at Maelon.

Mordin killed plenty of people, but…

All of that was during combat situations. Or on someone’s orders, or, in the case of mercs raiding his clinic on Omega, in self-defense. Killing Maelon would have been a personal decision, not made under duress or in the heat of battle.

In all the time he has known her, she was always the one to make the decision to execute someone in cold blood. She took the shot and dealt with the consequences.

Never him.

And… perhaps she doesn’t want it to be him.

Because… why, Shepard? Because she is somehow undeserving of salvation?

Some time later - he couldn’t say how long - he stepped out of the Main Battery to scrounge something to eat. The mess hall is unusually empty, but outside the observation port is obscured with… some kind of rock formation. He nearly brushes it aside as meaningless, but then his mind catches up to him.

Not a rock formation. Beyond it is the darkness of space, unfettered by the atmosphere. No asteroid, not with those strange metallic protrusions and spikes.

A Collector ship.

He rushes to the elevator, all thoughts of food forgotten.

“Joker!” He runs up to the cockpit to see the pilot drumming his finger on the armrest nervously. “What’s going on?!”

“Shepard got info from the Illusive Man about this ship, some turian patrol managed to disable it. She’s gone in to see what she can find.”

“What?!” His body is frozen in abject horror. She has gone into this death trap without him. Without someone she can trust watching her six.

“Hey, I don’t like it either!” Joker threw his arms up in frustration, so forcefully he had a decent chance of breaking something.

“She couldn’t have gone in there alone, could she? Who’s with her?”

“Grunt and Thane, she’ll be fine, Garrus.”

He kept pacing in the small space, listening to the desperate comm calls. Occasionally a shot cracks through the mic, or a shrieking gasp of a husk, one time he even hears the damn Harbinger calling out to her, so close as if the possessed Collector is right in front of her.

By some miracle, they get away.

He waits outside the comm room for her, hearing through even the thick metal doors the anger in Shepard’s voice.

But as the conversation draws to a close, he falters. Before she can step out and find him outside the room waiting for her, he dives into the armory and begins to fiddle with the Incisor, counting on her heading into the research lab to talk to Mordin or looking up upgrades.

No such luck, as the door hisses and she trudges in. He doesn’t look up, but the footsteps approach him.

He searches desperately for something to say. Apologize for his outburst, or perhaps ask why she didn’t bring him on the mission. That is a stupid question.

He attacked her. How could she trust him ever again?

Instead, a loud thunk shakes the entire workbench and Garrus looks up at the strange, tubular rifle she dropped in front of him.

It takes him just a moment to recognize: M-98 Widow antimatter rifle. Anti-vehicle/anti-krogan 39-kilo monstrosity capable of shattering bones of the shooter.

“Found this on the Collector ship. Thought you’d enjoy the new toy.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t have the enhancements necessary to fire this thing. Even heavy armor can’t protect from the kick.”

“Would you like to get the implants?”

He looks at her. She is still in full armor, splattered with blood and gore, but she is smiling.

“Are you kidding, Shepard? This rifle is a dream.”

“You’ll have the funds. Enjoy tinkering.”

And with that, she leaves, her gift laying before him, as heavy as his heart.

She takes him to the next mission. And the one after that. And one after that. She makes her rounds after, speaking with every one of her crew, including him.

It’s like nothing has ever happened. She merely moved past it, and he does his best to follow her example.

You are better than me.

Garrus shakes his head, trying to focus on his calibrations. In which universe is that true? She is the Commander. A perfect weapon, a super soldier, an inspiring leader.

How can he ever compare, how could he ever think he could compare. How can she say with a straight face that he is in some way better than her?

He lashed out at her, his commanding officer, his friend. And she was calm. Kind. Understanding.

Sidonis didn't deserve to be saved, but Garrus was, Thane said. Did he mean not murdering someone in cold blood?… did she mean that too?

The door hisses as it opens, and Shepard walks in. No one else really ever checks on him. Tali prefers an intercom, and so does Joker.

“Shepard. Need me for something?”

She smiles and sits down heavily on a nearby crate. There is tired sluggishness to her movements.

It’s not every day one brings down a thresher maw on foot. He was there, but he kept his distance, as usual, aiming for the vulnerable unarmored spots. Grunt and Shepard were much, much closer to the maw.

She smiles that tired smile of hers, the one she always had, except now he is able to recognize it for what it is. There is an undercurrent of exhaustion to her, an enormous weariness, though today it is more evident than usual.

She seems to have left his outburst in the past, and it is all he can do but hope that he can one day do the same.

Nevertheless, he thanks her for helping him with Sidonis, swears that he will stand by her, no matter what. For whatever that might count, coming from him. But she responds by smiling and telling him she couldn’t do it without him.

But of course, she could. She is the Commander fucking Shepard… and he is a wreck without her guidance. He tried to be her, and all he achieved was a massacre of those under his command.

As she leans forward, resting her elbows on the knees, he starts talking just to fill the silence - or as much as silence is achievable on a battleship - veering off into his past, before Shepard.

How strange it is that his life is split cleanly into parts that have Shepard in them - the vibrant, vivid, visceral parts - and those that don’t, the ones filled with mundanity and boredom and impotence.

And before he knows it, they are talking and joking again just like old times. Except his damn mouth keeps blabbering even as he realizes that his past sexual exploits are probably not the best thing to bring up with his commanding officer, and a woman, even if she is his best friend. The only friend.

If she remembered Harkin demeaning her for her gender, could she take this the wrong way?…

So when she smirks and takes a step towards him, he quickly backs away. While he can hold his own in hand-to-hand sparring, as he just bragged about, he definitely doesn’t want to do it in such a confined space, and definitely not with her being a human.

Not that he isn’t aware how strong and tough she is, but without her wearing a hardsuit against him sparring would hardly be fair… or safe.

But her next words about skipping to the “tiebreaker” make his stomach do a sudden flip. He nervously glances behind him. The corridor is opening right into the mess hall, someone might have heard this… proposition.

If he is understanding it right. He must make sure he isn’t misreading it somehow, make a fool of himself or offend her.

He could live with the former, but not the latter. He made enough mistakes in his life, but this…

But her smile never wavers, and she looks at him expectantly. He is no expert on human body language, but he knows Shepard. Her posture speaks of confidence, her smile all too predatory, like when she snaps out a brutal remark that is about to ruin someone’s day and she knows it, revels in it.

He stumbles over himself in a flustered self-deprecating joke about his scars, and she still smiles, not a shadow of her previous exhaustion.

Garrus turns and walks a hesitant half-step away.

“Well… why the hell not?” Spirits is he really saying this. This is Shepard! His friend, his commander, his mentor. A living - once more - legend.

But she is also a person , not just a symbol. A real woman with needs, and someone he trusts implicitly. And, perhaps, even after all that happened, she trusts him too.

“There is no one in the galaxy I respect more than you. And if we can find a way to make it work…”

He turns to meet her eyes again and see them light up with emotion he had never seen before in her to identify.

“Yeah… definitely .”

He even managed to sound confident. She pushes off his console and walks past him without another word, but never letting go of his eyes with hers. 

The door closes with a quiet hiss and Garrus has to sit down on the same crate Shepard has occupied not long ago. Did that just… happened?

Thoughts ricochet inside his brain like stray bullets, getting more and more frantic with each bounce.

Did she mean it? Did he get it right? Was this real? Were they in their right mind? Can this even happen? How would this even work? No, really, did he understand her right? What the hell else could it be?

Spirits.

The one good thing coming out of this weird, weird exchange is that he stopped worrying about the failed assassination and its immediate fallout. He has more pressing concerns

Like… are turians and humans even compatible that way? And is he really looking it up on the extranet?

Illusive Man is probably going to get one hell of an interesting report on his desk, but Garrus has to know.

The next time she stops by, he makes sure to close the damn door before starting to talk. Once again nervous energy gets the better of him and he starts to pace in the small room.

It’s strange. He is capable of sitting perfectly still for hours waiting for the right moment to pull the trigger when on the mission, but facing Shepard after… last time, he’s a wreck.

Like a first-time fledgling.

But hells, it’s Shepard. Even if she were an asari or quarian or krogan, it wouldn’t matter to him. It is her who matters, her personality and character, the woman who saved him in more ways than one.

Besides, it’s not like he didn’t notice appreciative glances the crew shoots in her direction when she isn’t looking. To her face, they are a picture of friendly professionalism, but they steal looks when they think they can get away with it. From Thane to Jacob to Zaeed and even Jack occasionally, it seems her magnetic presence extends to them as well.

And since the conversation they had last time, Garrus finds himself doing the same. Looking at Shepard for the first time not as just his commander or friend. As a woman.

Her body and face are soft and curved where a turian female would be angled and sharp, and he doesn’t know how he feels about it. But it matters less to him than her confident voice and stance, her strength and steady presence. Power.

Those things translate across species.

Are we crazy to even be thinking about this, he asks her tentatively, nervously. Something closer to home might suit her better. Someone who isn’t in danger of giving her anaphylaxis - yes, he did some research - just by swapping some fluids.

Someone who isn’t a damn cast-off of society.

Someone better than him.

It is too late to turn back time and pretend that he can unsee her as a woman, but it is not too late for her to take a step back and rethink this. Remember that he lashed out at her in frustration and anger, remember how broken he is.

A hand lands on his forearm and he can swear he feels its warmth even through his heavy armor.

I don’t want something closer to home, she says softly. She wants him. Someone she can trust.

Even after everything, she trusts in him. His subvocals are quietly breaking and for the first time, he is thankful that humans aren’t capable of discerning it. That she can’t hear him cry.

Even if it is just for one mission. Even if it is just for one night before they throw themselves into the abyss once more. This new feeling awakening in his chest, it’s different from the hero crush and admiration he felt before and yet it’s also not.

Perhaps it just waited to be noticed, to be answered. To grow into something more.

They agreed to wait. Even with the impending jump through the Omega-4 relay, there is research to be done, missions, meetings.

He keeps it to himself, of course. The new crew feels a lot closer now since covering each other in firefights requires trust, but it’s still not something he would entrust to anyone.

But some things do change.

When their boots hit the ground on Aite, when the modulated scream of horror and pain ripped through the speakers all around them, Shepard stumbled back in shock, running straight into him. He let go of his rifle with one hand and put it on her shoulder, trying to steady her.

The scream unsettled him as well, but he somehow managed to keep it under control.

She didn’t move for a solid minute with the exception of her hand coming up to get a hold of his.

Kasumi gave them a look from under the hood but said nothing, waiting for Shepard to unfreeze.

At the end of the long and tiring day of fighting through the Project Overlord bases, something happened with her omnitool, VI taking over the implants in her body, shrouding her in a green haze. Before he knew it, she was through the door and the damn thing shut close after her.

Kasumi opens up a console, but the interface keeps zooming all over the walls as if making fun of them. Frustrated, Garrus unholsters the Widow.

He is still is getting used to the powerful kick of the weapon, but during one of the stops at the Citadel, he picked up the implants required for firing the rifle. Later that day, he had Mordin do the necessary procedures.

It took him out of the action for a few days, but after that, his right arm and shoulder have been reinforced. He takes aim at the lock.

Antimatter glob makes an explosion as it disintegrates a chunk of metal. And another one, and another one. Meanwhile, the din of AI screams grows louder and louder.

He bursts into the control room just as Shepard pistol-whips Archer. His stomach does another flip as he watches her growl a threat at the mad scientist.

It has taken them some time to rescue David out of the demonic contraption he was being held in, but once that was done, Shepard wrapped the teen - who was looking twenty years older than he should after the horrific ordeal - into an insulating blanket and led him up to the waiting shuttle.

Back on the Normandy, she talked softly to the young man even as he merely nodded, avoiding all eye contact, murmuring results of square roots.

There was something motherly about her as she offered the boy a cup of hot chocolate. Gardner whipped up something called “chicken soup” for the kid, and she and David had bowls of it sitting on the table in the mess hall.

He had seen glimpses of this when she talks to Grunt. The side of her that perhaps still hopes beyond hope that there is something more for her in life than just the Reapers.

Their shadow looms long over the entire galaxy, but maybe, just maybe, there is a future where she can let this side of her come through.

He ignores the longing ache in his chest as he follows Gardner’s and Kasumi’s instructions on how to make more levo hot chocolate.

Mother. She would make an exceptional mother… his mandibles flutter as his chest contracts with a burst of pain.

Not with him. Biology being what it is, it could never be him, never mind that they didn’t promise anything to each other beyond just one night of stress relief.

He brings the steaming mugs to Shepard and David. She gives him a soft, tired smile, her hands closing over his for a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you, Garrus.”

In a single dizzying moment he can see the future as it could be, the two of them, somewhere warm and tropical, together, a small gaggle of mismatched adopted kids causing havoc all around.

It takes all of his willpower not to yank his hand back away from her, away from this vision that will never be.

He hands the other mug to the young man who looks up at him in short spurts.

“Hey. I’m Garrus. No hard feelings for me at shooting at your terminals, I hope?”

“N-no…” he mumbles, his eyes now fixed firmly at the floor. “Sorry…”

“It was not your fault,” he says as gently as he can muster. A lot of humans still find turians unsettling and their voices harsh, so he pats the boy on the shoulder and leaves for the shelter of the Main Battery.

Behind him, he could hear the words that would probably haunt him for the rest of his life repeated over and over, and Shepard’s unusually soft, soothing voice trying to calm the young man down.

“Square root of 912.04 is 30.2… It all seemed harmless…”

“So… you and Shep?”

Garrus makes himself pick up his tray after a terrifying second of his mind melting from a whirlwind of questions without answers.

How did she know? What should he say? Are they a couple? Does she want to keep it a secret? Should he just deny everything?

And on and on.

He turns to see the master thief smiling widely. Lifting a brow plate at her, he makes his way to the table in silence.

“Ooh, so you are the strong and silent type?”

“Probably just doesn’t want to get his ass shot off to match his mug.”

Zaeed Massani slides on the chair next to him, a beer in hand. They just made a resupply stop at Illium, so the food for the whole crew is the fresh stuff, and alcohol is abundant.

The mercenary takes a swig and glares at Garrus with his one good eye.

“I’ve had my credits on the drell. You cost me five hundred, Vakarian.”

“What?…”

“The betting pool, of course,” Kasumi sits across from him, still smiling. “I thought that went all the way back to SR-1.”

“Well, yes, we did bet on who… I thought that died with the first Normandy.”

“Joker’s still aboard. He’s got it set up… and I take it you didn’t get an invite this time.”

“He’s one of the possibilities. Wouldn’t be fair,” grumbles the merc.

“I… had no idea. I should have, in hindsight, but… ahem. Me and Shepard, we haven’t… it’s, uh…”

“So is there still time for her to tumble the drell?” Zaeed raises a hopeful eyebrow.

A menacing low growl erupting from his chest startles the humans as much as it does him. He didn’t even realize he was doing it until it reverberated through his bones.

He clicks his mandibles tight against his face, or as much as he can on the right side, and gets his subvocals under control. It is rare for him to vocalize to the point of humans and asari hearing it unaided.

“Ahem.” He looks away, embarrassed. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Well. I’m gonna go see what’s on the ol’ telly,” and with that, Zaeed quickly ambles off. It never ceases to amaze him how nimble the grizzled old merc can be when he is motivated.

“Ah, yes. I think Tali wanted to re-watch the Fleet and Flotilla tonight. I should go check with her,” Kasumi also hurries along, leaving Garrus alone with his dinner. He skewers a chunk of meat with a fork a bit too forcefully.

Damn it. It’s not supposed to happen. She’s not his partner, let alone a mate. He is acting completely inappropriately, and now he also managed to scare the shit out of his human crewmates.

And that might cause them to doubt Shepard’s judgment. Though, to be fair, he was questioning it himself. Not the combat, of course. But her motivation to sleep with him.

Surely she had better options. Jacob, or, as Zaeed pointed out repeatedly, Thane. At least their biology is comparable and compatible.

I want you. I want someone I can trust.

But after so many missions with all of them, surely she trusts her entire crew… what makes him different? What makes him worthy enough over everyone else?

Nothing. The answer stares him in the face plain as day. He is no better than any of his fellow men and women on this ship. Actually, probably worse.

His mangled mandible twinges with pain. A reminder of his disfigurement.

But… in the end, he made his choice and he has to trust her to make hers. Only Shepard can answer the question that has been tormenting him.

Why him? Why not someone else?

The hum of the engine that usually lulls him into calm holds no peace for him tonight.

There have been many things he has done he would consider absolutely insane. Boarding a derelict Reaper, coming to the Migrant Fleet with a geth in tow? That’s Tuesday, as humans say. But all those he has done following Shepard, her stubborn defiance spearheading every single one of those crazy ideas.

As he is standing in front of the door to her cabin, his feet frozen to the floor, he cannot bring himself to raise a hand to touch the console.

Is this a mistake? They could never go back to the way things were, not again. But with any luck he could pretend… but not after crossing that boundary.

He never had any interest in other species. Not until her, and especially not in humans. All the old prejudices he grew up with - in the immediate aftermath of the Relay 314 incident… he could vividly imagine his father’s disgust, his stinging words.

But it is Garrus’ choice to make. Not anyone else’s. For once, it’s up to him.

The clock on his visor marches on. They have another ninety-six minutes until the arrival to the Omega-4 relay.

Ninety-five. Ninety-four.

He cannot let this precious time go to waste. Not anymore. He hits the panel.

Immediately, he nearly runs into Shepard as she is walking out of the little side room which he guesses is a private bathroom - come to think of it, trudging down to the crew quarters every time she needs to take a shower would be impractical - running a towel over her head, something he had seen other humans do, which they have to with all that fur.

The deep red threads look different when wet, darker, and stringier, stuck together and to her skin.

It’s odd, almost looks like asari tentacles.

She runs the towel over the hair one more time before discarding it carelessly on her chair and turns to him, a smile on her face.

It seems he has been expected.

His nerves get the better of him as he tries to compliment her, probably making a complete fool out of himself. Mentally, he kicks himself as his words refuse to obey.

Come on, Vakarian, you’ve done something like that before. It may have been a while, but not that long.

She raises a hand cutting off his blabbering just as he is about to lose all courage left to him, silencing and calming him down with just a few masterful words.

Her smile, her voice, even the faint scent of her soap. It all works together to steady him. He puts down the bottle of wine - not the best but all he could afford after siphoning all his life’s savings away to the Corpalis Syndrome research facility.

After all, dead men have no need for money. And dead men should have no need for doubt, not at the last moment.

He just wants something in his life to go right. Just once.

The touch of her small fingers on his scarred mandible is startling but he does not shy away. The nerves are damaged but he can feel the faint, gentle strokes on his plates.

She looks at him and sees not a turian, not a disfigured rebel, not a failed, lackluster parody of herself.

Just Garrus.

His subvocals warble with escaping emotion, but she is deaf to it through no fault of her own. So he leans down to touch his forehead carefully to hers, letting her feel the gentle vibration of his voice that she cannot hear.

Ninety minutes.

Her hoodie drops to the floor with a soft noise. He had seen her body before, tended to her wounds, but never like this. Never with this intent.

She is having some trouble undoing the clasps of his shirt, having been made for much larger fingers than hers. He carefully guides her, helping her figure out the first one, then let her take care of the rest.

The blue glow of the massive fish tank is reflected in her eyes, and he is startled to finally notice - being too nervous in the first five minutes - that they are no longer alight with red.

She mentioned the medical station upgrade to him before. That she wanted to get it installed but was finding it hard to justify spending so many resources to satisfy her own vanity.

She must have gotten it done just before the Collector attack when Chakwas was still on board. During the ride on the shuttle, she had her helmet on so he didn’t notice…

But why?

Noticing his gaze, she runs a hand along her newly smooth cheek and looks away.

“The scars were getting really bad, and I… I know you don’t find humans attractive as it is. The least I could do is to not look like a malfunctioning cyborg… you deserve better than that.”

Better than her? He balks at the absurdity of the statement.

“Shepard, I don’t care about that. You… you are beautiful as you are. I don’t care how you look… I’d like you even if you were a krogan.”

He nearly said he loves her. It felt so natural but he managed to catch himself at the last moment.

They are headed for a suicide mission. There is no time to complicate things even further.

Eighty-eight minutes.

He is still nervous when the last clasp is undone and she tugs at his shirt, peeling it off his body. He hopes she has done some research of her own. He knows most… softer… species don’t find the plates too attractive.

She seems fully absorbed as her too many fingers explore the smooth surface of his plates and the sharp peak of his keel, the shallow crevices where the scales come together.

But what she does not look like is disgusted. That’s a good sign.

“I am feeling slightly disadvantaged here, Shepard,” he murmurs and she jumps a bit at his voice. Perhaps even the unflappable commander can sometimes be startled.

She laughs softly and makes her way down to the bed, tugging her t-shirt over the head. Underneath there is some sort of harness, the kind he had seen in the vids.

She sits down and beckons him to follow, which he does.

Eighty-five minutes.

Their clothes drop to the floor and soon enough, there is nothing left between them but trepidation. She hugs herself with slightly trembling arms and looks up with a weak smile.

His hand glides over her shoulder, marveling at the smoothness, the delicacy of her skin.

How can someone so soft be so strong and unyielding in battle?

She leans into his touch, nuzzling his wrist.

Like ice cracking after a frosty night, so was the space between them. She kissed him in a human way and he found he liked it.

Eighty minutes. He unclips his visor.

It was not what he expected at all, though at this point he is not entirely sure what it was he was expecting.

Slow, gentle touches, exploratory strokes. Not simply blowing off steam, it feels different. It feels like… like they are actual lovers.

Her hair is a ruby curtain around his face, shutting off the world, stopping time and space. There is no one in the galaxy but the two of them and the two then become one.

Rocking on the waves of pleasure, he never lets go of her gaze, and she never lets go of his, and it is intimate, so much more intimate than what their bodies are doing.

“Shepard…”

“It’s Jane,” she whispers, a smile curling the corners of her lips, “just Jane.”

“Jane,” he repeats and her eyes light up as her smile becomes radiant, “Jane…”

“Garrus…”

She presses her forehead to his in the turian version of a kiss and his heart swells so much it is fit to burst.

One night before they throw themselves into the abyss for the good of the galaxy. That is what was promised, and that is what he will have to live and die with.

“Commander, Jeff would like to speak with you.”

EDI’s hologram popped over the terminal as they were laying on Shepard’s bed, cooling off. She groaned into the pillow but raised herself off enough to answer.

“Patch him through, EDI.”

“ETA to Omega-4 relay is fifteen minutes, Commander.”

In a single fleeting moment the tiny cocoon they have created around them shattered. The galaxy yawns at them with open, hungry jaws, and it is time to leave.

“Roger that. I’ll be down in ten.”

“Now, Commander, was there anyone…”

“Jeff, Commander needs to focus on the upcoming mission.”

“Right. Uh, right.”

The hologram winks out.

“Thanks, EDI…” she murmurs under her breath.

“My pleasure, Commander,” the disembodied voice is a reminder that the ship’s AI was everywhere and had seen and heard everything.

He gets off the bed that was not meant for someone with spurs and crest, but his hand is caught in hers before he can take a step away.

“Garrus…”

He is afraid of what she might say or what might burst out of him, but he turns to face her, mute, mandibles tight against his face.

She studies him for a long moment. What does one say to a friend who is now… something else?

“Would you like to… uh, take a shower before you go? It would save you from unnecessary commentary by Grunt…”

Indeed, the young krogan would be able to smell their coupling. Not to mention her scent lingering on him would be very distracting.

He nods briskly and she gestures to the bathroom for him, a cue he gratefully takes.

The controls are exactly the same as on the crew deck showers so it doesn’t take him long to figure it out. But, to his surprise, the door hisses open and lets in Shepard.

She gently bumps him for space and they quickly wash off the lingering scents on their skin and plates. It’s quick, both of them in the military for so long it has become ingrained. Few warships have enough hot water to go around, so showers are speedy by necessity.

As she dries her hair once again, he puts the visor back on. Eleven minutes to the Omega-4, and he needs to get into his armor and to his battle station.

“Shepard, I need to go,” he is doing up the clasps of his shirt as he is striding towards the door.

“I know,” her voice is back to business-like, but there is just a hint of sadness… or is he just imagining it?

The ride through the relay was not something he would like to repeat, but the Thanix cannon performed beautifully. He watched on the sensors as that damn Collector ship responsible for ripping Shepard away from him was finally destroyed.

He barely had time to brace for deceleration as EDI put it - the crash as he would have said it - but somehow all his bones appeared intact. As he scrambled out of the Main Battery by the faint emergency lighting, he saw that others also made it.

Samara looks as serene as always like she crash-landed on space stations in the center of the galaxy every other week.

Thane is also calm. Meeting his eyes the assassin gives him a curt nod. He has been coldly polite since Sidonis and all that followed. Garrus still isn’t sure if it is worth broaching the subject, now or ever again.

Kasumi looks a bit shaken, but she is holding it together like a consummate professional she is.

Miranda must have been at the cockpit with Shepard during the jump as he can see the door to her cabin ajar and darkness within.

The elevator is disabled, and so the four of them climb up the ladders to the lab where Mordin is busily double-checking his neural shock injectors and nods at them enthusiastically.

“Ah, still alive. Good, very good. The plating held and the cyclonic shields worked. Excellent.”

The silence in the conference room is palpable when Shepard enters. Most everyone is busy checking and re-checking their kit, something to do to distract themselves from the impending assault. It has barely been ten minutes since their crash landing onto the Collector Base.

They devise a plan to break through the doors, with Tali getting to crawl through the vent - a role he doesn’t feel too happy about going to one of his few remaining friends. Miranda steps up to Shepard saying she will lead the fire team.

“Not so fast, cheerleader. Nobody is going to take orders from you.” Jack’s voice interjects sharply, the psychotic biotic long having a feud with the ship’s XO. Shepard at one point even forbade them to be on the same deck together.

But at the same time, he finds himself nodding in agreement with Jack, which is unexpected. Miranda is good, great even at running the day-to-day of the ship, handling the paperwork and intel, maintaining order and supplies. Normandy runs like a well-oiled machine under her management.

But being good at that doesn’t mean being good in actual combat leadership. Whoever leads the fireteam must have the respect of the rest of the crew both in battle and away from it, as well as experience. Perhaps Samara…

“Garrus. You’re in charge of the second team.”

A chill runs through his bones.

Did she not remember what happened the last time he had command? Of course, she did. Then why?…

He couldn’t do it. Not again… he can see in vivid, gruesome detail the bodies of the crew members, torn apart and brutalized. His comrades who now have become his unlikely friends.

Friends he is afraid to lose just like Erash, Monteague, Mierin, Grundan Krul, Melenis, Ripper, Sensat, Vortash, Butler, and Weaver.

He meets her eyes.

Less than an hour earlier they were in her cabin, and now… is it blatant favoritism? But her eyes are now alight with the fire of war. It is not Jane the person who made this choice but Shepard the Commander.

All he can do is trust in her even if he cannot trust in himself. He nods and she smiles, just faintly.

To his amazement, no one raised an objection, with some nodding in agreement, others clearly relieved, and even Miranda seemingly content.

He cannot fathom why but it is done. He will lead the second team, be it for woe or for weal.

It is unsettling, seeing her walking away without him. He can trust Thane and Mordin to cover her back but still… without him there he cannot make sure of her safety.

Tali rests a reassuring hand on his forearm and he can sense a smile behind the mask.

“She will be alright, silly. She is Shepard.”

But even Shepard can be killed, and he is pretty sure the universe is not big on third chances.

Tali disappears into the vent, and he motions the team to advance.

“In position. Meet you on the other side of those doors, Shepard.”

The collectors swarm around but none become possessed by the Harbinger as he had seen so many times. Clearly, he has concentrated his attention on Shepard, making their advance much simpler. The numbers of foes are staggering, but they have guns and lots of them.

“Garrus here. We’ve got heavy resistance but we’re moving forward.”

Every once in a while he can hear Tali calling out when obstacles block her path, but none of the consoles are on his side of the bulkhead. No, his job is to draw away as many Collectors as possible to make Shepard’s and Tali’s task easier.

Finally, they arrive at the massive doors, closed from the other side. There is some cover available, but the pressure of the Collector swarm is growing by the second.

With a hiss, doors open, letting his team in, and they rush through, taking cover behind them. Tali struggles with the console trying to get it to shut before the enemies break through.

“We need this door open, now!”

Shepard! The other door is still sealed, and the gunfire behind it is growing desperate. He can hear all three Locusts fire away, signaling that even Thane had to swap away his beloved sniper rifle in favor of a faster weapon with a larger spread…

He grabs Tali’s shoulder.

“Go! We’ll cover you!!” He shoves her away from the console rather ungently, but there is no time.

She skids to the other door and immediately begins to fiddle with it. Garrus turns to the still-open portal that they just came through, and the hall beyond is skittering with dozens of the Collectors, possibly a hundred or more. He swiftly holsters the Widow to pull out his Mattock assault rifle.

“Suppressive fire! Don’t let anyone through that door!”

The roar of mismatched weaponry is deafening, but the force field of flying steel swats Collectors out of the air and mows them down as they approach, with every member of the team following his order without a moment’s hesitation.

Through the cacophony of battle, he missed the door opening to let Shepard, Thane, and Mordin through, but somehow there they are, and both doors are sealed. Tali fries the consoles with a wave of her omnitool, and they are safe to catch a breath.

Not for long, of course. Soon, all of them are frantically breaking out the Normandy crew members out of the weird pods they were stuck in, with some barely managing to avoid a gruesome fate. As he pulls semi-conscious Ken Donnelly to safety, he can see the small patches of skin on the latter’s face and arms beginning to dissolve and peel.

Once again, he is forced to watch Shepard’s back recede into the dark as she takes Jack, Samara, and Miranda with her through the seeker swarm.

Quite reasonable. Should Jack falter, Samara might be able to protect them, as well as Miranda, also being biotic.

But it is her giving the main role to Jack that is so important. Someone who needed somebody to believe in them, given the opportunity to prove that this trust is not misplaced.

He leads the rest of the squad - sans Kasumi, sent to escort the crew members back to Normandy - through the insectoid maze, helped only by EDI’s scans. They do not meet much resistance, but once again, there is a door in their way, and it is up to Shepard to let them through this time.

The skittering gets louder and louder in the dark they just came from, and he can see eyes lighting up in the moving shadows, four at a time.

“Shepard! Come in, Shepard! ETA?”

Silence and static.

“The swarm might be interfering with the signal,” Mordin’s voice is conversational as he picks off a Collector stupid enough to step into the light.

That caution doesn’t last long and soon they are once again under siege, taking cover behind any bump in the uneven wall they can.

“Shepard!”

Thane and Jacob raise biotic barriers in front of their team, probably very much alike to the one Jack had created to stay the swarm, being their cover where there is none.

Perhaps it was foolhardy of them to lose so many biotics at once, but what’s done is done.

“Shepard! Come on, Shepard, don’t leave me hanging!!”

“We’re through! Get that door open!!”

To hear her voice cutting through the comms, he never thought that he would feel as happy as he does in the midst of pandemonium.

The door opens and they roll and tumble through, with him covering everyone’s retreat as the bulkhead sealed.

Even as it happened, the last bullet through was too much for his overtaxed shields. A feeling of being punched, air escaping his lungs, and his vision vignetting at the edges.

In a moment, she is beside him, steadying him and he looks up at her - a rare occurrence, with him having half a foot on her in height.

He nods, his visor already notifying him of the extent of the damage. Painful, but nothing a slap of medigel can’t fix up, at least until they are victorious… or dead.

She nods, a tired smile on her beautiful, blood-smeared face. She lost her helmet somewhere in the struggle and the vibrant red strands swish with her movements.

All that is left is to ride the platform to the heart of the station and whatever they find in there. He looks around. A good defensive position with plenty of cover and a slight elevation. A team of snipers with covering fire would do a lot of damage, and even should some break close, Grunt can take care of them.

Zaeed, Thane, and Legion are already taking up advantageous positions. He turns to Shepard.

It would make sense for her to leave him behind. It really would. He is a sniper, he has a proven record of holding off a superior force in a defensive position for days on end.

But watching her walk away, one more time… can he bear it?

Her eyes scan the team. She motions for Jack and then, him. He readily jumps up onto the platform beside her. No matter what they face, he will be right behind her, as he should be.

“I’m ready, Shepard.”

Despite just going through a titanic feat of endurance, Jack, still chewing on an energy bar, nods in agreement.

Those emergency nutrient bombs made specifically for biotics pack something like five thousand calories. A single one of those bars can sustain two regular people through the entire day.

“Good luck,” Miranda smiles a tired smile before turning to the doors creaking with repeated impacts.

The platform shakes as they begin the descent and he kneels behind one of the waist height barriers, bracing his Widow on it. With eerie howling, other platforms fly out to meet them, and he takes aim.

As the Reaper larva crashes down, it tries to grab the platform they are standing on. It tilts, and before he can react, he is sliding down the slope. Desperately grasping at any bump in the floor, he cannot slow down.

But Shepard, reckless as always, dives right after him, sliding down with her hand extended towards him. And while he is trying to slow down, she picks up speed.

She almost grabs his hand but the gloves slip and he feels his stomach swoop as the platform ends and the yawning abyss below opens up.

All this time, despite calling it a suicide mission for so long… he never truly believed in it. With Shepard at the helm, how could they not win?…

His whole body jerks to a sudden, painful stop, the tendons in his arm straining almost to the point of snapping. Shepard caught him by the wrist and he quickly grabs a hold of hers as she begins to pull him back onto the platform. It cannot be easy, with her face going almost as red as her hair from the effort. His heavy armor and…

He reaches back and disables the magnetic holsters. Mattock and Widow fall into the darkness below and, with a roar, Shepard hauls him back up.

As she does it, he can see that she managed to stop herself from falling by freezing herself to the platform with a cryo blast.

But they have no time to even catch their breath as other platforms crash into theirs, sending them tumbling in the opposite direction. He barely has time to register Jack, desperately clinging to the small barriers they have been taking cover behind during the fight when yet another massive slab of metal comes careering down, and then…

Nothing.

Pressure on the chest making it hard to breathe… and painful. Must have broken some ribs. He tries to move, to assess the damage, but can’t. Can’t even raise his arm to turn off the ringing alarms from his hardsuit.

And then, it’s gone. He cracks open his eye - one not protected by the visor is swollen almost completely shut - to see Shepard, once again offering him a hand. Her help, her support, with no thought of getting anything back.

She helps him up and tosses him her pistol since he lost both of his weapons. He catches it clumsily, whole body aching and uncoordinated, familiar nausea telling him he has a concussion.

Meanwhile, she checks on Jack, and she is alive too. Bruised and scratched and favoring her right leg, but alive.

They dash through the hive that is the Collector Base, with EDI telling them where to turn and where to jump down. His sides ache from running, his legs want to give out from lack of oxygen, and every other second he is worried he might throw up but he runs anyway.

Taking a few potshots from Shepard’s Carnifex at the Collector stragglers, he runs and runs and runs, narrowly avoiding explosions and dodging energy beams. A small seeker swarm blocks their path, but Jack swats them away with her biotics. Shepard is bringing up the rear, covering them during their mad dash.

Normandy ascends into view, once again airborne, and is that Joker shooting at the Collectors from the airlock?

The fool is going to break some bones and they all will have to listen to his complaints.

He and Jack jump in next to Joker, but debris comes crashing down behind them, just narrowly missing the ship, thank the Spirits.

It does destroy the path to the ship, but Shepard is not slowing down. Oh no, she is taking this jump one way or another.

In the split second that seemed to last an eternity, she leaps. His heart stops in his chest.

Takes a breath.

And starts again.

She crashes into the side of the ship, hard enough that he can hear the air forced out of her lungs. He grabs her by the forearms as she clings to the edge of the airlock, and pulls her in, in a stunning reversal of what happened just before. Normandy turns, slipping elegantly through the jagged hole on the side of the Base, and speeds away into FTL as the golden light of explosion washes over the galactic core.

He would have loved to see Illusive Man’s face when Shepard walked out on him, but he was down in the medbay, getting his scratches and burns patched up. Nearby, Jack is laying on the next cot, her leg in a splint and elevated. She was running back on a fractured shin, which must have been extremely painful. Chakwas triaged them when they arrived and sat him down and out of the way while she tended to the biotic.

The rest of the squad made it back too, and while there were some injuries, the two of them on Shepard’s team were the most hurt.

Which, all things considered, was a miracle.

A suicide mission… but all of them returned alive, he knew not how.

It was a harrowing experience, and there were moments that came perilously close to disaster, but they made it. Normandy has a few holes in the hull, the cargo bay is in disarray, multiple systems have fried, but they were limping along, stopping for repairs on Illium within a day. Shadow Broker’s engineers are already waiting for them at the dock, ready to get the old girl back into fighting shape.

All that was well and good, but left him with a problem, one he didn’t think he would live to see the consequences of.

Shepard… and what that is between them.

He would never call what they shared a one-night stand. It was too raw, too emotional, too real. At least that's how it was for him, and he can only speak for himself.

Where does it leave them, who at different points in time have occupied positions of mentor and pupil, commanding officer and crewmate, friend and a dumber friend?

Or was it indeed just one night and that is all? He is not familiar with how humans deal with this sort of arrangement.

The crew is eager to head over to Eternity, to drink and make merry, and he is just about to join them when his omnitool pings.

<Got a moment? I’m in the loft.>

His stomach drops, worse than when he slipped off the platform on the Collector Base.

She was there to catch him then. Now… what does she mean to do with him? Would it have been better to fall to his doom rather than face this?

He tells the crew he will join them soon as he hurries back over to the once again working elevator. Going up to Shepard’s cabin is even worse than last time. Both times he faced uncertainty, but at least… at least he was fairly confident he wouldn't be rejected and sent back.

Not so now.

Despite knowing the code he raps at the metal door. The unknown lies beyond the threshold and it is the last pause he can allow himself.

“It’s open,” a voice calls out from beyond the doors and he can stall no longer.

Shepard is on the bed, her legs crossed in a way that would be impossible for a turian, looking through some datapads. The moment she sees him, however, she casually tosses them aside.

“There you are.” She is smiling. That’s a good sign, right? “I thought you might have gone out drinking with the others.”

“I was going to,” he admits, still awkwardly standing in the middle of the room. He can still faintly detect the scent of sex lingering in the air, probably coming off the sheets.

She shakes her head.

“Why do I even bother keeping the bar stocked.”

“You could try reducing the number of gossipy kleptomaniac humans in its vicinity. Failing that, import some batarian bouncers to fight with.”

“That ought to improve the mood,” she chuckles heartily. He flicks the mandibles in response.

She pats a spot on the bed near her, clearly indicating she wants him to sit down. He does so obediently. The silence following it is long, verging on unbearable.

“Shepard…”

“Garrus…”

Their words clash and they laugh again. Shepard gestures for him to proceed and he is not about to argue with his CO.

“Shepard… hear me out. I… I didn’t expect both of us to still be here after the Omega-4 relay. I figured we’d get blown to bits at the galactic core or shot down by Collectors or something. I didn’t… I didn’t plan this far.”

“Neither did I,” she shrugs, but her face is a familiar guarded, neutral mask of politeness. Not Jane the woman but Shepard the Commander, hiding behind the persona.

“I wanted to ask… what do you want to do now? Is there anything more to this… arrangement? Or was it just for one night and one night only?…”

“What do you want, Garrus?”

His mandibles flutter.

What he wants is selfish. What he wants is against being a good turian, against everything his father ever wanted for him.

But it is not for his father or Hierarchy to decide.

“I want more, Shepard. Jane. I want you, for however long it lasts.”

She breathes out, and her face relaxes. Was she… was she worried he might end it?

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that.”

She smiles, her voice lowering into sultriness as she slips beside him, soft lips on his scarred mandible and he can feel her delicate touch…

He never made it to Eternity that night.

With the mission over, it is time for the crew to depart, though not immediately. Almost everyone is sporting a bandage or a splint, and while those injuries heal, they are a strange freelance company.

But running a warship is expensive, and short of turning to piracy to sustain themselves, this arrangement is untenable for too much longer.

Shepard made it known she intends to turn Normandy over to the Alliance soon and rejoin her people. Everyone who wants to catch a ride to Citadel or any other place should coordinate with Miranda and they will plot a course that satisfies each destination.

But before that happens, there is one mission she needs to attend to, a favor for Admiral Hackett.

A mission she will go on alone.

As his bruised and cracked ribs are still healing, Garrus couldn’t join her on the ground, but she refused to even take the uninjured members of the team, like Legion or Kasumi.

It will be done in a few hours, she assured him as he nervously drums his foot in the floor. Get in, get the target, extract. If they are lucky they will have undeniable proof of the Reaper’s existence to boot, something she can shove into the Council’s face.

He still cannot believe she told them to shove their offer to reinstate her Spectre status up their collective asses. Something he at one point would have did just about anything to achieve, given up just to spite some bureaucratic assholes.

She fixes her helmet on before turning to him. Her eyes sparkle with mischief and by their slight narrowing, he can tell she is smiling.

“Stop worrying about it, Garrus. I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I know, I know,” he concedes, but something is nagging him. A deep-seated worry, a dark premonition. She shouldn’t go down there alone…

She bumps his head with her helmet lightly, and he cannot help but smile.

“I’ll be back before you know it. Now back to resting or Chakwas will have my guts for starters.”

The two of them did get a dressing down for “unnecessary strenuous activities” which left the crew members who happened to overhear it guffawing.

He complies, settling down on her bed and closing his eyes. His body needs to heal so he can be by her side quicker. It is uneasy, letting her go alone. Sure she is more than capable, but nobody is invincible, and he would feel better if at least someone was watching her back.

When he awakes, the cabin is dark, a night cycle. He doesn’t hear a second breath beside him. She isn’t here, but maybe she is still busy.

Carefully, he gets out of the bed and makes his way down to the mess hall to grab a bite to eat.

It’s quiet, with only a skeleton crew running the ship at night.

“EDI?”

“Yes, Mr. Vakarian?”

“Ugh, please, just Garrus.”

“Very well, Garrus. How can I help you?”

“Is Shepard back from her mission?”

“Negative. I haven’t had communication with Commander Shepard since she landed on Aratoht five hours and thirty-six minutes ago.”

“And including travel time, that’s what, almost six and some hours?”

“Correct. Commander Shepard left Normandy six hours and twenty-eight minutes ago.”

“That mission is taking a bit longer than I thought…”

“I will notify you when I receive any communication from her.”

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure, Garrus.”

The mess hall falls silent once again and he shuffles over to the fridge to get a bite of something that isn’t nutrient paste.

Something went horribly wrong down there. He knew it. He knew he should’ve followed her!

“Garrus, your ribs aren’t healed, and pacing around isn’t helping anyone, including you,” Miranda’s clipped voice convinces him to stop even though he is itching to do… something, anything !

Was she caught by the batarians? They are still calling her the “Butcher of Torfan”, and with good reason. They are unlikely to forgive and forget what happened on that moon and if they realized they have Shepard in their grasp…

Miranda’s expression is darker than a storm cloud, but her hands are tied - literally. She still has her arm in a sling - a Collector’s bullet hit a bone in her shoulder during the final defense. She too is in no position to mount a rescue operation.

Chakwas shakes her head.

“If she were caught by the batarians, they’d be transmitting it on all frequencies. We would know about it by now.”

“Familiar with batarian spec ops codes. Poor encryption. Have been scanning for news. Nothing yet.” Mordin adds, typing furiously on his omnitool.

Only four of them are in the comms room, which is still a bit of a mess - it wasn’t a high priority during repairs.

Miranda and Chakwas are ship officers, Mordin’s STG background is clearly useful but why him? Garrus has no reason to be here… except that he is now in… a relationship? With Shepard.

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing! I’m going after her. Legion and Kasumi are able to accompany me, I’ll…”

“You will do nothing of the sort, Garrus Vakarian!” Chakwas blocks his path, hands on hips. “Need I remind you you broke three ribs in the last mission? That just earlier I drained a hematoma from your arm? That your concussion is still not settled?”

His mandibles flicker in defeat. Chakwas is right. He wouldn’t be able to shoot straight even if his life depended on it, and it would be down there.

It has been twenty-four hours since Shepard’s departure and not since hearing about her death has he felt such powerless fury.

Forty-eight hours.

He hasn’t slept in the last twenty-four. He can’t. Not a word from Shepard. Is she dead? Captured? Tortured?

He eats only when Chakwas orders him to, and even then it has no taste or satisfaction. Just something to keep him going, just in case she calls in. If she needs help, a rescue, something.

He is in the medbay, getting yet another check from Chakwas. Apparently, his hardsuit has been reporting continuously elevated stress hormone levels. No kidding.

“This is serious, Garrus. You cannot stay up with the injuries you have and under the stress we all are.”

“How do you propose I rest? Shepard is out there, could be injured, captured, tortured…”

“You killing yourself over it won’t change that. Save your strength for when she needs you most. Now…”

“Doctor Chakwas, Garrus, there is a communication from Commander Shepard.” EDI’s cool modulated voice interrupts their conversation.

Garrus is on his feet in a split second.

“From where?! When?! Is she alright?!”

“Just now, requesting an extraction from an asteroid approaching the mass relay.”

“What??!”

“She did not explain further. According to my calculation, if it stays on the current trajectory the asteroid will collide with the mass relay in thirty minutes and eleven seconds.”

He takes a hurried step towards the exit but the room sways and he has to grab Chakwas’ chair for support. Predictably, it rolls away from his weight and he crashes into the floor, his chest wracked with renewed pain.

Chakwas calmly puts a finger to her earpiece.

“Samara? Sorry to bother you, but would you mind giving me a hand? I could use someone with biotics…”

Thirty minutes came and went. He felt the mass relay jump, the familiar ripple of spacetime traveling the length of the ship.

Samara has floated him onto a cot and, when he attempted to stand up anyway, locked him into stasis. The silent justicar is now meditating on the medbay floor, keeping him tied down.

The matriarch had suffered some minor to medium severity injuries during the retreat from the Collector Base and was asked to remain aboard for at least a few days for observation by Chakwas, which she graciously accepted.

The crew is getting ready to set out on their own paths once again… but where does it leave him?

He would follow Shepard to the ends of the galaxy, but a turian wouldn’t have a place on an Alliance ship… not for long anyway.

And what the hell happened on that asteroid?

He shudders at the thought of a mass relay destruction. What would that even do to a star system? Nobody has ever done that. Why would they? In fact, he was raised with the belief that mass relays are indestructible. They require no maintenance, they just are.

But he knows now they are a web the Reapers wove millions of years ago to bind and ensnare the galaxy. And if Reapers can be destroyed… then, mass relays probably can be too.

A chilling thought.

The door opens and Shepard marches in, still in full hardsuit, helmet on. He yearns to call out to her, to hold her and make sure she is alright… but, at the moment, he cannot move a muscle.

“Commander!” Chakwas is already on her feet. Shepard starts tearing off hardsuit pieces off her body, dropping them carelessly to the floor. They land with loud clangs, and finally, she pulls off the helmet and shakes out her fiery hair.

Behind the helmet, her face is a cold mask, green eyes glassy, hard. Emotionless.

He knows that look. The icy shell of an executioner distanced from the woman who inhabits the very same body.

Chakwas is busily drawing blood for a test, measuring her vitals with an omnitool. The doctor doesn’t look her in the eye.

She turns to him, helplessly paralyzed by Samara’s biotics.

“Hackett is coming aboard soon. Could we have some privacy?”

Even her voice, curt, calm, and utterly hollow.

“Of course, Commander,” Samara gracefully gets up off the floor and, with a flick of her wrist, she floats him out of the medbay and into crew quarters.

Nearly an hour passes before Samara finally lowers the stasis after getting another call from Chakwas. The justicar gives him a thin, serene smile as he clambers up and out of a bunk.

Shepard is no longer in the medbay, and so he heads up to the loft, hoping to find her there. He does.

She is sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to the chest, watching her fish flutter about in the water. Blue glow reflects in her eyes, reminding him of a different night.

“Garrus. Can I help you?”

He stops before reaching her. Her curt voice erects an invisible wall around the figure that never before looked so small.

“Shepard, what happened down there?”

She winches slightly. Is it because she doesn’t want to think about it?

“Nearly three hundred thousand batarians lived on Aratoht. Now they are all dead.”

He leans on the wall. Exhaustion from the past sleepless night combined with the pain of his injuries and the staggering number of casualties threatens to knock him down to the ground.

“Was there no way to warn them?…” he manages to ask.

She clenches her fists to the point they are shaking with barely controlled violence.

“I was taken prisoner by an indoctrinated woman I was sent to rescue. Held hostage for nearly two days. The Reapers were thirty minutes from arriving at the mass relay. There was no time.”

She punches the floor hard enough to leave the indentation in the metal panels. He can see blood smears on it and on her knuckles as she pulls her fist up.

“I could have warned them then. Warned them that they are all about to die. There was no time anyone could have gotten away from Aratoht. It was too far. I didn’t warn them. What purpose would it serve? To know that a supernova-like explosion is about to wipe out everything they know, everyone they love? That they have thirty minutes left to live, that their children have thirty minutes left to live?!”

She is screaming by the end, her raw knuckles hitting the floor again and again and again.

He catches her arm before she can do any more damage to herself.

“Shepard…”

She rests her forehead on his breastplate.

“I hope their deaths were instantaneous. That they didn’t have time to realize what’s coming.”

He runs his talons gently through her hair, still sticking up at strange angles from being in the helmet.

“What did Hackett say?”

“That I’ll have to face the music on Earth. I’m a war criminal now… but what choice did I have? Let the Reapers walk through our back door or wipe out a star system? I just… I just…”

“You did the right thing, Shepard.”

She shudders.

“Shepard?…”

She pulls away from his chest and looks up. Her lip and voice quiver as she speaks.

“Jane… my name is Jane.”

It is only then he realizes what is wrong. After the horror that happened, she needs to be someone else. Someone who is not commander Shepard.

“Jane…” he repeats gently after her, and a tiny sparkling drop rolls down her cheek.

When they first met, hell, the entire time they chased Saren, he thought she was invincible. That she was single-minded, laser-focused, the perfect Spectre he always wanted to be. He was a fool, and he didn’t see her as the person she is.

He didn’t really know her. But he does now. He can reach beyond the icy shell and touch the real Jane.

“Tomorrow, I will take everyone to their preferred destinations and head to Earth. But tonight, stay with me. Help me forget…”

His voice is adamant despite the hollow, sinking pit in his stomach.

“Of course.”

Legion is the first to be dropped off on an uncharted world. He has a hidden small craft he will pilot back beyond the Perseus Veil.

Samara and Miranda disembark on Illium. Samara is heading back to asari space, and Miranda is calling in some favors she is owed.

Shepard has released Samara from her oath, and the two exchange a respectful nod. Miranda got a heartfelt hug, and then they were gone.

Grunt requested to be dropped off on Tuchanka. Shepard smiled as he was enthusing about all the breeding requests he was going to fulfill. She affectionately patted the massive krogan on the head and told him to be careful.

It would be an odd thing coming from anyone else but her, but she is like a mother to Grunt, and everyone knows it.

Mordin and Zaeed are stopping on Omega, with Mordin going to check on his old clinic and his former assistant. Zaeed just wants to relax in the Afterlife because Citadel’s bars are just not cutting it.

He is surprised to find out that Jack is staying aboard. He expected her to leave on Omega as well, but it seems she has other plans.

Everyone else’s stop is Citadel.

And that includes him.

He would follow Shepard to the ends of the galaxy, but he doubts Alliance command would let him follow her into custody. He could spend his time waiting for her to be released, sulking around on Earth… but there are better things he could be doing.

Preparing for the Reapers for one. There has to be something he can do… but there is only one way he can see the Hierarchy listening.

He dreads it, but it is not a good enough reason to waste the time Shepard bought them with three hundred thousand lives and her own freedom.

Thankfully, he can afford a ticket to Palaven. A surreptitious transfer with just enough credits from an anonymous source came through a few hours ago, and he has a suspicion that a certain asari maiden has been keeping tabs on his donations and bank accounts.

He watches as Shepard says her goodbyes. Only she, Chakwas, Joker, and Jack are taking the ride back to Earth, not counting EDI. 

He is the last one as she approaches him. Only the bandaged hand reveals that the broken, fragile shell he held in his arms yesterday and the proud, confident commander in front of him is the same woman.

She kisses him gently on the scarred mandible.

“Goodbye, Garrus. Stay out of trouble this time, alright?”

“No promises, Shepard.” He smiles, and she smiles back, but only with her lips, and he suspects it is the same for him. He feels no more joy, only sorrow.

How long before he can see her again, if ever? The shadow of Reapers is covering the galaxy and they are the only ones able to see it.

He won’t waste this chance to do something good. Something useful. Something she would be proud of.

He watches the ship until it is swallowed by the dust of the nebula, carrying away the woman he loves.

His friend, his commander, the gravitational center of his galaxy.

Then, he marches over to the clerk at the check-in.

“Palaven. As soon as possible.”

Less than six hours later, he stops at a familiar house. The familiar door seems to accuse him, the familiar sun’s gentle burn on his plates seems to weigh him down.

He stares at the door for a good long while, trying to come up with something to say. A dozen conversations play out in his head, and all of them end poorly.

But he cannot back down just for the fear of failure. Not with so much at stake. He rings the bell.

The door opens and he is face to face with the praetor of Turian Hierarchy. His one chance of making them listen since he is no longer a part of the turian society in any way that matters.

“Dad.”

“Garrus?…”

Chapter Text

They all had dreamed a twisted dream, but now they are awake. Garrus can’t help but feel a deep sense of grim satisfaction as he watches Primarch Fedorian.

The Reapers are here. He had gotten an audience with the Primarch after months of waiting to try and plead his case in person rather than relying solely on his father - something he still can’t quite believe in. Him and dad, seeing eye to eye? Not in a thousand years did he think that would ever happen.

He hasn’t been the greatest father, but then Garrus hasn’t been the greatest son. Perhaps they both needed time to accept each other.

Now… the feeds are full of giant black ships, and they are not friendly. The swarm of Reapers is engaging Hierarchy’s military in force, and a rain of debris is falling from the sky in fiery streaks.

The building shakes as a piece of a hull lands in the middle of Cipritine, but thankfully Hierarchy builds to last. At least for now, the ceiling does not collapse. Concrete dust settles on everyone's crests and cowls.

“Sir?” General Victus finally finds it in him to speak. Fedorian breaks out of the trance and tears his eyes away from the scenes of devastation on the screens.

“Victus?”

“What are your orders, sir?” Victus’ voice is unusually quiet. None had seen this coming. None but him.

Fedorian searches the faces of the present in the forum, advisors and petitioners alike. The Primarch’s gaze stops at him.

“Vakarian.”

“Yes, sir?” He steps forward.

Not even a month ago the Primarch of Palaven scoffed at the idea of the Reapers. A giant fleet of ancient AI wiping the galaxy out every fifty thousand years? Preposterous, but fine. Have some money and a couple of men to do some improvements to our protocols and systems but I only give it because your father asked.

“Reapers. Is this…”

“The giant fleet of ancient AI that exterminates sentient life every fifty thousand years and now is here to slaughter us? The one I and commander Shepard have been warning you about?” He flicks his mandibles in a silent chuckle. “Yes, sir.”

Ordinarily, this would not have flown. But the ordinary is forever behind them.

Fedorian’s mandibles flicker once before tightly pressing against the sides of his face.

“Then… how do we stop them?”

Garrus actually laughs at the question. Not for any joy he feels for there is any, just at the sheer absurdity, the futility of the question.

“Stop them? You don’t get it, sir. They are not here for our planets or our resources, they are not interested in our fleets and they don’t have any colonies we can carpet bomb. They are here to eradicate our species to the last and turn them into more of themselves. It isn’t war. It’s the harvest.”

“Then what do we do?!” Fedorian slams a fist into the table, but the gesture seems so insignificant by comparison to the shower of shot down ships all over the screens.

“The only thing we can. We fight or we die.”

The silence is only broken by distant explosions. He can see fierce orange flames in the distance.

“Garrus Vakarian, you are hereby appointed to the role of Special Reaper advisor.”

He had to make his mouth close once he realized his jaw had dropped. This has to be the craziest rise from one rank to another in the whole of turian history. Not only was he reinstated into the turian military, he just leaped over ten steps of Hierarchy, from civis third rank to the position right below that of the Primarch.

An advisor to Primarch… advisors deal with the day-to-day running of the sector, and in the case of Primarch of Palaven, all turian space. Victus is the logistics advisor, Andronicus is the military leader, Tacian is the highest-ranking judge, and so on.

Fedorian just created an advisor position for him out of thin air, expanding their ranks for the first time in over millennia, since the last advisor was added during the first contact with asari and salarians on the Citadel, the Alien Liaison advisor.

“I… I accept,” he finally finds his voice and is relieved that it isn’t trembling.

Fedorian sits down on the bench, looking a decade older, his eyes narrowed and unblinking, focused on a feed of a dreadnought, disintegrating into pieces.

“Then, advise me, Vakarian. What do we do?”

Garrus closes his eyes as one of their thirty-nine capital ships falls apart into debris and rubble.

“It is not an enemy we can face alone. We need to contact other races. Only together we might stand a chance to cobble together enough strength to resist. Defend ourselves. There can be no offensive until we all join forces.”

“The Council…”

“… is useless,” he cuts off the Primarch, his mandibles flickering once in tightly controlled rage. “They spent three years denying the threat and sweeping the evidence under the rug. You need to appeal directly to their heads of government.”

“A war summit…” Fedorian scratches his chin in thought. “Sparatus is going to despise this, but you are right.”

It is quite a thrilling gratification, to all of a sudden to share the advisor rank with Councilor Sparatus - historically, the Alien Liaison advisor was the one assuming the Councilor role - and be told that his opinion is more valid than the latter’s.

“Primarch, General Andronicus is requesting an emergency meeting.” An adjutant rushes into the forum. “Cipritine is under attack, you and other advisors are to relocate to Menae immediately. He will meet you there.”

“Understood.” Fedorian grabs a couple of datapads and heads for the exit, followed by the advisors. When at war, the military advisor’s word is to be followed even by the Primarch.

Victus pauses to motion for Garrus to join them.

“Come along, Special Advisor. That order includes you.”

As they get into shuttles, he can see multiple Reapers piercing the veil of the violet sky to descend on the city of his birth.

As they leave Palaven, he sees the cosmic blackness speckled with stars, and he cannot stop staring, searching for the Sol, somewhere out there.

He hasn’t seen the cosmos since he left Normandy. Since he left Shepard. Where is she now? Is she even alive?…

With the Reapers arriving, who knows what could have happened, but… against all odds, he feels she would survive. She did not fight for so long to die now. Now, when the truth of her words is undisputed, and all the deniers are proven wrong once and for all.

She wouldn’t die until she could rub the Council’s face in it, he is sure of it. As petty as it sounds, she would live and survive just to spite them.

And, perhaps, if the spirits are kind, they will find each other again. Perhaps, she would be at the war summit? He cannot imagine anyone else representing humanity but her.

The shuttle makes a sudden turn, and even with inertia dampeners, it’s quite a shake-up. He has to grab onto the handles as the small vessel is twisting and turning to avoid an attack.

A different shuttle in their convoy gets taken out by the swarm of the damnable eye bots he had seen at the galactic core near Collector Base. It takes another nerve-wracking thirty seconds before the enemies are shot down by interceptors.

“I think that was Tacian’s and Frumentius’ shuttle,” Victus murmurs under his breath.

Two advisors down.

“I hate how defenseless we are in this thing,” he crosses his arms, his foot tapping nervously on the floor.

“Not everyone gets to travel on an Alliance’s stealth warship,” Victus quips and looks away, his expression becoming grim in an instant as he watches the distant fleet on fleet fight.

A fight they are losing.

It is not a long flight to Menae, but he feels so much better as his feet touch the barren ground.

This is where they will take a stand. And this is the vantage point he can see most of the planet from. Looking up, his heart sinks to see the patch of orange flames engulf the city in the Southern Hemisphere. Even from Menae, he can see Cipritine burning.

“Get that thing the hell off my men!”

It has been a trying three days. He would have sworn it has been a month, but his visor’s date contradicts him. Only three days.

Being an advisor to the Primarch, he has access to the casualty numbers and they are staggering. Two million were lost on the first day. Five, on the second. The third day has just begun, but it can only ever get worse.

The slaughter intensifies by the hour. Reapers are clearly aware that the turian military boasts the strongest fleet in the galaxy and would be the backbone of any resistance.

And so they move to crush them.

A flying dropship-like reaper, dubbed harvester class, swoops down and lands heavily on the right flank from their position. There are wounded here, some of them might actually still be able to fight. The burning transport they came from is a beacon for the harvesters. They know there are victims to be found there.

“Put that fire out!” Garrus shoves a private towards the crashed shuttle and grabs a few spare thermal clips. A Viper is no Widow but it will do.

“You there, sergeant, and you corporal! With me!”

Victus is shouting something with his back turned away, but now is not the time to ask for permission. They are supposed to be the same rank now anyway, even if Garrus is feeling ingrained deference due to Victus’ age - Victus’ son is as old as Garrus is - and his experience. Garrus might not be a good turian, but he is a turian nonetheless.

He sets off down the rocky path towards the harvester which is spewing out reinforcements. Behind a large boulder, he kneels and takes careful aim.

Damn things have too many eyes.

A shot rings out, and one of the lights is gone. The monster roars, flailing its head around, searching for the source of its pain.

Garrus doesn’t let it find him.

Viper snaps two more times, and he exhales the breath he has been holding. The monster is nearly blind now, but the sound of his shots has attracted the attention of the husks and marauders. The two soldiers he took with him open covering fire as husks rush uphill towards their position.

Trusting them to take care of the grunts, Garrus takes aim once again.

That harvester must be pretty injured, with multiple sniper rifle rounds piercing its head and neck. But then, is he being deceived? There is no guarantee reaper creatures work by the same laws as living beings.

Some “special reaper advisor” he is.

He trusts his instinct and takes a breath. The shot flies true, and as the harvester roars, a bullet pierces through its head and out the back.

That does it and it collapses to the ground before exploding in a blinding flash.

He exhales.

“Sir, that was amazing!” Young corporal looks at him with eyes full of awe. Garrus shrugs.

“Well, Victus did want it gone. Those beasts can be nasty, and reinforcements they bring are a problem.”

He pads over to the remains of the harvester. So far he wasn’t successful in identifying what manner of creature they were before turning. If they find that, they can possibly disrupt Reaper’s ability to make more, and that would be a major victory.

Perhaps that is why they self-destruct in such a spectacular fashion. Garrus kneels near some shreds of flesh and tubes. Carefully, he scrapes some organic material into a spent thermal clip casing with a knife.

Not much to be salvaged and the DNA of shreds like these are so corrupted the preliminary tests they have run didn’t yield any legible results.

If only they had access to a proper scientific facility, but alas, it wouldn’t be found on this moon. Perhaps if he could courier it over to Palaven…

“What do we do next, sir? Do we rejoin General Victus?”

Garrus deliberates for a moment.

“No. I want to make it back to the command post, see how things are going. Primarch was heading to the war summit, perhaps I can contact him from there, see if he needs any information on the reaper forces or situation I can provide. It will also leave a relatively safe trail for Victus and his men to follow should they need to fall back.”

He is not used to being in charge like this. Being back in the chain of command of the Hierarchy, and this time being the one giving the orders.

“Sir!” The two soldiers salute before dutifully falling in behind him as he begins to trot back towards the command post. He can see another harvester circling ahead.

“But before that, I think we could hunt down another one of those overgrown bugbirds.”

“I need someone, I don’t care who, as long as they get me the turian support we need!”

He walks up the ramp to Corinthus’ field office, his stomach making flips.

“I’m on it, Shepard. We’ll find you a Primarch.”

Her mouth falls open as he approaches her.

“Vakarian, sir! I didn’t know you arrived.” Corinthus salutes him, and Garrus shrugs uneasily. This is still something he has to get used to. A few days ago Corinthus was miles above him in the order of Hierarchy. Now he has to salute Garrus as he approaches. That can’t be an easy thing to swallow for Corinthus either.

“At ease, general,” he quickly says, and to his relief, the request is followed. That interruption aside, he turns to Shepard, meeting her incredulous eyes.

What should he say? When they parted, they didn’t promise anything to each other. While he was faithful to the strange relationship they had developed, it was his choice. She has her own, and he never demanded anything from her.

“Garrus… you’re alive?…”

She reaches out her hand to him and he takes it with both of his, cradling it and shaking it at the same time in an incredible surge of affection.

She worried he might have been lost in the invasion.

“I’m hard to kill. You should know that.” He winks, and her face splits in a wide, relieved smile.

She quickly runs through an introduction to her new crew member and proceeds to interrogate Corinthus on the state of succession.

“The new Primarch is general Adrien Victus.”

Garrus wants to laugh and cry at the same time.

The line of succession is quite clear normally. Once the Primarch dies or retires - usually dies - advisors are next in line. Military advisor first, then in the order of their joining of the ranks.

But they have lost Andronicus on the first day as he led an assault on a reaper capital ship, absolutely futile. Garrus tried to convince the old general, to warn him about the strength of those units but was overruled.

The casualty rate of that first attack was 100%.

Advisors are still generals in the turian army, so they are expected to lead, so on the second day they have spread out over Menae, commanding defense of the various sectors of the moon. But, if Victus is the only one left standing then…

He quickly runs through what he knows of the advisors.

Victus joined their ranks not that long ago, maybe six years? That means…

That means next in line is councilor Sparatus, with the tenure of five years and then… a chill runs through his bones.

Him.

Spirits, Victus better not die. Shepard will definitely tear Sparatus’ guts out should he become a Primarch, and that would leave Garrus to lead his people through this war.

Clearly, not something someone of his age and prior experiences should be doing.

Not to mention the absolutely brutal decapitation of the Hierarchy. The Primarch of Palaven and eight of the ten advisors - eleven counting him - are dead.

With this many dead and the loss of the highest levels of homeworld government, even if they survive this, another Unification war might be looming.

It doesn’t take long for them to set out back through the path he came, heading for the last position he saw Victus. The young human man, Vega, seems quite naive in his thinking, but Shepard is quick to tiredly point out the obvious difficulties in recruiting krogan to the cause.

And while he is fairly certain Vega is nothing but a subordinate, a jealous prickle niggles him in the back of his mind.

He seems to be much like Garrus himself was when he first met Shepard. Young, impulsive, hotheaded, disinterested in the nuance of the matter.

When did he begin to think like that anyway? Is it even his place to judge? It’s not. Everyone has to make mistakes to learn… and he is one scarred, walking proof of that.

But by his interaction with Shepard, it’s clear the lieutenant looks up to her, much as Garrus did. The admiration bordering on adoration, a boyish hero crush. He can hardly blame him for that. Shepard is larger than life… how the hell did he ever manage to…

A husk climbing up the rock face distracts him, and a kick sends the creature down to crash into the rocks below.

“Shhhhit, those things are freaking me out. And New York is crawling with the creepy bastards? Argh, I never should have left Earth!”

“It’s going to be bad all over,” he points out calmly. He has been fighting husks for years, but for someone who has never seen one, they probably are quite a shock.

He is still unsettled by the marauder creatures. His own people turned into… that. For the first time, he understands how difficult it must have been for Shepard, Ash, and Kaidan during their chase after Saren. Watching their people turn irreversibly. Helpless to stop it.

He leads the fireteam to the crashed shuttle. The soldiers have established a small perimeter and are tending to the wounded. But Victus is nowhere to be found. He checks on the men, and they point him in the direction he went off.

Further into the Reaper-controlled territory, to bolster an outpost that is now a lonely wave breaker in the sea of carnage.

He hasn’t prayed in years, but now he is silently pleading with the Spirits for Victus to still be alive. He is not ready to lead his entire people through this horror. He isn’t sure anyone is, but…

Could he? If it comes to that? That is what turians do, isn’t it? Step up to the role, accept the responsibility, carry on with the duty.

He is not a very good turian.

He can hear the distant shockwaves, even in the thin atmosphere. Harvester swoops over the camp, and he can see the reaper troops dropping down.

“Double time people! No reaper is taking this Primarch from me!” Shepard picks up the pace, sprinting straight through the broken barricades and skidding behind some stones to avoid a hailstorm of bullets.

Vega charges in right behind her, the human smacking into a cannibal with his shoulder, smashing the creature into a wall. Amazingly reminiscent of a good old krogan charge, and to be fair, Vega is built like one.

Him? He takes up a position in the back, aiming at the dropping brute’s head.

Explosions are lighting up the battlefield as Shepard empties thermal clip after thermal clip. With Vega holding up the front, she is free to unleash the deadly power of her tech, of fire, ice, and shock.

And soon, it is all over. Silence falls on the encampment, which tells him that most of those who were injured in the struggle did not survive.

Victus walks down to meet them, greeting Shepard with slight uncertainty. After all, what reason would a human have to be on this moon?

But Victus’ tone is back to business-like as soon as he claps eyes on him.

“Vakarian, where did you go?”

He sounds none too pleased, but Garrus flicks his mandibles in a smirk.

“Heavy reaper unit on the right flank? I believe your exact words were ‘get that thing the hell off my men’.”

Without missing a beat, Victus nods with satisfaction.

“Appreciate it.”

Before too long, though, Garrus has to break the news.

“Fedorian is dead. You are the new Primarch.”

Silently, Victus walks away from them to stare up at the burning Palaven.

At any other time, this would have been the pinnacle of any turian’s career. Primarch of Palaven. Leader of all turians on and off the homeworld, head of the Hierarchy.

But now…

Just three days ago, Victus was eighth in line to inherit the position. A very, very distant spare, long shot of the long shots, his number in succession a mere formality.

Now, the responsibility for all their people’s lives has dropped in his lap.

It is heavy, the life of someone else. He cannot imagine what it’s like, to carry the responsibility for all turians everywhere. He hopes he will never have to find out.

Eventually, Victus agrees to carry on with the war summit, as Fedorian has planned. He steps away to say goodbye to his men.

“Without him down here, there is a good chance we lose this moon,” Garrus observes grimly, stepping up next to Shepard. She grimaced in return. He may not be an expert in reading human facial expressions, but he is getting pretty good at reading Shepard.

That expression speaks of tiredness, exhaustion, and endless weariness. Pain, both physical and mental. Something is not right with her, and it bothers him.

“Without him up there, there is a good chance we lose everything .”

A distant mechanical roar catches his attention and he looks over at a giant, two-kilometer-high monstrosity slowly making its way across the moon, each step punctuated by death and destruction.

“Look at that… and they want my opinion on how to stop this?” At last no one else is close enough to hear his doubts. No one but the person he trusts most in the whole galaxy. “Failed C-Sec officer, vigilante? I’m their ‘expert advisor’?”

She puts a hand on his forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze before stepping back to a respectable distance. They are still in the middle of a war zone, there are eyes everywhere. And while he feels that there is nothing to be ashamed of, a lot of turians are not so generous to humans.

It might damage the relations between their species at the moment they simply cannot afford it.

“Think you can win this, Jane?”

She meets his eyes, and he sees a ghost of a smile on her lips. That is something just between them. He is pretty sure nobody else calls her by her first name except her mother.

“I don’t know, Garrus, but I sure as hell am going to give it my best shot.”

“I’m damn sure nobody else can do it,” he flicks his mandibles in a chuckle.

With Victus gone, he would be the highest-ranking turian on Menae. He could coordinate defense… but… but.

Why does he have a feeling he might be more useful out there, with Shepard, staying by her side?

It is a selfish thing to do… but without him watching her six, what if something were to go wrong? Shepard is their best hope of winning the entire war, isn’t it his duty to make sure she lives?

That is an easy question to answer, he knows the truth of it before he even thought to ask himself.

It is. It’s his duty, plain and simple.

Most won’t see it this way. But they will. He followed her to hell and back twice, and now they are heading out for the third time. It would be wrong for her to go without him watching her back.

He was there as they landed on Ilos, he was there as pieces of Sovereign crashed into the Presidium tower, he was there as they went through the Omega-4 relay and defeated the Collectors.

And it might just be him imagining things, but… well. As soon as he left the SR-1, she died.

He wouldn’t let it happen again. The galaxy needs her. He needs her. No matter if she chooses to continue the more intimate kind of relationship with him, she still is - and always will be - his best friend. The one who was there when he needed her most.

The best thing he can do is to be the same for her. In this war to end all wars - that’s a big maybe, a more cynical part his brain chimes in - he will be fighting by her side, and be there for her, as a friend or something more if she so chooses.

“For whatever it’s worth, I’m with you.”

Oblivious to the internal struggle hiding behind those simple words, she actually smiles, and he can see some tension disappearing from her shoulders.

“Welcome aboard.”

Their handshake is very formal, but lingers on for just a moment, the two of them holding onto each other as if about to be swept away.

He watches in silence as the burning Palaven comes into view. Beside him, Shepard is typing away furiously on her omnitool.

“Something wrong, Shepard?” He nudges her slightly. She frowns.

“I sent Liara to investigate strange instrumentation failures on board, but they can’t seem to find the source… I’m trying to help out from here, but it’d be easier if I could be there.”

“I always forget you are a trained engineer, Commander. With, you know, all the shooting and explosions.” Vega’s voice is respectful, impressed even.

“Thanks?” Shepard flicks through the data on her omnitool before touching her earpiece. “Liara? I don’t think this has anything to do with the retrofits the Alliance did, the readings are the same as when I ran diagnostics after Mars. It has to be something else…”

As she steps away, Victus slides next to Garrus, looking at their homeworld.

“I see you are joining Commander Shepard’s crew.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unexpected. I had thought you would put greater priority to defending your home planet than serving on another species’ vessel.”

His tone is polite but sharp. Garrus takes in a measured breath. This is just what is to be expected. But he knows his choice is right.

Of course, it is Victus’ prerogative to order him back to Menae, but should that happen, it is Garrus’ prerogative to tell him to go to hell. He lived on the fringes of the Hierarchy for years. Not much would change for him.

Victus seems to know that.

“This is bigger than any species, Primarch. Bigger than politics or old grudges. I will be where I have to be, and I have to be by Commander’s side. We fought through impossible missions twice, together. Like hell I’m going to sit this one out. She must survive, and I will make sure she does.”

Victus sighs.

“The Hierarchy needs you, Vakarian.”

“The galaxy needs her, Primarch.”

“And she needs you?”

A loaded question if he ever heard one, and Garrus belatedly realizes he has been vocalizing. The low, warning undertone coming from his subvocals, a protective instinct rearing its head.

He quickly dampens down his voice. Turians do not make good liars, even half-truths are often betrayed by their subconscious vocalization. Probably why they never made good merchants, instead relying on volus.

“I see,” that is all Victus needed to confirm his suspicions, apparently, whatever they are. Garrus curses inwardly.

Is he overstepping boundaries? Shepard never… he isn’t even sure…

“If you are to continue down this path, you would do well to better control your subvocals. I know it isn’t easy and might take years to master, but as you are right now, you are easy to read. An advisor to the Primarch shouldn’t be.”

Garrus leans on the bulkhead, the exhaustion of the three days of almost non-stop fighting suddenly catching up to him all at once.

“Then, I am still your advisor?”

Victus flicks his mandibles in a humorless chuckle.

“Who else could it be? You are the only turian who fought and defeated reapers before. And were I to throw you out, we would lose our best source of information on the enemy, not to mention a great soldier and a link to Commander Shepard. No, that would be foolish.”

“And you said you aren’t cut out for politics,” he quips in response. Victus looks amused.

“… check again. No, actually, I’ll check on it myself, we’re almost there.” Shepard peeks out of the window, just as Normandy is coming into view. “Just… try to isolate it, don’t let it run roughshod over all our systems, especially the drive core. Get to it, I’ll be available just as soon as I get done with all the diplomacy .”

She fairly spits out the last word before closing her omnitool and sighing.

“Still problems with the ship?” Garrus turns away from Victus and towards Shepard.

She waves a dismissive hand.

“I’ll figure it out. Failing that, EDI and Adams will. Oh, and I hear Gabby and Ken are in C-Sec custody. I’ll have to bust them out as soon as we get back to the Citadel, more engineers more better.”

“Just try not to kill anybody,” he smiles, and Shepard actually laughs in response.

“I wish. Just going to throw my Spectre status at them. Although, it would be hilarious…”

Hearing her again, seeing her smile. While it wouldn’t set the galaxy back to normalcy, or remove a huge weight of responsibility from his shoulders, it is one thing that is right.

She will walk into hell once again, and he will be where he is supposed to - right behind her.

Chapter Text

As soon as they dock with the Normandy, Shepard tears off her hardsuit and then is off to speak to the Council and to Hackett. 

It seems she is right where she hates to be: playing politician. Keeping the peace is not her strongest suit. He can only imagine how badly she wants to swear at all of them.

Back in the day, she could hang up on the Council when Sparatus began his snide remarks. Now, too much is at stake.

Instead of waiting for her to be done with all that, the best thing he can do is to try and ease her burden, at least a little. He has some understanding of Normandy’s systems - mostly weapon systems of course, but they do interface with others, like power and shields.

“Primarch, I’m going to take a look at the main cannon. Maybe I’ll help find the source of the technical problems on the ship.”

“I take it that something is not right with the vessel? Can it still function as the negotiation ground?”

“Absolutely. The old girl just needs to get calibrated.”

“Calibrated?…”

“Oh, and do me a favor, sir? It’s Garrus.”

“Very well, but…”

“I’ll be in the Main Battery if you or Shepard need me.”

Leaving confused Victus behind, he nearly runs to the elevator. The ship feels more like home to him than the house he grew up in. Here, he can be what he wants, needs to be. Here is where he belongs.

New faces of the Alliance crew look concerned as at the sight of a stalking turian, no doubt. But Chakwas waves to him with a happy smile from the medbay, and he spies Liara in the corner of the mess hall, poking through a diagnostics terminal, and it all feels right.

His familiar workstation, some of the bits and bobs he left behind seem to have been dumped unceremoniously into a box under the workbench. A spare scope, some tools, and materials, along with a couple of rifle manuals. He’ll sort it out later.

First things first, he pops open the console.

“I have granted you full access to the ship’s systems, Garrus,” a familiar disembodied voice sounds through the intercom. Garrus tips the imaginary hat of thanks to EDI - she can see everything on the ship, after all.

“Appreciate it.”

“It is what the Commander is likely to request, so I did it preemptively.”

“Now, what is the problem that you, Liara, and Adams can’t quite catch?…”

About half an hour later, as he is elbows deep in the code of the power systems, the light goes off.

“Uh-oh.”

It is restored almost instantly, but still, was that him? It seems unlikely, he didn’t yet finish any of the more important adjustments - seriously, who did rebalancing on the grid this time around, Tali would have been pissed - but still…

“EDI?”

No response.

“Shit.”

He pops open the terminal once it’s back up and begins frantically scanning the error log.

The more he reads, the more bizarre it gets. Remote override attempt? Sudo access to telemetry data… unsuccessful? Core discharge started… aborted. Protocol EVA?

And… what looks like an innocuous targeting enhancement library being installed via low priority queue. But the timing is auspicious, and he doesn’t recall it being there prior to the blackout. And why low priority? Does someone not want it to be noticed?

He opens up the files and sure enough, he doesn’t know what kind of program it is but he can tell it’s no targeting assist.

He quickly cancels it with admin privileges and designates all the systems for a complete security scrub, just to be sure.

“Garrus?”

“Oh, you’re back.” Back when he first learned of an AI installed into the SR-2 he was concerned, to say the least. Now he is happy she is, uh, alive?

“Thank you for your quick reaction to the tracking malware. I was… preoccupied with more pressing concerns and it would have taken me some time to work down the queue. By which point the malware would probably have been installed, and transmitted some valuable data to Cerberus before I could remove it.”

“So my instinct was right… good to hear. And Cerberus? Really?”

“Indeed. I will create a background scan to monitor the low priority queue from now on.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t have it already, that seems a little careless for you.”

“I was not designed with this function, and until now had no reason to keep an eye on it. You need to be linked into the system already to add tasks to the low priority queue. My creators at Cerberus would have known about that weakness, however. But I am also capable of learning and modifying my core programming. I will not fall for the same trick twice.”

“Then… it’s over? Crisis averted?”

“I believe so. Please, carry on.”

“Well, glad to be of service.”

No sooner than he finishes the diagnostics on the Thannix, Victus is calling on the intercom. Garrus pads over to the right side of the cannon. A few circuits fried during the power jump when EDI restarted, and a couple of connections needed to be resoldered. But no major damage had occurred.

The freshly minted Primarch is concerned about the krogan, which, well, he can’t blame him for. Had he not met and got to know Wrex and Grunt, he would be dubious too.

Even now he cannot completely shake off the prejudice and ancient animosity. It is a thousand years old, it is in his bones, in his culture. Turians only rose to the place they are in now because of the downfall of the krogan.

But all he can do is to try to rise above it. Humans and turians were enemies once. Probably because the two species are too much alike, though both sides would deny it vehemently.

So, he does his best to be a good little advisor and tells him that it will be fine. Wrex is representing the krogan, apparently. He and Shepard are… friends? He still remembers their stand-off on Virmire. But no, the old krogan is loyal to a fault. Shepard is almost as devoted. They will make it work. They have to.

Halfway through the conversation, however, he realizes that he is not alone. Shepard had slipped into the Main Battery and is watching him work, all the while listening to what she probably shouldn’t be.

But he is not about to alert Victus.

Soon enough, the Primarch hangs up and they are left alone in the Battery. She saunters over to him as he finishes reconnecting the wires.

“Garrus. Didn’t waste any time getting to work, I see.”

He takes a steadying breath. He can smell her, the earthiness of her skin, her citrusy shampoo, a slight salty note of sweat and blood.

It is her, and by the Spirits, he missed her scent.

Almost as much as he missed her voice and her touch.

But there is still the uncertainty of what it is they are. Friends with benefits? Doubtful, at least for him it is more than that. But if that is what she wants, he is more than happy to oblige, still…

He finally has a chance to ask if she even wants to continue. And, of course, he has to be an idiot and come up with something like ‘protocol on reunions’. Seriously, why is she even keeping him around? Well, because he is her sniper, of course, but other than that?

Trying to salvage the situation, and to be honest with himself, to postpone her inevitable reply, he continues on.

“The scars are starting to fade… I remember they drove you wild…”

She kissed his scarred mandible so many times in the few nights they shared together, touched it frequently, nuzzled it, and just, in general, made him feel so much better about the reminder of his injury.

To the point where he nearly forgot he had it. Until his father’s horrified eyes reminded him that he looks like, well. Like he took a rocket to the face.

But Shepard might as well be krogan, Spirits, he watched the woman headbutt that asshole Gatatog Uvenk. She is more krogan than most krogan. Of course she finds scars attractive.

She laughs at his remarks, her green eyes sparkling with mischief.

“… but I can get out and get some new ones if it’ll help.”

Well, that was pretty terrible. Not quite how he dreamt of sweeping her off her feet, but his anxiety is back now that she is here, in front of him in the flesh.

“I haven’t forgotten our time together,” her smile and voice are sultry and it does things to him. A hot wave rolling down his spine, settling in his lower stomach.

“Well, I’ve been doing some more research on human customs… I didn’t want to presume or anything…”

And that research generally consisted of reading through asari advice columns on how to date a human. Some were on a more saucy side, to be fair. And came with vids.

But just as he starts floundering again, she comes to the rescue by standing on the tips of her toes and planting a gentle kiss on his scarred mandible. That got him to shut up.

“That’s the protocol on reunions,” she smiles, so close he can feel her warm breath on his plates.

“The vids mentioned it might go something like that,” Spirits why does he have to mention the vids, now she is going to ask, “I had hoped it would. I didn’t really…”

A careful touch of her hands on his is enough to stop him from going on and on. She holds his hands in hers, a feeling so alien and yet so familiar.

“I can’t promise how things will work out. Not with this war… but I missed you, Garrus. I thought about you a lot.”

Perhaps despite his absolutely abysmal romantic skills, it meant something more to her.

Long after she departs the Main Battery, he is still thinking about her. Her eyes, darkened with suggestion as she quips about having some ‘catching up to do’. He finds himself staring at the lines of code without comprehending it every so often.

But it would be unseemly for him to jump back into her bed on the very first day he is back on board. She must be tired, and he is exhausted, not to mention the new crew who will be talking. It’s a small ship. And Victus will hear, even if he might already harbor some suspicions.

Not to mention the upcoming negotiations with Wrex and whoever represents the salarians. They are begging for reinforcements to save the turian homeworld. If they catch even a whiff of favoritism, it will be a disaster, and Shepard sleeping with a high-ranking turian would be… well. And while Wrex might look past it, salarians will not.

She did touch on his current rank, didn’t she. Asking how far down the line of succession he is now. He did not answer. Because the answer is second in line, and it is terrifying. In a war with such devastating casualties, they are one poor decision away from him becoming the first. And then, possibly, the one.

Spirits, Victus needs to hurry up and appoint a military advisor. Put some distance between Garrus and the primarchy.

He isn’t even sure if there is a law prohibiting a twenty-eight-year-old from taking the highest seat in the Hierarchy. There damn well better be.

It takes them another week to arrive at the Citadel. A trip through the Exodus Cluster and Eden Prime came first, and with it the craziest thing Garrus could ever think of happened. A real-life talking prothean.

Liara hasn’t stopped gushing about him ever since. The young archaeologist they found on Feros three years ago is still in there. Much like Shepard finds it easier to hide behind the Commander persona, so does Liara take on the cold visage of the Shadow Broker. It eases the burden.

Does he wear a mask? He wouldn’t know. The two of them probably do not even realize they are doing it. It’s easier to see such things in other people.

Then, Grissom Academy. The last thing he expected was Jack. And slightly less lunatic than she used to be. It finally makes sense, why she traveled to Earth with Shepard. The two must have talked about it before, though she was still surprised to see the psychotic biotic there.

And David Archer. The young man even recognized him, and he of course recognized Shepard. He still has scars on his scalp from where he was fixed into the Overlord contraption. But probably not as deep as the ones he suffered mentally.

At last, they are in a relatively safe area. Citadel. Though, after how easy it was for Sovereign to attack, he doubts he will ever see it as a safe haven. It is a trap, a cunning snare. Every civilization before them found the Citadel and made it their seat of power.

And then was decapitated at the arrival of the malevolent machines.

“Purgatory?” Vega bounces on his toes and does a few punches in the air. “I could go for some tequila. Commander?”

Shepard shakes her head without looking at the four of them. Garrus exchanges a confused look with Liara and Joker. Shepard, refusing to head to the bar? Novel.

“I’ll be at Huerta Memorial. Kaidan is awake, I’m going to check on him.”

“Ah. Of course.” Garrus nods. He has heard about what happened on Mars. Shepard waves back at them with a hand holding a bottle of whiskey. Must be a gift. “Take care.”

“Mhm.”

She weaves her way through the crowds to hail a cab. Meanwhile, Joker and Liara are staring at him with wide eyes.

“Something wrong? Is my face paint peeling?” He scratches his cheek. No flakes come off.

“You’re just gonna let her?” Joker seems incredulous.

“I’m not ‘letting’ her to do anything, she is her own person, not to mention, why?”

Liara rubs her face with a groan as Joker bends in half laughing.

“Jesus Christ, are you really that dense??” Joker manages to gasp out in between gulps of air. Garrus patiently awaits the answer even as internally, it takes his all not to smack Joker over the head.

“Joker… back then, maybe, he wasn’t interested in such things. I mean… she is a human.” Liara chimes in, her voice and face tight.

“Doesn’t stop him now does it?”

“Things change.”

“No kidding.”

“Is someone gonna explain to me what’s going on? A newbie here is feeling disadvantaged,” Vega looks as confused as Garrus feels.

“Well,” Liara sounds like someone trying to explain something to a child, “the Commander has just gone to see Kaidan Alenko, who used to be on her crew. Back in the day, they used to be… uh…”

“A thing.” Joker waggles his eyebrows.

“A... thing…” slowly, ever so slowly the chilling realization begins to dawn on Garrus as he repeats after the pilot.

“You know. Making a beast with two backs. Horizontal samba.” Vega’s eyes are nearly bulging out as Joker makes some lewd hand gestures. “They used to fuck.”

“Oh. O-ooh. I see. Then, wait, what does that have to do with Scars?”

Right, Jimmy Vega and his nicknames. Hasn’t taken the human a single ship cycle to start calling him that.

“That is because…”

“ Joker,” Garrus’s warning comes too late to stop the words from coming out of Joker’s mouth.

“... she’s with Garrus now, duh.”

He is thankful they are still in the closed-off area of the docks. But that is just about the only thing he is relieved about.

Vega is opening and closing his mouth without making a sound, and looking at Garrus the entire time.

“You seems to have crushed his image of the Commander,” notes Liara, still sounding like an exhausted parent.

“I mean, she’s a human, like you have so sagely pointed out.” Joker waves her off like he didn’t just blow Vega’s mind… and Garrus’ too.

Shepard and Kaidan? Why didn’t he… how did he miss that?

That hug on Horizon. He thought it a bit strange at the time, but maybe it’s just something humans do. No… that was not what it was. It wasn’t a reunion of comrades or friends. It was a reunion of lovers.

A reunion gone wrong.

And only after that did she ever… She was so distraught after. Was she looking for an escape? Something, someone to distract her from Kaidan?

But tonight, stay with me. Help me forget…

I can’t promise how things will work out.

“Garrus?” Liara has a hand on his forearm, her face concerned. He must have growled at some point or… or something.

“Well? Are you going after her or what?” Joker waves his omnitool. “I can call a cab to Huerta Memorial. On me.”

Garrus slowly shakes his head.

“It’s fine, Joker.”

“No it’s not! That asshole abandoned us and was an absolute jerk to Shepard!”

“You were with Cerberus…” Liara, ever the mediator. But Garrus can tell Joker is about to explode.

“No, we were with Shepard. There is a difference, and he couldn’t see it. Ass.”

“Joker, this isn’t a soap opera. I’m not going to run into the hospital screaming for her not to go. It’s her choice and her life… whatever she makes of it.”

“Garrus-”

“That’s enough, Joker,” and there is the Shadow Broker, the cold steel in the asari maiden’s voice is unmistakable. “Leave it be.”

“If she goes back to that piece of shit I’ll never forgive you.” He points an accusing finger at Garrus. “Or her. And did you see the label on that bottle? It’s quality stuff! She could have given it to me! Or put it in the bar! So I can drink it!”

“You don’t really mean that, Joker…” and just like that, she is back to the soft-spoken archaeologist. “Kaidan did what he thought was right.”

“Yeah, and I think it’s right for Garrus to go and get his girl.”

“I’ve had enough of this conversation,” he turns and leaves the docking area entrance, stepping into the hustle and bustle of the crowd, trying to forget what he heard.

But that is impossible, and his damn brain is running in circles. Shepard and Kaidan, Horizon, and only then, him. He has no time for this. In the fifteen minutes they have been off the ship he already has a report from his special task force - now two hundred strong - to go through, and a message from Victus asking to check on the holding areas, where a lot of refugees from Palaven and surrounding colonies have landed.

Victus himself is bogged down with Sparatus, trying to organize what they can, restoring supply lines, calling back, and mustering the patrols and fleets from all around the turian space.

Thank the Spirits Victus is an accomplished logistician. If it was up to Sparatus alone, or worse, Garrus, the Hierarchy would be falling apart. Well. Falling apart more than it already is.

He finds the way to holding areas and it is a sorry sight. Dead and dying soldiers, screaming victims, crying children. The smell of bodily filth from a dozen species mixing with the rot of infected wounds. He should have guessed the medicine would be hard to come by around here.

But, anything to take his mind off things. Stop him from spiraling. Shepard and Kaidan…

He firmly shoves that thought into a dark corner of his mind and gets to work. Spying someone who seems to be in charge around one of the predominantly turian areas, he elbows his way to him.

“Hey. I’m Garrus Vakarian, advisor to Primarch Victus. I’m here to help. What’s the situation?”

After shoring up the makeshift camp for about an hour, he notices a flash of bright red hair out of the corner of his eye.

Amazing how many things can be done quickly once an advisor to Primarch of Palaven is the one asking, at least if there is a turian on the other end of the line.

With other things, like squeezing some medical supplies from Bailey, he is forced to drop his name to get things moving. Bailey respects Shepard, and he respects her crew. It’s a bit of an underhanded way to do things, but he was never above that, and neither is Shepard. If it’s for a good cause, she’ll do whatever it takes, and this is a good cause.

“How bad is it?” Her voice is right next to him and he turns to see the woman he is deeply in love with. Just returned from seeing her old lover.

Did anything happen? He cannot tell. She looks tired, but she usually is, at least when she is not in the middle of a battle or required to slap on a smile for morale’s sake.

Such conversations can be draining, not to mention awkward. And does she know that he knows? It’s possible she just assumed everyone knew, back on SR-1. But he didn’t. He was oblivious, even after he heard about the betting pool. It just didn’t fit with his image of Shepard. So he… chose not to know?

What a naive fool he had been.

“Bad. More dead than injured. Eighty-five percent killed in action.”

Whatever happens, they have a war to fight. If she chooses Kaidan over him to bring her solace through this hell, he will accept it. She is far more important than he is, and her happiness and peace of mind, wherever she can find it, is everything.

And that is what he tries to convey to her as she finally breaks the persona of the Commander, admitting that it has been rough. She would not rest for her own sake. No, there has to be something else, someone else to get her to stop, or else she will be going until her bones are ground to dust.

“Don’t forget to come up for air. And not because all these people need you. Because I need you.”

And he does. Without her, he was lost. He still would be, if she didn’t pull him from the brink twice. Physically, after the rocket hit, mentally after Sidonis.

And yes, there was that one time on the Collector Base. Reckless woman.

The guiding star of his life.

Soon enough, she must leave. She grumbles something about Aria T’Loak and how she could have found a better errand girl.

He decides it’s better not to know. Shepard is a Spectre, but he is now someone who best not be seen anywhere near Aria or whatever she is doing.

But, to be fair, even on Omega it was his rule to not fuck with Aria or her goons.

He still walks her out of the turian camp. A short walk, but he is able to make his way through the mostly hardsuit clad crowd much easier than Shepard in her Alliance blues, helping her pass without being pushed around.

“What a gentleman you are, Vakarian,” she smiles, nudging him in the waist, where the hardsuit plates gave way to softer carbon fiber.

“What can I say. I was told I am an archangel in disguise.”

That gets a chuckle out of her. If that is what it takes, he will continue telling lame jokes just to see her forget, just for a moment, the burden of war.

She briefly squeezes his hand amidst the cover of the crowd and sets off at a brisk pace.

That little moment reassures him more than anything that he is still in the game.

A sharp whistle from somewhere behind him cuts through the din of the crowd.

“Hey Scars! Compadre !”

Ah. Vega is playing cards with the refugees. Why is he not surprised. He moves over, coming to stand beside the human.

“Jimmy Vega. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The young human tosses the cards down - a losing hand - and hops over the seat to join him.

“So, uh. You talked to Lola?”

“Lola? Is that your name for…”

“Yeah. She kinda looks like a Lola, don’t you think?”

“Is this a human thing I should know about?”

“I dunno man. Do you guys have names for you know, like when someone is upset about some minor thing and they demand to see a manager, what do you call it?…”

He politely waits for the sentence to lead somewhere. Vega rubs his forehead.

“Never mind. Anyway, I think it fits her, that’s all. She… you guys are good?”

Garrus wants to snap back that it doesn’t concern him, lieutenant. But somehow, he doesn’t. The young man’s eyes are without malice. Just worried about someone he considers a friend.

“It’s fine. Not sure if there is anything left between her and Kaidan, but… well. It seems like I’m still in.”

“Joker is just overreacting, I knew it. You two… you seemed really close. I wouldn’t have put it together if he didn’t say something since you… and her… but even I could tell you two were close. I just thought you two were really good friends.”

“We are.”

If Vega could tell, who else noticed? Victus, absolutely, but what about others in the camp? We’re they that obvious?

“Then you are a lucky man, Scars. Anyway. She told me not to gamble away my shirt since it’s Alliance property. I should get outta here before I lose it. I’ll be in Purgatory if you want to get a drink after you’re done with all that business…”

Vega glances at the turian camp. He hides it well, but there is pity and disgust in equal measure in his eyes.

“Hang in there, Scars.”

He slaps him hard on the back, hard enough to make his knees bump into the seat in front of him, and saunters away. Garrus takes a moment to compose himself, to become who he needs to be.

The unflappable Advisor, here to help out however he can.

Guess he does have a mask after all.

Chapter Text

With Wrex back on board, things are a lot rowdier. At all hours of the day and night, he can hear stomping, cursing, and grumbling about the food. One time the mess hall was cheering as Wrex was arm wrestling against none other than Jimmy Vega because of course he was.

The war summit went about as well as it could have? He had expected genophage to be brought in somehow, but he never could have expected a cure to be not only possible but probable.

In any event, he did his best buttering up the old krogan on Sur Kesh. Laughing and joking, reminiscing about the good old times.

Of course, they were the good old times only in hindsight. During the chase after Saren, it was mainly running from one disaster and into another, hoping his ass comes along for the ride.

But there were good times in between the terror-filled battles for their lives. Rattling in the back of the faithful old Mako, poking fun at Shepard’s terrible driving skills, squabbling with Ash over who gets that shiny new rifle scope, listening to Wrex’s stories after the lights out. Tali bouncing in and out of the engineering, always unsure if she is welcome but always surprised to find that she was. Kaidan’s valiant attempt at dextro cooking, he was even getting quite decent by the end. Liara’s inability to read sarcasm often left them all laughing their asses off. 

She has gotten a lot better since then.

“Careful, here comes the next Shadow Broker!” Shepard chuckles as a giant yag burst out of a containment chamber and ran off to wreak untold havoc.

“Could have sworn he was muttering `T'soni`…” he nudges the asari who goes slightly purple.

“Not funny, you two.”

“Oh, I think it’s hilarious ,” he can’t see her face behind the helmet but he knows she is grinning.

They fight their way through the facility, beset by Cerberus the whole time. They even dropped a damn mech on them. Thankfully, they had more than enough firepower to dispatch it, and with him and Shepard both frying the shields continuously and their anti-armor ammunition Atlases are not all that scary, really. No more than charging brutes or swooping harvesters.

Harvesters . Before the invasion, he had no idea such a thing was possible, but seeing his first brute cured him of that illusion very quickly. He can only imagine what the reapers can do to a species in a hundred years. The Collectors were so twisted they only vaguely resemble Protheans. Of course, his sample size on the latter is one, but he is pretty sure they didn’t start out with exposed muscles and wings.

Mordin’s words Shepard mentioned to him ring out in his head, as clear as if said by their very own crazy salarian scientist.

No glands, replaced by tech. No digestive system, replaced by tech. No soul , replaced by tech. Whatever they were before, gone forever.

He had passed the sample to Padok Wiks who enthusiastically agreed to analyze it. While the reaper specimens in this war are abundant, harvesters’ tissues are difficult to obtain, he explained. Those who were sent to collect the samples and data did not return.

Garrus can only hope that STG can crack this one. If not them, who?

Once safely back aboard the Normandy, he is once again swept up by the tide of war. Victus needs to go over strategy, his task force reporting casualties, refugees on Citadel are being pushed around by C-Sec, and on and on and on.

When he finally decides to pause, it’s already a night cycle. And tomorrow, they are investigating Cerberus’s activity on Tuchanka. No question that Shepard will bring him with her. She always does.

“Well, you look like shit, Vakarian.”

Wrex emerges from the medbay and Garrus groans inwardly.

“And you look as ugly as always.”

“Hmph, that’s all you got, kid? C’mon, you can do better.”

“Wrex, I’m very tired.”

He wants to walk past the krogan but is gripped tightly around the cowl.

“Come on now, let’s have a drink. Our peoples are about to fight together, but we two were doing it before it was cool.”

“Wrex…”

“Or is Shepard riding you too hard in and out of her bed?”

That makes him freeze. Wrex’s red eyes narrow in a satisfied grin.

“You were not supposed to know that.”

“I have my sources .”

“You mean, Mordin.”

He is being towed by the cowl by a thousand-year-old krogan battlemaster to have a drink and chat about his cross-species sex life. Four years ago he would have laughed at such a notion but here he is.

“The damn salarian talks too much. He was wondering aloud why you are so stressed when Shepard is clearly able to help with some ‘relief’.”

“I’m going to have to have a talk with him about that…”

Thankfully, the doors of the lounge slid closed before the old krogan booms again.

“Never took her for a turianfucker but at least she got the one decent turian.”

“I’m flattered, Wrex. Truly .” He puts enough acid in his voice to melt through steel. Wrex roars with laughter.

“What can I say, I have a soft spot for stupid kids.”

“A soft spot? My, you’re getting old.”

“I was killing thresher maws before your great-great-forty-times-grandfather has learned to crawl, Garrus. You’re not telling me anything I don’t know about here. Now spill it, I want to know how the hell did that happened. Shepard is way out of your league.”

“Tell me about it… And you’re not worried she’s only doing it to help me? With getting krogan help and all.”

“Nah. It’s bigger than that. The woman spent years trying to prove Reapers were coming, died for the trouble, and still fights on. It makes sense, strategically. You got the biggest fleet. We’ll need that if we are to fight. Now stop evading my question. I want details .”

“Well… Let’s see…”

With brandy going down smoothly while Wrex is breathing out rincol fumes, somehow the burdens seem distant. Lighter. He will have to go and carry on with them eventually, but for now… for now, he can take a breath.

The next day, his head is splitting. He should have drunk more water, but by the time he staggered back to his bunk, he was not able to think about tomorrow.

Rolling out from under the thin blanket he is sharply reminded that he is no longer capable of waking up after a night of drinking without a hangover. The lighting is much too bright, so he squints his way to the washroom, tidies up, and staggers over to the Main Battery, where he can dim the lights as much as he wants.

The downside is that the Battery is a lot louder than the rest of the ship.

He pings Chakwas for a hangover cure recommendation and she offers to rehydrate him directly into the veins. Which he is desperate enough to agree on.

Shepard needs him… needs him to be functional. Damn it, Wrex…

<When are we heading to investigate Cerberus?>

He pings Shepard as he sits in the medbay, a needle stuck into his arm, saline solution slowly seeping into his blood.

<Don’t worry about it. I’m taking EDI and James. Apparently, there are some engineering challenges on site.>

She is not… she’s not taking him? A part of him is relieved, but a part of him is worried and… hurt? He is her sniper, is it safe for her to go without him watching her back? And… and… but that is foolish. Childish. She does not make those decisions for his sake, but for the sake of the mission. If she thinks EDI and James can do the job, they can. Both of them are more than capable of protecting her.

<Get some rest. I heard you and Wrex had a bit of a boys night in.>

<Oh? And where have you heard that?>

<I have my sources.>

Even if the text cannot convey her tone or expression, he knows she is smiling that sly little smile of hers.

<I see Wrex had a cunning plan all along.>

<He always does. Between me and Victus, he says we’re overworking you. I concede he has a point, but I need you, and so does the Primarch.>

It seems Wrex stomping out of the medbay just as he was leaving for the night was no coincidence. No, it was a calculated ambush.

Thank the Spirits Wrex is on their side.

<Get rehydrated, get some other work done. We’ll be fine scrapping with some Cerberus grunts without you, don’t worry. I do need you for the next mission, though, so don’t get too cozy.>

<Aye aye, ma’am.>

He smiles as he closes the omnitool.

“The Commander is a remarkable woman, isn’t she?”

He is startled to look up and find Eve watching him, her reptilian eyes warm.

“How did you…”

He catches himself but too late.

“You just told me, of course. I had my suspicions, but…” the female krogan rumbles a laugh deep in her chest. “You two are quite obvious if one knows where to look.”

“I… see.”

He knows not what else he might say.

“And from what I hear from Wrex and Mordin, she could hardly have picked a more capable second. It is important for a leader.”

“But… I’m not… It's an Alliance ship. I couldn’t be…”

“It matters not what title you bear, only what responsibility. When in doubt, others look to you for guidance when the Commander is not around. That makes you her second, whether you like it or not.”

Garrus. You’re in charge of the second team.

The ship doesn’t have an official XO this time around, like Presley or Miranda, and the administrative duties have been absorbed by EDI and Traynor.

He never thought of himself as Shepard’s second-in-command. It almost seems too arrogant, especially for someone who got his entire team killed. There are better people on this ship to be called that. He is her sniper, and he is her friend.

“You know a lot about the burden of leadership,” he switches the subject away from him and Shepard, or at least, attempts to.

“It comes from serving as a shaman to my clan sisters. I have told this to the Commander, and I will tell you the same, as I feel you will understand: wisdom comes from pain.”

“Very true,” he agrees, despite the quite ridiculous situation he is in. Perhaps he should wise up and not drink with Wrex ever again.

“And the genophage has made us very wise.”

And he can hear the pain in her voice. She was an infertile female before, Mordin said. She must have borne stillborn children…

He cannot well imagine the pain and the grief.

“For what it’s worth… I am so sorry for what has been done to you and your people. I know it doesn’t mean much coming from me now…”

“It means a great deal, coming from a turian. Besides, I hear you are quite high on the ladder of the Hierarchy, young man.”

“It’s Garrus. And, might I say, the position was thrust upon me rather unexpectedly.”

“Then, Garrus, take heart in knowing that I do not blame you. Our people have forced your people’s hand, and now we are doing it again. But still, I look to the future with hope. Should we survive this war, your generation might lead the way to a time when the pain of the past is truly behind us.”

Garrus looks down. He knows better than that, he really does. The hearts of people are fickle, forgetful, and petty. New wars will come, new conflicts will arise, and perhaps there will be something just as horrific as genophage in the future, or maybe even worse. If there is one thing sentient species can do, it is finding more and more awful ways to kill and maim each other.

But listening to Eve, he wants to believe. To look to the tomorrow with hope, no matter how dark the today.

He can learn from her. But as she said, this wisdom was bought with unimaginable pain, pain his people inflicted. But he cannot be responsible for the sins of those who committed this crime a thousand years ago.

All he can do is try to set it right. Krogan need an advocate among the turian people. He will continue being this voice. Victus listens to his advice, even if he doesn’t agree with it.

But one thing Garrus learned from Shepard is stubbornness, which is saying something since he has always been determined, as his father could attest.

Had he been here, of course. Still not a word from him or Solana…

But he will keep pushing. Spreading the good word about the krogan. Carry Eve’s hope with him, and, despite his reservations, believe in a better tomorrow.

It’s the least he can do.

Chapter Text

Everything happened so fast. There was no time to say goodbye.

There never is.

One moment he, Shepard, and Javik were zigzagging through the ruins of the ancient arena, dodging reaper beams and dropping brutes, the other Shepard screams for them to go, now.

He wants to object, he wants to say no. But he knows better. She wouldn’t do this if she thought they could stick together.

As they scramble away, Garrus feels the jagged cut in his side, a brute’s claw catching him when he lured them away from Shepard, giving her a chance to get to the maw hammers. He is leaving a bloody trail on the ancient stones, even though he is putting pressure on the wound. It’s hard to walk, with his limbs hardly responding and cold, but with Kalross on the prowl, he dares not to stop even for some first aid.

You know it’s bad when the krogan name a thresher maw.

A tremendous crash comes from behind him, a Reaper’s roar, a deafening metallic screech… and then, silence.

He cannot see what happened with the Reaper and Kalross, but he can see the Shroud facility smoking. A fight of giants this close… would it even function?

Eventually, they limp over to the truck, where Wrex awaits them, his impatience and anxiety palpable.

“Where is Shepard?!” He roars, his vertical pupils contracting into thin lines.

“She went to finish the job,” Garrus leans against the side of the truck and pops open the omnitool. The hardsuit readings are within acceptable range… acceptable for him, that is.

He is sure he’ll get an earful from Chakwas on the return. But seriously, there was no time. Mother of all thresher maws and all that.

He lost about half a liter of blood. He’ll need a transfusion once he is back on the Normandy, no wonder he felt like collapsing on the way back. His vision is vignetting and it’s cold, so cold.

He staples the ragged gash together with barely responsive fingers and slathers medigel on top to keep it sealed and sterile. Then, his knees give way and he slides down to the dusty ground, leaning against the giant truck tire. The angry sky of Tuchanka blazes with unfiltered solar radiation.

It reminds him of Palaven.

He can almost hear the lazy waves of the lapping sea, his plates pleasantly warm from the sun, burying his toes into the black sand. Solana is digging in the shallows, mom and dad are napping nearby, and in the distance behind them all, he can see the mountains, rising in the bluish haze.

“Look!”

He jerks awake from his stupor to see the Shroud expelling a cloud of particles, shimmering in the sunlight like golden snow.

The curse of genophage is lifted, and hope for the krogan is alive once again.

Garrus struggles back to his feet to watch the spectacle. He has been a witness to many historical moments in his life, more than anyone should, really. But this one… this one feels good.

Beside him, Wrex lowers his shotgun and watches in silent awe. He can hear his unlikeliest of friends take in a deep breath, and let it go slowly, deliberately.

As if a mountain has dropped from his shoulders. A burden that has been there for a thousand years.

It will not erase the history and the pain and the sorrow. It will not absolve his ancestors from the crime they have committed. But it permits his people to be forgiven by the krogan if they can find it in themselves to do so. At last, this wound can begin the slow process of healing.

Beside them, Eve emerges into the light slowly, painfully. She has clearly endured a harrowing procedure, even with famous krogan tolerance for pain. Mordin must not have had time… this whole operation has been a string of disasters and reckless decisions.

Just like old times.

“It is… over?” she asks slowly, reaching out a hand to catch a golden spec.

“It is, Mother of Krogan.” Javik tilts his head to her slightly, the only sign of respect Garrus has ever witnessed the Prothean exhibit.

Mother of Krogan. It fits her more than he could ever expect. In a way, every child born to every krogan will be hers, from this moment and forevermore.

“You have been given this second chance. Do not squander it.” Javik’s tone is back to usual dismissive disinterest. Garrus shakes his head. Perhaps the little nod was a hallucination from blood loss.

“Never,” Wrex smiles broadly and rests his trusty shotgun on his shoulder, “never.”

Shepard limps to the truck in about a quarter of an hour. Alone.

He saw the Shroud facility collapse on itself after the release of the cure, but he still hoped…

“Mordin?” He asks quietly and he can see her face, streaked with tuchankan dust and grime, contort in pain.

She does not answer, merely resting her forehead against his shoulder with a quiet thump.

“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, the beauty of the scene he witnessed forever tinged with grief.

The dazzling rain continues across Tuchanka, carried by the harsh air currents, dancing on the wind. A final gift from Mordin, a hope for forgiveness from those he has wronged.

Wrex immediately pledged forces to support Palaven, and Shepard immediately got pulled every which way, helping to organize the troop transport, coordinating movements, and relaying the news to interested parties.

Meanwhile, he and Victus were pouring over maps and fleet positions, determining where best to deploy the first reinforcements arriving to the homeworld, and where they punch a temporary hole in the Reaper’s blockade to deliver them to the ground.

And while the two might seem the same at the first glance, they are anything but.

“I still think descending over the North Pole and landing in tundra would be our best bet,” Garrus zooms in on the planetary view with a flick of his finger over the omnitool, “our largest cities are in the southern hemisphere, and that’s where they would concentrate most of their ships, to prevent evacuation.”

Victus’ mandibles remain tightly pressed against his face. His eyes sunk in, his expression grim ever since the ill-fated mission in Kelphic Valley. Tarquin’s death has clearly taken its toll on him. The Primarch barely rests, working and working and working until he can’t anymore.

“Going from the north would add at least a week to their travel time. They won’t be able to fly, and will have to take ground and underground transport.”

“Well, we don’t want them to get shot down on the way to the planet either. The Reapers’ defenses are thinnest over less densely populated areas.”

“It is a week during which people will die. I am willing to risk the lives of krogan soldiers to save our civilians.”

Garrus closes his eyes.

The calculus of war. Those krogan, just buoyed up by the news of the genophage cure, sacrificed to save those who inflicted it upon them.

“Garrus, we need those reinforcements now . The first wave will deploy to bolster Cipritine and surrounding areas,” Victus pauses, and unexpectedly, his hand lands on Garrus’ shoulder before adding, much softer, “the second wave will take the northern route. They can also provide support to Adepolis on the way.”

“… understood.”

He knows it is the right decision. His desire to protect krogan lives will result in his people’s lives being lost and vice versa. Better it be soldiers who understand and accept the risk rather than civilians, children, elders.

“The descent will be treacherous, and I dare not pull any more forces away from their positions. We will lose ground instantly.”

Garrus nods, studying the situation on the screen. They need more ships to protect the troop transports, to punch through the blockade long enough to let them pass, to give them a bit more of a fighting chance…

The Hierarchy is spread thin. But they are not alone in this war and they need to start acting like it.

“I’ll have a word with Admiral Hackett,” he says, and that does make Victus’ brow plate rise. “See if he can lend us a few ships for this mission.”

“You think he’ll listen?” The older turian sounds dubious.

“Why wouldn’t he? It is in his interest to get the krogan down to Palaven.”

Victus nods.

“Perhaps it ought to be me who reaches out.”

“I’ve met Hackett before, if briefly, and I’m Shepard’s crew. I think I have a better shot here, sir.”

The Alliance is also struggling, and they lost an entire fleet during the Reaper’s arrival and another one in the retreat from Earth. And while that means untold horrors for the eleven billion residents of the human homeworld… that also means the Alliance is not stuck sacrificing more and more resources in a desperate bid to defend it.

“Very well,” Victus adds a hypothetical cruiser and two frigates to the diagram and scratches his chin thoughtfully. “That might do it. Of course, it’s a bit of a suicide mission.”

“What isn’t these days?” Garrus chuckles but quickly shuts up as soon as he remembers about Tarquin.

Garrus knew him, in what seems like a different lifetime. How could he not? They were born in the same year, about a month apart, in roughly the same area. They’d gone to the same school and through the basic at the same time, though they were in different divisions.

He can’t help wondering what he would have done if he had been the one to lead that mission.

Not only in a strategic sense, but in that last moment.

“It is my fault,” Victus says slowly, the silence only interrupted by the ambient ship noise, “I thought he could do it. I watched you carry the burden of command with grace and I forgot how young both of you are. I thought that he would be able to do it too… but he wasn’t ready. And now, he never will be.”

“Sir?…” Garrus doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? For the first time, he considers what would his own father feel should he perish in this war. In his younger, self-important years, he thought his father would be glad to be rid of him.

But now he understands that could not be further from the truth.

“You two were so much alike, it blinded me to reality. You have gone through so much, while he was still untested in a real fire. I was a fool not to give the mission to you, Garrus. I hope you can forgive me.”

Victus is asking for… his forgiveness? But… he wants to sit down. The healing wound in his side hurts, and his ears ring with sudden white noise.

“There is nothing to forgive, sir.”

Victus shakes his head vehemently.

“The mission should have gone to an experienced leader. Someone who could handle the pressure. It should have gone to you as my advisor, but I was mistrustful owing to your friendship with Urdnot Wrex. This mess was my own doing, and Tarquin paid the price for it.”

It should have gone to someone who understands the ruthless calculus of war, he means. Who understands what is at stake. Who can accept the exchange of one life for one planet and consider it a bargain.

Tarquin understood it, in the end.

“… he never hesitated. He did what he had to.”

“I know. He did his duty, in the end. I am trying to find solace in that, but it has been difficult.”

The door to the war room slides open and Shepard marches in, relieving him from the conversation. She looks dead on her feet.

It has been twelve hours since the events on Tuchanka. She has been awake for at least twice that long, and he doubts she gets much sleep these days at all.

Victus turns to thank her, and she only responds to him with a tired “don’t forget where we live.”

Once Victus departs the war room, Garrus gently nudges Shepard.

“You should get some shut-eye.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” she deadpans. The harsh lighting of the hologram in front of her - still displaying the deployment plan for reinforcements - throws her face in high relief. He can see thin lines on her forehead and at the corners of her tired green eyes.

He had seen older humans, and they had a lot of those lines all over their faces. But does it seem to him that she should be too young to have those?

“We both know you need a clear head to win a war,” he insists gently but firmly. “Get some rest, Jane. Please.”

At the sound of her name, her expression softens. Every once in a while she needs a reminder that there is more to her than Commander Shepard. That he hasn’t forgotten, and he will not let her forget.

“Besides,” he lowers his voice even though they are alone in the war room, “I know where you sleep. I’ll wake you if anything comes up.”

He lets the smallest hint of suggestion to slip through his tone.

“… if you insist,” she gives in with visible reluctance.

She had to stop him when he was on the verge of slipping. Now it is his time to return the favor.

To intervene on behalf of someone you care about, to stop them from doing something they should not be, even if that might make them resent you.

There is no higher expression of love.

When she leaves, he queries Admiral Hackett on the QEC. A few minutes later, the old human steps into view, his expression carefully neutral, as it has always been.

“Advisor Vakarian. I hear we can congratulate you and the entire Hierarchy on winning the alliance with the krogan.”

“Indeed, Admiral. Thank you. It would not be possible without Mordin Solus, though. And Urdnot Bakara.”

Hackett nods, his silent presence and gravitas palpable even through the quantum entanglement communicator.

“Let’s hope salarians will realize they need us.”

“That they do. Reapers are not susceptible to their tactics… unfortunately for them.”

There is the smallest twitch of Hackett’s lips upward before it disappears like it never happened.

“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call? I doubt you are here just to talk.”

Garrus chuckles. Yes indeed, he still hates politics. Nothing is ever without a reason, nothing is ever without strings attached. But lives depend on it, on him, to get this right.

“You are correct, Admiral.”

Hackett listens to the plan carefully, and he can almost see him weighing the proposal on the scales.

He has never met a person more adept at the cold, rational calculation with the lives of people than Steven Hackett.

Perhaps only the Illusive Man, but that one is sick to the head.

“How many ships are we talking?” Hackett zooms in on the models of the convoy.

“A cruiser and a couple of frigates would be ideal.”

Hackett lets out a long exhale as he thinks it over. Garrus knows he is looking for weaknesses in their plan. Something he would exploit were he on the opposite side because that is what Reapers would do.

He has to remind himself to breathe during the long, long two minutes the human deliberates.

Hackett motions for someone off-camera to pass him a datapad and skims through its contents, his usual frown deepening.

“Cruiser São Paulo and frigates Vertières and Stalingrad are under your command for the duration of this operation. Make them count.”

Garrus has to resist the urge to rip off a salute to the admiral. It would be highly inappropriate… and imply things he would rather not consider, with all the political morass…

“Yes, sir.”

He expects a dry ‘Hackett out’ and the end to the conversation, but instead, the admiral steps a bit closer to the QEC and lowers his voice.

“And Vakarian?”

“Sir?” To say he is surprised would be an understatement. Hackett is not one to indulge in idle talk.

“Keep Shepard safe and sane. The galaxy needs her… and she needs you.”

It makes him question what exactly Hackett knows, how much he suspects and how much proof he has. Perhaps he only meant it as Garrus being a friend, a squadmate, a constant presence through the past impossible missions. Perhaps not.

He decides it’s best not to worry about it, whatever it is Hackett thinking. There is bigger fish to fry than whoever the galaxy’s war leader chooses to sleep with.

Of course, if they survive this, the likes of Khalisah al-Jilani are going to have a field day. But that is a problem for the future Garrus. He doubts Hackett in the present cares one way or another, as long as Shepard is fit to fight and make decisions. And he will make sure she is.

“I always am, Admiral.”

“Good, keep at it. Hackett out.”

It is another hour later when he decides to head to the loft and check on Shepard. Make sure she isn’t pouring over messages and reports instead of resting.

He isn’t surprised to see that she is asleep sitting on the couch, a datapad still in hand. Shaking his head, he takes it away from her unresisting fingers and scoops the unconscious woman up. She is always heavier than he expects, with all the cybernetic implants Cerberus has stuffed her body with.

He is not about to tell her that, though. He has heard in no uncertain terms that human females hate when their weight is mentioned.

Her eyes flutter open for just a moment before the recognition dawns and she relaxes against him.

“I think I recall telling you to get rest,” he chides his commander with a small smile, to which she smacks her hand against his chest plate.

“Just one more…”

“No, Shepard. No more reports.”

Putting her down on the bed, he leans down to unlace her boots. Those ties were clearly made for someone with smaller, nimbler fingers, but he manages alright by using just the tips of his talons.

“You should know by now… if you tell me I can’t I will…”

“You’re being childish, Jane.”

She snorts as her feet pop out of the boots and she wiggles her many toes.

“Yes, mom…”

“None of that cheek or I will bend you over my knee,” he chuckles as he works his way to the clasps of her blues. Shepard smiles wider.

“Is that an incentive? I think that’s an incentive, Vakarian...”

Her hands, still clumsy from sleep, take over the unclasping of her shirt.

“Well… if that gets you to stay in bed instead of working…”

“If you stay in bed with me,” her shirt is flung against the bulkhead as she wiggles her way out of the trousers. He can see dark, angry bruises on the left side of her torso and hip. Must be when they crashed down a level in the ruins. He managed to slide down the tilted slab more or less gracefully and Javik had biotics to slow his descent, but Shepard landed hard on that side.

Her eyes follow his gaze and her nose scrunches up momentarily.

“It’s nothing.”

“But Shepard…”

“Shhhh…” She pulls him down to sit beside her. The bed groans from the weight of his armor. Shepard quickly finds the clasps holding it together, however. It seems she remembers where they are despite not having done it that many times.

He lets her sweep him away in the current, he always does. He would always follow her, wherever she leads him.

With both of them injured in the last mission, they are slow and cautious, even if his body yearns for her.

She molds around his angular frame like it was always meant to be this way. It’s hard for him to flex his abdominal muscles, with stitches still fresh in his side, so Shepard rides him once again, her hips rocking gently against his, mindful of his injury.

Once again, inexplicably, it is so much more gentle and loving than he had expected from someone like Shepard. Perhaps it is their constant aches and pains from healing wounds, perhaps it’s the high stakes operations, or maybe it’s just what she likes and needs, he is by no means unhappy.

In fact, sex with her has been the most fulfilling of his life. He only hopes she can say the same. He has no reference for how humans evaluate their partners.

He tips her over onto the side - the uninjured side, of course - and she lets him, coming to rest on the bed next to him, before he gestures for her to flip around. There is no need for them to speak in this moment, light touches are enough to convey the meaning.

In a way, cradling the strongest woman in the galaxy protectively to his keel may be considered odd. Spirits know she doesn’t need his protection.

But this isn’t about what she needs but what she wants. Too few people ask what she herself wants, not Commander Shepard but the woman who is more than that.

Her breathing becomes harder as he picks up the pace, still gentle but demanding, and he nips lightly at her ear and shoulder and neck, never ceasing to be amazed at the softness.

Burying his face into her red hair, he loses himself in her, in her warmth, her scent.

The brightening of lights tells him the ship has entered a day cycle. He leans on the side of the elevator, waiting for it to descend to the crew deck.

Before that, however, it stops at the CIC. The doors slide open with a quiet hiss, and Traynor and James pop into view.

“Oh. Morning Garrus. You stepping out?” Vega shuffles a bit to the side to let him through.

“I’m, no, I’m going down to the crew deck.”

“Oh.” Vega’s broad face splits into a wide grin. “Oh! Oh…”

“Oh?” Traynor looks back at the other human and Garrus stifles a groan.

“Nothin’. Come on,” Vega gestures for Traynor to enter the elevator.

The ride is short, but something is going on with Vega’s face. His eyebrows are twitching up and down rapidly. Is that some sort of tick that humans have? All the while he is maintaining eye contact over oblivious Traynor’s head.

“Vega, are you okay? Maybe you should check in with Chakwas.”

“What? No, I’m…”

“Your eyebrows…”

“Oh. Er. I guess turians don’t do that, then. Never mind.”

Chapter Text

Staring down the barrel at someone you once thought a friend. Not something one gets used to. But it happened, and he was ready to pull the trigger should he not back down.

Thankfully, it never came to that.

Even after everything that happened, even after Horizon and Cerberus and Garrus - he knew, as it turns out - and Mars, Kaidan believed her.

If the roles were reversed, he isn’t sure he could have.

He hopes he never finds out.

Kaidan is a better person than he is. Kaidan never tried to kill someone in cold blood, plotting sweet revenge for months on end.

Kaidan never needed Shepard to set him right. He was a complete and accomplished person before he ever met her.

Unlike Garrus.

Why did she ever turn to him for companionship? He will never know. All and all, he can’t see how it could possibly end in his favor, now that the biotic is back on board.

For one, Kaidan has the advantage of being a human. They are compatible by nature, they are the same species. They can be together without the fear of repercussions and condemnation from the wider galaxy.

They can have children. A future. A family.

She would make an amazing mother…

He contemplates leaving Normandy and taking point beside Victus, leading what remains of the turian forces. Spirits know nobody would blame him for doing that.

Briefly, but the thought does cross his mind.

But she needs him. In whatever capacity she requires, he will be there for her. As her sniper, as her friend, as her confidant. Whatever she needs. Especially the latter.

“… I’ll be honest, if it wasn’t my own world that was burning…” he lets the words hang in the air for a brief moment, “I might have looked for a way out.”

Those words may be betraying his friendship with Wrex… but even Wrex can’t deny the destructive nature of his people. He is but one krogan, and there are hundreds of thousands of  avaricious despots with their eyes set on revenge.

Shepard’s eyes harden, a crease setting in her forehead.

“Shepard?”

“I’ll be honest with you too, Garrus. The salarians offered me their full support if I sabotaged the cure.”

His stomach drops.

“Did you?”

What if the answer is yes? Would he be able to live with that? Would he still respect her?

“… no. I couldn’t bring myself to… to do that to Wrex and Bakara. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider it…”

He breathes out. He isn’t sure he can deal with another Aratoht, so soon. Seeing her like that, a broken shell of what she used to be, the immeasurable weight of lives lost weighing her down to the point of snapping.

“Anyone would have second thoughts when it comes to krogan. They better remember that you didn’t act on it.”

He doubts it is something she would share with anyone else. Her doubts, her thoughts, her fears. And that is why he will stay, for as long as she has a need of him.

Such are his thoughts as he stares at the monument to the fallen. Some he never knew. Some he did, and it hurts.

He added Thane’s name to the list. Shepard was distraught after seeing him for the last time. There was no need to add to her pain, so he did it for her. There was no pomp or circumstance. When they added Mordin’s name to the monument, the crew and Wrex and Victus were there, and Shepard said a few words.

This time, no one else is here to mourn the passing of another friend. But he suspects that is what he would have wanted. He lived his life in the shadows, and into the shadows he disappeared, leaving no trace but this plaque. He is to be buried under a different name. All the records of his stay at Huerta Memorial are also bearing a pseudonym.

But he lived, and this is the indisputable proof. He was their crew, he was one of their own. Thane Krios. He was a warrior and he was their friend, to the very end.

A hand lands on his forearm and he startles awake from his contemplation.

“Shepard.”

“Garrus. I see you… took care of things.”

She nods at the memorial board. He nods in response.

“While it is a somber day I am glad I didn’t have to put up a second name. Losing one today was enough.”

“Yeah…” her voice is coarse and she blinks fast a few times. “He was one of ours. Crazy, but aren’t we all?”

Almost the same thing he said about Mordin after his passing. What a crazy, weird bunch they are, Shepard’s crew.

“Indeed.”

They stand in silence for a while.

“… if it came to that, if he didn’t back down… could you have done it?”

He knows she is capable of executing people without mercy or hesitation. He knows she can justify the deaths of all the people on a populated planet to save everyone.

But there are some things she would never do. She couldn’t betray a friend. Could she have shot Kaidan if it came to that? Someone she must still have at least some feelings for if not more?

“If he didn’t back down, yes. I would have done it.”

There is a tired, resigned pain in her voice. But also relief, relief that she didn’t have to go through with it and deal with the consequences.

“… I’ll remember that next time we have an argument,” he gently nudges her with an elbow and she laughs, an affectionate smile curving her lips.

“Thanks, Garrus. You’re always there for me.”

“Of course, Jane,” he flicks his mandibles open in a smile.

She continues to smile as she steps away from him and the memorial board and towards the starboard observation deck.

The place Kaidan made his unofficial office.

She is just checking on her crew. It’s what she always does. For as long as he had known her, after a mission she would be making rounds. Make sure everyone is alright, see how the wounded are healing, see how someone is faring after an emotionally taxing job. She cares for her crew like they are her family. It’s how she is, it’s what makes her Shepard.

But that is his brain talking. His heart meanwhile is crushing itself inside his chest. An awful, hollow feeling.

He should go. He doesn’t want to be here, to accidentally overhear something that he will be unable to forget. He really should…

“… alright, let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do, Commander.”

He looks over to see Shepard walking out of the starboard observation, checking messages on her omnitool, not even three minutes after she walked in. Kaidan is leaning on the glass, arms crossed, his expression neutral, even as their eyes meet. The biotic nods curtly, and Garrus responds in kind, strangely numb.

Shepard stops beside him and flicks her omnitool closed.

“Garrus, I’m getting a message from Victus, it’s for both of us. Labeled confidential, seems pretty urgent. Come with me to the loft, we’ll check it there.”

“Alright.” He tilts his head in slight confusion. He hasn’t gotten anything from Victus. Is something wrong with the deployment of troops? Is Wrex making unreasonable demands? Is there infighting between the freshly minted allies?

Or… did they lose all the ships Hackett lent them? Shit. He didn’t tell Shepard about that. There just hasn’t been time and it slipped his mind with everything that’s been going on…

As they arrive at the loft, his thoughts are running a parsec an hour.

“So, Shepard, what’s…”

He doesn’t get to finish. She pushes him against the closed door and silences him with a passionate kiss.

His confusion multiplies, but it’s hard to think when her warm soft lips are on him, her clever tongue playing with his. Eventually, she pulls away, breathing hard.

“Shepard, I don’t…”

“There is no message, silly. I just wanted you alone.”

Humans don’t have the subvocals. And while that makes it hard to communicate subtle emotions and undertones, they can lie with a straight face. He had no idea she was not telling the truth until the last moment.

In front of Kaidan, too?

He must have said that out loud as she tilts her head incredulously.

“What about him?”

“I… I just thought… I mean… I knew you two…”

“Oh. Oh… I see.”

She lets go. Her cheeks are still flushed slightly, but she crosses her arms and leans on one hip, other leg outstretched.

“You thought I brought him back into the crew to get back with him.”

He can never lie to her. It is impossible. Not with this presence, this power, this incredible force of will. Her green eyes pierce his very being, nailing him to the door.

“… yes.”

“And you thought I’d leave you behind for him.”

“… yes.”

“Garrus, what on Earth gave you that idea?”

“Wait, what about Earth…”

She groans, closing her eyes for a moment before skewering him with her gaze again.

“Figure of speech, forget about that. What gave you the idea that I want to get back with him? He clearly moved on, and well… so did I.”

“I… I just… I thought…”

“Spit it out, Vakarian, who was it? Joker? Or Wrex? God, I knew I should have talked him out of the ‘lads night in’ as he put it…”

“No, Shepard… It’s just… I thought you’d want to be with him. And you’d be better off. He’s a good man. Better than I ever was. A capable soldier. A Spectre. A… a human .”

She blinks, her menacing intensity evaporating in a flash.

“Is that what this is all about?…”

“I just figured I was in the way now that he’s here…”

“Garrus… you incurable, self-sacrificing idiot.”

“Pardon?”

He stares at her, smiling at him, her eyes now aglow with warmth.

“You were ready to let go of me just because you thought I deserved better?”

“You deserve all the happiness in the world and more,” he murmurs, embarrassed to say such mushy nonsense, and yet it is something that is spilling out from the heart and he is powerless to stop it, his subvocals singing the low and tender note of love and adoration.

“And I think you are the one who gives me happiness, especially in the middle of this hell,” her hand comes up to caress his scarred mandible, just as she always does. “You are the one who watches over me, on and off the battlefield. Who takes care of me, and always has.”

His head is about to explode from the praise she heaps onto him. That… that just doesn’t sound right.

“Shepard, you don’t make any sense. You had to teach me, mentor me, you had to stop me from committing a murder in broad daylight. You believed in me even after I failed horribly and got my people killed, and you still entrusted me with the fire team. I have no idea what you’re talking about… I was always your pale shadow. Always trying to be you and never quite succeeding…”

She laughs, somewhat bitter.

“Do you know what the old Shadow Broker had on file about you?”

“He had a file on me?”

“Of course. He was the Shadow Broker, and you made quite a ruckus on Omega. Of course he had information on you.”

“Um… what did it say?”

He isn’t sure he wants to hear it.

“It said and I quote: exceptional tactical and team-building skills. Leadership potential overshadowed by Shepard. Unlikely to fully develop under Shepard's command.”

He stares at her in confusion.

“That can’t be right. Without you, I wouldn’t have developed at all.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Every time we separate, I find you have grown tremendously in my absence. You left SR-1 determined to enroll in Spectre training, but what I found two years later was an experienced veteran and team leader, even if your confidence was shaken. You left SR-2 as my capable second, but six months later on Menae, I found an equal.”

An… equal ? That… that can’t be…

“I feel… I feel terrible for holding you back. You have the potential to be far better than me, Garrus. You always had. It’s what I saw in that hotheaded young C-Sec officer all those years ago.”

Spirits he was such an ass back then. She could have turned him down so easily, and probably would have been right to do so. But she didn’t. Back then, probably neither of them could have predicted where they would end up and how their relationship would change and evolve.

“I remember you complimenting me on a good shot.”

“Even if poor Michelle nearly had a heart attack. I just knew you wouldn’t miss. You always had that swagger about you, the kind that only comes from being very, very confident in your aim.”

“You still can’t make me blush. But that’s as close as you've ever gotten,” he flicks his mandibles in a wide smile, her words a warm balm on his soul.

She isn’t leaving him. At least that much is clear.

“Now… if we’re done with this misunderstanding… I believe we have a ‘message’ to go through, don’t we?…”

“I can’t believe you lied just to get me up here.”

“Oh, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to get you into my bed.”

“I take it then, you are satisfied with the quality of my… uh, service ?”

“Satisfied? That’s an understatement, Vakarian.”

“Still not blushing, Shepard.”

“Damn. One of those days it’ll work.”

Should he tell her turians are physically incapable of such a thing? Nah. It’s way more fun to let her keep trying.

The next few missions go through without much incident. If one can call the monastery full of mutated asari and an old Cerberus base under siege by, well, Cerberus a regular event.

After such missions, Shepard calls for a resupply and a shore leave before heading to the border of Geth space.

She left almost immediately after docking, and it was clear she was anxious to check on her old crew members. Samara and Jacob managed to pull through relatively unscathed, though not completely. One sustained a wound to the body, the other - to the heart.

As for him, he set to prepare for their little outing. Something not involving reapers or politics or the refugee crisis.

Something just for the two of them. Just once.

With the galaxy on the brink of ruin, what does he care about breaking some stupid rules? Not really a mindset an advisor to Primarch should have, but it’s not like he asked for this role. He isn’t a very good turian, but he was - and still is - the best they had for the job.

She comes by after about an hour. In that time he had rented a car - nothing too flashy, even if his meteoric rise to third place in the entire Hierarchy came with a hefty pay raise.

Getting weapons on the Citadel, however, is a whole other matter. There is no way he could bring his own, not without a lengthy check-in and enough paperwork to sink a cruiser. Not to mention a few questionably legal mods he had acquired during his time in the Terminus…

Good thing Bailey is back on the job and is feeling like he owes him and Shepard big time for beating back Cerberus' attack. Which, to be fair, he does. A short message later, Bailey handed him a couple of training rifles without asking a damn thing.

Shepard offers to hit the bar but she has no idea he already made plans. Familiar anxiety gnaws at his chest. Would she like it? Would she find it as creative as he hopes? Would it have been better to get a reservation at a high-class restaurant instead?

He thinks back to that one time she dressed up for Kasumi’s mission. Back then he had no idea they would ever become lovers, but even he could appreciate that her legs looked very fetching in that dress.

Nevertheless, she seems much more comfortable in Alliance blues or her black hoodie than any other garment.

As they glide through the Presidium, he tells her about his little dream. It’s silly and childish and all those things, but not every dream needs to be as grand as galactic peace or the end of Reapers.

Sometimes it is as small and simple as saying to hell with rules and regulations, he is going to the top of the Presidium. Even better, he gets to do it with his best friend. His commander, his mentor, once. The woman he loves.

They stop at the spot he set up earlier. Shepard is so captivated by the view she doesn’t even notice the rifles and ammo he laid out beforehand.

“It’s incredible…”

“Yeah. Feels good to finally be up here. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope it would inspire a certain… mood.”

In the back of his mind, a countdown began as soon as they touched down. They have maybe another twenty minutes before C-Sec arrives to spoil the fun. Normally it would only be about ten, but in the wake of the Cerberus attack, many officers are dead and the remaining ones are stretched thin.

So he better act fast before he loses all the courage and the sirens blast.

“So… uh,” he steps up a bit closer, and Shepard turns to him, smiling softly.

“Something on your mind?”

She knows him too well. There is always something on his mind, a roiling sea of ideas and worries and stray thoughts. Enough to paralyze him with indecision.

But this is all the encouragement he needs.

“It seemed like you needed time to… figure us out.”

And so did he. Not for how he feels, no. He knew he loved her since that first night, the galaxy coming to a halt in her gentle embrace. He must have always loved her, really, or at least have been infatuated, mistaking his feelings for something else in the face of their stark physical differences.

But he needed to figure out how she felt. Where they stand. If there is a way forward.

And now is the time to find the answer.

“… are you ready to be a one-turian kind of woman?”

Before his anxiety even has a chance to rear its ugly head again, she responds, and there is not a note of hesitation in her voice.

“The only thing that made leaving Earth bearable was knowing you were out there somewhere.”

He never stopped thinking about her too in those terrible three days he spent in the desperate defense of Menae. Even in the darkest hours, he would remember her, worry about her, miss her presence.

“I felt the same way. The worst part about the galaxy going to hell would’ve been never getting to see you again.”

“Well, here I am. Exactly where I want to be,” her small fingers hook onto his breastplate as she pulls herself closer to him. “I love you, Garrus Vakarian.”

He never thought she would say that. So clear and unambiguous and utterly terrifying. The happiness swelling in his chest is drowned instantly by the fear and worry. What should he do? He has no clue what humans do next. Hell, he isn’t completely sure what turians normally do. His experience with serious relationships has been scarce at best.

“Wow. Uh, the vids Joker gave me, they never got this far. There was the part about sleeping together, but this… I don’t exactly know what to do…”

That was terrible and he knows it. But he could never lie to her. He can be a smooth talker, but when facing her he stutters like a boy with his first crush.

She watches him stumble over words with visible amusement before laughing quietly.

“You grab the girl and kiss her like you mean it.”

Not too dissimilar to turians, then. He can work with that.

“Commander Shepard! Is it true?!”

She groans beside him as they weave their way through the Presidium. He had hoped they would remain undetected, but it is a bit of a pipe dream. Everyone knows Shepard, and a lot of turians now recognize him. Something he doubts he will ever get used to.

“Commander, humanity must know!”

She picks up the pace as they push through the crowd, and he follows without hesitation.

He knows too well who the shrill voice belongs to.

“Commander Shepard!!”

The screaming seems to alert people around them to the fact that the galaxy’s war leader is somewhere in their midst. Heads begin to turn, murmuring begins to spread.

“Shepard…”

“Double time, Garrus!”

They sprint for the elevator, with Garrus ducking down to keep their pursuer from seeing his head bobbing above most of the people in the crowd.

“Come on, come on, come on…”

He is not about to tell her that hitting the button more than once will do nothing to hasten its arrival. Instead, he turns to keep an eye out for…

“Khalisah Bint Sinan al-Jilani, Westerlund news! Commander Shepard, the news is breaking! You need to answer the questions of humanity and the galaxy!”

The damn human woman barely broke a sweat keeping up with the two of them. Must have a lot of practice chasing people.

“What now, Khalisah?” Shepard barely deigns to turn to look at the reporter.

“Approximately twenty minutes ago you were sighted in the restricted area of the Presidium, kissing a turian !”

Al-Jilani completely ignored him, advancing at Shepard, a camera bot hovering over her shoulder.

“That doesn’t concern you.” Shepard turns around, her fists clenching and unclenching.

“But it does, Commander! Our alliance with the Turian Hierarchy has happened at light speed, considering the old animosity, could it be that you have achieved it through alternate means?”

He can actually hear Shepard hiss under her breath. Teeth bared, she turns back to face the reporter shoving a mic into her face.

“Khalisah. And here I thought we had patched things up. Established an amicable working relationship. It appears that didn’t last long.”

“I merely ask the tough questions you wanted to be asked,” al-Jilani gestures theatrically, “don’t you think it’s a bit hypocritical, to demand such treatment for the Council while you should be left alone?”

“I’m trying to pull the galaxy together so we can fight. It doesn’t concern you who I chose to spend my time with.”

“It is concerning to humanity that you have always seemed to favor aliens. Perhaps it is because you have always been a xenophile? It is a question that needs answering, with so much at stake!”

At the edge of his hearing, he can make out Shepard’s teeth grinding against each other.

“Garrus.”

They exchange a quick look. It’s all he needs to know what she wants to be done.

“Oh! Is this the turian?”

It seems the reporter has finally registered his presence.

“No comment, miss al-Jilani,” he raises his left arm, his omnitool coming to life.

An Overload hits the bot and just as it does, Shepard punches the woman in the face. A satisfying wet crunch and the reporter collapses to the floor in a heap.

“Can’t believe you haven’t done that before,” he comments, all the while inspecting the memory of the bot. He wipes the drive indiscriminately because whoever Khalisah ‘interviewed’ would probably not have done so by choice.

“It took a great deal of self-discipline not to. Besides, it was more fun to make a fool of her on her own show. But not this time. Come on.”

As they escape into the elevator, he eyes Shepard. She is tapping her foot impatiently.

“So… it seems we were recognized. Won’t be long before everyone knows. Sorry about that. What should we do?”

“I… I may have a plan.”

“Tonight on Battlespace, a colony successfully evacuated, a new species of Reaper to look out for, an ex-Cerberus officer speaking out about the truth of the shadowy organisation, and finally, an unexpected but exciting announcement from Commander Shepard herself! Stay tuned right here on Alliance News Network!”

He leans over to Shepard who is reapplying her bright crimson lipstick.

“Are you sure about this, Jane?”

“The best way to control this situation is to take over the narrative. You heard Khalisah. If we let this stew, people will start speculating that the whole alliance with turians happened because we were banging the entire time.”

“I suppose.”

“Put on your best smile, Vakarian, we’re going in.”

“We’re joined by Commander Jane Shepard and Advisor Garrus Vakarian! Thank you for taking the time to talk!” Allers smiles brightly and gestures for them to take a seat on the couch, temporarily stolen from the lounge.

“Thanks, Diana.”

They take a seat and Garrus has to consciously stop himself from fidgeting.

“So, your announcement, Commander. I admit I was quite surprised when you told me about this, but it will be best if we - and our viewers at home - know the whole story.”

“Indeed. I think it’s best if we start at the beginning. When I was on the hunt for Saren Arterius after his attack on Eden Prime, I came across this young, cocky C-Sec officer…”

She recounted their story to a smiling Diana, with Garrus filling in some small details. Of course, it was concise and mercifully avoided bringing up his awful, terrible flirting skills.

When told this way, it began sounding like an actual romance story.

A teacher and pupil learning from each other, separating for years, coming together again. Her saving him, body and soul. Realizing his growth, making him her second-in-command during the suicide mission. Separating once again with her going into Alliance’s custody, finding each other by some miracle in the middle of the galactic war. Standing together as equals in the face of the existential threat.

“It seems you two were friends long before becoming involved,” Diana observed, her big brown eyes unexpectedly soft.

“We were. We still are. I think it’s poetic, with Normandy being a ship of human-turian design, it was from the beginning a symbol of what we could achieve if we worked together.”

“But that is a lot more than just about work, is it not?”

“Of course. He keeps me safe on the field of battle and sane off it. Grounded. Helps me carry the burdens, share the weight of responsibility. In a war such as this you have to take the moments that you can, you know?”

Her hand wraps around his, her five fingers interlocking with his three, and it shouldn’t work but it does.

He purrs softly, not caring that the recording will pick up his subvocals, announcing for all the turians watching exactly how he feels about her.

The quiet tone reserved only for a mate. The expression of unconditional love.

“Very true, Commander. I’m glad for the two of you, and it actually puts my mind at ease, knowing that a power couple such as you is leading the war effort.”

Shepard laughs and he chuckles at such a declaration.

“And with that, I will let you go. I’ve held you away from your duties long enough.” Diana turns towards the camera. “That’s it for today! Thank you for joining me here on Battlespace! Good night and stay strong!”

As soon as the recording stops, Shepard bursts into roaring laughter.

“Power couple? Really, Diana? You couldn’t come up with anything better?”

“I mean, what else would you call the two of you?” She beams at them and Shepard only laughs harder and Diana joins her.

“So, you think it’ll stop people speculating about us?”

“Heavens, no. I’ll probably get tons of hate mail, but EDI keeps an eye on the incoming messages. She filters out anything not suited for polite society.”

“Since when did you join the ‘polite society’?” He nudges Shepard who snorts loudly.

“ Never . But I can’t be bothered to sift through death threats and other such nonsense every single day.”

“Wow. I had no idea it’s that intense.” Diana shifts uncomfortably. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“We got spotted during our date. That cat is out of the bag.”

“I see. Well, I’ll let you two go, then. Mr. Taylor should arrive aboard soon, yes?”

“EDI will send him to you as soon as he is here.”

“Thanks, Commander.”

As they leave the starboard cargo, he looks over at her.

“… Shepard?”

“Hm?”

“What’s a ‘cat’ and why was it in the bag?”