Work Text:
There was shrapnel buried beneath Shepard’s skin.
The wounds had healed over—fragments of the Crucible, scraps of decimated war ships—pieces of a battle that she now would never forget—but they still raised peaks into every inch of her irritated flesh.
She refused to look at them at first. Her hands, her thighs, her hips. Wrapped neatly under layers of bandages and medigel, there was no need to. She was sure they would leave jagged scars one day, but lying in her hospital bed and staring out the windows at the Citadel's artificial day cycle, one day seemed far enough away that she wouldn’t have to worry about it for a while.
But Shepard glowed in her X-rays. The machine had buzzed over her, spitting out sheets that outlined her frame and buzzed with shades of oranges and reds. Holding the datapad in her hands, she trembled, eyeing the body that no longer felt like her own. She’d never really learned how to read them properly, but she knew what they were, she was sure everyone did.
She cried when the bandages came off. They were slimy and smelt of hardening flesh as the doctors peeled them away, lying sheets of cotton out for disposal. Her skin stung against the air of the room, though she was no longer sure she could call it skin at all. Her body was lined in bubbling patches and soft pink scars, the clear indication of her healing burns. She didn’t cry over how much they hurt, or how ugly they were turning out to be—she cried because suddenly, there was so little of her left. In a moment of utter terror, Shepard realized that she was more synthetic than human. That she was more scar than skin. That she was more victim than soldier. And suddenly she felt so disgustingly weak that she couldn’t help but cry.
Thankfully, the newly-thrown-together Citadel was good on the eyes, or at least enough so for it to work a distraction. The trees weren’t real, and neither was the sky, or the sun, or hell , even the air—but if she squinted long enough it felt enough like home that it dulled the pain a bit—and god, she was thankful for that.
Shepard missed home, more than she ever had, and more than she ever thought she would. Spending years on Alliance ships, she thought that that was all she needed. The thrill of traveling through space—both explored and uncharted in their own right—why would Earth ever come to mind? Why would Earth ever feel like home again?
Truthfully, when finally faced with her own thoughts, Shepard decided things just moved too fast. From Saren, to the Collectors, to the Reapers themselves, she was determined to make herself an unstoppable force. Commander Shepard was strong. Commander Shepard was proud. Commander Shepard could never be stopped.
At least that’s what she’d hoped the crew would believe. They didn’t have to see her nursing wounds under midnight stars, or pulling shredded skin back together with her own hands, or lying completely still—because maybe if she didn’t move the bruises wouldn’t hurt. They always still hurt.
But, Shepard had never really given herself the chance to rest. Not like this, not in her cabin, not even when she was stiffened with rigor mortis as Cerberus agents poked and prodded at her withered remains.
In a way, she thought maybe she deserved this. Maybe she’d pressed fate enough in the last decade that she deserved to be confined to a hospital bed—stuffing stiff, manually pumped, air into her lungs while she could only dream of lying face down in a field somewhere and smelling just one blade of grass (or even some soil if she were lucky). Maybe this was all some big, stupid ploy by the universe to finally get Commander Shepard to sit down.
If that were the case she really hoped she’d get to talk to whoever the hell the universe was, maybe give them a piece of her mind while she was at it.
It wasn’t her fault said universe could never seem to get its shit together long enough that she could sit down. And it wasn’t her fault that they had to throw one obstacle after another straight towards her. And it wasn’t her fault—
Okay, maybe it was her fault for throwing herself into it. Or even more so, throwing everyone she knew into it.
Garrus, who was no exception to her faults, is lingering in her room again. He’d been on Palaven more than ever recently, but as he shifted to stare out at the same artificial grass her eyes had blurred over minutes before, he seemed to pull her from her vengeful thoughts.
“Does it really look like this on Earth?” He steadies himself on his forearms as they lie flat against the windowsill. “Because if this is all it is, I think bringing you home might be less fun than I expected it to be.”
“Eh,” she shrugs, leaning her shoulder blades into the pillow behind her. “Some of it, but all the good parts look a little different.” She scans over him from across the room, half-mesmerized by the way the waning light of the evening seemed to catch him so well.
“The good parts?” She nods.
“Well—I guess good would be a subjective thing, but all my favorite parts are a little different.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“You have favorite parts of Earth?”
“Of course I do. Don’t you have favorite parts of Palaven?” Garrus raises a brow plate for a moment, leaving the idea to bounce back and forth in his head.
“I guess I do, yeah. But not so much because of the way they look.”
“Okay well, I guess Palaven isn’t much to look at then.” She pats the space next to her on the bed and he’s quick to join her.
“Striking silver architecture and solar radiation that could kill? Oh yeah, a total treat,” he replies and Shepard snorts.
“Oh it must be a pleasure.” she muses, dragging out the syllables. “See, Earth is so much more diverse. Sure, we have new-age cities and modernist architecture, but the good parts of Earth, my favorite parts of Earth, are the ones that seem to be disappearing.”
“Wow, Shepard. Count on you to love something that’s dying out.”
“That’s why I love you isn’t it? I’ve seen your scar—are you sure you’re not rotting yet?” Garrus shakes his head in defeat, but a chuckle bubbles from the back of his throat.
“Anyway, where I grew up, there were so many open fields— oh, and rivers too. I walked the trails a lot as a kid and my mom would always make me pick the tiger lily I thought was the prettiest. Considering it was the only path with direct access to them, I think she might have just been trying to make sure I was actually going where I said I was going, but that’s beside the point.” She leans forward, folding her hands together until her knuckles make a satisfying crack.
“There were lakes and cottages and towns where people were few and far between and, God, Garrus, it was always so quiet. I wish I would’ve sat in the sun more or picked more stupid fucking tiger lilies because this all feels like the parts of Earth that ripped too much from space. The overdeveloped and loud and militaristic parts of Earth that you can find on every fucking planet, but my favorite parts, the good parts, seem so far right now.”
Garrus reaches a hand over, placing it on her thigh and it takes everything in her not to swatch it away. Turians aren’t attracted to humans. It doesn’t matter how smooth her skin is or how many scars have climbed to the base of her neck, or how one of her hands was now entirely synthetic—but god, it mattered to her. His fingers traced circles just above her knee and she couldn’t help but notice the way they would stagger on raised skin or ache against newly healing ridges of burns. Oh, how she hated this.
“Okay, okay, you got me. Maybe Earth doesn’t sound that bad.” Shepard laughs and swats her hand into his chest.
“Fuck off, Garrus. Why don’t you go play in your solar radiation.”
“ Hey! When I say it, it’s funny. When you say it, it’s like you’re bringing down an entire planet.”
“That’s because I am,” she says as she smiles up at him with a shit-eating grin.
“Oh, Shepard. That was cold.” She chuckles, leaning back against the bed once more and attempting to focus on the humming of his voice over the sudden need to shed off a layer of her own skin.
—-
Nearly six months after the crucible burned, Shepard was given a date for her discharge. Part of her was disappointed. Staring at the datapad she realized it was still another three weeks away, and that meant another three weeks of staring outside and the hospital lawn that suspiciously never had to be mowed. The other part of her, the part of her more influenced by her boyfriend’s more sound ideals, was thankful for the rest.
She’d started to stumble around more. Her steps were wobbly and uncoordinated, but she moved enough that she didn’t feel as useless as she had in the last half-of-a-year, but still useless enough to let her consider screaming into her hospital-issued pillow.
“Y’know, Shepard, keep making progress like that and soon enough we’ll be playing tag,” Garrus smirks at her and she can’t help but laugh in response.
“I’m going to kill you one day, Vakarian.” She hobbles her way over to his chair in hopes of acting menacing, but much to her dismay, she comes off more like a lost puppy.
“Oh, I look forward to the day. Do you think vigilantes get extra perks in the afterlife?”
“Only the pretty ones. So, I guess you’re out of luck.” Garrus chuckles and reaches his arm out to lead her back to her bed. She shoos it away and suddenly she’s staring up at him and the doe-eyed look she gives him lets him know he’s in trouble.
“Y’know, I did hear they give special treatment to vigilantes who convince hospital staff to let their girlfriend go outside for the day. Maybe you should try that one?”
“That seems oddly specific,” he says. “Are you sure you’re reading from the right handbook?”
“Positive.” He sighs, dropping his arm from the side of her waist.
“Alright, alright fine. But only because I’m convinced you’ve had some sort of run-in with the afterlife after that time you were dead for a couple of years.” He smirks again, this time headed for the door.
“Oh, I absolutely have.” More than once.
Garrus returns not even five minutes later with a jacket in hand. Her jacket in hand, to be exact. It’s frayed at the edges and hot ashes had burnt holes in various spots, but he still holds it up with such triumph that she can’t help but laugh.
“Okay, so they said no.” He holds the jacket out to her. “But, the shift changes are going to take an hour or so, so maybe we can sneak out for a little while.” She looks down at the jacket and then back at him, cocking her head to the side.
“You’re wearing this though. If you freeze out there, I think the council is gonna make me pay your medical bills and there’s only so much Alliance funding a Turian can save.” She sighs and grabs the coat from his hands, quickly pulling it up over her shoulders.
He smiles in response and holds out an arm, letting her lock hers under it so he can lead her out.
The sun on the Citadel, well, the artificial one at least, isn’t nearly as bright as the one from home. It spills across the sidewalk outside the hospital in more of an overhead-lamp sort of way than in the way of the afternoon sun. Even so, Shepard is just happy to be out of that damned room, and even happier that it’s Garrus leading her to one of the benches.
“What are you gonna do without me once I go back to Earth?” She settles into the bench, the cold metal ringing against any exposed strips of skin.
“Honestly? Haven’t decided yet,” he replies, swinging one of his arms around the back of the bench so it rests above her shoulders. “Rebuild Palaven, search the galaxy for the next threat to all organic life everywhere… transfer my citizenship. So many options.”
“Personally, I like the last one.” He snorts.
“I figured you wou—”
“But, I think the first one is probably your best choice.”
“What?” Shepard looks up at him, her face falling as his eyes meet hers.
“You can’t come to Earth just to take care of me Garrus. The galaxy still needs you.”
“I’m getting kinda sick of what the galaxy needs. We’ve spent so long trying to do what’s best for organic lives. Maybe now it’s time to just do what’s best for my life and for your life. For our life .” She leans her head into his shoulder and a sigh bubbles out of her lips.
“But Palaven is your home, Garrus.”
“Palaven is a planet. Just like any other one out there. Just because it’s where my people come from, it doesn’t mean it’s my home.” He reaches over and tilts her chin toward him, careful not to disturb any healing burns. “You’re my home, Shepard. And if that means moving to some riverbank on Earth, that’s fine by me.”
Shepard cries outside the hospital. Not out of mourning or fear or pain. Out of thankfulness, if she had to put her finger on an emotion. As much as she hated to admit it, Garrus wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how much she pushed him away. She stared at the remnants of her still-organic hand as he reached down to hold on to it, and tears slipped from the corner of her eyes.
Garrus was here to stay, she repeated to herself. Garrus was here to stay.
---
Packing up her room was easier than she’d expected it to be. Stuffing everything she owned into a single bag would’ve been much more difficult a few months ago, but with Garrus insisting that she not worry about her personal belongings on The Normandy, she didn’t have much left to take with her.
She gripped the bag with her synthetic hand as the shuttle spurred, and wound her other arm tightly around Garrus’. The trip wasn’t long, thank god, especially with the Citadel lingering around Sol longer than anyone had expected. Turns out it takes a while to get the whole thing through a relay, especially after all of them had been shut down a few months ago. (Huh, who would’ve thought.)
Shepard resorts to gazing out the windows of the shuttle as they near Earth, her cheek pressed tightly against the side of Garrus’ arm, This is her first time in real clothes in six months. Her first time out of the hospital in six months. Her first time back on Earth in six months. Saying she’s nervous as she watches the stars buzz past her vision is the understatement of the century. Maybe the millennium.
But as the ship begins to dock, Shepard can see the sun, the real sun. It spills across the horizon and the edges of the ship in a warm array of afternoon blues. She nudges Garrus, a smile painted across her face.
“Look at it,” she murmurs. “It’s so—”
“Real,” he replies, and she hums in agreement.
They leave the shuttle as quickly as they boarded it and Shepard stands at the train station, more excited to leave the city than she has been for anything ever before. Her synthetic fingers trail the belt loops of her pants, fidgeting with the one against her right hip—half out of nerves and half out of a need to separate the fabric from her newly developed skin.
She’s shaking, her hands trembling as she boards the train, holding on to the Turian in front of her for dear life. She didn’t realize this would be so hard. Or at least so nerve-racking.
Then suddenly, she and Garrus are standing in the field. The same field where the tiger lilies bloomed and where she ran along the riverbank. What was once there: her childhood home, the places she’d build on the edge of the forest, were reduced to rubble. But she’s here. And even though the sunlight burns through her scarred skin and the breeze kisses the edges of damaged cheeks, Shepard is here.
She cries that day, standing in the middle of the field, under the pinks of the evening sky. She cries, not because she’s sad, or hurt, or tired—but because she’s home. And because, though she’d never be who she once was, she doesn’t have to be. This new Shepard, the one burned by the ends of war, the one that faced the wrath of the universe and won, more than once, is who she is and who she was always meant to be.
“Better than solar radiation?” She asks, rubbing the bottom of her eyes with her sleeves.
“Much better,” he replies, running circles into the back on her hand.