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“That went well,” Shepard cracked her neck as they walked down the stairs from Aria’s little VIP area. Garrus chuckled: Aria wasn’t exactly nice, but who was, really, in Omega? She didn’t have to be nice to people, and neither Shepard or him were of use to her at the moment— not that it would make a difference to the asari anyway.
The music in afterlife was loud and dizzying, it resounded in his carapace. It was the first time he was back in Omega since that little, heh, incident with the merc bands. But that had been Archangel, a whole different turian. Not him, as far as people were concerned. They thought he was dead and people in Omega didn’t believe in ghosts: he was safe. He breathed Afterlife’s thick alcohol-ridden air, mixed with sweat, traces of red sand and other drugs. It smelled, strangely, of home. He despised the thought, the familiarity of it, but couldn’t help it. It had been his refuge after she— after Shepard…
“Garrus, Garrus? Did you hear me? Let’s get some drinks,” She grabbed his arm, dragging him to the bar.
The bartender, a turian, sounded and looked uncomfortable. He mixed their drinks carefully, making sure no dextro touched any levo, health safety standards in Omega?, while keeping close eye contact with both of them. Did he recognize him? Or her? She was wearing her N7 armor, after all. And they’d been speaking with Aria.
“Should I put this in miss T’Loak’s tab?” the bartender asked. He had his answer. That question in Omega was a trap: It meant they had target on their backs. VIP status meant a world of very important problems. Staying hidden, keeping a low profile: that was key.
“I’ll cover it, thank you,” Garrus said, quickly. He grabbed his drink and downed it before the bartender even had time to scan his credit chit.
“Wow, someone’s in a hurry,” Shepard drank her shot. “I was hoping we could get some shore leave since we’re here, some R&R. You hardly ever leave the main battery, Garrus. Now it’s my turn to worry about you,” she nudged his arm. “Those guns don’t need more calibrating: I asked EDI.”
“Did it have to be in Omega?” he sighed, laughing quietly. They had to speak close to each other, the music was loud. He could smell her scent, something from earth, probably, sweet, a flower? Shepard. She smelled of Shepard. Gunpowder, salt and flowers.
“It was on our way,” she put a hand on his arm; Garrus couldn’t feel the pressure through his armor, but he trembled all over. “We can go to the citadel, if you want, but where’s the fun in that?”
“True,” Garrus could feel the alcohol traveling to his brain. It had been one shot, but he hadn’t eaten yet, and, well. He was tired. Looking for leads on Sidonis was a fulltime job. Calibrations, he called it. He didn’t feel like fighting mercs going after Aria’s associates, meaning: them. “But maybe we should get out of Afterlife, ditch this joint, what do you say, Shepard?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Someplace away from Aria’s problems, for starters. Away from merc bands and clubs: I’ll show you where Archangel used to get his downtime. What do you say?”
“I’m game. Although, I have to say: I’m curious. That place can’t possibly exist in Omega, peace and quiet? Here?”
“I never said it was peaceful or quiet, Shepard,” he stood up, pulling his stool. “Just free of Aria’s reach and what comes with it.”
“My, my, Garrus: she’ll hear us,” her breath near his ear canal was warm, it tickled him, deeply. He shivered.
“With this terrible music? Shepard,” he laughed, offering her an arm. Steady now, Garrus. Look casual. It’s not a date, just two friends hanging out. Don’t look too eager. Right. Right. He took a couple of deep breaths. He was locking arms with Shepard. People were looking. He tried not to look back at them.
“Wait here, Shepard. I need to talk to that guy: it will only take a minute,” and some credits, of course. In Omega, as in Illium, everything was credits and getting them to the right person was key.
“Enthusiastically: welcome to Harrodin’s trinkets and parts, how can I be of service,” the elcor looked at him, stomping his feet lightly.
“Good night, Harrodin, been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Politely: yes, I remember. Magnetic scope, N7 issue, with logo. Extatically: excellent make, limited edition. Genuinely curious: has it served you well.”
“Magnificently, thank you. Look, hmm, I need a spiked red varren donut,” he said, leaning forward.
“Inquisitively: do you have the credits?”
“I do, one hundred credits,” Garrus waved his credit chit.
“Regretfully: the price has gone up since the last time. Informatively: A hundred and twenty.”
“Damn. I’ll take it, I, ahem, have a friend with me.”
“Inquisitively, worried: are you seeking to stay?”
“Just visiting, both of us.”
“Friendly: for old times’ sake, I will give you a discount. A hundred and forty, for both.”
“Thanks, Harrodin. If you ever need anything, just say the word. Archangel is gone, but I know… other people who can help.”
“With relief and appreciation: thank you, Garrus. Have a nice night.”
“You too, pal,” he said, taking the passes.
Shepard had moved since he left her, and of course she had gravitated towards souvenir vendors. Shiny spaceships were her weakness and they had plenty of them to choose from. Mostly counterfeit, but if anyone could tell the difference it was Shepard.
“You do get around, don’t you? I overheard,” She took her pass, examined it, “And what is this? Spiky red varren donut thing? Who comes up with these secret code names?” she snorted a laugh. “That place better not live up to the name.”
“Oh, you’ll see,” he looked for the sign. A rusty metal hatch, a grumpy turian with a prosthetic set of mandibles. “That’s it, look Shepard,” Garrus whispered, pointing at him. “Now, grab my arm. We’re going in together,” he coughed, nervously. Improvising wasn’t his strongest suit.
“Together as in together? Well, this is fun. I enjoyed going undercover with Kasumi, can I have a fake name?”
“Shepard”
“What?”
“Just let me do the talking, this once,” he chuckled.
“Well, Omega is your domain: I’ll just sit back, watch and enjoy the view. Just do let me know if you need me to swoop in and shoot someone, okay?” Garrus’ mandibles twitched involuntarily at the mention of enjoying the view. She only meant watching him embarrass himself, that was all. No hidden meanings there. Hmh.
“Deal. Now, please? I have to get us through there.”
“I like this side of you, Garrus, who would’ve known?” she whistled. “Navigating the underground, secret passes, knowing guys—”
“Shepard— zip,” he laughed quietly. Garrus noticed Shepard struggled to stop laughing: she was exhilarated, or seemed to be, with all that. He felt bubbles coming up to his chest: seeing Shepard happy made him happy.
“We have passes,” Garrus told the turian. The guy extended his arm, examined the donut shaped holos with his omnitool, scanned them.
“All clear. Don’t let go of the human, there’s batarian slaver activity, as usual. The Moving City wont’t take responsibility if your, eh, partner wanders off limits.”
“Understood.”
The turian extended his hand. Garrus passed his credit chit, again. More credits.
“Enjoy your night,” he said, then opened the hatch.
“You know, Garrus? I’ll have to pay you back some,” Shepard’s voice echoed behind him in the tunnel: she still sounded enthusiastic, a good sign. It was dark, but there were tiny lights put in there by the people managing the city marking where to turn, where to climb. As they grew closer, they’d begin to flicker: he had to focus.
“You can buy us drinks when we get there,” Garrus stepped on something gooey. He didn’t want to know: it could’ve been vermin, trash or a body.
“And who runs that Moving City, exactly? Another merc band? I thought you said this place was far away from mercs?”
“It is, or at least they want to keep it that way. They’re led by a turian woman, that much I know. Rumor has it, she’s not Aria’s biggest fan, I think— I think she’s looking to replace me,” he sniggered.
“What is it with rogue turians and Omega?” she laughed.
“I guess deep down we just really need to put our obsession with order to good use, and what better place to clean up than here? Shoot bad guys, start revolutions, bring order, jump all that red tape and politicians. It’s the dream, Shepard,” he joked.
“A turian rebel’s paradise, then,” she said, then accidentally tripped. Garrus caught her just before she hit the filthy water.
“Something like that,” he whispered. He held her longer than he should’ve. When he realized, he swiftly put her back up. “We’re almost there, I think. Just another turn, or two,” he quickened his pace.
Garrus opened the hatch: the lights blinded him for a second, as they always did. Bright paper lanterns, street vendors, the smell of fried food and spices from different planets, music. The turian’s little underground enclave thrived, in spite of Aria’s efforts to shut it down, because it kept changing places around the station. Everything had wheels, everything was ready to pack, and everyone was ready to fight if needed. Snipers guarded the perimeter, out of sight, but his trained eye saw them over there in that tower, up in that sewer mouth, hidden behind that flag. It was well-protected, a small fortress. Whoever ran the Moving City was brilliant and far more organized than he had been. Too bad she was even more illusive than himself, than Archangel. He tried, many times, to meet her: their goals mostly aligned, but she wanted nothing to do with a vigilante. He was too flashy, too hot-headed and idealist. A black sheep among black sheep, as humans said. He chuckled to himself.
He would be dead, for real, if it weren’t for Shepard. The leader of the Moving City had been right, on that account. His methods did almost get him killed. What had she said in her letter? oh “It’s almost as if you want to get killed, Archangel. I don’t want a suicide squad.”
“It’s even better than anything I could’ve imagined: color me surprised, Garrus,” Shepard grabbed his arm as she took in the view. He shuffled, nervously, everything else faded: only Shepard existed now. Shepard’s bright eyes, her mouth hanging, her eagerness to leap, see and try everything. “So: where do we go now?”
“What about those drinks you owe me?”
“Lead the way, and I’m paying: go crazy,” she grabbed his arm, harder.
He felt his knees weakening. Not a date Garrus! But I can pretend this once. I can enjoy tonight, selfishly. We’ll drink, dance, eat, and then go back to the Normandy and it will be over. This whole place felt like a waking dream the whole time I was here anyway, with Shepard dead… and now she’s here. She’s here with me. Time to turn those bad memories into good ones.
“I used to come here, all the time,” Garrus bent his neck, whispered in her ear.
“Garrus! What happened to you! We haven’t seen you in a long time, and what the hell happened to your face, spirits!” a turian bartender yelled from the bar.
“Look, he brought a girl! About time, boy,” someone yelled from a dark corner.
“You really came here a lot,” Shepard chuckled.
“More than I should have,” he whispered. “Here, let’s take a seat over there, I like the light, and the location is—,”
“Perfect to spot any ambushes, I get you,” Shepard, sat, picking up the holo-menu. “We can never be just on shore leave, can we?”
“I guess not,” he laughed, then cleared his throat. His clothes itched under his armor, the light was suddenly too bright and all he could see was: Shepard, siting very close across that tiny table.
“Garrus, and a companion? I didn’t know you had a thing for humans, huh? Half Omega will be heartbroken,” the turian waitress tried to touch Shepard’s hair, but she deflected her talons with her hand. “Don’t worry, he’s not my type. And with those scars? Well, look out for krogans, that’s all I’ll say,” she took out a datapad and winked.
“Just— hm. Bring me the usual. Shepard?”
“Earth-cow burger and fries. Batarian beer, please,” she had a little smirk on her face. What did it mean? “And keep the drinks coming: we’re planning to have fun tonight.”
The turian waitress looked surprised, and a little embarrassed. She had been flirting with Shepard, right? and he, as usual, had been the last to notice. He nearly choked with his own saliva: did that mean? She knew? She had to know he—? Spirits. Humans were so hard to read. Maybe he was imagining things.
“Are you ok, Garrus?” Shepard squinted, still smiling.
“I just, hm. I really need a drink, that’s all.”
The food was great, black market had its perks. The drinks kept coming. Garrus could feel his body warming, his muscles untensing. It was the first time he and Shepard had ever been alone together, really alone, outside, hanging out.Two pals. Hanging out. As they talked about anything but the mission, the latest Blasto, Udina’s bad breath, favorite spots on the citadel, their heads got closer and closer together. Almost touching, close enough to— no Garrus. Don’t do anything you can’t take back. Shepard had enough on her plate as it was— not the burger, since it was long gone— and he couldn’t push his feelings on her: he had decided that already. He wouldn’t let alcohol get in the way of that.
“I think we’ve been here long enough,” he whispered, almost slurring. They’d had a lot to drink, he lost count after the fifth glass of brandy. “I have an idea, you’re going to love it,” he said, pushing himself back.
“Wait. Does it involve shooting?” she crossed her arms, smirking.
“I could, but only if things go badly,” he laughed, shaking his head.
“Oh, well: I love it already,” she stood up, biting her lip. “Lead the way.”
It took him a while to find the place, since it shifted to a different location every time the undercity relocated, but there it was: bright, buzzing, the perfect place to hide in plain sight. He usually went alone, back then, when he couldn’t sleep, when the memories drowned him and his own head became an unbearable place to dwell in. He sat in a little corner in the dark, listening to the music, sometimes nursing an extravagant drink, watching people dancing their worries away. The beats silenced the screaming in his mind. Shepard was dead and a little part of him was dead too. Having her with him there that night— well, it was something he daydreamed about more times than he cared to admit. It meant the world to share the place with her now, but, by the spirits, he couldn’t tell her why.
“Dancing, Garrus? Hell, of all things, that’s the last thing I would’ve imagined, but: I’m game. Let’s do it,” Shepard grabbed his hand, carried him to the dancefloor. What had he been thinking? Dancing was a terrible idea: he didn’t know how, he’d embarrass himself. He got carried away by memories and alcohol, what could he do now?
“What are you doing with your hands?” he teased.
“What? This?” she shuffled even harder.
He felt something stir inside him, he didn’t even think about it: he grabbed her by the waist. Did he regret it? Yes, immediately. But it was too late now: Shepard stood on the tip of her toes and held on his shoulders. He couldn’t breathe, the world was spinning, but maybe it was all the brandy he had in his system. He didn’t know what to do: he froze. They stood there for a while, looking at each other, people danced around them, dodging them as they passed. Shepard put her head on his chest, he could hear her muffled laughter. He purred a laugh too. They danced like that, slowly, to an energetic beat. He felt stiff, all over, he didn’t dare to move much and he wasn’t much of a dancer anyway.
He didn’t want to let go of her. Ever.
He checked her vitals with his visor. It felt like an intrusion, but it was almost an accident, really. Her heartbeat was as wild as his, but it could mean anything. Maybe humans reacted like that to alcohol. Shepard’s arms gripped his neck tighter, he could hear her sigh, deeply. He closed his eyes, and in a reflex move : he dared to nuzzle her hair. He heard her mutter something, but what did she say? He couldn’t hear it with the music. They danced a little more, another song, hugging tighter, in silence. He allowed himself to enjoy it, to hell with everything: he was feeling bold. Kind of.
Shepard let go of him.
“I need some air,” she fanned her face with her hands. His visor indicated she was overheated, by human standards.
“Sure, ahem, I can use some, huh, stale Omega air,” he joked.
“Nothing beats badly recycled smog,” Shepard nudged him.
“With a hint of sewage, it really adds to the complexity of the scent,” he offered her his arm. She grabbed it. He puffed his chest. Was she…? Did she—? No, of course not. Stupid Garrus. She was just being swept away by the moment, the music, the alcohol. He didn’t stand a chance. But, by all the spirits: it felt nice.
They found a small bench overlooking a canal. The streets were emptier now, people were going home, closing shop, a few decided to continue their parties on the street. The Moving City’s security entourages overlooked everything, remaining invisible to the untrained eye, on the lookout for Aria’s people and other merc bands. Shepard had to know they were there, her sight was as sharp as his, but she didn’t seem as concerned about it as he was. Her eyes were closed. She leaned on him, put her head on his shoulder and sighed, smiling. She remained like that for a while, he didn’t dare to move. He was aware of her scent, the sound of her breathing, the clink of her armor touching his. The water underneath them ran in a steady stream, it was soothing. Shepard’s breathing became steadier, slower, her head began to drop: she had fallen asleep. Garrus stiffened. Should he wake her? She looked so peaceful, happy. She finally dropped completely, falling to his lap, where she snuggled next to him. He moved his hand, slowly, and stroked her hair. He wanted to feel it, take his gloves off, but it didn’t seem right. He poked her lightly on the shoulder, but she didn’t wake up; she only tossed in her sleep and muttered his name, smiling. It was nearly morning, their one-night passes were about to expire. They had to leave the Wandering City of Omega.
He put his arms one under her back the other under her knees and lifted her, carefully. Shepard snuggled against his chest, her arms seeking his neck, her warm breath felt nice on his skin. She had to be at least half-awake, but he didn’t want to bother her, she wasn’t that heavy anyway. He walked towards a guard with Shepard in his arms: there were other ways in and out of the underground. He didn’t want to drag her under the tunnels in that state and risk finding batarian slavers, vorcha stragglers or spirits know what. The guard took his credit chit and beckoned him to follow. An old mining tram station, repurposed, right under Aria’s nose, as an underground transportation system. It would take them straight to the sewers in the markets, near the docking bay. They had to knock three times, then wait, then two more times, for the hidden entrance to open upon destination.
Garrus held Shepard all the way there. He held her with one arm as he knocked on the door, as instructed, and outran an angry vorcha in the sewer entrance. He held her in the Normandy’s decontamination chamber, through the mess hall where some of the crew members were already having breakfast, and all the way up the elevator to her cabin. He placed her on her bed, took off her armor and left her tucked in, wearing her under armor light clothes. He fed her fish and her hamster, then left a tall glass of water on her nightstand.
“Thank you for tonight, Shepard,” he whispered in her ear. He pushed her hair off her face, tenderly, then lingered for a few seconds. Her eyes were closed, he couldn’t see him, but something told him she was fully aware. He didn’t know what to make of that.
As he took the elevator to his own quarters, he wondered if that night had really happened at all. The curious stares of his crewmates told him: yes. But it wasn’t remotely like what they were imagining. At any rate, he was a happy turian.
