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Shepard wakes up without a hangover—Garrus, with his lack of excessive cybernetics, is probably not so lucky—and has a whole new set of problems to deal with.
She still feels the weight of his hand on her shoulder, the texture of his skin discernable around the strap of her tank top. It completely fizzled her train of thought, stopping one existential crisis and starting another, one that she's been pushing down with a rising panic for the last few weeks. Now, though, it appears to have gained enough momentum that she can't stop it.
She presses her hand to that spot on her shoulder, the heel of her palm digging in just above her collarbone. Her heartbeat climbs, audible, frantic.
At least she can take some comfort in knowing that Cerberus did not put this in her head. She knows two things for sure about Cerberus; the first is that they hate aliens, and the second is that they have no sense of humor. No, this one's all on her.
She forces herself up. Maybe she's running a fever. Maybe she should get Chakwas to check on her implants again. Maybe a connection somewhere in there has gone bad, and that's why her heart is doing the thing it's currently doing, beating like she's sprinting away from husks instead of sitting motionless on the edge of her bed.
No, she can't have that conversation with Chakwas. She doesn't have it in her. Hey, Doc, I've noticed lately that sometimes my heart rate just—right up there, totally out of nowhere. Only around Garrus, so maybe I'm allergic to turians, or something?
She sounds like she's grasping at straws, even in the sanctity of her own mind. This isn't physical; she doesn't need Chakwas to tell her that. It's psychological, and if she cuts herself some slack, it's even logical. She feels horrible and lost and alone, and the first person from her old life who didn't turn her away or give her the runaround is Garrus. (It's nice to have Joker on board, and all, but she's pretty sure he's mostly here for the ship, and maybe a little guilt, which might be an unfair assessment, but she doesn't have the spare brainpower to divert to an investigation of that.) So she's latched onto him like...like a puppy who's been abandoned too many times and finally gets a nice dinner, or something. Nothing more to it than that depressing analogy. Her mental state is fragile, little as she likes to admit it, and her vulnerabilities have left her open to shit like this.
Maybe it has momentum, but she'll just have to stop it. Now. Before it gets her in even hotter water than she's already in. Funny anecdotes of high-risk missions and stress relief aside, she is not going to put that on the table between them. It's not that she thinks their friendship wouldn't survive; they would probably laugh about it and part ways as amicable as ever. Because it wouldn't work. Of course it wouldn't work. They can't even eat the same food; she doesn't think that kind of full-contact stress relief is possible for them. Better to squash that idea before it grows any bigger.
Even if she did like that hand on her shoulder, even if she's half-imagining the whole arm, draped over her and pulling her close. Military types are not exactly touchy-feely. Technically, she hasn't really been touched like that—anything close to that—in years. Sex, sure, but not the offer of comfort, freely given. She always thought she didn't care, since early life in Earth's slums did not exactly afford hugs and their ilk, but now she's starving for it.
Fuck, she needs to shoot something. Normandy's drifting through the Terminus Systems, so theoretically, there's something readily available nearby. "Joker," she says, finally heaving herself out of bed. "Anything interesting?"
"Picking up a distress call from Neith," her pilot says. "If you wanna check it out."
"Take us in. EDI, get Garrus and Zaeed up, if they're not already."
She makes quick work of her underarmor, detours to the Armory to pick up her gear, and steps back into the elevator to head down to the shuttle bay. It stops on the third deck, admitting Garrus, already armored up, thus proving a suspicion she's had since he came on board that he does not trust Jacob with his equipment.
Despite her—revelations—she can't help but rib him a bit. If it's comfort she's looking for, there's comfort in routine. "Good morning," she says, louder than strictly necessary, with a much cheerier smile than the impending distress call warrants.
Turian features have a different range of motion than human features, and Shepard, who spent her formative years in the bowels of Earth—all-over human, and very little alien—is the first to admit she's been slow to pick up the expressions, but she still reads the scathing look he levels at her from behind his visor, loud and clear.
Too bad about the visor, though. She liked the sight of both his blue eyes last night, even if it did throw her off balance. She's glad he wasn't wearing the damn thing when he touched her. She's pretty sure her heart actually stopped, dead in the water, for a second or two. There are a lot of embarrassing ways to interpret that pause, and she's not even sure the truth is the most embarrassing of the lot.
Maybe she's just stir-crazy. It's been two years. She probably just needs to get laid. By someone forgettable, to get it out of her system.
"Has anyone told you that you're awful?" he asks. He doesn't exactly look worse for the wear—hard for a turian face to look more haggard than his already does, given the recent rocket confrontation—but his voice is just a little coarser than usual.
"At least daily since Akuze," she says without missing a beat. "You would not believe the language people use in those messages." He gives a weak chuckle, and she elbows him in the side. "C'mon, this is your chance. Headshots. Revenge."
"If I can hit anything at all through this headache, I'll call it a victory," he grumbles. The elevator stops at the engineering deck and slides open.
"I'll go easy on you," she says; she hears the husky lilt her voice takes too late, once the words have already spilled from her mouth.
Oh god.
She's flirting.
Why doesn't she have a spray bottle on hand to use on herself, all the time, every time she says anything? Some good old negative punishment would set her straight. Maybe she can get EDI to write a program for her, specifically devoted to that task.
"I won't," Zaeed grunts, stepping into the elevator. "What've we got, Shepard?"
Zaeed's arrival, at least, puts an end to any attempts—conscious or otherwise—to flirt with Garrus. She explains the distress call as they board the shuttle, and in the tense quiet that follows them down to the planet, she forgets her revelations. It's the best kind of tunnel vision. Being on the field distracts her from everything else. Rifle in hand, she leads the way into the wreckage.
It's not as easy getting back out once the transmitter is off, because the spell of meditative calm breaks as soon as she sights the first mech, as soon as her rifle kicks back against her shoulder. The mech goes down, and so does the one next to it. Garrus crows, "Dropped one!" over the comm and she's never been so aware of her heart beating in the midst of battle before, but she is now, the thunder of it against her ribs like a storm trying to break free.
She sights, fires, and says, "Two," in a voice that doesn't match her usual enthusiasm. He's going to notice, damn it. She's got to do better, but she's forced to take cover, a spray of fire peppering against her hardsuit shields. It cuts off after a few seconds, and she peeks over her cover, expecting to take the shot. The mechs are already gutted.
"Three," Garrus says, too smugly for her liking. She's starting to suspect he was faking that hangover. "Better catch up, Shepard—"
She rolls out of cover, assesses her options from her knees, and with sweat beading at the nape of her neck, fires off three rounds in quick succession. The last just barely misses being a headshot, striking the mech's shoulder instead. Zaeed finishes it off.
"There are a hundred and eighty of these fucking things!" he bellows.
"And I only need six more to get back in the lead," Garrus comments. Shepard stops counting as she locates targets and fires; her omni-tool is keeping track, and if she's going to keep her lead, she needs to recenter, refocus.
"If you two want to have your goddamn mating ritual until you're riddled with holes—"
"Maybe you want to go guard the shuttle in case the mechs decide to take it, old man," Shepard interrupts, sharper than she means to. Mating ritual. The nerve.
Zaeed growls, because he's that kind of maniac, but he doesn't go back to the shuttle. After a few minutes, the mechs subside; the three of them step over the parts as they move back toward the shuttle, but Shepard knows there are more. At least a hundred and fifty more, according to her omni-tool, and her ears strain to hear them—
"On your left, Shepard!" Garrus says, voice pitching up in alarm, and Shepard instinctively ducks right, behind cover. Just in time—a substantially thicker spray of fire strikes the rock she's protected by, only subsiding after she hears the quick rapport of Garrus's Mantis.
"Thanks," she says, and, noticing the mechs creeping up behind him, fires off a round over his shoulder.
He reaches a hand down to pull her up, and this much, at least, is uncomplicated. Gloves, no skin; fingers holding firm, brisk and efficient; he hauls her weight up like it's nothing, like he's done a few dozen or a few hundred times before.
She holds onto her lead—barely. By the time one hundred and eighty mechs are strewn on the ground below their rising shuttle, it's a relief to get her helmet off, shake out her sweat-soaked hair, and relish the air conditioning. Maybe her meditative battle trance didn't come through for her, but she's wrung out in the aftermath, at least, too exhilarated and exhausted to get pulled into her earlier whirlpool of thought. She pulls her hair up, exposing her neck to the cool air, and glances sideways to assess the state of her squad.
Zaeed's lounging, disengaged as ever, the palpable air of unfocused rage still lingering in the air around him, but Garrus is looking at her, half a question in his eyes. Her mouth curves up in an automatic, answering smile, exhaustion banished, calm dispersed. His gaze falls to her neck, and goosebumps prickle over her flesh from her shoulder down her arm as if responding to a physical touch.
What if he…?
No. He probably just thinks her neck looks weird, her skin too thin and delicate. She's imagining any interest she sees on his face, any, any desire fabricated by her own overactive, hopeful imagination.
Hopeful. She hopes her longtime friend, whose parts she's pretty sure do not even match hers, wants to...what? Touch her again? Maybe curl his hand around her neck this time, fingers sliding up into her hair, talons scratching gently against her scalp? What would that feel like? Would it feel like...nails, or something else, blunter or sharper? She's shorter than him; would he tip her face up so that they could look at one another? Usually they stand at a distance far enough apart from one another that she doesn't have to strain her neck, but that close, she'd have to adjust—
He's looking her in the face again, and maybe she doesn't read turians particularly well, but she reads Garrus just fine, and she's not exactly familiar with the odd combination of concern and—what? What is that other look on his face, right before he clears his throat and turns away?
Despite the removal of her helmet and the cool air pumping through the shuttle, she's sweating, her heart's racing, and—goddamn it, he's still wearing that fucking visor.
She can't go on like this. It's been weeks. Her present course is a never-ending defensive strategy, not viable in the long run; she needs to recalculate. She's going to have to talk to him, and she doesn't even know what to say. Hey, I don't know exactly what I want from you, but I think it's different than what we currently have, so can we—discuss that? Are you interested? In me?
She sounds nervous and uncertain even in her own head. This is not the usual conversation she would have with a potential partner. Over the years, lovers have described her flirting like being hit by a train or a two by four, blunt and forceful, but it gets the job done and they laugh about it later after the fantastic sex. Gets her what she needs. She can't do that here. This is different. This is Garrus.
She tells herself that, over and over again, all the way back to the ship and all the way up to her cabin and all the way through her shower, repeating it like a mantra so that she won't forget. Shower or not, she's sweating again by the time she's standing in front of the green glow of the battery's door, psyching herself up to open it and go in.
Later, when she’s drowning her mortification with some very nice alcohol, alone in her cabin where no one can see her beating her head against the wall, she tells herself that this is why her usual blunt-force strategy tumbled out of her mouth without her permission. She was just so damn nervous, her thoughts all spiraling out of control and colliding with one another; of course she fell back on what was familiar and comfortable, even if it was not part of the plan.
But it doesn't matter. She's going to turn his Why the hell not? into a Hell, yes if it kills her.
And if they don't both get killed by Collectors first. Which, given her track record, is a distinct possibility.