Archive of Our Own

He can’t forget what it sounded like. The last gurgling breaths of his men. The way the final downed soldier gripped his arm, and burbled through hot blood, “Make ‘em bleed for it, sir.”

He can’t sleep without seeing them lined up on the floor in bodybags, ten good men who just wanted to help people.

So he struggles out of the bed he’s just laid down in, already burning hot from his restless tossing and turning, and stumbles to his post. If he makes sure every weapon on this damn ship is perfect, maybe he’ll stop feeling like a burden around Shepard’s neck.

It’s stupid. He really shouldn’t do it. But Garrus still slips into the medbay and purloins a shot of stims. Dr. Chakwas refuses to store any stim in quantities larger than the minimal dosage, to add steps and make it more obvious if someone’s addicted; Garrus hopes that means she doesn’t mind that her stock of turian stimulants are decreasing at a slow but steady rate. He’s making sure to watch himself—to be careful with when he goes for another. But if he already can’t sleep, then there’s no point remaining in bed, thoughts racing and body tense.

It’s quieter in the battery, anyway. No one around to hear him mutter or curse or mourn.

There is comfort in numbers. In endless calculations. He doesn’t need to remember names, faces, families. He doesn’t need to obsess over where to look next. Just… focus on numbers.

The door opens. Garrus tenses, then relaxes again, recognizing the footsteps of his commanding officer. He pauses his work and turns around.

“Shepard,” he says softly. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

She shakes her head. She looks… just as exhausted as Garrus feels. She’s strange, this version of Commander Shepard—she looks the same, moves the same, speaks and thinks and acts the same. But she’s quieter, and her eyes are sadder.

“Do you…” she starts to say, then sighs and shakes her head again. “Do you mind if I sit up with you for a bit?”

“Not at all,” Garrus replies.

“Thanks,” Shepard says, and sits down on a crate of thermal clips, wrapping her jacket tighter around herself. She looks so small, all of a sudden. Fragile.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Commander Shepard whispers, not looking at Garrus. “I’m glad there’s at least one person on this damn ship I can trust.”

Garrus blinks. Cautiously, he asks, “What about Joker?”

“Human. Cerberus.” The corners of her mouth drag down. “They gave him the Normandy back.”

Garrus won’t even pretend to understand he knows what that all means. He just says, “We don’t… need to talk about that.”

She nods, relieved, and leans back against the wall, closing her eyes. Garrus spends a moment just looking at her. Commander Shepard looks pretty good for a revived corpse, but she’s not healthy. Her skin’s too pale and her eyes are too haunted.

Garrus understands that very well indeed.

He returns to his calculations. The stims have given him a low, pleasant buzz of energy; he’ll definitely crash later, but for now he can just get things done. That’s enough for him.

Shepard falls asleep long before Garrus’s stims wear off. He checks on her, occasionally, to make sure she’s still breathing. By the time he’s ready to collapse, Shepard actually… looks a bit better. And Garrus really doesn’t want to wake her up. She’s got so much to adjust to.

So he very carefully scoops her up in his arms and carries her to the elevator.

He hasn’t been in her quarters. It’s… kind of nice. Very peaceful. Garrus tries not to be too envious. Shepard deserves a place to be safe and at ease. He tucks her in carefully, then shambles back to the crew quarters. Weird how he feels sleepy as well as exhausted. He falls into bed and is out like a light.

~

It happens multiple times over the next several days. Garrus can’t sleep, so he goes to the battery; Shepard can’t sleep, so she sits up with him in silence. Sometimes she watches him for a while, sometimes she drifts off in minutes. She always ends up asleep, and Garrus always carries her to bed. He starts to treasure the weight and warmth of her in his arms, the way she curls into his shoulder, the tiny frown on her face every time he finishes tucking her in and steps back. It reminds him that they’re both alive. That they’re still fighting.

That they have a chance.

~

“I see their faces every time I close my eyes,” Sidonis says, sounding… haunted. Despairing.

Garrus’s hands start to tremble.

No. He needs—he needs to kill this son of a bitch. He needs revenge. He needs—

Shepard’s voice, firm and implacable and so horrifically gentle. “He’s already suffering enough, Garrus.”

He closes his eyes and hates himself, even as he chokes out, “Tell him—to go.”

~

Garrus doesn’t even pretend to try to sleep that night. Shepard doesn’t either. They just sit up in the main battery, Garrus trying desperately to bury himself in tasks (he’s already done everything he can, there’s nothing left to perfect), Shepard simply tucked out of his way and watching with sad, tired eyes. She’s started keeping a blanket down here to wrap up in. Garrus won’t deny, he’s wrapped it around his own shoulders a few times, comforted by her warm, organic scent on the fibers.

Eventually, he stops dead in the middle of the room, turns to Shepard, and just says it: “I don’t know if I did the right thing.”

Shepard stands and comes over to lean heavily against Garrus’s chest. She’s heavy and warm and trusts him implicitly. “You did,” she murmurs. “You showed him mercy. That’s always the right choice.”

Garrus sighs. “I… I’ll choose to believe you, Shepard.”

Do humans… know anything about turian affection? Probably not. So maybe… maybe… fuck it. She’s his best friend. He fell apart without her. She’s trusted him since the beginning. Garrus bends his neck and presses his forehead to Shepard’s. Immediately, he can feel himself relax, like a child cuddling their parent; this is safe. This is good. Shepard is trustworthy.

If she says it was the right choice, then it must be.

~

“Vakarian! Excellent! Need to talk to you!” Dr. Solus explodes, pacing around his table to greet Garrus as soon as the latter enters the lab. “Haven’t spoken to Shepard yet, will in a moment—you two are close, yes?”

“Er, yes, we are,” Garrus says, already feeling strained and irritated. He likes Dr. Solus, against his better judgment, but the man is so… twitchy. It grates on Garrus’ nerves. “Why?”

“Dr. Chakwas asked for professional opinion,” Dr. Solus rambles, pacing back and forth, one eye always on Garrus. He’s so clearly former STG, Garrus is a little shocked it wasn’t common knowledge on Omega. “Strictly off the books, of course. Don’t want Illusive Man to pull Shepard from this mission, far too important—fate of galaxy at stake. Lose her, lose the crew, lose our chance.”

Garrus’ chest aches, swollen with stress on his friend’s behalf. There’s so much on her shoulders, and she never asked for any of it. “I’m no scientist, doctor. Why do you need to talk to me about medical stuff?”

“Not that, no, no,” Solus assures him, “Wouldn’t wish to tax you too much. Clearly also at your limit. All of us are. No, just wanted your insight.” He abruptly stops pacing, and puts his hand to his chin, eyes laser-focused on Garrus’ face. “Would you say the Commander is getting enough sleep?” the doctor demands.

“Of course not,” Garrus replies.

“What about food? Hydration? Is she staying hygienic?”

“What—doctor, she’s my friend, not my wife. I don’t know if she’s hygienic or not.” Odd. Why does it feel so… comfortable, saying these words out loud? Garrus used to stammer and bristle whenever long-term relationships came up in conversation. Must just be how much they’ve been through together. “She could probably do with eating more, but I don’t know.”

“You don’t?” Dr Solus says, shocked. “Interesting. Misjudged the nature of your relationship with the Commander. Deepest apologies.”

EDI flickers to life beside them, at the research terminal, and calmly explains, “I believe this is my fault, Garrus. I gave the false impression that you knew Shepard best besides Dr. Chakwas and Joker. You are her most commonly-requested crewmate when going ashore, and she spends a significant portion of the night in your company. I apologize for the miscommunication.”

Garrus can hardly tell an unhinged salarian and an AI that the reason Shepard spends so much time with him is because she doesn’t trust anyone else aboard the ship. Who knows what they would do with that information? So instead he says, “I think it’s just because we’re both military, and Tali’s got her own issues. I… don’t. Not anymore.”

“Hmm. Makes sense,” Dr. Solus says, breezy and accepting of this explanation. “Two soldiers, both presumed dead, with a shared history. Should’ve figured it out myself. Not your fault, EDI, organic minds too illogical for you to predict. Still glad to have this cleared up.”

“You are still not allowed to release that pathogen, professor,” EDI says, her calm robotic voice still somehow conveying wry humor.

“Would never!” Dr. Solus gasps, horrified, but the curl of his lips suggests this is all playful. “Too many variables on board, not a proper test. Need control groups.”

Garrus shakes his head, also smiling. He kind of missed this sort of nonsense. Only Commander Shepard could manage such a ridiculous crew.

~

“I can’t do this,” Shepard whispers, tears in her eyes, face strained like she’s ill.

Garrus grips her shoulder, firm but gentle. “Yes, you can. Because you’re not doing it alone. You’ve got me.”

Forever, he doesn’t add, as Shepard bites her lip fiercely and leans against his chest for a moment. I’m with you forever. To the end of the line.

~

It’s still strange, to Garrus. How quiet and withdrawn most human soldiers get before battle. He’s so used to working off his jitters, it’s odd to see Taylor forcibly unclenching his jaw every few hours, and Lawson tapping her fingers against the butt of her gun, and Zaeed pacing, and Jack glaring holes in the wall.

(Garrus only went below decks because he’d wanted Jack’s opinion on a sort of tech-based biotic-blocking idea he’d had, but she had snarled at him that she wouldn’t help with that kind of bullshit even if he wasn’t Cerberus, and he’d fled. He’s still a bit nervous that she’ll kill the whole crew, despite the fact that she’s clearly become as fiercely loyal to Shepard as the rest of them.)

But… the closer they get to the final conflict, the more excited Garrus is. Oh, sure, it’s mostly dread, the knowledge that they’re all probably going to die, but it’s also just pure excitement. He wants to fight the real problem. Enough mercs and pirates and security androids. He’s ready to slaughter the Collectors themselves.

If he dies, he dies. It will be an honorable end, even if his spirit is never remembered for it. And even if he ends up as paste, Shepard at least will live.

So when Shepard wanders down to the battery, Garrus is more than willing to talk, reminisce. She sits on her crate, wrapped in her blanket, and watches with some warm human emotion as Garrus paces and rambles on about past campaigns. He likes having her near like this. He likes her teasing tone, her genuine curiosity, the banter that flows between them so easily. He likes being around Shepard, feeling like his presence does her some good.

The blanket slips off her shoulder while he’s explaining that sparring match that had ended in a stalemate. Garrus absently reaches out and fixes it—he would rather Shepard didn’t catch a chill right before battle. Isn’t that what humans do? For such a robust species, they’re quite delicate at times.

“Sounds like you’re carrying some tension. Maybe I can help you get rid of it,” Shepard suggests, rising to her feet. Her cheeks are ever so slightly pink, and the blanket has slid again. Garrus can’t help admiring the curve of her shoulder, comparing it to that scout’s—Shepard’s got more muscle, less bone, and she knows how to use it in a fight.

“I, ah, didn’t think you’d feel like sparring, Commander,” he says, quickly snatching his gaze back to her face. A fond sort of smile breaks across it, her soft human lips so different from a turian’s mandibles. It’s no wonder humans like mashing their faces together; their mouths are made to touch and be touched, almost prehensile in their agility compared to turian features.

“Not what I meant,” she says, warm and fond and just a bit sly. “We could skip right to the tie-breaker. Test your reach and my… flexibility.”

Garrus blinks stupidly at her for a solid ten seconds before his brain catches up to the implication. At first, it’s shocking, perhaps even frightening—but he can’t deny that he enjoys Shepard’s warmth, the softness of her body, her musky human scent. He… wouldn’t mind that, actually.

“I didn’t—uh,” Garrus says, a bit lost on how to proceed, and decides that humor is his best shot. “Never knew you had a weakness for men with scars.”

Her fond smile only grows. Her gaze doesn’t flick to the scar on his face. She’s completely focused on Garrus, on what he’s saying. It makes his heart beat a little faster.

Spirits. She means it. She really, actually means it.

“Well… why the hell not? There’s no one in the galaxy I respect more than you,” Garrus muses, trying to keep his feelings under control. “If we can find a way to make this work, then… yeah. Definitely.”

He’s not got a human fetish, but Garrus can’t deny that Commander Shepard is the most beautiful living creature in the galaxy when she’s happy. Or maybe it’s just that he’s only seen her smile like this when they’re alone together. Bright and easy and eager.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” she murmurs, brushing her fingertips down his arm.

“Right,” he says dryly, “Because I’m totally in the right space to work on firing calculations.”

Her scent lingers, hours after she’s gone.

~

Garrus can’t help it. He’s just too nervous. He goes to Dr. Chakwas (like hell is he trusting a salarian, even one as paranoid and loyal as Solus) and asks if she has any literature on interspecies relationships and the complications therein. Her eyebrows rise, but she’s a complete professional and does not ask awkward questions.

“I’m a military doctor, Garrus,” she reminds him dryly. “You think you’re the first soldier I’ve advised on sexual relations with another species?” She taps away on her omnitool for a moment, then nods and looks up to say, “I’ve sent you my usual pamphlets on health and safety in the bedroom. If you have further questions, I suggest speaking to Dr. Solus; my expertise lies in patching up bullet holes, not diagnosing sexually-transmitted infections.”

Garrus clears his throat delicately, and asks, “And if the other party is a human female?”

Dr. Chakwas gives him a dry look. “I said what I said, Garrus,” she replies. “Make yourself some claw-caps so you don’t cut her, but otherwise I would rather not give you detailed instructions on having sex with the Commander. We would all be too embarrassed.”

Garrus flees the medical bay.

~

It’s very annoying, how soon the whole crew is aware of the crackling tension between Garrus and Shepard. It’s also annoying that no one seems surprised. No one dares to tease the Commander, but Garrus? Garrus is an easy target.

At breakfast:

“Hey, Garrus! The thing infecting my ship says you proved its theories correct!”

“Go to hell, Joker.”

“Already there, buddy!”

During morning workouts:

“Man, I gotta say, you got balls, Vakarian. Coming on to the Commander like that? Didn’t think even Archangel would dare.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Taylor?”

“Whatever you want it to mean, big guy.”

Whilst helping Zaeed repair his beloved antique rifle:

“No, no, you’ve gotta be gentle with her, you moron! If this is how you treat the Commander, it’s a wonder you’ve not been executed. Show a woman some tenderness.”

“Zaeed. It’s a damn gun. It doesn’t care if I’m gentle.”

“Well, no wonder you’re always recalibrating, if this is how you think they should be handled. You have to stroke her with that cloth, not scrub.”

After venturing down into the hold to grab a part the engineers need but are too nervous to fetch themselves:

“Garrus.”

“Jack.”

“She’s gonna chew you up and spit you out. But you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? All good boys are freaks under their uptight bullshit. Maybe I should take pity on you, teach you a few tricks…”

Garrus turns right around and leaves without another word, Jack’s crow of delighted laughter following him all the way back to engineering. The part he’d failed to procure ends up where it needs to be anyway, with a little scribbled note in rather lovely handwriting, addressed to Garrus; it just says, don’t forget lube.

Garrus does not go below decks again.

Shepard keeps visiting him at night. She falls asleep faster, easier, than before. Garrus purloins a cot and pillow and sets it up in the quietest corner of the battery, and tries not to show how embarrassed he is when she smiles and thanks him softly. He doesn’t dare vent about how much he dislikes the teasing. She might take it as a reluctance to share her bed, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

He watches vids of human pornography, trying to figure out how best to please a woman. There’s so much touching and kissing involved, though; he can’t kiss like a human, and his claws are too large and sharp to be delicate against soft flesh. Even vids of turians and quarians having sex are no use, because quarians always wear their suits. There’s turian-asari vids, but he’s not sure that’s any help, either.

An enormous swathe of human fetish sites have artistic renderings of turians and humans making love. Garrus had no idea humans were this depraved—or this ignorant of turian biology. Seriously, who even thinks of this stuff? Turians don’t lay eggs, and certainly not inside their lovers.

So that’s a waste of his precious time, of course.

And then the Collectors attack the Normandy.

~

Shepard looks worse than she ever has, but her face is full of relief and welcome, as Garrus sidles into her quarters.

“I brought wine,” he says lamely. “Best I could get with a vigilante’s salary.”

Shepard snorts softly and shakes her head. Fond, amused. Garrus finds himself too nervous look at her for too long.

“If you were a turian female, I’d compliment your fringe or your waist,” he says; dangerously close to rambling, but he’s out of practice with this kind of thing. “So, uh… your hair looks lovely, and your waist is… very supportive. Hopefully that’s not offensive to humans. Crap.” The panic is setting in. She just keeps staring at him and Garrus has never been good with women. “I knew I should’ve—”

“Hey, consider me seduced, smooth talker,” Shepard chuckles, reaching out to stroke her fingers down his arm. Garrus never knew such a simple touch could be so… electric. “Now shut up and stop worrying.”

‘Stop worrying’. The most useless phrase ever uttered. But the way she says it… it’s not dismissive. It’s almost soothing.

Because Commander Shepard understands.

“I just…” Garrus starts, hesitates, plows onward. “I’ve seen so many things go wrong, Shepard. At C-Sec, with Sidonis. I just want something to go right, for once.”

Her face softens, and Garrus can feel his nerves melt away, comforted by the sympathy and understanding in her expression. Humans are so easy to read, once you know what to look for. And this human—she gets it.

Garrus shuts up, and stops worrying, and focuses on the incredible woman in front of him.

~

After they’ve blown up the Collector base and rescued their people, Garrus… can’t bring himself to set foot in the battery. So he fetches the blanket, and heads up to Shepard’s quarters.

EDI speaks softly before letting the elevator open; “The Commander is not well, Garrus.”

“I thought as much,” he murmurs back. “I’ll be careful with her.”

As much as she understands him… he thinks he understands her, too.

Shepard is in the shower. Garrus sits at her desk, the blanket folded neatly in his lap, and looks around. The rest of the ship still has dents and scrapes from the attack. Broken pieces, bloodstains. Here, though, is still unscathed.

It’s a slap in the face, for someone who carries so much guilt and responsibility already. A reminder that she wasn’t here to defend her ship and her people with her own body. No wonder Shepard feels bad.

She emerges from the shower after another half hour. From the rawness of her skin, she was scrubbing under hot water; from the redness of her eyes, it’s probable the scrubbing was for reasons other than sweat and dirt.

“Garrus,” she says, blinking stupidly at him. “Why are you here?”

Garrus shrugs, feeling awkward and unsure—but also like he shouldn’t leave. “I don’t need to do any more calibrations. And I think you need a friend, right now.”

Shepard swallows hard and nods. Then, without further ado, she walks over and settles herself on Garrus’ lap, wrapping the blanket around them both. Garrus puts his arms around her gloriously sturdy waist and rests his forehead against hers.

“Thank you,” Shepard whispers hoarsely.

“Any time,” Garrus murmurs.

Nearly half an hour passes of them just… breathing each other’s air. It’s shockingly comfortable, just existing with Shepard. Garrus enjoys it quite a bit.

Just as he’s entertaining the idea of asking to spend the night, Shepard speaks up again. “I need to do one last thing for Admiral Hackett. In and out, just me.”

Garrus can feel his crest prickling, his mandibles twitching. “No backup at all?”

“No. Too difficult to be quiet if there’s backup. But I wanted to ask…” Shepard takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, sits up and gazes deeply into Garrus’ eyes. “Will you still be here, when I get back?”

“Of course,” Garrus replies immediately. It’s not a question to him. “I’m part of your crew, Shepard. I’m not going anywhere. Maybe I’ll wash this damn blanket while you’re gone.”

A smile breaks across her face, and she lays a kiss on his cheek. It’s shy, a bare brush of lips, but Garrus’ heart still flutters wildly. “Careful, Mr. Smooth-Talker,” Shepard murmurs. “A girl can only take so much flattery.”

“Before what? She kicks my ass out of her bedroom, never to be seen again?”

She snorts, a deeply inelegant and incredibly endearing noise. Humans have such an incredible range of sounds. Garrus has a few favorites, nowadays, and he kind of wants to hear them again—but not if Shepard is upset and in need of comfort. So he pulls her head back down to his shoulder and holds her close, basking in her warmth and the way her arms mold around him. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing, that humans don’t have chitin.

“I’ll be here,” Garrus murmurs. “You just concentrate on completing the mission.”

Shepard sighs deeply and whispers back, “Alright. Stay the night, please? I would appreciate the distraction.”

“Whatever you need, Shepard.”

~

Admiral Hackett is a lot shorter than Garrus expected, and far grimmer.

“Vakarian,” the human says with a slight nod.

“Admiral Hackett,” Garrus greets him, saluting like Alenko taught him to, years ago. Humans tend to be pleased when he mimics their gestures of respect, even though they seem rather inefficient to Garrus.

The admiral does not seem pleased. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to the commander alone,” he says, with a pointed glance at the medbay doors.

“Of course, sir,” Garrus replies, “I’ll be quick.”

The admiral’s mouth tightens, but he nods in assent, and they enter the medbay together.

Shepard looks like shit, but still far better than most people caught in giant explosions. She perks up when she sees Garrus, face softening, shoulders relaxing, a smile curving her lips—and then she sees Hackett, and it all vanishes again, behind a tight, closed expression that might be an attempt at respectful diffidence.

Garrus suddenly wants to tell Hackett to leave and never bother his best friend again. But that’s the wrong move. It really is. So instead Garrus taps his forehead against Shepard’s gently, and says, “Told you.”

A brief flash of a smile, her hand on his bicep, squeezing lightly. “Never doubted you,” she replies.

“Good.”

“Admiral,” Dr Chakwas says behind Garrus. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need to speak with Commander Shepard, alone.”

Garrus’ crest tenses, rising slightly; he closes his eyes and breathes deep and slow, fighting back his instincts. He’s an adult, for fuck’s sake, he can keep from throwing tantrums just because his best friend is in trouble. He’s had plenty of time to work on his impulse control. And he knows, now, that his gut reaction to things is not as reliable as he’d hoped. He doesn’t doubt for a moment that Shepard did what she could to spare as many people as possible—but it was still such a significant loss for the galaxy as a whole.

He should probably be more horrified by the sheer number of dead batarians. But truly, he’s too relieved that Shepard lived.

Shepard sighs and pushes him away gently. “Talk to you later, Garrus,” she murmurs. “I’ll be alright.”

“I know you will,” Garrus says, and reluctantly allows himself to be herded out of the medbay by Chakwas.

As soon as the doors close once more, Dr Chakwas mutters, “If he arrests the commander while she’s actively recovering, I’ll bash his bloody head in.”

“Arrest her?” Garrus repeats, shocked. “She just saved the galaxy, again!”

“And killed millions to do so,” Chakwas reminds him bluntly, frowning in disapproval. “Don’t tell me those civilian lives meant nothing to you, Garrus Vakarian.”

He can’t say that, because it’s not true. The scale makes him queasy to think about too hard. So instead he says quietly, “I just don’t think she should be punished so harshly for it. She’s already punishing herself.”

Dr Chakwas softens, drooping a little. She’s old, by both human and turian standards. It’s starting to show in more than just her hair color and the laugh-lines around her eyes. “That, I agree with you on,” she murmurs. “But she wouldn’t be the commander if she didn’t.”

“Yeah.” Garrus leans back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s true.”

“You’re going to wait as well, then?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Dr Chakwas leans against the wall across from him, looking grim but satisfied, and does not explain further.

What feels like hours later, but was probably only about twenty minutes, Admiral Hackett emerges from the medbay. He nods to Garrus, then turns to Dr Chakwas and engages in conversation; Garrus takes this opportunity to slip past them both and enter the medbay once more.

Shepard looks even more drained, somehow, and she doesn’t light up again. Garrus sits on the bed beside her and asks, “How are you holding up?”

“I’ll be alright,” she says, leaning against him. “At least until the trial.”

“...Trial?”

“I have to go back to Earth and stand trial. But there’s enough evidence now. They have to take the Reapers seriously.” Shepard sighs, and it’s almost… relieved. Alarm zings through Garrus’ veins, his crest rising immediately, mandibles flaring.

“I can rest up, finally,” she murmurs, a wistful tone in her voice that Garrus has never heard before. “No matter what the outcome of the trial, no matter if they charge me with warcrimes or not, they’ll be forced to act. We’ll all pull together and defeat the Reapers.”

Garrus can’t quite parse his own emotions right now, so he pushes them away and puts his arm around Shepard’s shoulders. It still feels strange, taking liberties like this… but she’s never told him not to. She seems to enjoy his touch, his presence.

This is all so precarious. They survived the suicide run, but the Reapers are still out there. There’s too many innocents dead, too much blood spilled—and more will have to die before this war is over. It’s exhausting. Garrus looks ahead and sees only a long, blood-soaked march into a mass grave.

But when he looks down at the woman dozing lightly at his side, that all fades away. That’s for the future. He’s here, in the present. And so is Commander Shepard. Right now… they can rest.

~

It is a uniquely maddening experience, to be hauled before the Primarch and his council and told in no uncertain terms that his yapping is so irritating that they’ll give him a taskforce if he’ll shut up. No diplomacy, no polite requests, not even an apology for calling him crazy: just some made up responsibilities in exchange for him being silent and obedient once more.

Garrus thinks he understands how Shepard feels, now.

He’s not a very good turian. But he’s a good soldier, and he thinks—he hopes—he’s a good person. He’d like to be. For the family he has left, of course, and every turian alive or dead, and the whole damn galaxy... but also for Shepard.

So he swears to do his best, and the first time one of his new subordinates challenges his authority, he doesn’t bother getting angry. He simply looks the boy in the eye—and he is a boy, hardly older than nineteen, spirits was Garrus really that young and brash once?--and says calmly, “If you would like to be reassigned, you can take it up with the Primarch. If not, then get me those damn numbers, soldier.”

He can see the way the boy’s body straightens, the way his crest flattens, the way his eyes widen. The kid’s barely out of cadet training. He probably isn’t used to being called ‘soldier’. Garrus certainly wasn’t, when he first graduated. He also doesn’t argue anymore, just gets to work.

Garrus tries to write to Shepard, but she never responds, so he stops. He can’t sleep without that blanket wrapped around him anymore, that warm human scent fading more and more each night—not that he gets much time to sleep. There’s so much to do. Preparations to be made, requisition orders to be processed, bureaucrats to resist punching, defenses to be built. Garrus looks in the mirror sometimes and sees an exhausted shell of a turian that he’d hoped to leave behind once his business with Sidonis was through.

Avenging his men wasn’t nearly as stressful as waiting for the Reapers is.

And he misses Shepard so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. At least three of his crew keep making passes at him, and he just—can’t be interested. Because they aren’t Commander Shepard of the Alliance Navy. They aren’t funny like her, wise like her, skilled like her. They don’t have soft, mobile lips that feel so nice molded to his faceplates. They don’t… understand.

Not until the Reapers hit Palaven, at least. And then everyone is too busy trying to survive for such frivolous pursuits as romance and sex.

Their defenses work better than Garrus expected. He’s immediately promoted in the hierarchy for his part, above even his father; he tries not to think about it too much. But of course, the Reapers are still superior to turians in terms of technological advancement. It’s not enough against them.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Vakarian,” Victus chides him, as the other generals stationed on Menae get settled in their seats. “Without you, we’d all be dead.”

Garrus shakes his head, too frustrated to accept compliments from anyone. “Shepard would’ve remembered to check the calculations,” he mutters stubbornly. “If I’d just run the numbers a few more times—Spirits, Callilea was a kid. I got a child killed.”

“Cal knew the risks just as well as you,” Victus retorts. “He wouldn’t have volunteered if he hadn’t been prepared for this eventuality. And I doubt Commander Shepard is as all-knowing as you seem to think. How do you know she wouldn’t have forgotten? What if she’d remembered that, but forgotten something else?”

“Shepard wouldn’t forget anything,” Garrus snaps back. “She’s only lost one person out of the two suicide missions I’ve gone on with her. One. She does everything possible for her squad.”

“Too bad she doesn’t do anything for anyone else,” one of the generals mutters.

Garrus goes still, because if he doesn’t control himself he’ll lose his temper, and that rarely helps. Everyone else at the table flinches except Victus, who only gives the speaker a disapproving look.

“Care to explain that comment?” Victus asks, light and friendly.

“Well… she blew up the batarians, after all,” the speaker points out—Gracenia, one of the females who seems to find Garrus’s lack of interest in flirtations frustrating. “She didn’t have to.”

“And what would you have done, then?” Garrus demands. “If you were overpowered and kept in a medical coma for two days, woke up with hours to spare, and then had to fight your way to the controls, what would you do?”

Gracenia looks away instead of meeting his gaze. She also doesn’t speak. Garrus takes this to mean she would do the same thing. As any sensible person would, really; and, like any sensible person, she would regret it. Like how the Commander regrets it.

“Enough of this,” Victus announces, crisp and in control. “We have a war to win. Reports, everyone.”

~

Is that…?

It is!

Through the drumming of his own heartbeat and the thunder of gunfire, Garrus hears Victus yelling about the enemy on their flank; he’ll deal with that, he will, but not quite yet.

That’s the fucking Normandy coming in to land. That’s his commander and her ship. How can they lose, when Commander Shepard has rejoined the fight? The spirits of victory are arriving, triumphant, ravenous, on metal wings that never tire, and they’ve brought Shepard with them.

Oh, he thinks absently, as he scrambles over boulders and bulldozes his way through husks. I love her.

And then there’s more enemies to shoot and the thought slips right back out of his head for a while.

It dances on the tip of his tongue, trembles in the back of his throat, thrums through his skin, sinks root-like tendrils deep into his bones, as he spots her speaking to Corinthus. He wants to hold her, kiss her, breathe in her warm human scent—

No, he can’t. It… it was just a one-time thing. Just an experiment. That’s alright, though. He doesn’t need to wrap his arms around Shepard to let her know he loves her, that he’ll never, ever give up on her. He’s always at her side, in all things. And she wants to see Victus—even better. Garrus will get to show off for her.

The commander’s expression is grim and tight until Garrus speaks, and then it breaks open into that bright, warm smile that makes his guts writhe with joy. She missed him, too? Him, Garrus Vakarian, failed C-Sec officer and former vigilante? He can’t quite keep track of what’s going on, his brain is so full of Shepard.

It’s a shame they’re not among a majority of aliens. Every turian in the vicinity can probably tell how delighted Garrus is to see Shepard. Although, they’d have to be looking, and most are just trying not to die. So he supposes it’s not quite as embarrassing, the way his crest keeps trying to flare and how his speech has taken on the softer, mellower tones reserved for speaking to someone one wishes to court. Humans never notice turian undertones, anyway.

Liara gives him a small, sly smile behind Shepard’s back. Garrus gives her a warning look and she rolls her eyes, but the smile softens and she nods slightly, before they all bring their attention back to the fight.

It feels good—feels right. To be at Shepard’s side once more. They can’t lose, with Commander Shepard at the lead.

~

The Normandy hasn’t changed nearly as much, this time around. Garrus can feel himself relaxing as Shepard gives him an abbreviated tour, stopping to chat with her crew, checking in with systems, listening to conversations that don’t mean much to Garrus but clearly mean a lot to Shepard. It’s quite nice, really. Like coming home.

They reach the battery and Garrus can’t help a snort of delighted laughter.

“That old thing survived?” he asks, nodding to the cot he’d set up in the corner for Shepard.

She shrugs, staring at it with a wry smile and pink cheeks. “Yeah. Hope you don’t mind it’s still here. Apparently it was good for morale.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Garrus replies. “Saves me the trouble of finding a new one. I still have that damn blanket, too, somewhere.”

Shepard looks up at him, and something passes over her face, something that Garrus can’t quite read. But then she smiles, and says, “I missed you too, Garrus.”

And, oh, spirits, he hadn’t even realized that that was what he’d meant, but it was. He really did miss her so much. Garrus can’t even begin to think of what to say, so instead he holds out his hand, a bit awkwardly, to shake. Shepard smiles wider and slides neatly into the curve of his arm, leaning on Garrus with the ease of long practice.

Feels good. Feels right.

They spend the night holding each other close, wrapped in that tatty blanket; it’s the best sleep Garrus has had in two and a half years.

He can’t wait to have this until they die of old age.