Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing he learns on a human-run ship: the commander lies.

He doesn’t realize it, at first. She’s calm (a lie: she has a worse temper than a varren, she just hides it so well that everyone forgets until she explodes), direct (also a lie: she’ll talk someone in circles if it gets her what she wants), and unyielding.

The terrible rations and the uneasiness of the crew are to be expected. The Normandy is a human Alliance ship, he is neither human or Alliance, and an anomaly in the chain of command. He assumes that as a military ship they would follow military ethics, and while yes, that is true in the way they stop and salute the commander, the commander herself doesn’t seem too attached to the idea in the way the rest of them are. 

When he first joins the Normandy, Commander Shepard is insistent that he inform her about any recommendations or information he had for their mission. After a few days of tinkering on the Mako, he decides to test if it’s true. He’s a little nervous about approaching her; she’s his commanding officer now, and one of his old human co-workers claimed they trained together in the Alliance and called her a “cold-hearted bitch.” So far, she’s been polite if indifferent, but he hasn’t seen her crack any skulls, so maybe her infamy is unwarranted. 

He finds Shepard at the helm of the ship, leaning on the back of the pilot’s chair with a datapad in hand. An Alliance soldier is standing in front of her, speaking to the commander. Even at a distance, Garrus can tell the commander has been staring at it the entire time, her face blank of any emotion. As he approaches, he can hear what their conversation is about.

“Commander, other ships are getting better rations than we are. With the Normandy on such an important mission, I think it’s the least the Alliance could do for us,” the soldier insists. Shepard hasn’t looked at the soldier once. A weird itch starts under his skin; a turian officer wouldn't be so disrespectful to a soldier. It doesn’t exactly inspire any confidence that she’ll listen to him either. Maybe serving on a human ship was a bad idea, rogue Spectre and all. Shepard makes a noise in her throat that he doesn’t understand, but the human soldier takes it as permission to continue. “With biotics on board, it would be a benefi–”

She cuts him off mid-sentence, not bothering to look up from the datapad. “Very well, I’ll tell Alliance brass right away, since you’ve mentioned it. Dismissed.” Garrus has picked up some skill about reading human expressions during his time in C-Sec, enough to tell that the human soldier is surprised but pleased. The man salutes and takes his leave. Shepard still hasn’t moved.

There’s a pause as the soldier walks out of earshot, and then Joker snorts. “Does he really think you’re going to run to brass about ship rations? We’re a stealth frigate, not some luxury cruise liner. He’s lucky the Alliance even gave us a working coffee machine.”

The commander moves a finger to scroll on her datapad. “Yes, but he always has something to complain about, and for some reason decides I need to hear about it. I think he’s just upset he’s not serving on a dreadnought.” She hasn’t given any indication that she knows he’s there but something must’ve given Garrus away, because Shepard straightens up and looks at him directly. “Officer Vakarian,” she says and nods, in the same dull tone she used with the previous soldier. Turning to the pilot, she drops the datapad on his lap. “Joker, let me know how the diagnostic runs out.” 

Commander Shepard turns back to Garrus and walks past him, clearly expecting him to follow. He does. “How can I help you? Are you settling in on the Normandy?” He glances at her, unsure what to think about this human commander after witnessing the last few minutes. A turian commander would never even think about lying to his troops about anything, even something as simple as food rations. Maybe especially about food rations. She must know he witnessed that entire interaction, yet does nothing to address it. Was this how human commanders operated? Or was this just her style?

He realizes she’s waiting for his response. “Ah, yes, everything is fine, Commander Shepard. I wanted to ask you about some retrofits for the Mako…” He lists a few things he thinks would help with the vehicle and why, thinking that maybe with her he’d have a better shot of getting what they need if he gives a thorough explanation. 

She nods, already looking towards the map in the middle of the CIC. “Send me a list of what you need, and I’ll see what I can do.” It’s a silent but clear dismissal, and he doesn’t stick around to figure out if she’s lying to him too.

Later that day, Garrus sends her a list of everything he thinks would help with the Mako. He’s apprehensive, wondering if the commander said she’d get what he needs just to get him out of her way. If she treated her human colleagues that way… well, it wasn’t looking good for an unknown turian.

A few days later he receives a box with everything he’s requested, and a note: Let me know if there’s anything else you’d think would be useful. I’m setting up a separate budget for the Mako. - Commander Shepard

For the most part, his requests are approved. If they’re denied, he’s given a clear reason: out of budget, hard to source, no license. If they’re lies, they’re understandable ones, but the requisitions far outweigh the denials.

Maybe she lies for a reason. He just doesn’t understand what that reason is.

He can’t figure out when it starts.

Physically, Commander Shepard doesn’t stand out much from other humans. Her hair is light brown, straight, and ends a few inches above her shoulders, with dark brown eyes and brown skin, the most common features amongst humans. The only distinctive features are two scars: one that slashes across her eyebrow and another on her cheek. Beyond that, she looks like another of the thousands of humans on the Citadel, easy to lose in a crowd. It’s only when she makes eye contact that she stands out. Her gaze is unwavering and intense, as if she’s scanning for weaknesses. It’s a little unsettling, but to be expected from a commanding officer. He doesn’t think much of it beyond that.

Despite the frigid exterior, she’s almost… personable, at times. Commander Shepard is distant from her crew but polite, but there are certain people that it’s obvious she’s more at ease with. Anderson is one. Joker is another, and if he’s present at the right moment, he’ll even hear her joke with him. Throughout their time working together, he notices that Shepard has an uncanny knack for reading people– hell, she can read non-humans better than any humans he’s ever met. She knows when someone needs soft words or a kick in the ass, and it's a skill he comes to admire. Still, it doesn’t mean she always uses it; she’s more likely to start a fight to get things done. The commander is willing to do anything for the mission and does not hesitate to bloody her hands. It’s different from how he was trained to approach problems, and while it appeals to him, he still isn’t always sure about her tactics. The few times he voices his concerns, she’ll look at him with her steady gaze, and remind him to keep his eyes on the end goal, always. To never hesitate when the enemy is in his sights.

While they chase down Saren, they become an efficient duo. On the battlefield she’s a close-combat specialist, fighting with a strange mix of guns, biotics, martial arts and omni-blades he’s never seen anyone use before. It positions him perfectly for longer-range enemies and it works for them almost flawlessly from the start, an easy push and pull that’s hard to find on the field. 

Off the battlefield, she warms up to him over the next few months and they strike up an easy kind of friendship. Shepard asks him for tips on shooting with a sniper rifle. In exchange, she teaches him some neat tricks about where to stab krogans or the weak point in a batarian’s armor. He’s military-trained, but she has an unconventional way of strategy that forces him to consider battles from new perspectives. By the time they part ways, he has an immense respect for Commander Shepard and it’s clear to him why she was chosen as humanity’s first Spectre. She’s strong, decisive and cunning, in the way the best Spectres are. 

Then she dies. He goes to Omega to do something worthwhile. And it’s there that she finds him again, skin cracked red, her eyes like fire. Shepard informs him, unafraid of death, that she’s on another impossible mission to save humanity. She asks him to join her. He says yes.

It’s while they’re on a Cerberus-manned ship that Garrus feels something shift. For him, at least. 

He accidentally walks in on Commander Shepard half-sitting on a table in the tech lab, head angled up as she’s holding a panel of her officer’s outfit open. Mordin has a pair of tweezers in one hand and is delicately applying some sort of red liquid to Shepard’s neck. There’s a series of small pinpricks, and they almost look like… turian teeth. The bite is red and slightly inflamed.

“—warned you earlier,” the doctor is reprimanding.

“And like I said, unprepared, not inexperienced, Mordin,” she tells the doctor, almost lazily. Her eyes flicker to Garrus. “Hey Garrus. Nice to have you join us,” she greets him casually, as if it’s normal to find the commander of the ship lounging about with bite marks. Mordin looks up from his work at Garrus and opens his mouth to say something. “And not him,” she suddenly snaps, looking at the salarian. The professor blinks, clearly surprised, but regains his composure quickly and turns back to Shepard. 

“Interesting,” Mordin comments, and gives her a small bottle. “Apply tonight. Wound will be healed by tomorrow morning.” She takes the bottle and carefully closes her shirt. Under her clothes the bite is invisible. It feels like he’s seen a secret he shouldn’t have, but Shepard gives no sign of discomfort or awkwardness. 

“Thanks, doc,” she says, sliding off the table and clapping the professor on the shoulder. She walks towards him next, all cool professionalism. “I’d like to see those upgrade suggestions as soon as you can, Vakarian. I have a feeling we’ll need them.” Nodding at both of them, she turns on her heel and disappears down the hall.

Mordin is looking after Shepard like he’s found an unexpected data point. Garrus is feeling strange about seeing a turian bite mark on his human superior officer’s neck. He doesn’t know if humans are the same as turians but it’s a very …suggestive injury. He suddenly remembers the turian they saw a few days ago on the Citadel, the day before Shepard’s shore leave. The one she shook hands with and clearly knew, yet refused to speak his name or introduce him to anyone. Solus turns and prompts him about his visit, he asks for some feedback for upgrades on the Normandy, and buries the strange thoughts about his human commander to the back of his mind. 

The more time they spend together, the more he’s intrigued by the commander. While he thinks they were some sort of friends before, she begins treating him with the same bickering energy she uses with Joker, and Garrus finds out she has an underlying charm to her that confuses him as often as it amuses. Shepard makes it clear to everyone she does not trust Cerberus, and he can tell that while she’s gained the loyalty of the crew, the people she actually trusts on the ship are very few and he’s honored to be included. He realizes that somehow, Shepard’s become one of his closest friends without him noticing. The commander doesn’t say it, but she shows her friendship through her actions: a dextro chocolate for Tali, an upgraded shotgun for Grunt, a rare weapon scope for him. Silent confirmations that she trusts them, him, even after everything he did to his team on Omega. 

It’s not until she’s saying, “What if we skipped right to the tiebreaker? We could test your reach… and my flexibility,” with an amused smile that he realizes exactly how charming she can be. Shepard’s leaning on the console in a way that emphasizes her waist (not that he’d been looking), and her head tilts in a suggestive way that had she been turian, he’d know exactly what she meant. The familiar motion on a human body was… jarring (how did she know to do that?) and it has him fumbling for something to say. Turns out his body speaks for him instead, and he finds himself saying yes as Shepard’s walking out the door, calm as if she just asked him about weapon calibrations. Nothing changes in their relationship, but he feels this tension between them now, and if she feels the same she certainly does not let it show. It’s enough that it makes him think he made up the entire conversation and he decides to ask about it again, just to make sure it wasn’t some fever dream.

Shepard doesn’t hide her amusement at his rambling; she takes it in stride, assuring him that she’s still interested (“I want someone I can trust,” she tells him, and there it is again, that word, trust, the root of their entire relationship, that he’s not sure he’s worthy of). Her confident, silent demeanor as he stumbles through his worries sets him on edge; isn’t she at least a little concerned? How was she so relaxed?

“Right. ‘Cause I’m in a great place to optimize firing algorithms right now,” he grumbles as she walks past him. Commander Shepard turns to face him, and she has that tiny little smirk that he’s only seen in fights. Bad sign. Next thing he knows she does a series of flips to exit the main battery, her body twisting in ways that are physically impossible for turians. She lands standing outside the main battery somehow, and she gives him a tiny wave and coolly tells him, “To give you some ideas about human flexibility,” as the doors close shut. 

Oh. His mind helpfully supplies him with the image of the turian bite he saw on her neck months ago, and for the first time gets the feeling that maybe he’s the only one feeling a little unsure. They treat each other in the same, friendly bickering way as they always have, but sometimes she’ll give him this look , full of fire and mischief instead of her usual politeness (or anger, on her bad days) that immediately sets him on edge, for something, anything. He doesn’t know how she does it. 

Garrus suspects that while they wait, she’s chasing pleasure somewhere else. Sometimes she’ll come back on the Normandy from shore leave and there is another’s scent lying faintly on her skin. He doesn’t hold it against her; they’re blowing off steam and nothing more. As the months pass, the foreign scents start to bother him a little, but he refuses to think about why. They’re just friends. That’s it.

The pressure of their mission is starting to get to her. Shepard’s irritable now, chafing at the reins of the Illusive Man. Occasionally she’ll sit with him in the main battery in silence and just stare at the cannon, deep in thought. It’s hard to figure out how to help the commander, but it’s hard to break through the hero of the galaxy. He’ll ask and she denies that anything is bothering her; Shepard is unyielding in more ways than one and will not speak unless she wants to. But he’s nothing if not observant, and he learns how to ask questions in a way where if she wants to, she can speak freely. And sometimes she does speak, letting her thoughts float around the main battery. It’s how he learns that her mind is in a thousand places at once, always thinking, always wondering if there’s something she’s missing from the bigger picture. He also learns that sometimes silence is all Shepard needs.

And then the Omega-4 relay is looming over them, the end of their very possible one-way trip and he knows that if he doesn’t do anything now, he’ll miss his chance. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he’s been far more curious and eager than what he thought he would be. It is almost as if the idea was already brewing in his mind, but she pushed it to the surface. It implies more things than he likes, more complications that aren’t needed in the midst of a suicide mission. Too late for all of it, whatever it may be.

Shepard just watches him stumble over his own words for a few minutes with a tiny smile while she swallows a pill ( an antihistamine , he slowly thinks, and suddenly this is feeling a lot more real), until she decides to take mercy on him and tells him to relax. The lights dim, she lowers the music and changes it to something soft and seductive. She sits on the bed, beckoning him over, and they just… talk. There’s something in the way she forms her words and the husky quality of her voice that soothes his worries. It helps remind her that they trust each other, and that he should trust them.

At some point the mood slowly shifts, and Garrus starts to see the sparks of that look of fire and mischief and he can finally, finally do something about the way it lights his nerves on fire. It feels a little awkward when he makes the first move towards her neck, but she just shifts his head slightly and commands him, “Bite ” and he does without thinking. She makes a breathy little gasp that he desperately wants to hear again and things blur after that. 

He’s clumsy around her body, but she’s patient and willing to teach him. It soon becomes clear to him that this entire time, this inter-species dilemma was a one-way problem; Shepard moves around his body in a way that screams experience, and he’s much, much more hot and bothered than he’s been in a long, long time. But they’re still them, and they still bicker and argue and tease each other, and she even laughs, laughs, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her laugh like that before. And it’s that laugh that warns him he is, in fact, in trouble, because he starts thinking of other ways he can make it happen again. It’s… fun. It’s fun and passion and strength twisted together, and as he looks at her taking a quick nap, he wonders whether he’s just made a huge mistake. 

Then the death of the galaxy begins. 

Shepard’s breaking apart and keeping herself by pure, sheer strength of her indomitable will. She’s twitchy and moody, trying her best not to take it out on the crew. There’s rumors on the ships that the commander’s ability to somehow be awake at all hours is fueled by a mix of stims and drugs, yet no one can ever find any proof. The war is grinding on her psyche and every time she stares out her bedroom window, he can see her heart breaking into little pieces. He starts visiting her quarters more often, to distract her, remind her to eat, and listen. He listens to her silences, and listens when she speaks. This is quickly building into something more than blowing off steam, and for the life of him, it’s hard to pinpoint why. Shepard’s the exact opposite of what he thought makes a good soldier– she questions orders, she relies on instinct more often than not, she’s temperamental. But once Shepard decided someone is worth her time, she's loyal to the point of vindictiveness, clever and cunning. There is no denying that she gets results, and it’s what appeals to him, him at his core, and not who he was taught to be.

After smelling someone else on her when she comes back from shore leave one day, he realizes that she’s now so interwoven in his mind, his happiness, that he needs to ask her about them before his feelings get too out of hand (they already are). And when he asks and she gives him that tiny little smile and says, “I am where I want to be,” it feels like a gift, and she laughs after he kisses her and he knows he’ll die to hear her laugh again.

They steal a few moments of solitude, of happiness during the war, but he counts exactly seven times where she laughs. She’s present every moment they’re together but it’s when he finds her alone staring out the observation deck, or working her frustrations out in the hanger through practice drills (which send everyone fleeing for hours, because Shepard’s liable to break anyone’s nose who interrupts her before she’s done), that he sees her slipping. Fading. He overhears Javik calling her a ‘supernova at war’ in an approving tone and he has to resist the urge to slam the Prothean’s head against the wall. He doesn’t want a supernova, he wants her alive and happy. Sane. Whole. 

The first time Garrus lands on Earth it’s under heavy fire and smoke, surrounded by Reapers. They fight their way through a broken city that reminds him of the fight on Cipritine, but Commander Shepard doesn’t stop for a second so neither does he. He feels a searing pain and next thing he knows, she’s shoving him into Tali’s arms, pushing both of them to a shuttle. The pain is enough that it takes a second for him to realize she’s still planning on running ahead. Without them. Without him.

“You’re in no condition to keep fighting, get to the med bay!” she yells above the noise.

He starts in her direction, but he’s weak enough that even Tali can hold him back. It doesn’t stop him from trying. “You can’t do this solo, I—”

“That’s an order, Garrus!” Her voice is suddenly high-pitched and shrill, borderline painful. He’s never heard that tone from her. But his translator adds the subvocals that are missing: it’s fear.

She’s scared. For them. For him.

But Commander Shepard is never scared. A goddess of war is never scared on the battlefield.

Her eyes flick to Tali, then settle on him. A dark brown that’s black in this haze, piercing and unwavering, but there’s fear in there, too. A second feels like an eternity, in this mist of smoke and fire. “Go!” she screams at the top of her lungs, waving off the Normandy. “Be safe!”

The last time he sees her, she’s running full-speed towards the beam, stabbing a husk in the neck. Tali doesn’t hide her sobs.

The Normandy crash lands on some unknown garden planet; EDI is unresponsive, their comm systems are down, and they’re at a loss as to the state of the galaxy. They all work with a frantic, intense energy to get the ship together, but the damage is extensive and it takes them a few months before the ship is flight-worthy. Upon leaving the planet, they realize the mass relays are broken and so they travel at FTL speeds, adding even more weeks of travel. The crew is tired in more ways than one, but they start seeing Reaper bodies floating around aimlessly, and it gives them a boost of hope. Eventually their comm systems connect. They contact the Alliance first, being an Alliance ship, and wait with bated breath for updates on their leader.

The Reapers are dead. Commander Shepard is declared missing in action. Anderson is also declared missing in action. All synthetic life is destroyed, including the geth and all artificial intelligence. The mass relays are under construction. 

The team is an emotional wreck, processing the enormity of the news. They hold a small memorial service on the Normandy, putting up EDI’s and Anderson’s plaques. He can’t put up Shepard’s. He refuses. She’s died once and came back to life, and damn the Spirits if he’s grieving her again. Until he sees a body, dead or alive, he refuses to believe anything else. 

As the years pass, it becomes harder and harder to hold onto that hope.

The first year is filled with reconstruction efforts and trying to get back to civilization. 

It’s not until halfway into the second year that Garrus is able to go back to Earth to search for her. He starts in London; even a year and a half later, the city is still rubble, but the humans are putting a valiant effort to fix everything. Pushing his detective skills to the limit, he finds nothing in the city but bad memories and old wounds. He asks Liara to send him anything she has on Shepard in hopes there’s a clue buried somewhere. No one’s found a body and she’s still missing in action. He continues to refuse to believe she’s dead; she’s died once more and came back alive, cracked and bright red like a fire. Maybe she’s just embers now, but she’s out there. He won’t think of other possibilities. 

Days later, T’Soni sends him a data packet on Shepard as he requested, but almost everything is about after she joined the Alliance. Her profile before her enlistment is rather short, but that’s understandable. It’s public knowledge that she was an orphan, and he knew she was involved in a gang in her youth. Her birth city is listed as Vancouver, and so he travels there next. 

It’s wintertime and the city is covered in snow. He finds nothing, like she’s vanished from existence. But the Alliance informs him that they found Anderson’s body but not his dog tags. They found Shepard’s dog tags but not her body. After days of visiting hospitals, neighborhoods, and old addresses, no matter who he asks, how many people he asks, no one knows of a young Shepard beyond the words ‘war hero.’ The cold burns his skin. He thinks that Earth wasn’t worth saving if she wasn’t here.

A few weeks later he receives a package at his apartment on Palaven, Shepard’s dog tags carefully wrapped in cloth with the note, ‘I don’t think she’s gone, either. Keep looking. - K ’ Sometimes a thief was a useful ally to have. At the end of the second year the Council offers him Spectrehood, and he accepts it, thinking he can go help the galaxy and search for Shepard at the same time . 

The third year he travels far and wide, searching for any hint of the infamous commander. He finds nothing but dead ends.

The fourth year is the same. His hope is wearing down, with no news of her, anywhere. The galaxy is starting to look empty.

After all these years, it doesn’t occur to him to remember the first thing he learned about Commander Shepard: the commander lies.

Chapter Text

His back is still sore from taking one too many shots on his last mission. It’s nothing major and he’s been given a clean bill of health, but it means that if he’s honest, he’d rather be in his apartment in the wards than up here. The office is brightly lit with a beautiful view of the Presidium. It’s back to its original glory after the war, a perfect replica of what it was like during his days at C-Sec.

On one of their visits to the Presidium, Shepard suddenly stops at the edge of a railing and looks out to the vista before them. The scenery is picturesque as always, perfectly maintained flowers and blue waters. During their chase for Saren they’ve struck up a casual friendship, enough that once in a while. the commander feels comfortable enough to think out loud. “I wonder if the people here ever think about the price paid to have all this.” He looks at her, confused, and informs her that the people here pay their taxes to maintain the area. She gives him a look of disappointment; somehow it feels like he’s in school again and gave the wrong answer. “For something like this, someone else must suffer. The money that goes into maintaining the Presidium could feed hundreds of families in the wards. But someone’s decided that having a river in the middle of space is more important than feeding the people here.” It’s clear by her tone of voice that she thinks it’s a mistake. He says nothing, too embarrassed to admit he’s never given a second thought to the beauty of the Presidium. It simply was, like his ancestral lands on Palaven.

And when the Reapers struck, he realized she was right; while the docks were overflowing with refugees, those on the Presidium continued watching entertainment vids, going to dinners, as if the galaxy wasn’t falling apart around them.

 After the war, it’s the first thing he thinks about whenever he comes up here. It leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth, this constant, visual reminder of power and influence. He turns his attention to the turian sitting at the desk in front of him, one of the physical embodiments of the power that claims control over the galaxy.

“Councilor Quentius, I don’t see the need for a Spectre to oversee a business negotiation,” Garrus states with a level gaze. If Quentius wasn’t the turian Councilor he would be more forthcoming, but while he might be a bad turian, he wasn’t a stupid one. Still, it was irritating that he was called in for something like this in the first place. He didn’t become a Spectre to babysit governments; he did it to help people. Like Shepard used to.

The councilor makes a rumbling sound that’s all subvocals. It’s a clear warning to Garrus to not overstep boundaries, Spectre status or not. “It’s been hard to supply our military after the war. Most of the turian companies are still rebuilding their factories and we’re still struggling to arm our soldiers. This feels like a step above resorting to the black market, and I don’t like it.” Quentius leans back in his chair and gestures to Garrus to take a seat on the other side of his desk. He obeys and sits, internally irritated at being called in on what seems to be something better suited for a diplomat than a soldier.

“The humans proved their mettle during the Reaper War and have been solid allies throughout the last few years, despite the First Contact War. When the Hierarchy decided to explore opportunities for intergalactic trade partners, they opted to include Earth corporations in the upcoming trade summit on Palaven. They’re looking to get basic, solid equipment for cadets and the like to begin with. The problem is that Earth, like everyone else, is still rebuilding, and in the process of rebuilding, there are new players. As Commander Bailey says, power hates a vacuum.” Quentius clicks a few things on his omni-tool, and a display flickers into existence in front of them.

Quentis continues speaking as he brings up a looping vid of a human male. “There are a few people I’d like to introduce you to. This is Santiago Eduardo Reyes Gutierrez, also known as Santiago Reyes.” He has tan skin, with light brown eyes and dark brown hair. In this vid, he’s in human formal wear and talking to someone off-screen. The only thing of note is that he has a thin line tattooed through the middle of his bottom lip and chin. Oh, and what seem to be …canines for a human, though they’re only noticeable when he speaks. The image flickers and glitches every few seconds. “We think there’s some sort of anti-recognition tech hidden in the tattoo, thus the glitching. He’s the CEO of Jaguar Arms, one of the companies the Hierarchy is considering going into business with. They established themselves about two years before the start of the war and somehow, miraculously, most of their factories survived intact. There were theories that Cerberus might have been involved, but that’s been dismissed. They were particularly well-known for effective and quick repairs as well as refurbishing weapons. In the years since the Reaper War, they’ve bought out Hahne-Kedar and Wegner Arms, and are now one of the biggest weapon companies on Earth. Despite having bought the two other companies, they currently have no presence outside of the Sol system.”

This is just information about some random human on Earth and has nothing to do with him or his usual missions. A waste of his time when he could be doing something productive. “Sir, I don’t know what thi–”

Quentius raises a hand, a clear sign that he wants Garrus to hold his questions. He halts, and the councilor continues speaking, his subvocals showing his dislike about the topic. “Reports from Earth law enforcement state that there’s reason to suspect that they’re connected to a crime syndicate on Earth. However, they’ve been so thorough that legally, the weapons company is completely above water, though they like to skirt around some laws. Nothing out of the ordinary for a corporation of their size. They suspect that Reyes’s father is head of a branch of a crime syndicate, and Santiago Reyes is following his orders while managing the business.”

Ah, well. That explains why the Hierarchy is hesitant, at least. Quentius notices his understanding and he makes a noise of approval as he pulls up another profile, this time of a human female. “Now let me introduce you to the lovely Xochil, who on paper is the head of security at Jaguar Arms.” His translator trips over the name; it’s unfamiliar and strange, and it struggles to add the appropriate subharmonics.

Garrus can immediately tell this must have been from an infiltration cam; the video is crisp but a little fish-eyed, and the woman is clearly straddling the agent in a nightclub. From this angle she’s dressed not much different from an asari stripper: all skin, clothing as an afterthought. Her hair falls in thick, bright, white waves over her shoulders. Similar to Reyes, there’s two thin lines going through her bottom lip and chin. Above her lips is just a smudge of colors, no other facial features visible. It’s just visible in the dim lighting, but there seems to be a dark shape on her right shoulder that extends down to her elbow. Like the other vid, this one flickers and blacks out occasionally. However, it’s still clear she’s hellbent on seducing whoever the agent is and is clearly enjoying it; she’s tracing the side of their face, lightly licking her lips. Suddenly she throws her head back and laughs, and even in the darkness of the nightclub it’s easy to see her teeth glint white, with a similar set of un-humanlike canines. The vid loops.

“Looks like she walks around wearing anti-recognition contact lenses or implants 24/7, because there’s no footage of what she looks like ever since she cropped up three years ago. You’ll have noticed the tattoo on her right shoulder; it’s a panther, a black variation of a jaguar, an animal on Earth. Yes, jaguar like Jaguar Arms. Rumor has it that the stripes on the chin indicate command; Reyes is first in command, and Xochil is second, though it’s unknown how much power they have, exactly. The canines are a cosmetic enhancement to show they’re part of the inner circle of the crime syndicate. It’s unclear why exactly she’s second in command; it’s thought she’s Reyes’s lover, but there are rumors that she runs their flesh trade. Others think she’s an undercover enforcer. But one thing’s for sure: she’s not built like your normal stripper, and she sticks to Reyes like drell spit.” Quentius takes a pause and sips from his mug.

So, not much different to all the other criminal trash spread around the galaxy. He’s seen the types on the Citadel and Omega. It’s the fact he’s being bothered with all this information in particular that is starting to give him an uneasy feeling. Garrus represses a sigh, not liking where this is going. “That’s all very interesting, Councilor Quentius, but I’m not sure how a turian Spectre plays a part in Earth’s social problems. This doesn’t exactly threaten galactic stability.” He hopes that adding the Spectre mission statement deters any further discussion; he really does not want to get involved in… whatever this is.

It doesn’t work. The councilor’s irritation is clear before he begins speaking. “But it threatens turian stability. Not to mention that this being an intergalactic trade summit, it could be considered important to galactic society if they start having an off-world presence. This is a request from the Hierarchy, not the Council. They want someone to oversee and determine from an outside perspective whether it’s a legitimate company or it’s Earth superstition. Yes, I know the fact there’s so much evidence accounting for the underworld connections is there, but everything else is completely legal, and they don’t want to cut corners. It also wouldn’t hurt if you investigated the other Earth companies as well while you’re there.” He gives Garrus a knowing look, and utters the words every bad turian dreads. “You are a citizen of Palaven. They are asking you to do your duty, Spectre or no. I will concede that your Spectre status would make things easier if anything did happen. ”

Garrus resists the urge to throw his chair out the window. What a waste of fucking time , he thinks. Even with the liberty of a Spectre, he’s still bound by responsibility. He’s been to Earth twice and he hoped to never return again. There’s nothing good for him there.

Reining in his bad mood, he looks at Quentius as calmly as he knows how, attempting to be the consummate professional. “Send me any information you have my way. I’ll think about it.” The councilor gives him a look Garrus takes to mean that his answer better be yes, and he has to resist the urge to storm out the office. He’s a little older now, a little wiser. Instead he just leaves without saying goodbye.

In spite of his not-so-hidden derision for this particular assignment, later that day he finds no less than three politely-worded messages from different high-ranking members of the Hierarchy, all asking him to consider the mission. One of them is from an arms supplier for the turian military, and by the sound of her message, she’s desperate to get weapons from anywhere she can. The pressure only increases as the days go by, from both outsiders and himself. The number sheets for military supplies are at the lowest they’ve ever been. Four years isn’t enough for Palaven or its colonies to resume its usual arm manufacturing numbers, and without external suppliers, re-arming efforts are near impossible. Scavenging and salvaging can only do so much. Not to mention citizens are looking to re-arm themselves, too. After facing seas and oceans of husks, he understands completely. In collective memory, there has never been such a total feeling of helplessness while facing the enemy. Garrus may not be the most patriotic turian, but he hasn’t been able to sleep without a weapon nearby in a long time, and he wouldn’t be surprised if that went for everyone else, too. It’s annoying, sure, and exactly the type of thing he hoped to avoid by being a Spectre. Which maybe was hoping for too much– it’s not like Shepard was able to fully escape running errands for the Alliance.

That’s also the other reason he does not want to accept this mission. Earth holds nothing but bad memories. Of smoke and fire and destruction. And a seemingly final goodbye. But as more messages from other high-ranking citizens of the Hierarchy flood his inbox, reminders of his status, his rank –far higher than it was five years ago– and his responsibility to the lower ranks, it seems like he won’t be able to escape this, either.

Chapter Text

He’s in his apartment in Palaven preparing for his third trip to Earth when Liara calls.

After their typical greetings and general catching up, Liara says something surprising, yet unexpected at the same time. “I’ve heard you’re being sent to Earth to help negotiate on behalf of the turian military,” Her voice is calm and collected, a tone she’s grown and trained since becoming the Shadow Broker. Sometimes he misses the shy, reserved woman he met on the SR-1. He knows Liara does too. But part of life is growing older, and time leaves scars on everyone in different ways. While they must keep each other at a distance due to their respective professions, it’s hard to go through multiple death-defying events without becoming good friends.

Garrus lets out a rumble, his mandibles clicking in displeasure. “If by negotiating you mean brokering a military contract with an Earth corporation that’s little more than a legal crime syndicate, then yeah, I’m being sent to negotiate.” He doesn’t bother to ask her how she knows about his mission; there are some things that are simply not asked of the most powerful information broker in the galaxy.

Liara laughs softly, but it dies quick and a strange silence fills the air over the call. While Liara does sometimes call him just to chat, from the start this didn’t feel like that type of call. He has a feeling they’re approaching the purpose of her call; even without a vid, he can imagine her wringing her hands, pacing back and forth in an attempt to work off her nervous energy. 

“That is actually what I wanted to speak to you about,” she begins slowly.

“Liara, if you think for a second you’ll be able to ge—”

She cuts him off. “Garrus, I am not asking for anything. I’m… giving you something.”

He chuckles in dry amusement. “A gift from the Shadow Broker? I didn’t realize the Shadow Broker did anything for free.”

Liara huffs. She picked that up from Shepard. Seems like the habit has stuck after all these years. “You are one of my closest friends, you know. And… there’s some things you should be aware of before you go to Earth. A lot of this information came across my desk in the last year, otherwise I would have sent this when you first asked, and I didn’t see the pattern until the last few months, and the file wasn’t uncovered until very recently, I think my agent just got lucky really, but with everything I wasn’t sure… well. It’s just a guess, there’s nothing solid, there’s no proof but… Well, once you see you’ll understand. I’ll send you the data packet in a moment.”

Huh. It’s rare to hear Liara ramble these days. Whatever this is, it has her unsettled.

“Garrus, I am sorry, but I have an urgent call I need to take. Keep an open mind,” she says softly. “People change.” The call ends.

Moments later his omni-tool pings, the data packet coming with some of the strongest encryption he’s ever seen. He opens the data file on his personal terminal.

The first thing he sees is a profile vid of a young human female. It’s hard to tell her body type from the profile vid, but she seems to be above-average height and well-built. She’s wearing a black shirt that shows her shoulders, and in turn a strange, black tattoo of some sort of animal on her right shoulder that goes down to her elbow. Her arms are covered in scars, and her left hand is bandaged. Her hairstyle is similar to Jack’s during the war: shaved on the sides, long on top, falls down to her hips in a thin black stripe from her head in a strange human hairstyle.

The vid auto-zooms in on her face after a few seconds. Her nose has that funny look that means a badly healed nose on humans. There’s a healed scar across her eyebrow, and a thin, red line across her cheek and chin. Her lip is split, bleeding sluggishly. He can see a red ‘10’ tattooed on her left temple. The eyes are a dark brown, almost black, and she’s frowning in the vid just like–

Spirits . It’s Shepard. He’s looking at a young Shepard. It has to be. 

He stares at her face for a few seconds. When he first met Shepard, she had two scars: one across her cheek, and another across her eyebrow, exactly where this young woman has them.  They were the two distinct features that marked her out from an ocean of humans with similar brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, the most common coloring among them. He learned better ones later, when he got to know her. A ring of black around her dark-brown eyes. Straight brown hair a few shades deeper than her skin. A dark brown dot at her temple, two on the nape of her neck. A stoic face, but strangely emotive eyes.

This must’ve been taken days after she hurt her cheek. Her face looks gaunt, almost hollow, thinner than he ever saw it as an adult. There are shadows around her eyes, and this girl looks feral and untamed, nothing of the controlled, self-possessed commander she grows up to be.

What in the fucking Spirits is this?

The profile vid is embedded in an Alliance recruitment report. The screen flickers for a second as it translates everything into turian writing, and he starts to read.  

PERSONAL OBSERVATION NOTES
RECRUITMENT OFFICER: Officer Aaron Wright
RECRUITMENT REGION: UNAS, MEXICO

Recruitment efforts as part of the Alliance’s DEI initiative to recruit more Earthborn marines from disadvantaged backgrounds

FILE OVERVIEW:
Note: Personal observations from Officer Aaron Wright marked as -AW

• • First Name: Xochil
  • Surname: [None found]
    • Kid’s unregistered in the system. Don’t know how her mother managed to pull that one, but I think she wanted to avoid taxes & the law -AW
    • Born in: presumed Mexico City
  • Date of birth: spring 2154 [updated: April 11, 2154]
  • Age at time of first contact: 17 years old
  • Address: No known permanent address, resides in Colonia Morelos
  • Mother: Cruz, Elisa
    • Occupation: unlicensed sex worker/entertainer, alias “Meli”
    • Status: deceased 2166 at 30 years of age
  • Cause of death: Unclear, no autopsy done -AW
  • Father: [Unknown]
    • Occupation: [Unknown]
    • Status: [Unknown]

He pulls up the Alliance file that Liara sent him years ago and sets the two side by side. It’s her, all right; her nose is straight and she has no facial scars in her official file (not after Cerberus), but it’s the same face, the same eyes staring out at him. Athena Shepard. Date of birth: April 11, 2154. Born in: Vancouver, United North American States . He continues reading through the rest of the recruitment file, a rising wave of alarm and disbelief coursing through him the further he reads.

“…starts at 10 with marks of loitering, public disturbance, and performing without a license (from singing with her mother in public areas). Probably starts running with the Reds around this time. At 12 she officially joins the Reds. Counts of petty theft start showing up in police records. At 14 she’s second in command. By 15 she’s head of the Tenth Street Reds. The particulars of this is a mystery, though easy to guess – the previous gang leader, Juan Martinez, hasn’t been seen or heard from since the day Xochil took over.”

The Tenth Street Reds. That’s the name of the gang Shepard was in. 

He remembers a human male approaching Shepard, flint in her eyes as he tries to use her past in his favor, trying to pressure her. Shepard tips the turian guard off, looks Finch dead in the eye, and neatly places a bullet in his forehead when he threatens to blackmail her.

While he felt no pity for a xenophobe who threatened turian lives, her reaction was more than he expected from a human. But if, at some point, she was not just the member of the gang, but the head , and with a possible disappearance tied to her… maybe it was convenient too, wrapped up in the protection of a Spectre. A way to tie up loose ends. Shepard always liked to do things for more than one reason. Tricks hidden inside of more tricks. 

“....his point the gang has doubled their stronghold, and she’s approached by Los Panteras del Norte, one of the largest crime syndicates in the region. The Tenth Street Reds become one of their allies. Here their crimes escalate; robbery, guns & drug trafficking. X starts working as a dancer in one of their clubs (alias is Estrella, unlicensed, underage sex work presumed but unconfirmed; couldn’t find a false license/ID), and joins the Panteras. After a near deadly altercation with a patron for breaking the no touching policy (deadly for the patron) she’s pulled off dance work and the public trail goes dark. None of my contacts know what she does, but not because she’s important; she’s so low on the ladder that she’s just another body in the room. Best bet is deathmatches, since that’s where I found her in the first place.”

Garrus continues reading across her records list. It’s a mix of local police records and hearsay, the officer’s way of trying to paint together the picture of Xochil’s activities. It’s an ugly picture; not the worst he’s seen, not after Omega, but it’s… unpleasant. Out of the corner of his eye, the profile vid of young Shepard flickers as a reminder of who he’s reading about. What was he doing at seventeen? That would have been his second year in an active unit, stationed on a long-stable colony. Spirits, no wonder she thought he was freshed-faced when they first met, if this was all true. She lived in the underbelly of the galaxy before he even knew it existed. 

Something blinks on his terminal.

[Latin Spanish detected. Would you like to install Northern Latin Spanish and/or Southern Latin Spanish?]

He hits yes for both, assuming that this will account for the words the translator missed. While it updates, he continues onto the next section of the file, clicking on the video attachment labeled ‘fight.’ 

It’s Xochil ( Shepard , his mind whispers, but he can’t fully come to terms that the feral girl-child in the vids is the same Shepard he knew, and maybe in a way he’s right, this is a different person, a different lifetime) facing off against a man who’s taller and bigger than her. They’re standing across from each other, arms up as if they’re about to spar. There’s no armor in sight, no weapons, no gloves. He has a cut on his temple, and the girl has a barely-healed bloody lip. There’s screaming and cheering in the background; they’re in some sort of arena, the audience a dark void screaming with frenzied energy. The stage lights are focused on the raised fighting ring the two are standing on; there’s a loud sound, and the two immediately lunge at each other. 

The bloodlust is immediate and intense, pain made physical between the two fighters. The man throws the first punch, but he hits air, the girl-child already behind him and landing a hit on his lower back. The crowd howls at a fever pitch, and someone nearby screeches, “Did you see that?! Did you see it?! She landed the first hit! On Katz! The Lion! Holy fucking shit, I can’t believe it!”

The deathmatch lasts longer than Garrus expects. It’s close; there are moments where it seems the man will win, and others where the girl-child is almost there, but he always manages to pull ahead, just barely. The officer wasn’t kidding when he talked about her speed– she strikes and steps back with ease, dodging most of the man’s blows. When the man’s strikes land though, they’re strong and brutal. The first one knocks Xochil back a few steps. The second splits her lip again. It’s not until she’s limping and he dislocates her shoulder that she makes some sort of signal and forfeits the match. She stands behind the man as he receives some sort of trophy, bitterness clear in her face. Her face is bloody, her left eye is swelling shut, there’s a cut across her eyebrow (in the same place she ends up with a scar) her right arm swings listlessly and she’s struggling to stand up straight, but she shakes with adrenaline, the bloodlust clear in her eyes and in every line of her body. She sneers and spits bright-red blood on the floor.

The video ends. 

Commander Shepard’s scars are a mystery on the Normandy. Every time someone asks about them, she tells them a different story. The lies vary from simple to the ridiculous. Falling from a tree, a rock to the face. A crazy salarian with a dull knife. Three asari who cut her face for fun. A drunken night out. Sometimes the crew will ask just to see if they can trip up the commander, to see how many ridiculous stories she can make up on the spot. 

When he leaves the SR-1, the question circles and circles in his brain, her salute drawing his attention to her scars. 

“How did you get the scars?” The question is out of him before he can think it through. It’s the only time he’s ever asked her directly, without being part of a crowd.  

All she does is raise an eyebrow —the one with the scar— but he’s learned to read her a bit better now, and he thinks there’s some mischief in her dark brown eyes. Humans are a lot like turians that way, their emotions visible in their eyes. “In fights, Officer Vakarian. Where else would I get them?” Shepard’s used that one before, but this is the first time he’s heard her say it so simply, without further embellishment. 

So. She wasn’t lying about how she got the scars, or told the truth at least once, depending on how he looked at it. His thoughts are still a jumbled mess and he doesn’t know what to feel or think. But if there’s something Garrus learned in C-Sec, it’s to wait until he’s got all the facts together and there’s still more in the data packet Liara sent. The next one sends a jolt of recognition through his chest; it’s a standard crime report from C-Sec.

CITADEL SECURITY, 2188 CE
CASE NUMBER: 9549676_902746
CASE STATUS: OPEN
CASE NAME: DEATH OF SIDONIS, LANTAR

OVERVIEW: Sidonis, Lantar (species: turian) was found dead in an air duct in Zakera Ward by a human child named Janet Smythe. The body was in an advanced state of decomposition, but preliminary testing shows the time of death likely to be 2186.

There was a bullet hole in the middle of the victim’s forehead, execution style, likely with a pistol. The victim’s jaw was broken, his tongue cut out and found shoved down his throat. Unknown if the victim was alive or dead when the tongue was cut. No DNA found at the scene of the crime. No friends or family found to claim remains. No further resources to dedicate to the case at this time.

His mind grinds to a halt. Fucking. Spirits . Sidonis was dead? Dead? With his tongue shoved down his throat? On Omega and the Citadel that was a common end for traitors, but it never even crossed his mind to do that to Sidonis. Maybe you should’ve thought of it, a small part of his mind whispers now, the part that comes to taunt him when thinking about his crew from Omega, how he should’ve been faster, stronger, better. It doesn’t haunt him as much as it used to, not anymore. Not after talking to Shepard about it.

How did he miss this? There’s been an alarm set to Sidonis’s name for years. But if this case was posted in 2188… with all the post-war efforts, he shouldn’t be surprised he missed it. A quick search shows him that yes, he had indeed received a notification about it but it was buried below dozens of other memos. But his time of death isn’t 2188. It’s 2186, the year I was looking for Sidonis. Where Shepard stood in between Sidonis and a bullet. 

He paces back and forth in the main battery trying and failing miserably to get rid of his anger, his frustration.

“You don’t understand, they all counted on me—”

“Vakarian!” she snaps, her voice overpowering his. He turns, ready to argue with one of his few friends in the galaxy, ready to let this out somehow, somewhere, but the expression on Shepard’s face stops him for a moment. She hasn’t moved an inch from her seat on a crate, she could be a statue made of stone, but the expression in her eyes is enough to grind him to a halt, at least for a few moments.

It’s anger.

Her tone of voice does not match the ice in her eyes. The dissonance unsettles Garrus. “A lot of people have died on me, during my life.” She blinks a few times, but her expression doesn’t change. “I have an idea of what it’s like to have the dead haunt you.” Shepard leans back on the wall and closes her eyes. “I think, if you’re a good person, the dead don’t stop haunting you, Garrus. They’ll come in the middle of the night when you’re six drinks in and can’t tell the difference between reality and dreams. They’ll come when you’re staring at the clouds and the sun is warming your skin. What you can do is put them to rest, visit them once in a while. The ones you care about, anyways. The rest can be left to fucking rot. You remember them and remember who you are and where you come from.” 

This sounds almost… like she’s talking about turian spirits, somehow. The idea of respecting someone who has passed on and appealing to their knowledge. This is different, though. He knows Williams believed in a human religion, but Shepard never mentions any sort of faith. Most humans he met were a little more wary talking about death, but the commander speaks about death constantly. Not as a ‘what if,’ but as a ‘when.’ It unsettled him at first, but it’s somehow becoming a little more comforting over time. Just a little. He still doesn’t like how he talks about her own death so casually, like it’s an old friend just waiting around the corner. It’s not natural.

Shepard hasn’t opened her eyes. It sounds to him like she carries her own ghosts with her, even if she never talks about it. Maybe there’s something she knows that he doesn’t. Wouldn’t be the first time. “How do you… make peace with it?” he asks her cautiously.

He can see her body stiffen. He resists making a noise of surprise; it’s rare for anything to unsettle the commander, and he can’t see why his question would provoke such a response. But lately he’s noticed that if he waits, sometimes she breaks the silence on her own.

This is one of those times, in a fashion. She opens her eyes, stares at the ceiling. The silence goes on long enough to be uncomfortable, but he waits, hoping it pays off. “I’ll show you after all this,” she finally says to the ceiling.

It’s the first time Shepard mentions a life after, for either of them. 

There’s a slight pause where she readjusts her position, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say she’s giving him a disappointed look. “What you wanted to do to Sidonis would’ve been a mercy, anyways.” Her voice is cold and harsh, void of any comfort.

He takes a look at the crime photos. It’s not a crime of passion. The cut is clean and there’s no excessive mess. It’s efficient, neat. A touch excessive, with the cut tongue. Just like Shepard always was. There’s no evidence of well, anything, here, but it’s not lost on him that Liara sent this in a data packet about Shepard. The implication is there. 

Garrus doesn’t come back to the rest of the data pack until he has a strong drink in hand. If there’s more surprises in store, he doesn’t want to be sober for any of them.

The next data packet is an encrypted message to … Zaeed Massani? The old mercenary?

From: [ENCRYPTED_UNKNOWN]
To: [ENCRYPTED] Massani, Zaeed

To Mr. Massani,

An old friend contacted us to deliver you a gift. It wasn’t until recently that we were able to send it your way. Excuse us for the delay. We hope you enjoy.

- The Panthers

TO: [ENCRYPTED_UKNOWN]
FROM: [ENCRYPTED] Massani, Zaeed

I don’t know if S is still alive or not but you tell that bitch to her face or her grave that if she ever needs a gun, Massani’s got her back, no questions asked. -Z

There’s an additional note from Liara. The package in question is the head of Vido Santiago, the man who originally funded the Blue Suns along with Massani. The right side of his face is blown out, as if it was shot point-blank with a shotgun. Santiago and Massani had a disagreement about the Blue Suns… He skims all this, he’d heard the fuss Massani kicked up when they came back to the ship. …Shepard opted to save the factory workers instead of chasing down Santiago as Massani wanted. Massani was livid. I… guess this may be Shepard’s way of apologizing.

The Panthers… Even through the alcohol, Quentius’s words from weeks ago slither through his brain, “ … noticed the tattoo on her right shoulder, it’s a panther… ”

Garrus scrambles across his desk to find the datapad the councilor sent his way weeks ago while trying to pull up the Alliance recruitment file at the same time. He pulls up the vid of the woman with the white hair, the one he saw in the executor’s office. Name: Xochil Cruz. Suspected second-in-command to Santiago Reyes, president of Jaguar Arms and suspected member of The Northern Panthers. He holds the datapad up next to the terminal, pulls up the recruitment Alliance file. A young, pissed off girl, one that’s frowning just like Shepard used to.

Two identical, foreign human names. The same crime syndicate from Earth on both files. Two women with little to no paper trail, just a list of crimes attached to their names.

So much for knowing the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, when she’s starting to look like the people he spent most of his life fighting against. He finds solace in the bottom of a bottle for the rest of the night.

It takes a few days and two hangovers, but Garrus eventually is able to keep his emotions in check in order to think about this rationally. He starts with asking Liara if there’s any further information on Shepard/Xochil, she hesitates a little before explaining that the Earth governments are struggling to maintain order. The United Northern American States, in particular, are digging out old grievances and struggling to maintain the country together. Her agents are still having trouble gathering information on the coasts of the United States, along with Mexico. For now, there’s no further news, and Liara leaves him with what she thinks is a stoic look, but he can read the concern in her eyes. Garrus ignores it.

Now that he’s had some time to comb through the files, a few things are starting to click together about Shepard. She’s always been a bit of a mystery, reluctant to talk about her past. He’s spent enough time chasing criminals and living with them to get an idea of the type of childhood Shepard must’ve had. It’s not… it feels wrong , to learn about her life in this way, even if she’s not around to be able to tell him about it. There’s enough here that he can read in between the lines and it’s not a pretty picture. A dead mother at twelve, and gang involvement soon after. That’s easy enough to put together: a kid trying to survive with no one left. The crimes increase in severity the older she gets, and it’s clear that if it wasn’t for the Alliance officer, Shepard would be living a very different type of life. Though if that Xochil woman is Shepard, she’s making up for lost time.

It’s also clear that the Alliance only accepted Shepard on little more than her biotic potential. According to Athena Shepard’s aptitude assessments, she scored poorly on all the academic portions but full marks on physical fitness, fighting aptitude and noted for biotics. Such low academic scores would normally disqualify a candidate, but there’s a written exception on her file because of her biotic ability. Shepard’s formidable even without her biotics; the majority of her most dangerous stunts were without them. It’s disturbing to think that if it wasn’t for sheer, dumb luck that she tested for biotics, the Alliance would have been short one hell of a soldier. The Hierarchy keeps careful track of all its citizens, and it seems almost incomprehensible to him that someone with Shepard’s potential was so close to being… well, nobody. 

He thinks about her quiet but fiery ambition. Always looking for the better weapon, better armor. How she hated when anyone undervalued her contributions. Often one step ahead from the rest, more often right than wrong. Constantly thinking about everything from different angles, unorthodox solutions to common problems. 

Maybe people like Shepard find a way to bend the universe to their will, no matter what they do. Sure felt like that, most of the time. But a past like this one follows people for the rest of their lives. Garrus thought he knew her better than anyone, but now he’s starting to think that the Shepard he knew was an illusion.

Chapter Text

FILE NAME: RECRUITMENT_2171CE_EARTH_UNAS_MEXICO_MEXICOCITY_NONE_XOCHIL

GO TO: Personal observation notes, health scans, aptitude scores, criminal records, expungement, name records

PERSONAL OBSERVATION NOTES

RECRUITMENT OFFICER: Officer Aaron Wright

RECRUITMENT REGION: UNITED NORTH AMERICAN STATES, MEXICO

Recruitment efforts as part of the Alliance’s DEI initiative to recruit more Earthborn marines from disadvantaged backgrounds

PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS FROM OFFICER AARON WRIGHT MARKED [-AW]

FILE OVERVIEW:

• First Name: Xochil
• Surname: [None found]
  • Kid’s unregistered in the system. Don’t know how her mother managed to pull that one, but I think she wanted to avoid taxes & the law -AW
• Born in: presumed Mexico City
• Date of birth: spring 2154 [updated: April 11, 2154]
• Address: No known permanent address, resides in Colonia Morelos
• Mother: Cruz, Elisa
• Occupation: unlicensed sex worker/entertainer, alias “Meli”
• Status: deceased 2166 at 30 years of age
• Cause of death: N/A
  • Unclear, no autopsy done -AW
• Father: [Unknown]
• Occupation: [Unknown]
• Status: [Unknown]
• Languages: Northern Latin Spanish (main language, fluent), English (basic)
• Education: [Unknown]
  • Record of a Xochil that matches her description at a local public school up to grade 8, nothing after that. -AW
    
• Known affiliations:
  • Tenth Street Reds/Rojos de la Calle 10 (also known as 10 Rojos) [up until age 15]
  • Los Panteras del Norte [15 until time of recruitment]
  • Pelea de Calacas, third place, 2170 CE, Noche de Putasos, winner, 2171 CE, Nine Circles of Hell deathmatches, second place winner 2171 CE
• Identifying marks:
  • Panther tattoo outline on right shoulder
  • scar across left eyebrow
  • badly healed broken nose
  • red ‘10’ tattoo on left temple

Record(s):

This is a long list, and I’ll list what we have from local police and what I’ve been able to pick up from street chatter. Long story short, it follows the story of a lot of kids in the slums: petty crime to start, escalates with age. I’ll still write a summary, because most of what I know is educated guessing, but it matches what I’ve seen.

Starts at 10 with marks of loitering, public disturbance, and performing without a license (from singing with her mother in public areas). Probably starts running with the Reds around this time. At 12 she officially joins the Reds. Counts of petty theft start showing up in police records. At 14 she’s second in command. By 15 she’s head of the Tenth Street Reds. The particulars of this is a mystery, though easy to guess – the previous gang leader, Juan Martinez, hasn’t been seen or heard from since the day Xochil took over. At this point the gang has doubled their territory, and they’re approached by Los Panteras del Norte, one of the largest crime syndicates in the region. The Tenth Street Reds become one of their sets. Here their crimes escalate; robbery, guns & drug trafficking. Xochil starts working as a dancer in one of their clubs (alias is Estrella, unlicensed, underage sex work presumed but unconfirmed; couldn’t find a false license/ID), while still informally in charge of the Reds. They’re deadly loyal to Xochil, and even though they’re now part of the Panteras they hesitate to take orders from anyone but her. After a near deadly altercation with a patron for breaking the no touching policy (deadly for the patron) she’s pulled off dance work and the public trail goes dark. None of my contacts know what she does, but not because she’s important; she’s so low on the ladder that she’s just another body in the room. Best bet is deathmatches, since that’s where I found her in the first place.

List of suspected/confirmed priors, in roughly chronological order

• 1 count of performing without a license, underaged, mother charged for crime (fee paid for by mother)

Under the Tenth Street Reds, in rough chronological order:

• 2 counts of petty theft, pickpocketing [CDMX_MP]
• 5 counts of street scams (accomplice) [CDMX_MP]
• 2 counts of breaking and entering, one grocery store and one pharmacy
• Multiple turf wars
• 1 count of illegal animal breeding, varren [CDMX_MP]
• 6 counts of bribery
• The disappearance of Juan Martinez [rumor only, unconfirmed, body never found]

Under Los Panteras del Norte

• Underage entertainment at El Flamingo
  • Runner/informant/lookout at El Flamingo, using dance work as cover
  • Possibly running guns, drugs, false documents -AW
• Tenth Street Reds/Panteras protecting territory
• Assault of a patron
  • Video footage online, no official record. Panteras must have local police connections. -AW
• Illegal gambling (accomplice)
• Underground fights & deathmatches, unlicensed & unsanctioned
  • After her success at deathmatches, I suspect they’re trying to put her into enforcer work– she’s been seen shadowing some well-known enforcers and hitmen, & at a few minor trades - AW

Extended list available under criminal records, convictions and hearsay marked.

Proposal for expungement of records if Xochil is accepted into the Alliance, on account of aptitude records and biotic abilities. Proposal includes two extra years of service minimum beyond the standard seven to account for criminal record. [GO TO: EXPUNGEMENT ?]

ADDITIONAL FILES
ATTACHED: encypted_9circlesofhell_2171_xochil_fight
ATTACHED: encypted_9circlesofhell_2171_xochil_promo

Personal Notes & Correspondence

[Added if considered relevant]

[entry1] I would like to put it on the record that I absolutely, with all my heart, detest watching blood sports. Nine Circles of Hell is the worst and most brutal of all of them. Unfortunately, it’s also where the best underground fighters go to live or die. But, since the brass wants to recruit ‘talent in unusual places,’ I went to hell of my own volition. The best candidate by far is a young Mexican girl introduced as ‘the Impala.’ If the promos are to be trusted, she’s shaping up to be this year’s underdog.

--

[entry2] Found her, turns out her real name is Xochil and the damn thing is seventeen, not nineteen like I thought. She must’ve had fight training before the Panthers, but no one knows for sure. After that vid I saw, I think they must’ve seen her fight that patron who tried to cop a feel on her and decided to put her in the ring instead. I hate to admit it, but I can’t blame them for it. Smart ass move. To almost pull an upset on a two-time champion? The crowd favorite? At seventeen? Seeing her fight… She’s efficient, doesn’t waste a move. Brutal. Knows when and where to strike. And her speed? Jesus, I thought my lens was lagging and I was in the crowd watching. Katz’s experience beat her in the end, but to last 9 fights across two days? Come in second place? Incredible.

--

[entry4] Now, I’m no fool and I’m not recommending her off of fighting prowess alone. I’ve been keeping an eye on her (along with other potential candidates) since the promos came out. On her own turf she’s well-respected; even the locals come out and give her what little food or water they have as a gift (I think the Reds work as protection here) and she’ll stop to help once in a while. The Reds follow her every word, and are… devout, really. I saw a 14 year old kid get pistol-whipped because he refused to follow the orders of a higher-up Pantera because “Xochil didn’t tell me that.” If she leaves Pantera territory there’s always some sort of fight.

There’s this… pull to Xochil that draws you in. Makes you listen. Nicer, kinder places would call it charisma. Places like this call it trouble. At the rate she’s going, if she doesn’t join up with the Alliance or leave, she’ll be dead by 22. She’s twitchy and paranoid and there’s rumors that there’s at least one hit on her from a rival gang that’s trying to get in with the Panteras.

--

[entry8] I went to talk to her. She broke my nose. Maybe all the cadets should become strippers for a while if it means they get half the street sense this one has.

[ Transcription of audio log sent to David Anderson ] Anderson, you mentioned you wanted to know how the recruitment initiative is going, so I’m holding you to it. I have several candidates but the top runner is a girl called Xochil. She really should be named ‘the girl with the demonic right hook.’ I haven’t been able to breathe right in weeks.

I’ve seen versions of her when I was growing up in New York. You know it’s half the reason I took this position; I know what it’s like, and even though the brass likes to pretend we live in humanity’s golden age, they only have to look at me to know that’s not true. She has so much potential, David. She’s got cunning in spades and picks up things quick. You don’t need to tell her a thing twice. She can look at you for a few seconds and get your number down pat. But she’s running with the Panthers, and they burn through their recruits like kindling. I still haven’t met a member above the age of 30.

I know this is going to be a rough sell –her record alone is longer than most cadets can imagine– but there’s so much potential here. At her core she’s a good kid stuck in a bad place. I hope we can get her out of it.

Speak of the devil. She’s across the street right now and just cracked a guy across the jaw who’s spent the last ten minutes cat-calling this 12 year old girl. Good, I was hoping she would step in. Oh shit she pulled out a knife I ha– [audio log ends.]

--

[entry18] Been talking to her the last few months to build trust. Think I’m getting somewhere. Turns out she’s got a sick cousin, last family member alive. She’s been helping the cousin out with bills, but it’s not enough. It never is. God, I hate seeing this shit.

--

[entry29] She’s in. I’m submitting a proposal to get her record expunged. Expunging the record wouldn’t be too hard, since it’s all local copies and technically, Xochil doesn’t legally exist on Earth. The irony. I’m also sending in some preliminary aptitude scores. She’ll be in remedial classes for a while when it comes to book learning, but she’s got top scores in fitness and she’s got an eye for strategy that comes with experience. Good intuition and sharp mind, won’t be behind for long. Also, she tested as biotic, but no implant. She swears that she didn’t know but this girl’s also one of the best liars I’ve ever met, so I’m not sure about that. She got lucky; the Alliance is desperate for more biotics and that’s almost a guaranteed approval. Without it, I don’t think the Alliance would take her in, high aptitude scores or not.

--

[Personal correspondence, to David Anderson] She said she doesn’t want to go by Xochil. She doesn’t want her past following her into the military. She left her name up to me, saying that she didn’t know anything about space names. Didn’t believe me that they’re the same as Earth names. If I have a flaw Anderson, it’s that I’m a fan of the classics and I had to admit, I couldn’t resist. I told her she reminded me of a war goddess. She told me I was full of shit and rolled her eyes.

I hope you get to meet her someday.
PS. She told the kids to stop pick-pocketing me. Now instead of missing chits, I’m finding candies in my pockets. Why are they all spicy?

[PROPOSAL: ACCEPTED ON BASIS OF BIOTIC POTENTIAL, WITH TWO ADDITIONAL YEARS TO ACCOUNT FOR RECORD. RECORDS EXPUNGED. NO OTHER MATCH FOR [UNKNOWN], XOCHIL IN SYSTEMS ALLIANCE RECORDS.]

READ NEXT CANDIDATE ON FILE: ABBOT, JOHN  

Chapter Text

Once, in one of the few moments of respite during their fight with the Reapers, Shepard told Garrus about her life on Earth.

He’s noticed in the last few months, under the constant threat and pressure of the Reapers, if he’s careful and asks the right question, she’ll tell him a little about herself. Things he’s pretty sure no one else knows. He knows it’s the pressure, the “dance with death” as she calls it, that makes her more forthcoming. Garrus just wishes it was in different circumstances.

Tonight she’s staring into the abyss of space out her bedroom window, her legs tucked underneath her on the couch, wrapped in a bedsheet. She cut her shoulder-length, straight brown hair down almost to the scalp, claiming that she couldn’t have anything distracting her in combat. The new hairstyle emphasizes how thin her face is becoming. “So many soldiers leave and never look back home. I don’t know how they do it. It’ll always be home to me, even after… everything.” Her voice is just above a whisper, full of pain and longing.

He glances at her, unsure of what to say next. He doesn’t know much about her life before the Alliance and she never discusses it. He has the impression it’s… unpleasant. He knows she was born on Earth, she was an orphan, and that she was part of a gang as a child. Beyond that, she never brings it up. It shouldn’t bug him, and it doesn’t exactly, but as time goes by he just… wants to know more about her. Who she was, who shaped her, what made her the woman she was today. Whenever anyone asks her about her past, she stays silent and stares them down. But recently, she’ll sometimes give him this strange, cryptic look and say that she’ll tell him after the war. Just like that time in the main battery, before he started visiting her private quarters. He’s starting to make a mental list of these ‘after the war’ moments in case she isn’t. Making peace with the dead. Who her parents were. Where she grew up. Her favorite food that she claims she has never seen in space.

Garrus decides to risk it. Something innocent. The more vague a question, the more likely she is to answer. “What do you miss?” he asks. If she could hear his subvocals she’d hear his anticipation and unease at once.

She closes her eyes, breathes in deeply. He can tell she’s thinking of a different place, a different time, a place without him, a place where the galaxy is as distant and far as stars. “The music,” she sighs wistfully, “The music, none of this soulless, wordless, galaxy bullshit that gets played for everyone to get along. Real music, with heart and soul and pain and a beat and words. I miss hearing music walking down the street, buying food. On holidays, on weekends, from the food stands. Music to watch out for electrical grid shifts. Music for water deliveries. People singing along to popular songs.” She opens her eyes and stares at him, unblinking, her eyes black in the dark. Tilts her head. She’s clearly thinking about something. He’s too anxious to breathe, worried he’ll interrupt what she’ll say and ruin the moment. 

As time passes between them he finds himself trying to walk this fine line between ‘releasing stress’ and ‘something more’. He’s starting to tell it’s a losing battle for him and it’s only a matter of time before he blurts out something really stupid and ruins the balance between them. It’s to the point where he’s starting to push his luck– the first moment they were alone on the Normandy, he almost immediately asked about ‘them’ and not her; it caught her off guard but before he acted more like an idiot she gave him a tiny smile and brushed a kiss to his scars.

He holds her stare, and that must have been the right call this time, because she gives him one of her slow, rare, smiles. Her real smiles, smiles that remind him of the feral children on the Citadel, the ones who you don’t know if they’ll beg you for a chit or stab you for giving one.

“I’ll show you one day, and you’ll see that I’ve been right the entire time.”

He doesn’t know if she’s conscious of it, but she’s giving him reasons to live. Instead of declaring his undying loyalty for his human commander (because that’s what this is, and if it’s more he’s not willing to admit it right now, in this moment), he scrapes a talon against her thigh. “I’ll believe it when I hear it. But I’m warning you now Shepard, if it’s anything like batarian music, I will have to strongly disagree on all fronts on behalf of the galactic community.”

She throws her head back and laughs, a rarity even in better times. “Trust me, it’s better than the shit they play on turian nights in Flex.”

“You wound me, Shepard. I was under the impression you were rather fond of turian culture.”

She clicks her tongue at him. Flicks one of his talons with her human fingers. The sensation is harmless, but it ripples across his skin anyways. “If pressed, I may, may be fond of one turian man with scars. After hearing that atrocity of a national anthem I’m not convinced that there’s anyone present with an ounce of sense, dignity or taste.”

“Shepard, that’s a classic!”

He’s travelling with a mixed group of turians and volus who are planning on meeting a series of human companies in the city over the next few weeks. His official cover is that he’s here as support, but everyone on the team knows that he’s working on something for the Hierarchy. The trip to the Sol system is slower than it used to be but uneventful, the benefit of private transport. 

It’s early morning on Earth, and as their spacecraft descends and prepares for landing, it’s evident that this city used to be much, much bigger. According to a quick extranet search, this city was the biggest and oldest capital on this side of the planet. The remains of streets and structures extend as far as the eye can see, with random pockets of reconstruction cropping up in between the rubble with no real rhyme or reason. Once the spacecraft docks into Mexico City’s spaceport, he’s surprised at how different the area looks like. Most of Palaven’s cities follow the same architectural styles, but that’s not the case on Earth. Granted, London was little more than rubble, and Vancouver wasn’t doing much better, but humans are nothing but stubborn. The buildings are shaped a little differently, and if the spaceport is anything to go by, they’re much more aggressive about color.

The Hierarchy worked something out in collaboration with the UNAS embassies, so once they disembark they’re escorted by some very friendly, cheerful humans to hotel suites near the embassy center. They all board a series of taxis with human drivers and he’s lucky enough to be left in a skycar on his own. Garrus is thankful, in a way; he doesn’t know what he’ll find out in the next few weeks and this allows him to process his thoughts without worrying about keeping up pretenses in front of others. It also allows him for his first glimpse at the city where Shepard grew up.

This place is unmistakably human, in more ways than one. There’s new and old architecture mixed at random, and when the driver runs down the windows to catch the morning breeze, he’s immediately overwhelmed by the sound of the city. It’s loud . There’s honking, screaming, whistles, laughter, yells, and that’s when he realizes what makes this city different from Vancouver or London.

Mexico City is full of music.

It pours out of street fronts, from street vendor cars, other vehicles, people’s windows. It’s a constant sound that wraps itself around the city, its personality heard in sound. He remembers a night lit by a blue fish tank and a wistful sigh, and it’s suddenly too much to take in, too many sounds, too many unfamiliar smells. As he rolls up the window, they pass a woman selling bright orange flowers, their pungent scent trickling into the vehicle. 

Traffic is almost at a standstill in the city proper, and it gives him time to notice that the city is an explosion of color. Thin, colorful papers flutter in the wind everywhere; even digital storefronts replicate the effect. There’s a number of human skull and skeleton motifs everywhere he looks, whether as decoration, toys on the street, or stands selling them by the dozens. There’s even the occasional asari or turian skull drawing grinning back at him. It’s a strange, happy mockery of death, and it unnerves him. He’s never seen anything like it.

Maybe the driver notices him looking at the streets, because the man asks politely, “Sir, is this your first time on Earth?”
Garrus looks at him through the rearview mirror. “No, but this is my first time in this city.”

The driver claps his hands in joy, oblivious to the alien’s bad mood. “I’m glad you’re visiting during this time. We’re in the middle of preparing for Day of the Dead, so you’ll be able to experience it during your stay. It’s one of my favorite holidays. It’s not the same, not after the war, but it’s what makes it more important than ever.”

Huh. He knows there is some sort of holiday happening around his arrival, but he was too busy thinking about his situation to bother looking into it. Or anything that didn’t come in a bottle. Not that it helped; he’s already thought of all the possibilities he might run into and he’s not sure how to feel about any of them. Even that thought has him back in the endless loop he’s had trouble escaping for the last few weeks. 

There are a few things that are fact. He knows that the young girl from the Alliance recruitment file is a young Shepard. The facial similarity is indisputable, even if there’s some mismatches between Shepard’s file as an adult and her recruitment file. It was probably the Alliance doing her a favor in order for her to enroll in the military. The second-in-command is a mysterious figure; there’s little evidence of her existence up until three years ago, and no paper trail. Meaning, if it is Shepard, she was around for a year, then for unknown reasons, decided to resurface as this Xochil figure. It could also be that the two are completely unrelated; with a quick internet search, he found out Xochil is a common enough name on Earth. There’s also no footage of the woman’s face. But T’Soni’s been looking for Shepard for years, and if she also found these coincidences suspicious enough to send him all this information… well, it was pretty damning evidence. But it can mean she’s still alive, his mind reminds him. That she survived after all, just like you thought. His hope and rationality have been fighting this tug of war for the last few weeks. 

Garrus realizes he’s been deep in thought for a while now and hasn’t answered the driver. Coughing slightly, he asks politely, “I’m sorry, my mind was somewhere else. Day of the Dead? Is there uh, anything I should know?” No need to piss off the locals. 

The taxi driver laughs in a way that it’s clear he’s not laughing at Garrus, but at his concerns. “No worries. Drink, eat, visit your dead, remember them. Cry and drink and laugh. Don’t eat too many sugar skulls. And here we are.” He then deftly takes over the taxi’s auto-pilot and manually parks the taxi in an awkward, tight spot in front of his lodgings near the intergalactic embassies. It’s not until he’s settled in his hotel suite that he remembers what Shepard told him once in the main battery of the Normandy, her eyes closed. A tense atmosphere because of how he dealt with Sidonis. ‘ ...visit them once in a while. You remember them and remember who you are .’

All he can remember now is that she’s left him with a list of broken promises.

It’s on his third day in Mexico City that Garrus decides to go looking for answers. They’ve spent the first few days settling into their apartment suites, he’s slept, and now he’s brimming with a restless energy. This is the closest he’s been to knowing what happened to Shepard, and he’s anxious to get started.

He starts off with the only area listed in her files: the Morelos neighborhood. A quick extranet search shows that while the neighborhood is located in one of the oldest parts of the city, its criminal history is almost just as old. Garrus orders a driverless taxi and directs it to drop him off at the edge of the neighborhood, according to his map.

It’s all rubble. There is no home for Shepard to return to. 

The tallest buildings in the area are maybe three stories at most, clearly crumbling from the Reaper attack. This place has been clearly deserted by the government; there are small fires scattered about, with pipes and metal sticking out of the ground. It unsettles him. Deeply. Many places in the galaxy are in similar states; he’s seen them himself. Hell, Cipritine looked the same when he returned back home. But maybe he expected more from Earth, more from a place that raised Commander Shepard. Or maybe it’s because the historical city center is just a few blocks over, lively and colorful, that makes it clear that this dusty neighborhood has been ignored. Abandoned as a lost cause, a silent reminder that no one cared enough about this area to rebuild it. But even here human tenacity shows itself, because as he walks through the dirt streets, he sees human faces tucked in the rubble. What was this place like before the war? Was it so clearly forgotten while Shepard was alive? Is that what raised her? Garrus remembers the streets of Omega and they have the same cold, underlying feeling of neglect, and he shivers even though he’s standing below an afternoon sun.

Most of the faces he sees are young, some are old, but they all have a haunted look in their eyes. Garrus isn’t afraid of them, but he is cautious. He’s walking in a neighborhood he doesn’t know, an alien amongst humans, and he’s attracting stares. One wrong move and it’s trouble for all of them. At one point he sees a little girl stop a few meters in front of him, afraid, but before he can say anything she runs away, disappearing behind some stones. The more he walks around the more he hates it here, this place full of quiet despair and a constant, constant, pressing reminder of the war, the destruction. It’s a living reminder of Palaven on fire and he knows that he will not be able to sleep tonight. 

There’s a deactivated LOKI merch crushed under a rock, and as he’s attempting to hack the mech for any footage, there’s a series of pop pop pop behind him. Dust stirs at his feet and he jumps over the mech, lucky enough to find a nook amongst the rubble where he fits. He doesn’t bother to hide his sniper rifle from sticking out, but pushes himself back into the corner as much as possible. 

“Aye, blueblood, I warned Four-Eyes we wasn’t interested in no deal,” someone yells angrily, their voice booming in the street. Garrus can see a small figure standing at the edge of a building across from him, their assault rifle pointed down. So they weren’t looking to kill him– at least not yet, though they shot at him unprovoked. Warning shots, sure, but it meant they were the aggressive type. He uses his visor to zoom to this stranger while they continue yelling. “–very fucking clear last time. We agreed on Planets Avenue. Tecojotes, tell him if he don’t stick to it I will find his side bitch he’s been fucking at Two Suns and give her to his wife. I ain’t the one who killed his last bitch and I don’t need to be the one who kills the next one neither.” There’s more gunshots and bullets pepper the ground in front of him.

That’s a new word. And she’s not very friendly. It’s a human female up on the building wearing all black, non-plated body armor. Something about her stance reminds him of an asari; she’s poised at the very edge of the building, one foot in front of another, as if she’s ready to jump down at a moment’s notice. Her black hair is pulled back and she’s wearing a black visor that goes across both her eyes, obscuring most of her face. It makes it difficult to see her face in greater detail. But then he sees the two lines on her chin, a panther on her shoulder, and he realizes who’s yelling at him about mistresses and deals.

It’s Xochil, the rumored second-in-command. His stomach starts to do some funny things, but if there’s the slightest chance this is Shepard…

He moves his gun as he slowly tries to emerge from cover, but three bullets hit the ground centimeters from the gun barrel. Crap. This woman follows the Shepard school of thought, at least: don’t hesitate to shoot. There’s a sudden silence and he’s desperately trying to see if this is the same voice from his memories. It sounds like her, but the voice sounds higher than what he remembers. 

The woman’s voice abruptly changes. “Spectre,” her voice rings out, cold and commanding. Suddenly it’s far too easy to imagine it is Shepard, commanding the Normandy, yelling at the Council. How did she know he was a Spectre? His gun. It’s a Spectre requisition, she must’ve recognized the gun even if she hasn’t seen him. The chances of a non-Spectre knowing the gun type is low; they’re sold on the black market but they’re rare finds. He freezes, trying not to get his hopes up, debating whether it’s worth the risk of getting shot to confirm if it’s her. But half her face is covered by that damned visor, could he ev– 

“I don’t know what a turian Council agent is doing in the slums of Mexico City, but walk carefully, blueblood. Don’t fuck with us and we won’t fuck with you.” She lifts her omni-tool to her mouth, shouts, “ Move out !” into it, abruptly turns on her heel and starts walking away. There’s the tell-tale shuffling of people up and down the street, and he scrambles to get out his hiding spot. By the time he’s standing, heart racing, she’s disappeared.

He’s never been the optimistic type. Always liked to ground himself in reality. And this time, he has a feeling it’s only going to hurt.

Chapter Text

Their first meeting with the CEO and owner of Jaguar Arms is set in a conference room in some fancy human hotel. It’s bright and airy, the architecture inspired from a different century. The hotel seems like it’s used to intergalactic business, because it has an extensive dextro and levo menu that’s well-reviewed and liked. 

Garrus is far too busy trying to maintain his composure to even think about food. The run-in with the suspected second-in-command has him on edge, his mind running in circles about the possibilities. He attempted to return to the neighborhood but a series of warning shots warned him he was no longer welcomed. There was no point in pushing the matter; the rubble provides the locals a huge terrain advantage and he doesn’t want to cause a problem for the civilians residing in the area. Trying to investigate has proven fruitless, because local law enforcement has denied the existence of such a person when he asked. The files they handed over on the Northern Panthers match almost exactly what he’s already been given so there’s no new leads on that front, either. But this is the closest he’s been to getting answers in four years, and he’s not going to give up so easily. And there’s the chance she might show up today; Quentius mentioned she always hovers around Reyes. Garrus doesn’t know how to feel about that, or maybe it’s that he’s feeling too many things at once.

Currently he’s positioned himself behind the negotiators, passing as a guard for the group. His nerves must be showing somehow; some of the turians are shooting him looks, clear hints that he should behave himself. It’s annoying but he’s supposed to be here to investigate the team, not for his own personal suspicions. It wouldn’t benefit the negotiating team if one of their members looked antsy for some unknown reason. Placing himself into a shadowed alcove nearby, he surveys the room and waits for the meeting to start.

The double doors at the opposite end of the room start to creak open. The moment of truth.

Two tall human men enter first and station themselves next to the doors, obviously personal security. Next is Santiago Reyes himself, in a formal suit followed by a shorter, older man, presumably his secretary. The doors are shut. All in all, Reyes’s entourage is tiny for a supposed CEO, four to the turians’ nine. Reyes starts introductions, and goes through all the proper turian protocol. Garrus can tell that the negotiator is impressed and pleased at the respect Reyes is showing. He’s a bit surprised himself; whoever coached the human on turian protocol did a good job.

No other humans walk in. There’s no mystery woman. Maybe their intel was wrong, and there is no second-in-command.

 The introductions wrap up and Reyes moves on to politely inquire about accommodations and whether there’s anything he can arrange for them. It’s the usual human hospitality nonsense, though Reyes seems more sincere about it than most others. The two parties start laying out ideas and potential terms, and Garrus’s attention starts to drift. Yes, he’s supposed to figure out if they’re actually dealing with a crime syndicate, but so far it sounds exactly like any type of business treaty on the Citadel. If there’s no criminal undertones in the end, this trip will have been a waste of time when he could have been doing some good in the galaxy, not losing time as a glorified guard. It’s exactly why he accepted a job as a Spectre instead of a position within the higher ranks of the Hierarchy to begin with.

At about the thirty minute mark, he hears a small click; someone’s opening one of the side doors as quietly as they can. It seems to be a human woman, though from this angle her face and upper body are completely hidden by her hair. Curls, he vaguely remembers from an old C-Sec training. Some humans have curls in their hair. This one has too much of it, in his opinion. It makes it hard to see her face, and therefore his job more difficult.

She gracefully slips two datapads to the right of Reyes and goes to stand in between the two men by the doors. Then she settles into a relaxed stance, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she looks over the turian negotiator with dark brown eyes.

Time stops. 

It’s her. It’s Shepard.

There’s some things about her that are completely different on first glance. The way she holds herself, how relaxed she seems to be. Her hair is completely different, and she has that thin double-line tattoo on her chin. But there’s no mistaking those eyes. 

I knew it, she’s alive she’s alive how why didn’t she say anything what happened what happened to her why is her hair so different–

Garrus can see her surveying the room just as he did when he first walked in, and it’s only a matter of seconds before she sees him, he can only hide so well in this spot and maybe he’s not supposed to be hiding to begin with but he cou–

Their eyes meet.

Any remaining doubts about whether this is the face from his past evaporate the moment her eyes widen. She recognizes him. It’s a sea of emotions in her brown eyes and he can’t make sense of any of them.

He notices she’s wearing black leather gloves because her hands start shaking by her sides. She pulls out her omni-tool, types something out then leans over to Reyes’s secretary and whispers something in his ear. The secretary nods without looking away from the proceedings, and Shepard turns on her heel to exit through the double doors. As discreetly as he can, Garrus slips out the doors on his side and starts chasing the sound of human footsteps. He ignores the yells of the hotel staff to stop running, though it’s hard to tell if they’re directed at him or her.

She’s got a head start on him, but she’s staying in the hotel and not running out into the street. It’s only a matter of time before they catch up to each other. He catches the sight of long, curly hair whipping around a corner and he follows. Even though they’re running up to what he assumes is the roof, she still takes him on a merry chase. They run through a kitchen, two indoor gardens, and disturb quite possibly every single guest staying at the hotel. He loses her on the sixth floor, but he continues running up, up, up until he sees a sign that says “Roof Access: Staff Only.” Bursting through, he fully expects to see her standing there, waiting, but he sees… nothing. The roof is flat and empty save for some empty buckets.

The door starts to slam shut behind him and Garrus whirls around just in time to Shepard lean her back on the door, waving her omni-tool to lock it. She’s breathing hard as she rests against the door, her chest heaving as the wind tugs her hair away from her face. The noise of the street down below drifts up to them, the background music to their reunion. For the first few seconds all they can do is stare at each other.

Shepard looks… healthy. It’s a stark difference from the exhausted, worn down soldier from his last memories. Her face has the fullness of someone who’s well-rested and well-fed, like when they first met so many years ago. Her skin is a slightly deeper color than it used to be, and her face is perfectly smooth in a somewhat unnatural way. She’s wearing similar formal wear to Reyes so it’s hard to check but it looks like her body is fully intact, though she’s slimmer than she used to be. The most striking physical difference is her hair. The color is different from the shoulder-length-at-most, straight, soft brown he remembers; it’s now a dark, shiny, vivid black that reminds him of the time he spilled black paint on his mother’s favorite tablecloth. There’s so much of it, in an unpredictable style of curls that go past her waist. Curls aren’t common on the Citadel; almost all the humans he’s met have their hair straight, and most of their hair reaches a bit past their shoulders. For a moment he briefly wonders why more humans don’t have hair like hers.

“Garrus,” she breathes into the silence, her voice full of emotions he can’t figure out. For a second he thinks she’s about to tease him like she used to. Instead, after a few more moments of silence, Shepard blinks, regains her composure and stands up straight, looking at him with a cool, detached look. “Who else knows?”

Who else knows? Was that what she was worried about after all this time?  Whatever is in the air is immediately broken and he feels years of grief and rage coming to the surface. Garrus doesn’t know where these words are coming from, these feelings, but he knows they want out and he’s no longer in control of his body. “Who else knows? Who else knows? Is that what you’re worried about, Shepard? Where in the fucking Spirits have you been for the last four fucking years? I was starting to think you were dead Shepard, again. And then I find out three months ago that you may not only be alive, but have a rap sheet as long as a hanar’s tentacle, and that’s not counting the criminal record you had as a minor. Spirits, I pulled in drug dealers from Chora’s Den with shorter records.” Somehow he finds himself shouting, pacing the roof, his subvocals vibrating with anger. Shepard is standing there shell-shocked, her mouth moving but making no sounds. When he mentions her record as a minor she stiffens.

He laughs with no humor. He can’t remember the last time she was left speechless. Probably never. Shepard’s always had something to say, a reason to justify her actions. “What, you thought I didn’t know about your childhood misadventures? No wonder you never talked about your past, you didn’t want anyone to know that Commander Shepard had an extensive criminal record even before she was allowed to dri—”

She tries to interrupt to no avail. “Those records were expunged !”

“—petty theft and street scams at eleven years old Shepard, really?” He doesn’t know why he’s yelling, why he’s throwing her past in her face, after she proved herself more than once to him, to the galaxy. He knows she was in a youth gang for a long time, knows that a criminal record at that age is a sign of a hard life, but the words just keep spilling out and he’s struggling to hold his temper. It’s the frustration and sorrow of the last few years bubbling to the surface. “No wonder you were always good at card games. Robbing grocery stores and pharmacies? What, you thought it would be fun to bre–”

He sees her face shift into a scowl, the first real expression she’s made so far, with a glint of canine peeking through. Next thing he knows his feet are pulled out from underneath him and Shepard has him pinned down on the ground, pressing a knee to his chest-plate. “My mother was dying , Garrus!” she roars, inches from his face. There’s something wet trickling down his forehead, almost like rain.

It’s a tear.
Shepard is crying.
Shepard never cries. She stared down the beam of a Reaper and didn’t so much as flinch. She heard Harbinger and rolled her eyes.

My mother was dying. Between that and seeing her tears, he’s shocked enough that his anger pauses for a moment. He knows something about dying mothers. Shepard sniffs, but doesn’t move off his chest.

“My mother was dying,” she repeats, her voice calm and steady, a contrast to the water building up in her eyes. She doesn’t let the tears fall. “I learned in biotic camp that a lot of mothers get sick from the eezo exposure. Explained why she always was sick when I was a kid. We didn’t have enough food and she had no medicine. I was desperate. We were too poor to ever get regular healthcare and she died because of it.”

It’s widely known that Shepard is an orphan, and according to her records her mother died young, but there were no notes of illness. And if it’s from eezo exposure, that probably meant a brain tumor. Without treatment, that was a slow, steady spiral to death. Just like his mother, fading away from life. Seeing her wither away from life broke him, changed him fundamentally, and he was an adult with a father and a sister. Spirits, no wonder Shepard was livid when she found out his mother was sick when they were on the Normandy. It was the only time she had ever kicked him out of her quarters, with a frigid anger he never quite understood. Until now. Even through the anger, there’s still the surreal sensation of seeing her alive after so long, and it’s all twisting together in his mind in a way that he doesn’t know where one feeling begins and the other ends.

She’s shaking and he knows her well enough that it’s anger building up, not sorrow.  “I will not have some rich, upper-class turian who’s probably five ranks down the line of succession from motherfucking Primarch come and tell me how I should have lived my life.” Hearing about the line of succession makes him wince; another reason he took the job of a Spectre, in the hopes it would distance him from the role. Clearly, Shepard hasn’t forgotten.

“Childhood misadventures, Vakarian?” she hisses angrily, gripping the edge of his armor. Her eyes are dry of tears, but they’re full of ice instead. Garrus has never seen her like this, not to him, and it makes him feel like she’s pinned him down in more ways than one. “Is it a childhood misadventure to eat stale bread for days in a row because you got no money? Is it a childhood misadventure to hide from men three times your age because they think you’re fresh meat and a good fuck?” Her hand snaps out and grips his chin with the edge of his mandibles, tilting his head up so he’s forced to look her in the eye. They’re black and piercing, her hair a black, ominous cloud around her head. The words are slowly moving in his brain and their implications are too large for him to try and fight her hold. “People like you are born with power. They are never forced to fight for it. You lived in Omega, but you were never a part of it. You had a family, a home to go back to. You chose your fate. I did not decide to be born in the slums. I did not decide to be poor. There were very few choices for a girl like me. I had no Archangel. I did what I needed to survive.”

She’s not wrong about Omega; he went there because he wanted to make a difference, a change for the better. To protect people like her, to help people have a better life. But he never was one of those kids starving on the street. And what difference did it make in the end? Aria T’Loak was still in power, and while his team died to take out the mercenary groups, they continued to exist. Families still starved and people struggled to find work. It’s in that moment, with her staring down at him, that he realizes that she must’ve known all along that his campaign was useless. She simply never mentioned it, whether it was to spare his ego or because she saw no point in doing so. He doesn’t know which one is worse.

Shepard releases her grip on his face and leans back. She must see something in his eyes, because she relaxes the slightest amount, the anger in her eyes slowly melting away. “I made those choices for a reason, rich boy. Sometimes for a good reason, sometimes not. And sometimes the reason was survival, and that was enough for me.”

His mouth moves before he can think about what he’s saying. “As a kid, I can understand. But as an adult? After everything you did? You threw it away, for what? This? A glorified security guard?” Nothing that’s happening here makes sense. It defies logic. Shepard’s a war hero, the best soldier this galaxy has ever seen. Why would she throw it all away to work security for an arms company? What can she get here that she can’t get with the Alliance? And that’s not accounting for the possible criminal ties, which leads to another long list of questions.

Shepard frowns, crosses her arms and presses her knee down, making his cowl grate against his armor. Garrus growls in discomfort, his fringe scraping the roof painfully. As always, she doesn’t answer questions she does not want to answer. “You have the right to be mad at me. I’m not saying you don’t. Now, answer my question: who else knows?” 

This entire conversation feels like she’s pulling out his teeth with her bare hands. He has a feeling his fringe will be raw for the next few days. “Liara suspects,” he grunts.

She looks to the sky for a brief moment. “Blue bitch was always too smart for her own good. Only a matter of time,” she mutters under her breath. Shepard looks down at him and tilts her head, just like she used to when she was thinking. He does not like what that does to his insides. She leans down and pulls his pistol (the only weapons they were allowed inside the hotel) out its holster, flipping it around in her hands. The black gloves almost blend in with the matte black of the gun. “Spectre gear, huh?” she comments as she straps the pistol back in his holster. It surprises him; with how this is going, he thought she would strip him of all his weapons the first chance she had. “You wouldn’t happen to be the turian I saw wandering around Morelos, would you?”

His fringe is really starting to chafe. So is her sudden devil-may-care attitude about the entire situation. “What, no blueblood this time?” he taunts, though there’s a spike of pain and disappointment. She’s just confirmed she’s the second-in-command; he’s seen the panther tattoo with his own eyes, and the double line tattoo on her chin shifts every time she speaks. Reyes probably has another panther tattoo to match. He knew this was a possibility, but it stings all the same. Maybe Shepard wasn’t the paragon of virtue the Alliance propaganda made her out to be, but the Shepard he knew wasn’t a criminal.

“No,” she says simply. Garrus doesn’t know how, but she somehow manages to press her knee ever further into his armor. It’s not until he looks at his chest that he sees the tell-tale swirl of biotics around her knee. Cheat. “What brings a turian Spectre to Mexico City?”

“I’m not here on Spectre business.”

That catches her attention. She narrows her eyes. “So you’re really here for the business deal? I thought that was a cover-up. It still might be, but if you’re not here for the Spectres, it’s probably the Hierarchy. Fuck.” It’s a timely reminder that he is indeed here for the turian government and not for her, though it is starting to look like the two overlap. His brain is struggling to keep up with her mood shifts. Hell, he’s struggling to keep up with his own.

Shepard suddenly stands up in a fluid motion and offers a gloved hand to help him off the ground. He can’t help but look at it suspiciously; she sees his hesitation and sighs. “I’m not your enemy, Vakarian. Never have been and never will be. I don’t know why you’re here but I’ll help. Truce?”

If she really is willing to help, she would be an excellent source of information, considering she’s exactly one of the people he’s supposed to be investigating. Fighting her from the start could complicate things. And, if Garrus is completely honest to himself, he doesn’t know how he’d be able to handle that either. Even after this, after surviving impossible odds, he doesn’t want to hurt her. And there’s a conviction, deep in his soul, that she won’t hurt him. She had a chance to disarm him and she didn’t. He knows it’s trust. His father would call it foolishness.

“...For now,” he grumbles, taking her tiny human hand as she helps him up with ease. A truce is a truce. And it wasn’t like he wanted to fight her either, it’s just, all these feelings came out his mouth at once, and instead of calmly asking questions, he set her on the defensive. He didn’t know how he expected things to go but this is not it. There’s that growing regret at his own actions; his impulsiveness comes out at times, and while it’s saved him plenty on the battlefield, it backfires in other situations. Spirits, what a mess. He stands, adjusts his armor and Shepard gives him one of her cryptic stares. It’s the exact same expression, the exact same look he’s seen hundreds of times before, and in a way it comforts him that there’s some aspects of the commander that have not changed.

While she dusts herself off and fixes her clothes, she says, “For what it’s worth, I planned to reach out to you once things were settled, but with Mia things got a lot more complicated. This isn’t the place to talk about it though.” Her omni-tool beeps and she takes a moment to read the message. “Santi’s saying they’re wrapping up the introductory meeting, so they’ll be looking for us soon. Time to go back. Here’s my info. Don’t share it with anyone. I’ll have to tell Santi about this and he’ll want to meet you. I don’t know what a turian Spectre is doing here, but if you have questions you think we can help with we’ll answer as much as we can.” Well, considering she reports to Reyes that can’t be helped, although there’s a part of him that wishes she wouldn’t include anyone else in… well, whatever this was. Shepard walks back towards the door and waves her omni-tool over the lock. 

As she’s opening the door, she looks back at him one last time. “Also, don’t call me Shepard. I don’t want to attract attention. If you have to, you can call me Athena, but it’s much better if you call me Xochil.” For a second he thinks his translator trips over the last word, but he thinks she was saying her name. “I don’t know how your translator will deal with that, but if it helps, Xochil means flower in a human language.” The second time she says her name, the translator gives him the turian word for flower, with the underlying subvocals indicating a name. It’s completely different to how they’ve been pronouncing it so far. So we’ve been saying her name wrong the entire time. Why am I not surprised?

Shepard gives him a small, sad smile before she walks through the roof access door. “Welcome to Mexico City, Garrus. I hope you like the music here.” 

Their reunion is a reflection of their first meeting: to the point, succinct, and distant. It leaves him feeling empty and raw, like he was left out in the Tuchanka sun for days with no water. Over the next few days he keeps replaying their meeting in his head, over and over and over, helplessly trying to see if there was anything different they could’ve done. No matter what he thinks, the end conclusion is the same: she’s the tattooed woman with the panther tattoo, and he’s the turian agent who’s been sent to investigate her. Any hope of a hopeful reunion was out of the cards for them from the start. But underneath the frustration and unhappiness, there’s… relief. Shepard’s alive, and she looks healthier than she ever has. That has to count for something. It has to.

Chapter Text

The next week is tense. For him, at least. They see each other three more times, in three more meetings. Shepard gives no acknowledgement that she knows who he is and treats him just like she treats everyone else: cordially and with a polite smile. The smile is jarring enough on its own, but she’s almost… nice . Not as stand-offish as she used to be. Definitely nicer than when they first met on the SR-1. It makes him feel like this person is really a stranger after all. But then she’ll give Reyes a tiny smile, or give one of the guards a look of disappointment, and for a moment she looks exactly like the Shepard he knows. Remembers. Or knew. It’s unclear at this point.

A week later he receives a message at his hotel room the old school way: a piece of paper left on his pillow. Someone must have bribed the hotel staff. He’ll have to do a check on that, if it was so easy to get a message to his private quarters. His visor scrambles the letters into something readable, not the scribbling humans have as an excuse for handwriting. 

Meet me at Veteran Plaza on the 24th at 1300 hours. Come alone. We’ll answer questions then.
- S. Reyes

It’s the first direct private message he's received from either Reyes or Shepard. She did mention that Reyes would want to meet, and that she would be willing to help him, so the message isn’t completely out of the blue. Garrus debates for hours whether he should go. It reads like a trap, but when he looks up Veteran Plaza on the extranet, it’s an active, public area in a nice neighborhood in the city. He doesn’t know why they think he has questions for him (maybe it’s a guilty conscience, but Shepard’s not stupid, and so she must suspect something), but he also admits that he has his own list of questions too. At this point in his life he has enough faith in his abilities that he knows he can take care of himself in the case it is a trap. Maybe a small part of him wants a chance to see her again. Maybe. And maybe it's not really that small, but with this weird strangers-not-strangers dynamic right now, it's not exactly the type of situation he imagined reuniting in. Sure, he's had a few months to think about the possibility but he's been running on hope for so long that he was too scared to really believe. 

Shepard was always a fan of the unexpected. And this is definitely not how he expected this to go.

 
He's ten minutes early to their agreed meeting time. As far as Garrus can tell from his scouting, there’s no threats to his safety, and it really does seem like an average park area. At this point it's hard to tell whether that's a good or bad thing. He takes a seat by one of the water fountains, he takes a moment to admire the colorful paper fluttering in the wind, with cutouts in different scenarios featuring skeletons. The plaza reeks of those strange orange flowers he saw when he first landed. In the days since he's arrived the flowers have only multiplied in amount, and it’s a scent he’s half-convinced is permanently stuck in his nose. Towards the other end of the plaza there’s a massive, tiered structure, and throughout the last few minutes some humans and a handful of asari have dropped off photographs or small items on top of the structure. Occasionally people will stand and cry, and others will simply stand there for minutes at a time. People come and go, and otherwise, it seems like a perfectly average afternoon.

His visor shows him it’s five minutes past their agreed meeting time. His mandibles click in annoyance. He’s not waiting for more than ten minutes, if this human thi–

There’s the clatter of human footsteps behind him and he whirls around to see Reyes sauntering up to him, somehow making a whistling noise with his weird human mouth. He looks completely at ease, and his panther tattoo peaks out from underneath his green shirt.

“Garrus Vakarian, I’m assuming. Nice to finally meet you for real,” Reyes says cheerfully, sticking out his small human hand for a handshake. His smile emphasizes his human canines. Garrus stands up and shakes his hand with confidence, determined to show this human he’s not someone to be pushed around by a CEO or potential criminal. 

The human apologizes, “Sorry I’m late, I found a —” his translator stops and he hears Reyes’s flat human voice before it sounds normal again, “—that I thought Mia would like. Come on, we’ll head over to the apartment.”

Garrus crosses his arms and his mandibles flare out in warning. One of the lessons he learned under Shepard: do not let anyone dictate the terms of a meeting on their own. “I thought we were meeting here, not in an apartment.”

Reyes rolls his eyes. What a change from the serious, professional man he met the other day. If the negotiating team saw that they’d have a fit. “Well, one, the plaza reeks of flowers and I hate the smell. Two, this is gonna be a long chat and I wanna be comfortable. Three, Mia just got off school. Stop whining and come on.”

This is the second time someone mentions a ‘Mia’ and he saves this piece of information for later investigation. However, he’s not about to blindly follow a stranger in a city he’s unfamiliar with, especially someone who’s accused of being in a crime syndicate. While Reyes is not armed (which is somewhat reassuring), it doesn’t mean there aren’t others nearby who are. Though he would be foolish to start a firefight in such a public area, but Garrus has learned to expect the unexpected.

Nothing like a straight shot, he thinks. “How do I know this isn’t a trap?” he points out.

Reyes makes a weird expression he can’t figure out. “Why would I wanna kill you?”

“You tell me. You’re the one who singled me out.”

“Yeah but that’s because—” Reyes sighs and mutters under his breath, “She would find someone just as paranoid.” At a normal volume he continues, unaware that Garrus heard what he said or not caring, “Friend, I’m unarmed. Neither me or Xochil want you dead. It’s the opposite really, I think if anyone took a shot at you Xochi would break their skulls open and feed their brains to the pigeons, nasty little things. The apartment is one of the few places we can talk privately. Anyways, she warned me you might act like this and told me to give you this if you acted up.” Reyes digs his hand into a pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. He hands it to him. It’s wrinkled, but he can recognize Shepard’s funny handwriting before his visor translates the text.

I’ve got your six. You’ll be safe, I promise. You can hold Santi at gunpoint if it makes you feel better. Don’t tell him I said that though. - S

Shepard never did play around when she could land a direct hit. He wavers, thinking of the hundreds of times he’d told Shepard those exact words, in hundreds of battles and a hundred different planets. This isn’t a battlefield, but it comes down to the same thing in the end, anyway: trust. Can he still trust her, after all this time? Would he be insane to do so?

“The moment I sense something’s off it’s a bullet in the back of your head,” he threatens. He’s the one with a concealed gun and Shepard approved of the idea. This is reckless, going into an apartment building blind, but maybe he can extend his trust to Shepard one last time. And he does want to see her, more desperate than he likes with this weird distant energy between them, to see how she’s really doing behind all those polite, new smiles. Maybe that way he'll be able to find some resolution, some peace after the last few years. He's had the last few weeks to adjust to the possibility of her existence, but it still fills him with a nervous, anxious feeling to think they'll be able to speak again, after that final goodbye. Even if it is this awkward, stiff, unknown thing in between the two of them. Maybe he should be grateful that she's even alive with the condition of the Citadel after the Crucible, but Shepard's always been the type to ask for more. It's rubbed off on him.

Reyes waves off his threat good-naturedly, unbothered by his potential, imminent death. “Yeah, yeah you turian. Come on, I’m getting thirsty.” He leads them a few blocks away to a nice but unassuming green apartment complex. It’s a short building; the guard at the door greets Reyes and continues reading on a datapad. Garrus can hear voices drifting in and out of windows, along with snatches of music and vid shows. The human takes him to a corner apartment on the top floor, gesturing to Garrus to step inside the apartment. Reyes locks up behind him and rummages in a cabinet next to the entrance, he takes a moment to survey the apartment.

It’s a decent size, and looks like it’d be a cozy fit for three people. The place is open concept with large windows letting in the afternoon sun. It’s messy and lived in, with random trinkets like old datapads and tiny shoes scattered around the apartment. There are Earth plants hanging from the ceiling. The yellow paint casts the room in a warm, soft glow, and he feels tempted to relax. He straightens up instead.

“Take a seat over by the couches, Xochil should be here any second. I just have a few things to grab, where the fuck did I put them…” Reyes promptly disappears down a small hallway and Garrus can hear him rummaging from a distance. Feeling very distinctly out of place in this very cozy human home (and wondering why in the Spirits he agreed to this, though he knows exactly why), he takes a seat on the couch near the windows. There’s a small coffee table to his right that’s cluttered with half-full coffee mugs, but behind that he can see the wall covered in colorful scribbles and he resists the urge to smile. He’d recognize paint anywhere, alien or not. He’d done the same thing as a child. Reyes comes back and he dumps a stack of datapads on the coffee table in the middle of the space, then heads to the kitchen counter. He knocks a few things over in the process, and Garrus notices the table is completely filled with tiny human-sized toys. There’s a child living here, he realizes. So he has a nest. I didn’t know he had a family. Where are they?

As if on cue, the apartment door clicks for a second time, accompanied by a high pitch wail that immediately hurts his hearing. The door swings open to reveal an extremely disheveled, winded Shepard; her hair’s fluffed up around her face, and there’s something wet and pink slowly dripping down the front of her shirt. She’s holding multiple bags (including a comically bright pink backpack) and gripping the hand of a writhing human child. The moment she lets go of the kid’s hand to set down some of her things, the kid sprints down the hallway yelling at the top of its lungs. Shepard swears, drops everything she’s holding and runs after the kid. There’s a lot of screams, curses, cries, and strange animal sounds that drift down the hallway, and the complexity of them make his head ache. A few minutes later she returns with a wriggling child held firmly under an arm and shuts the door behind her with more force than necessary. Santiago doesn't look up from his datapad once. Garrus can’t remember if he’s ever even seen Shepard speak to a child, much less hold one. It's a little hard to believe she’s walking around chasing one down, willingly. Who’s was it?

The kid’s still screaming something about puppies and ice cream. Over the general noise of the child (damn, the kid’s got some lungs), she nods to Santiago and him in a casual greeting. The kid suddenly stops wailing, and Shepard looks to the ceiling in clear relief and does a weird motion with her hand across her head and her chest. Walking over to Reyes at the counter, they kiss each other lightly on the cheek and greet each other. He tries not to let it bother him (he fails). Then she brushes past Reyes, opens the fridge and starts digging through it, somehow still holding the kid who’s gone limp. The kid’s head is turned in his direction but its hair falls to the ground in a black curtain, making it impossible to see the kid’s face.

Covering a yawn with her free hand, she says, “Sorry I’m late, Mia threw a tantrum while I was picking up some food, then she spilled her ice cream all over both of us, and then she wouldn’t stop crying the entire time.” Shepard has rarely looked more disheveled. The weird pink splotch on her shirt is drying and he can see now that there’s some on her pants as well. Her voice sounds… different, somehow. The pitch is higher than he remembers. She moves with such ease in the apartment that he thinks she must spend a lot of time here. Or even live here. He does not like that thought. Nothing marks the passage of time like seeing someone change right before your eyes, in more ways than one.

“You need to stop using ice cream as a solution to everything, it’s only gonna make things worse,” Santiago admonishes, looking up from his datapad. She frowns a little but doesn’t say anything. It's around this time Garrus realizes that the mysterious Mia must be the limp human child Shepard is holding. Shifting her hold on the kid so it’s upright, Shepard grabs three bottles and tells the little human, “Santi’s here Mia, say hi.” Mia brushes her (it’s easy to see it’s a human girl now) straight black hair out of her face and obediently leans towards Santi; the two bump foreheads in greeting as Reyes gently tugs one of her cheeks. Shepard pushes Reyes towards the couch and once the man sits, she hands him two bottles.

“Yeah, well, last week you taught her how to say—” Garrus’s translator stops and all he hears is Shepard’s human voice, loud and clear and flat without any of the usual modulation; she must’ve said something that the translator couldn’t understand. For a few moments he’s running her weird, flat human voice in his memory, trying to see if it sounds like the one he usually hears.  By the time he comes to himself she’s waving a bottle in front of his face, with all the casualness as if they’ve just spoken last month instead of years ago when he thought he’d seen her for the last time. Instead, they’re in this warm yellow apartment, with years of history scattered around the room.

“Here, it’s dextro,” Shepard says directly to him as she leans over Reyes, wiggling the bottle in front of his face. “There’s some dextro places nearby, if you’re hungry we can order some food in a bit.” He lightly grasps the bottle and notices it’s his favorite sweet drink. She’s still holding the bottle, she’s still looking at him, things have changed but those almost-black eyes, they’re the same, but they’re also the same as the little girl who’s peering at him in an eerily similar way, head tilted just like when Athe–

“Aaaaaah, it’s him, I knew it!” Santiago exclaims suddenly, slapping Shepard on the thigh. The moment is thoroughly broken.

She lets go of the bottle and squeezes her eyes shut. “Mia, kick him.” Mia hasn’t said a word so far but doesn’t hesitate to slam one of her tiny soft human feet into the side of Santiago’s head. Santiago clutches his ear and doubles over howling in pain; for such a small human, the kid looks exceedingly smug for kicking a grown man in the ear. Definitely related to Shepard. While Reyes keeps swearing and rubs his ear, Shepard nudges Mia and tells her to greet him, introducing him as a friend. Huh. It would be complicated to explain their relationship any other way. Well, whatever their relationship is.

The little girl boldly stares at him in a way that’s unusual for most human children meeting a turian. He stares back. She has Shepard’s eyes, and there’s something vaguely familiar of the commander in the shape of her face. Even at a young age, this kid has a lot of confidence. “Hi,” Mia says, in a high-pitched voice that his translator struggles to add subvocals to, “why is your face stained blue?”

The question catches him by surprise. While he's trying to figure out how to respond, Shepard nimbly steps out of arm’s reach just in time; another second and the kid would’ve grabbed him by the mandible. Shepard scolds her before he even has a chance to respond. “Mia! How many times have I told you to not say anything about how people look! And what did I tell you about grabbing people!” The tone of her voice is sharp enough that Mia shrinks in her arms, and for a moment he feels sorry for the young kid. She's clearly too young to know better but Shepard doesn’t seem to be taking that into consideration.

The next ten minutes are some of the most chaotic minutes he’s ever witnessed in someone’s home. Shepard puts Mia on the ground and goes back in the kitchen putting away groceries, and Santiago follows her to argue about Mia’s behavior. Music suddenly erupts from some speakers tucked in a corner somewhere and suddenly his translator is awkwardly trying to keep up with the beat, a perfect example of why music in space rarely has lyrics.

You are the first thing I see when I wake up, that’s what you are
You’re the first thing when I wake up
What my life is missing if you’re not there
Precious, the only thing living in my mind today 

Mia manages to find her backpack on a high chair, pulls it towards her and papers go flying everywhere, along with a single datapad. Shepard keeps yelling at Santiago about Mia’s behavioral reports and accusing him of teaching her swear words while she assembles a small bowl of fruit, and Santiago retorts that all the behavior reports up until last week were about Mia fighting the other children, not swear words. The tiny human girl, in turn, is kicking up a storm with all the papers on the floor, ignored by all the adults. She tears some up for fun, laughing maniacally all the while. It’s such a strange, complicated mix of noises that he’s not used to with a weird, alien mix of complex smells that's only making his headache worse. And Spirits, did humans adore their love songs. Half the songs he’d heard so far were about love, heartbreak or sex (he refuses to admit he sympathizes with any of them). Shepard is still arguing with Reyes, and he knows that once she starts an argument with someone, she doesn’t notice anything until she wins. That, at least, still seems to be true. Knowing that he’s now relegated to background scenery for now, Garrus takes a moment to look at the apartment in detail, knowing that Shepard spends a lot of time here. 

There are small photos up on the wall. Most of them are Mia at different ages. Some of them are Mia and Shepard together. There’s one picture of a human male and female couple that he doesn’t recognize, and are only featured in two photos. There’s even a picture of Santiago, another unknown woman, Shepard and Mia smiling somewhere surrounded by trees. In all of the pictures everyone’s smiling, happy and carefree; Shepard looks... young. Cheerful. Full of life. He thinks he’s seen more happy smiles in these photos than he ever has with Shepard. There's nothing wrong with these photos but they make him feel wrong, off-center, like he's looking at an alternate reality. The photos are annoying, that's what it is. Like she's showing off how happy she's been. Deciding that he's had enough of looking at new memories, Garrus turns towards the window instead. Something by the window catches his eye, and on a closer look it's a smaller version of the structure he saw in the plaza. It’s also covered in food, the orange flowers and miscellaneous items that make no sense to him, and there’s more photos here too. Another picture of the human couple. Of two older women who have Shepard’s eyes. Another photo of a woman with Shepard’s eyes, holding a tiny human child. But then he starts seeing familiar faces. Of Thane. Mordin. Williams. Anderson. EDI. Legion.

It’s an altar to the dead.

He doesn’t realize he stood up to stare until he feels a tiny, incredibly faint tap on his leg. “Do you like our altar?” Mia asks, at ease with the strange alien in her home. Garrus figures there’s no way this tiny girl will understand him –he noticed there’s nothing in her ears to hint at a translator– so he stiffly nods, hoping she’ll understand. She does.

“Mommy won’t let me eat the sugar skulls because she says it’s bad for my teeth but I loooove sugar skulls. But she said we can eat death bread today,” Mia says, and points to a round, tan piece of bread with weird shapes on it as an explanation. He can smell the spices from where he stands, making him think that ‘death bread’ is a strange name for something so fragrant. The orange flowers covering the surface of the altar are trying their best to down everything in their scent. “She says it’s not nice to eat the food from here because then Mommy won’t have anything. That’s Mommy and that’s Daddy,” she points to the human couple, “and that’s grandmas,” she points to the picture of the two older women, “and these are Mommy’s friends.”

Garrus looks down at the tiny human. She stares back again, this time her expression curious and unafraid. Mia seems completely undaunted to be speaking to an alien six times her size. Maybe what he once thought was a Shepard-only trait was really a Shepard-family one.

Chaos all around them, the tension of a final goodbye without either of them admitting this was what it was. “Maybe even find out what a turian-human baby looks like,” he half-jokes. Even in these last moments she holds herself together, giving him an unreadable look. Yet she relents just an inch in the face of their final dance with death. “We’d be terrible parents.”

The girl blinks at him, her dark brown eyes wide and round in her small face. Well. Looks like Shepard went to find out the human part all on her own.  

The door suddenly slams open and a voice bellows into the apartment, loud and annoyed. It startles him and leaves him feeling even more annoyed. He should talk to Shepard about her sudden laid-back approach to security, if people are coming into her apartment without knocking. “Can you all shut up ? I can hear you from the fucking street! Mia, pick up your mess and leave the man alone! Santiago, Xochi’s right, stop teaching Mia swear words or I’ll let her break your nose again. Xochi, if you waited to train Mia when she’s older, she wouldn’t be picking fights with kids twice her size.”

While Mia rushes to pick up the scattered papers and Shepard slaps Santiago on the arm as a way to get the last word in, he takes a moment to look at the human woman who walked through the door. It’s hard to tell how old this woman is but she’s at least older than Shepard by a few years. Her black hair is streaked with white, and she has a jaguar tattoo on her shoulder, just like the others. She doesn’t have any tattoos on her face but when she spoke he could just see the cosmetic enhancements on her canines. So, not in a position of power, but still part of the inner circle. Brown eyes, a little taller than Shepard. Less scars than the other two, but plenty of calluses on her hand.

The woman snorts, noticing his assessment. “Straight to the profiling with this fucker huh? Nice to meet you cop, name’s Cecilia, when you’re done profiling me, pass me your omni-tool,” she snaps, walking up and holding out her hand.

The strange situation and his headache must be messing with his mind more than he thinks, because his next words are completely stupid. “I’m not a cop.” The first thing he says in Shepard’s apartment, in front of people who have clearly known her for a long time. And it’s something that’s exactly what a novice undercover cop would say. Great. “And I’m not handing you my omni-tool.”

Everyone in the room laughs, including Mia, and Cecilia drops her hand. “Gotta come up with something better kid,” Ceci reaches up to pat him on the back. He startles a little at the unexpected contact; he’s unused to strangers touching him so casually. “That’s exactly what a cop would say. Come on, take a seat. Xochi, get him a drink.” Cecilia walks to the two human adults and exchanges cheek kisses with Shepard, then Santiago. Huh. Maybe it was some sort of human greeting, then, rather than an indication of intimacy. But then he remembers their time on the Normandy, and how over the months she started brushing a kiss against his mandible every time he entered her private quarters and it leaves him with a weird feeling he can’t figure out. A lot of those lately.

With greetings taken care of, Cecilia settles herself in the armchair next to the sofa and gestures for him to sit as well. Mia jumps on her lap seconds later, lying down and staring unflinchingly at Garrus. Well, if he needed even more proof to show that Shepard has been raising a child, that stare was definitely enough. He just didn’t know how weird it would be coming from someone one-sixth his size. He's not letting himself think of the implications of the tiny Shepard look-alike right now, especially not in front of strangers. Whatever that's making him feel (and it's making him feel something), that's better examined in the privacy of his suite. If she's going to act like nothing's happened, he sure as hell isn't going to be the one to make the first move. Shepard can sense weakness better than a varren's sense of smell, and it doesn't want to give her any leverage. Whenever they'll talk, it needs to be as equals.

“He has one,” Shepard replies to Cecilia, walking over and handing Mia the small bowl of fruit from earlier.

“Well, get me one.”

She grabs one of the two bottles Reyes left unopened on the coffee table and hands one to Cecilia. Shepard also unceremoniously drops something into his lap without saying anything; it’s his favorite dextro snack, salty and savory all at once. Somehow that makes him feel more lost than being in an unknown city. She still remembers what he likes to eat, yet she’s barely spoken more than a handful of words to him since he’s stepped in the apartment.

Cecilia pops her drink open and leans back. “About time you finally had some house-training. Now, if you’d stop burning the rice I could marry you off.”

His mandibles click involuntarily. No one notices over Shepard’s loud huff. “Keep that up and I’m saving all the burnt parts for you next time.” Why did that bother him anyway? It shouldn’t. More importantly, why is he here, in this strange human nest to begin with? His excuses of finding information are weak, even to him, and yet he’s still sitting here, waiting. Every minute leaves him with more questions and no answers, and these three seemed in no rush to get things rolling. Santiago returns to his original position on the couch, grabbing some datapads from the stack in front of him. Shepard sits on a pillow on the floor, cleaning and sorting through all the things in Mia’s backpack. Cecilia gets up from the armchair and disappears down the hallway, leaving Mia to curl up in the armchair on her own. Mia’s eyes are already fluttering shut on the armchair.

It’s domestic. Intimate. It’s clear by how these three move around each other that they’ve known each other for a long time, and there’s a type of trust here that’s been built over time versus war. Turian relationships are complex and formal; this level of confident casualness doesn’t happen on someone’s first visit. Shepard treats him like they had just fallen out of touch a few months ago while Reyes smiles at him far too much for a man supposedly in charge of an intergalactic trade deal. Cecilia just seems to be the grumpy type. Shepard he could maybe understand to some extent, but these two strangers? What did they gain from treating an alien like a friend? It leaves him feeling like he’s playing a game where everyone knows the rules but him.

Cecilia calls for Shepard with her ne– real name, asking for help. Shepard leaves a datapad on the table and scoops up the sleeping Mia before disappearing down the small hallway. He can just make the words on the datapad from this distance; it's some sort of daily behavior report from Mia’s school. Santiago, unburdened by privacy concerns, grabs it and scrolls through. He snorts and shoves it towards Garrus, tapping the screen. “See? I’m not the problem here, Xochil has been teaching Mia how to kick and the little demon has decided to use her powers for evil.” Garrus carefully grasps the datapad and reads before he realizes what he’s doing. Worse, Santiago is right: for the last two weeks Mia has been written up almost daily for kicking kids, including one incident that ended up in a playground fight with a ripped shirt.

“Hard to imagine something so small picking fights,” he says at last, unsure whether he should state an opinion. Was Shepard also so aggressive at such a young age? His mind wants to keep thinking about what a child Shepard must have been like, but his heart stops those thoughts immediately. It wouldn’t end well, not with so many questions about a kid that looks far too similar to Shepard to be mere coincidence. 

Santiago laughs. “You clearly had a civilized upbringing. Xochil gave me a knife when I was five, so I consider this an improvement.” Garrus looks at the datapad, his eyes flicking to Santiago. No matter how Garrus felt about being in this strange, cozy apartment, Santiago clearly had no qualms about his presence there. Maybe he could answer some of the questions on his list.

“You grew up with her?” he asks neutrally. Not for the first time was he happy that humans couldn’t hear most of his subvocals.

Santiago haphazardly throws a datapad on the floor and picks another up. “Yeah, somewhat, but she’s five years older than I am so there’s some weird gaps in there. We grew up in the same neighborhood. My dad got involved with the family business around the same time Xochi got in too, so it was easier once we got older.”

“The… family business.”

“Yeah, you turian, you know the panthers we got tattooed on the shoulder? Don’t act stupid, it doesn’t suit you. That family business. Keep up, cop.”

Did he just suggest that he was affiliated to a crime syndicate? That the CEO of a Jaguar Arms was affiliated to a crime syndicate? To someone he just called a cop? Is this guy stupid? “Should you be telling me any of this?” Garrus responds coolly, leaning back and crossing his legs.

“You an Earth cop? Got jurisdiction here, little bird?”

Garrus isn’t ready to disclose that depending on their actions, he very well could have jurisdiction here. “...No.” Little bird?

“Then it don’t matter to me.”

Reyes stares at the datapad he’s holding for a few seconds, then frowns. With surprising speed he suddenly throws the datapad across the room, and Garrus hears it crack and splutter against a wall. He’d be more surprised if he hadn’t seen the man bending the datapad out of shape.

“None of this was supposed to happen, it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Reyes groans, rubbing his eyes. Whatever ‘this’ is, it’s been building up for a while, and for some reason he’s decided Garrus, the alien stranger on an alien planet that he barely knows, is the best person to unleash this on. This human is more unpredictable than he expected and he’s not in the mood to be comforting. “Ceci’s supposed to be rich off her stupid inventions stuck in some hole in the ground where she never sees the sun but she’s happy, and Xochi is supposed to be retired from the military and in a nice cushy apartment with food all the time that I can eat and I’m not supposed to be running books for anyone and we’d all be happy and mee—”

Two cold, sharp voices speak at once, a strange-two tone moment. “Santiago.” They turn to look at Cecilia and Xochil, who have blank expressions. Cecilia is standing with her hands on her hips, glares at Santiago as a way to silently scold him for his earlier rant, then turns her glare to Garrus, and something about it reminds him of his first training officer looking down at him in disappointment. Meanwhile Shepard is holding a long, thick plastic package that makes a soft thunk as she carefully places it on the floor opposite from the couch he’s sitting on. The two women sit down and start opening the package, and Garrus notices that Shepard’s wearing a black glove on her left hand today. 

Shepard is busy cutting the package open with her omni-blade, carefully pulling the plastic apart. “We have about an hourish before Mia wakes up, and she has guitar practice later. So important things first, we can meet later for other things.” Her eyes flicker between Reyes, Cecilia and Garrus. After a few moments her gaze settles on him, calm and focused.

“I’d like to ask what you’re doing here, Vakarian. I understand if there are details you can’t share, but it’s unusual to see a Spectre oversee a business deal, or use it as a cover-up. Especially if it has anything to do with me… or us.” The three humans share a secretive look. “I know it’s a lot to ask for honesty, especially coming from me. But I will ask for it anyway.” 

Huh. Shepard always did what she wanted. Rarely asked for opinions, or about people’s feelings. “I thought you were answering my questions, not the other way around,” he throws out. There’s something about seeing Shepard so at ease that irritates him, scratches his mind in an unpleasant way. “And considering the… circumstances I found you in, I don’t think you’re in a position to be making any requests.” He taps his right shoulder casually, intending it to be a silent reminder of what she’s potentially involved in. It works on Cecilia; she stiffens and looks at both of the humans, while Santiago continues scrolling on his data pad. Shepard, on the other hand, doesn’t flinch or do anything to indicate she’s bothered by the insinuation. In fact, she sits up straighter and stares him down, her gaze just as assertive as he remembers. She always had a good poker face. 

“You’re not my enemy.”

“I don’t know who you are,” he replies sharply, subvocals thrumming with frustration. It’s true; time passed, she’s appeared out of the dust with a new name and a new life. She also attacked him when they first met. And yet there’s a part of him that is just, is so relieved to see her alive, to see her healthy, after all she went through that maybe he should just accept that this is what the situation is, even if it’s not what he hoped it could be. 

Shepard doesn’t say anything at first, just tilts her head and looks at him. There’s something her eyes, thoughts and emotions whirling so fast he can’t make sense of them. They settle and she comes to a decision, then shifts to her knees and gasps her hands behind her back. 

“You’re right, in some ways,” she calmly tells him. “But not in others.” Bowing her head, she begins speaking. “I swear on the Spirit of Palaven,” and suddenly hearing the traditional turian oath coming from her lips feels like someone’s given him a stim shot, “that I will answer any questions you have for me with the truth, and help with anything that falls within my abilities. If I cannot tell the truth or commit to an action, I will let you know instead of leading you astray. You saved my life many times. It is past time I repay the favor. Let the Spirit of Palaven strike me if I fail.”

The room is still for seconds. No one moves. The constant human music drifts in the background.

What is there
If time always goes on without pity
And what does it matter
What else 

He’s shocked into speechlessness. Where in the Spirits did she learn that? He’s never met a human who even knew about traditional turian oaths. Hell, turians rarely swore them anymore. They're too vague and too liable in a court of law. Garrus certainly never told her about it; there was never a need. She was his commander and he followed her until the end. There is no need for oaths between them. And what is this nonsense about repaying favors? They were friends, it wasn’t about counting a tally of who saved who how many times, he always had her six, he told her time and time again there wasn’t a life de–

Leaning forward, he rests his head in his hands, an attempt to try and get his spiraling feelings under control. The headache is spiraling at the base of his head, building in intensity. Maybe he is as rash as his father tells him, if he’s so easily guided by his emotions. “You know that oath stands in a court of law. If I find you guilty, the court would favor whatever punishment I suggest.” He keeps his voice as steady as he can, and hopes no one can pick up on his messy, too-truthful subvocals.

“I know,” she says serenely.  

“Even if it’s a death penalty.”

“Yes.” So Shepard did know what she was doing. 

Before he has a chance to say anything else, there's a thump and he looks up in time to see Shepard sprawled on her back, Cecilia hitting Shepard with a pillow. “You—stupid—dumb–fucking–bitch!” Cecilia yells, punctuating every word with a hit. Shepard doesn’t move from the floor, just puts her arms up to protect her face. “Why–would–you do that!” There’s entire governments in the galaxy who wished they had an ounce of the influence this woman seems to have over Shepard.

“God forbid I do something legal for once,” Shepard chokes out as her friend tries to smother her with the pillow and fails. Cecilia whirls and glares at him, her cosmetic canines making her snarl more animalistic than it should be, for a human.

“You better be fucking worth it,” she spits out.

He glares at her, defensive. “I didn’t force her to say it. I just said what the consequences were.”

Garrus hates to admit it to himself, but the oath does lower his guard a bit. It’s a huge risk for Shepard, since as a high-ranking citizen he could take her to court rather quickly. It also implies that there’s still some level of trust between the two of them, in whatever twisted shape it takes now. Shepard asks again about his business here and over the next half hour they have a productive, if stilted conversation. He’s here to oversee some deals the Hierarchy is concerned about (he doesn’t expand on it more, and by the looks the humans give each other, he doesn’t need to). He’s here more as a turian reserve with a convenient Spectre status. In turn, Garrus asks the humans a handful of surface-level questions about Jaguar Arms. Santiago –as he’s insisting on being called– is much more forthcoming about the business structure and current business negotiations than he expects, but it’s nothing out of the norm for a corporation. The two women whisper amongst themselves with a lot of pointing to the box and Shepard herself. The older woman scowls at Shepard and she cowers. Damn. What the hell did the older woman have on her?

Ultimately, it’s Cecilia who decides to change topics. She turns to glare at Shepard once more, her disappointment towards the younger woman evident on her face. “Well? Are you going to tell him?” Cecilia demands, her mouth in a straight line. “Until you do I can’t work on this here without answering a lot of awkward questions, so get to it. Also, he deserves to know.”

Shepard glances at Cecilia uneasily, then at the long, rectangular box, placing her left hand on top of it. She stares at the package glumly and her silence goes on long enough that Cecilia snaps impatiently, “Xochi! Tell him. Now.” It’s enough of a jab to get Shepard talking. Garrus is impressed despite himself; he’s never seen anyone pressure Shepard into doing anything she didn’t want to.

“I can’t tell you about the Crucible right now,” Shepard suddenly says, and for a moment all he can think about is smoke and her fear in those last seconds. “It’s a long story. But I can tell you what happened next. Somewhat.” She meets his eyes and her gaze is steady. She’s had time to come with this part of her story and it’s a healed wound. Unlike his. “I woke up in some London hospital about seven months after the Crucible incident. The first thing I remember is waking up to a dusty hospital room, plugged up to a bunch of machines. The doctor said I’d woken up in spurts here and there, but I don’t remember any of that. Comms were a mess in London still, and it was hard to get anything through the system. My omni-tool was shattered so I couldn’t reach out to anyone. The hospitals were overflowing and so many of the systems were down, so they’d put me down as a Jane Doe. My doctor was salarian and he said later he had a suspicion of who I was but didn’t want to say anythin– well, that doesn’t matter right now. By the time I woke up my body had healed for the most part. The cybernetics kept me alive in the end. But…”

She stops speaking and her eyes flick between him and the box, uncertain for the first time since they’ve met. “But… it’s part of the reason why I was… well… out of… contact.” Shepard slowly opens the plastic box in front of her, pulls the protective plastic off. It’s a smooth replica of a human leg, exactly in her skin tone. She stretches her right leg out to her side, and begins rolling up her pant leg. No, it can’t be, there’s no way… Spirits guide us. 

Up until her mid thigh, her right leg is shiny plastimetal, reflecting the afternoon sun. The leg she has on is a primitive-looking model with a joint instead of a human knee. It makes her look like a character from a cheap centuries-old sci-fi vid. She places her left hand on top of her right knee, taking off her glove. The glove makes sense now; she’s missing her smallest finger on her left hand, and there’s a prosthetic replacement where there used to be flesh.

“Turns out when they rescued me they had to amputate my small finger and part of my right leg. I was left too long in the rubble or something. I also lost my hearing in my left ear, but I got surgery for that two years ago.” She shrugs, rolling down her pant leg but leaving her glove off. “I’m surprised I’m even alive, to be honest. Never thought I’d be this old.” 

Both Reyes and Cecilia frown at Shepard’s words. Whatever their relationship is, it’s clear they care for her and don’t like how casually she speaks about her own death. That, he understands completely; it’s upsetting that even after so many years, her attachment to her own life still seems as vague as it was in the midst of war. He hoped that she’d care more about being alive, once the fighting was done. His eyes are drawn back to her finger; it’s so… permanent, a change that he wasn’t there to see. The modern prosthetic hovers at the edge of his vision, a perfect, pristine version of a human leg. Which is supposed to be for Shepard. It’s daunting to think about. How did she survive without a leg? Was she all alone when it happened? Did they tell her about it, or did she suddenly just wake up with a missing limb? It wouldn’t be the first time someone messed with her body without permission.

Shepard’s omni-tool beeps at her; she glances at him for a moment, stoic, and without a word she rushes to the hallway. Even from this distance he can hear her talking to Mia, something about a change of clothes and shoes. Reyes claps his hands together, his face calm. “Well, that’s it for now, the kid’s got guitar lessons today and they’ll be running off soon. Come on Vakarian, time for us to go.” Garrus is pushed out the door while he's still busy thinking about Shepard’s missing limbs (the pain, how did she manage? How did she rebuild her life after that?) that it’s not until the late afternoon sun is warm on his skin that his brain kicks in and he asks Reyes and Cecilia the question he’s been thinking the entire time.

“Why did we meet?”

The two of them give him a cryptic, hard to read look. Damn humans and their facial muscles. It’s Santiago who answers like he's stating the obvious. “Well, because Xochil wanted to see you, obviously. Why else?”

Well. That would be easier to believe if she said it herself. Instead, he has the worst migraine he's had in months and very few answers.

Chapter Text

Life settles into a strange routine over the next two weeks. The business meetings continue and while they see each other in passing, they treat each other like complete strangers. Weirdly enough, it reminds him of the early days on the SR-1, where Commander Shepard was more of an idea than a person, always rushing to somewhere. During these meetings, the relationship between Santiago and Shepard is very blurred; no one really knows why she’s there. Avictus –the main turian negotiator– mentions that he can’t tell if the human female is meant as decoration or a bodyguard, and Garrus is inclined to agree. She touches Santiago often: adjusting his collar, his suit jacket, arranging his hair. Santiago will often interlock their arms together and lean in her ear, though his whispers are often covered by her hair. Somehow, Shepard’s infamous popularity has only intensified; he knew, in a theoretical sense, that she was considered attractive for her species but this is a whole other level. These days she smiles more, is less stoic, less scowls on her face. It changes her face almost completely, makes her more… human. More approachable. He just didn’t realize human physiology reflected emotions so much. Granted, they met in the midst of what was the start of the end of the universe, so maybe she was like this, before. Heads turn wherever she goes; one of the receptionists sighs every time she sees Shepard and wonders out loud if she was ever a model. He tries his best not to dwell on it. In a brief moment between meetings, Shepard also has the audacity to ask him to keep quiet about her being alive for now. There’s a moment of quiet rage where he thinks about saying no, but for some reason she’s full of desperation and urgency that he finds himself agreeing to her terms. For now. As she said. He can change his mind about it later. Or so he tells himself. 

It doesn’t help his emotions that in between meetings, Santiago (or Shepard, it’s unclear who’s really at the root of these invitations) invites him twice to meet in the same cozy apartment for an hour or two, answering each other’s questions. Over these conversations, a few things become clear. Cecilia and Santiago are first cousins. Mia is actually the daughter of Shepard’s only cousin, who died in a Reaper attack alongside her husband. She’s been taking care of her niece (he’s given up on figuring out human family terms, because they don’t match turian ones and every single human has a different version of them) for about three years. The little girl is her last living relative and Shepard is hers. It’s the main reason why she never returned to the Alliance or revealed her existence publicly. Logically, it makes sense; as the hero of a galactic war, she would be pulled in a thousand directions and it would turn Mia’s life upside-down. The three adults are determined to keep Mia’s life as normal as possible, and if that means the world thinks Shepard’s dead, then so be it. Shepard is fiercely protective of the child and he’s noticed she jumps on the defensive if she even so much thinks someone is critiquing how she’s raising the young girl. Not that he’s an expert on raising young, but Garrus is pretty sure no five year old should be able to handle a knife as well as Mia does. Or taught how to cry on demand, and be rewarded for it. The hesitancy to reveal her existence is somewhat tied with the prosthetics as well, since lab-grown limbs would require a DNA sample. Additionally, without Miranda or Cerberus, no one knows how Shepard’s body would cope with adjusting to a limb without cybernetics when so many of her bodily functions rely on them. Garrus also has a sneaking suspicion that there’s some extra tricks hidden in her new limbs, too. In exchange for his time, Santiago is willing to answer most of his questions about Jaguar Arms and the other arms manufacturers. He even answers some about the underworld of Mexico City, though if either Shepard or Cecilia are nearby Santiago will deflect the question.

The second time they all meet, Shepard and Santiago show up to the apartment listless and tired; Shepard sports a nasty, bright red line across her neck. Like a garotte injury or something similar. It’s not the type of injury done in greeting, that’s for sure.  While none of the three humans mention anything related to the Panthers since Santiago’s outburst, there are little things here and there that are beginning to form a picture Garrus is becoming increasingly suspicious of. He doesn’t need to come here, he knows there are other ways to get what he needs, but it’s been a valuable source of information. If it was also because he could see Shepard, well, that was his own business. 

As for Shepard herself, she kind of acts the same as before; sometimes she’ll tease him, but other times she’ll just look at him, withdrawn and silent. There’s a few moments where it feels like she’s about to tell him something, but Santiago or Cecilia will give her a look and she suddenly changes the subject. Garrus has tried his best to be cordial to her, but he can’t quite get rid of the bitterness that she’s been alive all this time and happily living her life without him. And that’s without the looming criminal suspicions.

In his alone time he’s taken to strolling the streets, watching as preparations for the upcoming holiday rise to a fever-pinch intensity. Vendors are selling paper, real, synthetic or digital orange flowers on every corner. Street vendors hawk sugar replicas of colorful human skulls, though he occasionally sees an asari skull. A few months ago a therapist suggested he should think about painting again, and seeing the bustling streets makes him seriously consider it. There's something about the frenzied mix of colors, joy and grief that made him want to pick up a paintbrush, just to see if that type of energy could even be captured on canvas. But the strange caricatures of death creep into his sleep, adding a delirious, deranged element to his dreams. 

As expected, Jaguar Arms politely requests a pause to the negotiations due to the upcoming state-wide holidays, and even extend an invitation to the turian entourage to come attend an event they’re hosting before the main day of celebrations. Whatever it is, it’s evident that Shepard is wrapped up in organizing the event. She stops attending the business meetings three days prior and instead stands outside the door on calls, occasionally speaking to random humans who come up to talk to her. On the day of their last business meeting before the break, Garrus accidentally finds her alone in the hallway, pulling at her lip and rubbing something on her upper teeth with a finger. Stims, or drugs. Is no one making sure she doesn’t take too much? Is this how she manages to stay awake for hours on end? When he coughs politely, Shepard jumps and looks at him, a guilty expression crossing her face for a second before it’s replaced by her usual cool demeanor.

“I was under the impression Earth has very strict regulations on drugs,” he remarks nonchalantly, leaning on the wall across from her.

“Yeah well, whatever I’m on is none of your business,” she snaps back, then winces. She takes a deep breath, shaking out her hands and legs then rolling her neck back and forth.

“Really? I thought the dark circles under your eye were part of your new look.”

“I thought your dull fringe was part of yours. Looking a bit under the weather these days, aren’t we?”

“Ouch. And here I thought the new fangs were just for fun.”

She cuts him a look, opening and closing her hands in fists. Then, in a very different tone of voice she suddenly asks, “Are you or the others coming to the event? I think you’d find it interesting. It’s sometimes celebrated in some of the human enclaves on the Citadel, but it’s never quite the same as the ones on Earth.”

He shrugs, a habit he’s picked up from being around too many humans. They haven’t been alone together for more than a minute or two since that first meeting, and he does not like what her closeness does to his insides, even if they’re barely friends. Or acquaintances. “I don’t think any of us have really made up our minds about it,” he responds. “I think the volus seem enthusiastic about going though.”

Shepard takes a step towards him. Garrus resists the urge to stiffen, trying to hold to his casual air for as long as he can. She’s staring at him, tilting her head a little to the right, like she used to on the Normandy, and usually when she did that it was followed by something pers–

“Are you free on the second?” She shifts a little, putting her hands in her pockets. He notices she’s wearing her black gloves again.

“Depends.”

“It’s a yes or no question, Vakarian. Are. You. Free,” she grits through her teeth. Whatever she’s thinking, it’s clearly costing her a lot. He relishes it for a little longer; it’s rare to get the commander looking so uncomfortable. 

“I don’t know,” he drawls lazily, “I heard there’s a lot to do here on the second. The city is supposed to be incredible on that day, so I was thi—”

Shepard sighs impatiently, pressing her fingers into her eyes. “Look, just say no if it’s a no, I don’t care. It’ll be just the morning and you’ll be free to do whatever the fuck you want once we’re back in the city. I know things aren’t what you expected, but I just… I… want to show you something,” she says, her voice wavering on the last few words.

I’ll show you one day. I’ll show you after all this. I’ll show you later.

A list of broken promises. Before he can think it through he hears himself answer, voice far more casual than he feels, “Fine. Let me know when and where.”

There’s a message in his inbox later that day.

From: C, Xochil
To: Vakarian, Garrus

Subject: meeting for 2 nd

Meet me at my apt at 0800 hours. Sorry for the early start, it’ll take us about an hour to get there. We’ll be back before any of the big parties. Ceci & Santi will ride with us, but they got their own thing once we get there. Oh, and Mia’s coming too. I’ve attached a pin to where we’re going, so you don’t freak. 

- X

He stares at the message for a while. Is he a fool, for hoping there’s something left between them? That there could be something, even after all these years, the circumstances? Maybe he should have pushed back more on accepting this mission. Maybe it was worth it to see her alive.

Garrus doesn’t know if he’s ever seen so much color in one place. He also thinks that the colors will be imprinted on the inside of his eyelids for days.

Most of the Palaven entourage has decided to attend the event Jaguar Arms is sponsoring, out of a mix of professional politeness and some curiosity about this human holiday. It’s a vibrant celebration; there’s different types of arts on display, crafts for sale, food, and more. There are musicians playing in one section of the plaza, and there’s even humans (and some asari) wandering the crowd dressed as colorful skeletons. 

“This is the definition of spectacle,” comments one of the volus, intrigued. Garrus privately agrees. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this intense, happy energy mixed with so many motifs of death. Oh, he’s seen it around, but as it nears the day of the actual holiday, it’s reaching new levels. They must be expecting some crowds, because within twenty minutes he counts at least three sharpshooters in black armor hidden on nearby roofs, and there’s a truck labeled ‘National Guard’ twice (he realizes it must be listed in two human languages) with armored humans patrolling the area.

Santiago and Shepard find them within a few minutes of their arrival and rush them to a table reserved just for them. Both of the humans are visibly participating in the festivities; their faces are painted in colorful imitations of skulls, and for a second Garrus wonders whether she’d let him paint her next year. He throws the thought aside the moment it happens. Shepard disappears the moment they’re seated, but Santiago sits with them for a few minutes, discussing the significance of the holiday and what it represents. Eventually he’s pulled away by other matters, but he welcomes them to stay as little or as long as they like.

The music is a constant, nonstop presence in the plaza. In space, anything with intergalactic appeal has no lyrics, as translators struggled to keep up with the speed and momentum of lyrical music. Of course in a place like this, lyrics aren’t a concern. In fact, he finds himself missing wordless music; his translator is starting to give him a headache while trying to keep up with the constant noise. Every song has words here and almost on instinct, people suddenly burst into song for a few lines, or someone just yells for no reason. He gives up trying to figure it out and sticks to trying to fine-tune his translator to interpret the important stuff. 

Not to mention, for someone trying to avoid looking at Shepard, he is failing spectacularly. He’s never seen her so… happy , so open to the world. It’s another side of Shepard he’s never seen, full of smiles and cheer. It’s so different from the haggard commander from his memories. She’s playing the gracious hostess, her long, black curly hair trailing behind her as she sprints around the plaza. Just like on the Normandy, always in motion, always going somewhere. Someone taps her on the shoulder and she hugs them and presses kisses to their cheeks. He catches her slipping some credit chits to an older, wrinkly human woman. A man hands her a human baby boy and she spends a few moments pinching his cheeks. She brings Santiago a plate of food. A band starts a song and dozens of people rush to the dance floor, dragging Shepard with them. After she sits to eat some food, and inevitably someone stops by (usually a human male) to pull her to the dance floor again. She spins and twirls. It’s hard to believe he ever accused her of being a bad dancer, seeing her like this. People constantly invite her to dance, and Shepard always says yes. It’s clear she’s having fun; no matter who asks, she’s always laughing happily, every movement smoothly transitioning to the next. None of the awkwardness he remembers. 

The first time they see her dance they tease her about her bad moves, and surprisingly the commander throws her head back and laughs, sharp and a little strained. Shepard tells Tali, “I’m not a terrible dancer! Space music just has no soul, no heart, no movement.” After that, the few times they see her dance on the Citadel, she’s always a little drunk, a little unsure, and has to be peer-pressured onto the dance floor. 

On one of their few, actual, real dates he surprises her with a tango, expecting her to stumble and flail her way through, but Shepard is full of surprises. While she’s a bit awkward on the first few moves, she then smiles for the first time in weeks, picks up the steps and dances better than he’s ever seen. She looks so happy and joyful for once that it doesn’t occur to him until weeks later to wonder how strange it was that Shepard could dance so well.  

 Maybe this explains more than it doesn’t, a part of her mysterious past she hated to talk about. He continues to drink from the brandy he found earlier.

Mia runs up to Shepard at one point, in matching face paint and outfit, and the two spin in circles until they’re giggling so hard they can’t anymore. She’s in constant motion and he’s starting to get an idea of why she hasn’t slept in a few days. There are dozens of humans showing up every minute, and by the end of his first hour there, it must be hundreds, along with a few asaris, turians, and even a quarian. The more people arrive, the energy rises higher and higher, spiraling to a frantic, feral feeling. The altars are massive now, with hundreds, if not thousands of pictures of the deceased. Underneath the music there’s the constant echoes of sobs and grief, and he hears people talk of the city before the war. How beautiful it was, how much history it held, all of it to be gone in months. It’s hard for him to sit through such public displays of grief, though no one but the non-humans seem to be bothered at all.

  Another song plays and by the time Garrus can pull his eyes away from an older woman crying over her dead son, Shepard’s dancing with another stranger. It’s another human male, and he leans in to whisper in her ear; she nods. Suddenly he’s grabbing her by the waist and tossing her over his arm, then swings her by his sides and between his legs. People start yelling and shouting in approval, cheering the couple on. The Palaven entourage have already left to explore the celebration when Cecilia startles him out of his thoughts, handing him a dextro version of a popular Mexican beer.

 “Hey lil’ bird, you know you can go talk to her, right? Nothing gained by you staring like an idiot.” Garrus points at Shepard, just in time for them to see her step up on the man’s hands to be tossed up in the air, where she flips and he grabs her by the waist on the way down, spinning around with her again. 

Cecilia shrugs her shoulders. “Well, the bitch always loved to dance,” she jokes dryly, taking a seat next to him. She pops a candy into her mouth, then suddenly sits up and scowls. The song ends and the air is filled with applause, and they can finally get a good look at Shepard’s partner. He’s taller than she is, well-built and has a thin scar running down the side of his left cheek.

“Oh shit,” Cecilia mutters, then speaks into her omni-tool. “Santi, Santi. It’s Mateo. Hair trick again. Go fast before her brain kicks in.”

Both dancers are sweating profusely, breathing hard. Shepard is smiling fiercely –it’s a borderline freaky look with all the skull makeup– and kisses the man on the cheek. He responds by kissing her on the mouth. Someone whistles. Garrus lets out a sound that’s only subvocals. Why should I care, anyways? She’s shaping up to be a high-ranking criminal of a crime syndicate with a long list of crimes. Shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t help the stab of… whatever he feels.

The next song starts playing and the man has his arms wrapped around Shepard’s waist as they stand and talk. Shepard looks the picture of a love-struck teenager; her eyes are wide and she hasn’t stopped smiling, her canines on full display. With every movement of her face the skull paint shifts, adding a theatrical element to the whole interaction. Shepard’s mystery partner brushes the back of her hair. 

Cecilia grumbles. “God, I hate that guy. Oh look, there’s Santi, just in time.”

The man smiles then leaves Shepard alone, and she looks after him with a wistful expression. Santiago approaches her from the right, loosely grasping her waist with his right arm and leaning in to whisper something in her ear. His left hand brushes against Shepard’s hair where the previous man’s did, and Garrus can see for a moment that Santiago slips something in his pocket.

“Interesting way of leaving a gift,” Garrus points out, taking a sip of this new dextro beer. Not as awful as he expected.

The grump of a human snorts loudly. He’ll never get used to that weird human sound. “Ha. Ha. I’m just dying of laughter. Xochi’s been obsessed with him—name’s Mateo— since she was a kid, and no matter how many times we tell her he’s a piece of shit, and no matter how many times he treats her like shit, she does anything to try and get his attention the moment she sees him. Look.” Cecilia nods in the direction of Mateo. The human in question is holding an older woman, smiling and laughing with her like old lovers. “He danced with Xochi ‘cause she left for a bit. She’s the wife of an upcoming UNAS congressman and he’s trying to stay in her good graces. Now he won’t even look in her direction. I’m surprised he’s even here, but she must be leaving soon for something and he’s decided to risk a little fun with Xochil. Problem is he likes having the type of fun that means we’re looking for Xochil for days and we find her high off her fucking mind in some random hotel outside of where we live.” She stops speaking as she lets her implications settle in the silence. He thinks back to Santiago slipping something in his pocket, Shepard’s carefree smile. Garrus can feel a quiet, hot rage building up in his chest.

He lowers his voice, but his indignation is clear. “He drugs her?” 

She nods again and spits on the ground. “Yeah, and she’s willing. Part of the fun, they say. It’s not fun when I find her alone scratching herself bloody and screaming about husks. It’s not just her though, he does it to any of the girls he doesn’t think are worth his time. You never see him pulling that shit on his marks.”

He’s seen Shepard smoke maybe once in his entire life. Hell, he’s rarely seen her do stims, though he knows the Alliance provided them to their soldiers. Drugs? Shepard? “Why does no one report it to law enforcement?”

“Do you also have a damn bird brain? Did I not just say he’s fucking the wife of a UNAS congressman? He’s insane, not stupid. He knows who to fuck for what. Xochil, she’ll protect the gi—” Cecilia bites her lip, but Garrus remembers the slip for later; he doesn’t want to interrupt her. “Well, Xochil isn’t good at following her own advice.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She leans back and takes a sip of her drink, giving him a searching look. Something she sees must satisfy her, because Cecilia lifts her chin and continues speaking. “Well, obviously because she likes you. You knew her during her… time away and saved her life multiple times. She says she trusts you with her life, even now; that’s why me and Santi treat you the way we do. None of us trust easy, and if she says you’re good, you good. We don’t question shit like that. She may be obsessed with Mateo, but she’s never said that about him. I can’t read turians for shit, but I can tell you’re a good kid. I care more about Xochil being alive than telling her old friend about her stupid moments so he can stop her from being stupid if we’re not around.”

He’s taken aback at Cecilia’s honesty. Shepard has given him no indication that she still trusted him to that extent, and it’s an added layer of confusion to his already messy feelings. That explains why Cecilia and Santiago treat him with so much casualness: she’s vouched for him. And turns out she’s talked about him, though Spirits know what the hell she’s said. Garrus looks up and finds himself locking eyes with Shepard, who’s holding Mia and looking in their direction. Mia grins, waving her arms and shouting something that’s lost underneath all the noise. Shepard gives him a bright smile and a small wave before a family blocks them from view. 

The Shepard he knew had a sense of humor buried deep down, and it took months before she showed him anything close to a smile. She’s smiled more in the last two weeks than he’s seen her smile in their entire time together. But they also met during war, and he didn’t know a Shepard outside of war. Was she the type to smile all the time? By all accounts he’s heard she always had a slightly cold demeanor. This smiling version of Shepard, he doesn’t know. She even talks differently— not to him, but she’ll turn to her friends and use slang terms he’s never heard, and her grammar is strange. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, Shepard appears out of nowhere and slips a plate full of dextro tacos (he’s actually become quite fond of these during his time here) in front of him, the fillings of all his favorite types of meats. “Here, it’s not good to have all that beer on an empty stomach, and don’t lie to me because I know you haven’t had any of the food.” She pulls out a seat next to him, and he feels a little nervous for a second. But then she’s staring into the distance, screaming, “Mia, no !” and sprints off into the crowd, leaving him alone once more. Looking down at the plate of food before him, he wonders whether he’ll ever have a chance to know who this new Shepard is. Cecilia observes everything with a small frown but says nothing at all, just continues sipping her beer in silence.

It’s too much to think about. The food makes him a little drowsy and it’s enough to make him realize he’s starting to feel worn out, in more ways than one. Garrus says his goodbyes to Cecilia and heads back to his hotel. The streets are packed with people and it feels like they're pressing him on all sides, even if they aren’t and he desperately just wants to leave, leave to somewhere silent where he can hear himself think. About two blocks from his hotel he feels something bump on his left side, but by the time he reaches out, the mystery thief is gone. Well, it’s not like I had anything. And even if I caught the person I can’t do anything here.

Back in his dimly-lit suite, he changes out of his armor and something small falls out of an armor greave. It’s a small bright red-yellow candy, labeled 'dextro-friendly’ on the wrapper. He stares at it, perplexed, at both what it is and the possible implications of someone not stealing, but gifting him a candy of all things. It ends up at the bottom of a trash can, out of sight but not quite out of mind.

Chapter Text

On the morning of the second, Garrus finds himself contemplating how hope is such a stupid, irresponsible thing. Usually he expects the worst; why did he let himself think this would be different? He hates how Shepard still has a grip on him, whether she knew it or not. Another check of the geo-pin Shepard sent reminds him that their final destination is about an hour away, somewhere in a hilly area. There’s nothing else on the map that indicates any nearby civilization. A part of him knows he should be more concerned, but he’s been dropped off in the middle of active war zones. A sleepy part of Earth doesn’t exactly inspire fear. He arrives at Shepard’s apartment at 0800 on the dot. When he exits the taxi, Santiago is already leaning against the wall holding a sleeping Mia. Both Cecilia and Shepard are loading things in the back of an aircar.

Santi yawns and nods. “Good morning little bird. God, I can’t read your face and yet you seem more awake than I do. Ugh.”

Shepard shuts the trunk of the car, stretching her arms to the sky. Her hair is loose today with the sides pinned back, and she’s wearing a white dress covered in flowers near the top that shows her shoulders and clavicle. From this distance he can see her clavicle moving as she rolls her shoulder back–

“You in first kid, you get the back row,” Cecilia tells him, thankfully breaking him out of, well, whatever thoughts he was about to have about collarbones. The car opens up and he’s relieved to see that with three rows of seats, it’s more than spacious enough for all of them. Santiago passes Mia to Shepard, who buckles her into a weird seat in the middle, clearly meant for small human children. Cecilia sits up in the front passenger, which means that the driver…

He groans involuntarily, the imminent future of a terrible car ride overriding all thoughts and mixed feelings. “Don’t tell me she’s driving.”

Shepard settles into the driver seat as the aircar doors close. “Got something to say about my driving, Vakarian?”

“Plenty. The time you rolled the Mako off the hillside, the time you crashed a taxi into a wall in Zakera Ward, and the ti—”

A stuffed pyjak suddenly hits him in the face. “Shut up and be grateful it’s not Ceci driving,” Santiago mumbles sleepily, slumping back into his seat next to Mia. 

Cecilia turns to face the back and smirks, all malicious glee. “I’m the one who taught Xochi to drive.” He fervently hopes he's never stuck in a car with her.

Shepard drives towards the outskirts of the city in a much more sedate manner than she’s ever handled a vehicle in his presence. They make a brief stop for coffee and snacks at a local coffee shop; the car fills with a sweet, coffee smell that has all the humans sighing in pleasure. Even Mia wakes up and instantly asks for some coffee. Santiago promises her some once it’s cooled down, and he thinks to himself that it’s a terrible idea to give the tiny whirlwind any type of stimulant. Shepard and Cecilia sigh in satisfaction after taking a sip. Santiago leans over the back of his seat and hands him a warm cup, along with a bag of pastries. “Happy Day of the Dead. We got you some bread and some coffee. I don’t know how good the dextro stuff is, but last week I had to break up a fight between a quarian and turian over the last chocolate pastry, so this shit has got to be good.”

“I still can’t believe the quarian won,” Ceci grumbles.

Santiago replies through a mouth full of food, “You’re just upset you lost 100 dollars.”

While the three bicker about lost bets, he takes a look inside the paper bag. A soft, sweet smell wafts up and he pulls out a round ball of bread, almost identical to the one he’s seen in the altar in Shepard’s apartment. After Garrus takes a bite, he thinks the quarian was onto something. It’s sweet and has some familiar spices in it, and with the unusual, sweetened coffee-style drink, he thinks that maybe on a bad day, he’d also get into a fight over some bread and coffee. The car is warm and he feels much more relaxed than he has any right to be. A part of him feels a little out of place and clumsy, with this little tight-knit group of friends who obviously have known each other their entire lives, but then they turn around and treat him the same way, and it just… it confuses him. No one’s ever treated him with that type of easy-going energy, especially now that he’s a decorated war hero. It’s just… nice, to be treated like a normal person rather than a glorified battle spirit. That’s it. That has to be it, it cannot be anything else. 

Mia by now is well and truly awake. “Where’s Pepe?”

Santiago points to the stuffed pyjak next to Garrus with his free hand. Garrus gives it to Santiago, who passes it to Mia. Once they’re out of the city limits, Shepard picks up speed and goes well over the legal speed limit, weaving around aircars with far too much comfort. Just as he begins to wonder whether there’s any traffic cops patrolling the area, he hears a siren and flashing lights. As Shepard pulls to the side of the road, everyone else in the vehicle looks unbothered; Ceci is on her omni-tool, while Santiago is reading a story to Mia. Shepard turns to face the window and rolls it down while the officer is approaching. The moment the officer approaches the vehicle, she offers a wide, toothy smile, her omni-tool flickering on. The officer takes a look at her, and her eyes focus on the lower half of Shepard’s face, her teeth and chin tattoo on clear display. Her eyes then flicker Shepard’s right shoulder, where her panther tattoo is distinct and visible. The officer nods to Shepard and once the officer starts walking back to their patrol car, Shepard takes off almost immediately, back to her now-confirmed, definitely over the legal speed limit speed. The entire interaction lasts less than a minute and no words are spoken. Local law enforcement is in the Panther’s pocket. No wonder they denied Shepard’s existence when he approached them. The rest of the drive is uneventful, but his coffee starts to taste a little less sweet, and a bit more bitter.

The terrain shifts from city to highlands, the scenery becoming greener the farther out they go. Out here, it’s almost like the Reapers never attacked; the land is lush and thriving, with occasional roadside stops for travelers. Eventually they end up in a small, tiny rural town where Shepard pulls into a dirt parking lot that’s nearly impossible to distinguish from above the treeline. Santiago and Cecilia start unloading the back of the aircar, and while Shepard is unbuckling Mia from her seat, Garrus takes the opportunity to survey their surroundings. They’re at the top of a small hill, the surrounding area cleared strategically to allow for vehicle parking without sacrificing too much tree cover. Families are trickling into the area, all walking in different directions. He turns back in time to see Cecilia, Santiago and Shepard hug for a long moment, with Mia hugging one of Cecilia’s legs. They mutter amongst themselves for a few moments. Cecilia and Santiago then grab two baskets and nod to Garrus, then step off to the north.

And just like that, he’s alone with Shepard for the first time since their meeting on the roof.

She takes it into stride, already too busy to let any awkwardness settle between them. “You’re gonna have to help out, big guy. Here, hold this.” She hands him a basket that’s wafting a dozen different scents into the air, while she grabs a weirdly-shaped case with a strap and slings that over her back. After that, Shepard crouches down to look into Mia’s left ear and frowns. Side-by-side, he notices that the two of them are wearing matching outfits again. Grabbing another basket from the trunk, she pulls something out of it and gently tucks it into Mia’s ear. “Hey sol, does that feel okay?” she asks Mia. The little girl nods and taps her ear. It’s a translator comm. Because of me.

She stands up and looks at him. “Can you say something real quick?”

Garrus blurts out his first thought without thinking. “What did you call her?”

Shepard looks confused. “What? My sol?”

“Like the system?”

“What?” she asks, her eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“Sol, like the Sol system.”

“What? No, not like the Sol sys– ooooh, I think I know what’s happening.” She shuts the trunk of the car and locks it, and the car beeps in response. Picking up Mia, she struggles to adjust the basket and the small girl in her arms. Out of habit he reaches out and softly pulls the basket off her arm. She thanks him with a small smile that makes him feel… something. “Come on, follow me. It’s not far, and watch your step.” Shepard starts leading him towards the west, into a thicket of trees. He has to lift some of the branches out of the way. It takes a few tries, but eventually Shepard’s able to explain that her nickname for Mia also means sun in a few human languages. Strangely enough, it’s the first time he’s learned about this. Turians at this point in time only have about a dozen languages to humans’ three thousand, so issues like these aren’t as common anymore.

Shepard nimbly ducks to avoid a branch, and only gives Mia a defeated look when the girl pulls some leaves off a tree. She gives him a wry smile. “I guess you downloaded the Spanish pack before you came here. That’s what we've been speaking the entire time. The Alliance and most humans in space use English. Mia doesn’t speak it yet.” Shifting her arms slightly, she starts turning left into a thicket of trees. “Lieutenant Vega spoke Spanish. So, if your translator gave out with him once in a while, that’s probably why.”

Huh. Well, that might explain why the humans knew what Vega said while the non-humans were confused. “I sometimes wondered what he was telling Ashley when he was drunk.”

Shepard makes a weird noise that makes Mia burst into giggles. “Don’t remind me, his pick-up lines were terrible.”

“Did he know you spoke it? The same language, I mean.”

She shook her head. “Of course not. My public profile states I was born in Vancouver, not in a Mexican state. Besides, if I did the moment I open my mouth my accent would jump out and I don’t sound like a north-- ah, it’s human socio-political crap. Long story short, no.” Garrus wonders to himself how long she denied parts of herself throughout her life. It’s a ridiculous thought– she enlisted under a new name at eighteen, meaning she spent most of her life hiding her childhood in one way or another. And clearly she was scared of revealing the truth, if she refused to even speak her first language. Maybe that’s why she was so distant to everyone she met during her years in space, trying to keep her secrets tucked away. It’s easy to see why she would want to distance herself from such a life during her time in the Alliance. It’s certainly very different from how he would have handled it– he was taught that lying is a moral flaw, and even after everything he’s seen in the galaxy there’s a part of him that finds it hard to contradict that belief. But that doesn’t explain what’s happening now, or why she came back to it all.  

As they walk through the forest he can occasionally see other people walking in between the trees and some people are sitting on the ground floor. They come upon a small clearing, and Shepard stops, setting Mia on the ground. “We’re here. Give me the left basket. Mia, hold onto his leg, and don’t even think of running.”

Mia obediently steps over and wraps her impossibly tiny arms somewhere near the lower half of his leg. Garrus can barely feel her through his civilian clothing. No human child has ever touched him and he doesn’t really want to start here, either. His subvocals begin to thrum with a mix of concern and alarm while Mia starts giggling again. “Shep—Athena, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Shepard doesn’t bother to look in his direction and pulls a blanket from the basket, placing it on the grassy ground. “Oh hush, she can’t hurt you, and you can hurt anything. Also, you’re a fast runner. She’s quicker than you think and I don’t want her to get lost here.” His pant leg is moving, and he looks down to see Mia trying stretching them as much as she can. Which was to mean, absolutely nothing.

“She’s pulling at my pant leg.”

Shepard slings the case off her back and pulls the last basket off his arm. “Stop being a big baby. At least she’s not pulling at your spurs, she has a terrible grip.”

“Yeah, stop being a big baby.” Mia quips and looks up, smiling.

Why in the Spirits am I here again? He notices a small gap in the girl’s teeth that was definitely not there a few days ago. “ Is she missing a tooth?” he asks, a little worried at the random hole in her mouth.

“Yeah, she lost her first one yesterday afternoon. It’s a normal thing for human kids, her adult one will come later.”

And here he thought he’d learned the weirdest things about humans already. “Humans shed their teeth ?”

Shepard sits down on the blanket and shoots him an annoyed look. “It’s not shedding but sure, they do. Look it up on the extranet if you’re so curious. Mia, sit down. And you sit too, we’ll be here a while.”

Mia lets go of his leg then settles down next to Shepard. Shepard takes out more items out of one of the baskets and arranges them by the tree she’s sitting next to. A bundle of the orange flowers. A tiny version of a string instrument. A colorful necklace. A toy car. An ancient, outdated music player. When she’s done, she looks at him and tilts her head towards the tree. “Come look.”

He shuffles awkwardly and looks to where she’s pointing. From here he can see the four digital plaques buried in the ground, flickering through vids and photos. Around the plaques there are plastic cases protecting old items: a grinning skeleton draped in a black cloak alongside a black candle, a knife, some dice, an old doll.

In loving memory
Elisa Cruz
An adored mother who sang with the birds

In loving memory
Katarina Cruz
Mother, sister, and the best cook in the world

In loving memory
Isabella Lopez-Cruz
A loving mother who saw the beauty in everyone

In loving memory
Marcos Allende Obregon
His sacrifice will never be forgotten

He remembers that these faces were on the walls of Shepard’s apartment and on her little altar. In the distance he can hear someone sobbing, and others laughing. There’s music playing somewhere, but it’s too far for it to be distinguishable. “Are these…” he starts, unsure of what to say. He was hoping to be able to ask some questions of his own, now that they were alone (well, not including the kid), but he wasn’t expecting to be sitting down next to a grave. It’s unexpected enough that his questions are pushed to the back of his mind for now, sensing that something is about to happen.

She starts with the plaque that says Elisa Cruz, caressing the vid of the woman smiling and laughing. The woman looks a little too thin to be healthy, her cheeks hollow and gaunt. “This is my mother. Katarina is her sister. Isabella is Katarina’s daughter, and Mia is Isabella’s daughter. Marcos was Isabella’s husband.” In the meantime Mia has been staring at Isabella’s plaque, her tiny little eyebrows pressed together. Suddenly her face scrunches up and she’s wailing, a heart-breaking, painful sob that has her whole body shaking. Shepard picks her up and holds her firmly to her chest, rocking her back and forth. He can see her eyes are starting to water, too.

“I—miss—her—so-–much,” Mia gasps between sobs, clutching at Shepard’s dress.

Shepard rubs her back in small circles. “I know, my little girl, I know. I miss them too.”

He’s intruding. He shouldn’t be here. This is a raw, private type of grief, the type that’s so painful that it hurts to show to anyone else. Garrus starts to stand up, to go somewhere, anywhere where he doesn’t have to witness this type of hurt anymore, but he feels a warm, firm grasp above his knee. It’s Shepard, holding him down firmly and shaking her head.

She wants him to stay. So he does.

They sit in silence as Mia continues crying into Shepard’s shoulder. Shepard’s head is tilted towards the sky, her face glistening wet in the weak sunlight. In this strange silence, sitting next to graves, with wails and laughter and music in the distance, his mind turns to his own mother.

Beyond extending her life by a few years, none of the dozens of treatments worked. His mother was in the last stages of Corpalis Syndrome right before the war truly started. He was woefully unprepared to see the lively, bright woman of his memories bedbound, sick and frail. At that stage there were more bad days than good ones; her temper was always close to the surface, and she didn’t remember her family. The only consolation they had as a family was that she died months before the Reaper attack, and didn’t witness her home destroyed. But maybe if he’d done more, made more money, helped Solana take care of their mother, would she have survived? Could he have been a better son? Maybe Solana was right and he was just too terrified to see their mother fall apart that he ran away. He doesn’t think that’s true, not anymore, but the thought still follows him after all these years, and he thinks it’ll follow for the rest of his life, too. His eyes briefly flicker back to the vid of Shepard’s mother; based on the information he’s gathered, she died at thirty from a brain tumor. When Shepard found out about his mother and demanded to know why he was on the Normandy instead of Palaven, he was convinced she didn’t understand how much it hurt to see his mother fading away. And yet after his mother’s death, Shepard was a silent, comforting presence at his side. Turns out that maybe she understood better than anyone, after all.

Eventually Mia’s wails turn into soft sobs, and then she’s sniffling and sitting up. Shepard grabs a napkin from one of the baskets and wipes the girl’s tears away. Mia grabs the napkin and wipes at her aunt’s tears in return. Shepard presses her forehead to Mia with a soft smile.

“Okay, my sun?” she asks quietly. Mia nods. “Ready to eat?” Mia nods again with more energy. Shepard hands Mia another napkin and the little girl blows her nose. As Shepard unpacks the biggest basket and pulls out box after box of food, Mia crawls over to Garrus and doesn’t stop until she’s kneeling in front of him, her hands using his shin as support. Her hands feel so incredibly tiny; he’s afraid that if he makes a wrong move, he’ll hurt the young child. She's just so small.

“Is your mommy alive?” she asks him, eyes wide and still a little red.

Garrus feels his mandibles flare out in surprise. He knows her question is innocent, but it touches a wound he thought long-healed. “No. Not anymore. She died four years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Mia tells him, her voice a little wobbly. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

He’s speechless for a moment, touched by this young girl’s sincerity after witnessing the depth of her sadness. “Yes,” he replies, his subvocals denoting his grief.

“I know,” she says simply, patting his shin. Somehow it’s a lot more comforting than most of the platitudes he’s received since his mother’s funeral. He thinks it’s because despite being a child, Mia knows what it’s like to lose a mother.

Shepard calls out to get their attention. He can see that the wet spots left on her dress by Mia’s tears are slowly drying up in the sunlight. The kid turns on her knees and heads towards the bright pink box Shepard’s pointing at. She hands a black one to him, then unpacks the contents of a different box, placing food items near the plaques. Different breads, fruits, sweets. A bottle of tequila. Once she’s finished, Shepard scoots back on the blanket and stretches out her legs in front of her, kicking off her shoes.

Garrus opens the box of food. It’s warm and steaming, copadiax with pulus, a meat stew that’s one of his favorite dishes. He does not let himself think about how Shepard somehow managed to find this on a human planet. Instead, he thinks about how strange it is to be eating a full meal like this in front of a grave, and how it feels incredibly disrespectful. Palaven has few cemeteries; turians didn’t believe in burying a body in the same way, the physical being a host for the spiritual. Funerals were important for spirits to be, but there wasn’t much to do once a funeral occurred. They occasionally visited a grave to drink, but not a full meal like this.

Shepard catches his hesitation almost immediately. “Please, eat. You’re not being rude. It would be more rude to not eat, actually. Isabella would certainly take offense,” she assures him, taking a bite out of a piece of bread. She dusts her hands off and keeps talking as she fiddles with a portable music player. “A bunch of human cultures have different ways to honor the dead. Day of the Dead originated in the region, so it has a particularly strong following here. We believe that the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest today, and so our loved ones come to visit us from the other side. It’s tradition to visit the graves of our loved ones and have a meal with them. We keep their memories alive this way.” Music starts playing, much more upbeat than he’d expect on a day for mourning.

After Mia takes a bite out of a sandwich she says, “Auntie says Mommy was a reaaaally good cook.”

Shepard laughs and wipes some crumbs off of Mia’s check. “Yes she was. She used to make —” his translator skips (his translator never skipped this much before this trip and he’s starting to get annoyed about it, maybe he should lodge a complaint) “—and they were sooo delicious.”

“Better than Marta’s?”

“Waaaay better. That’s how your daddy fell in love with your mommy.”

“I know.” Mia is quiet for a second, then turns to him. “What about your mommy?”

Garrus looks at Shepard, but she’s calm and curious, her expression the same as Mia’s. It was, unfortunately for him, very cute. He doesn’t know if he wants to talk about his mother, but as he looks at Mia’s big, dark brown, innocent eyes, her sincerity and empathy only making them bigger, his mouth starts moving on its own. “She was a writer. She wrote a bunch of books and was pretty well-known. She always said she liked writing kids’ books the most though, said they were the most fun to write.”

“Which one was your favorite?”

He takes a moment to think, trying to figure out how to explain a book to a child who can barely count. “I think the one where a turian finds out about a big group of bad guys and has to chase them across the galaxy to stop them from hurting more people.”

“Predictable,” he hears Shepard mutter, but when he looks up at her she’s calmly biting into a fruit as if she hasn’t said a word.

The next half hour the three of them talk about anything that occurs to them. Most of it is sharing memories of the deceased. Mia has not tried to run away once, which Shepard claims is a huge win. Worn out by her tears and with a full stomach, Mia rests her head on Shepard’s lap and takes a nap while Shepard runs her fingers through her hair. When she leans back on her arms her hair is long enough that it brushes against the blanket. The forest is livelier now; he can hear snatches of conversations nearby and can smell all different types of food. He even sees a bright spot of blue– an asari, walking past with a human family.

He didn’t know what to expect on this trip, but visiting a grave was certainly nowhere on the list. But somehow there’s this… calmness, between him and Shepard, almost as if they were… friends. Or something. There’s still a million questions in the back of his mind, but he knows this isn’t the time for most of them. “I don’t want to be rude, but… can I ask you something?” 

“Yeah?”

“How did this, the graves, survive the war? The plaques don’t look that old, and your mother and aunt have been deceased for a lot longer than the plaques have been buried for.” Shepard immediately stiffens, her relaxation gone. He instantly regrets ruining the peace. “I’m sorry, sorry, it’s rude of me I shouldn’t have ask—”

She holds her hand up and slowly sits up. “It’s because of me. The moment I knew of the Reaper threat, I warned people back on Earth. I’m sure you can guess who.”

“Cecilia and Santiago.”

“Whoever they were, I warned them that something was coming and they should prepare. This isn’t a normal human cemetery. Someone decided that the dead should be moved to somewhere safer. Most humans are cremated nowdays, space being an issue and all, so logistically, moving the remains isn’t hard. They picked this area and this setup. That’s all I know. I didn’t know this existed until my first year back home, so now you know as much as I do.”

“Huh. Well, good to hear someone decided to listen to your warnings.”

At this, Shepard frowns and pulls at a curl in front of her face. It extends far, far longer than he expects, and bounces back into place when let go. “You don’t even know the half of it,” she sighs quietly. He makes a note of this conversation for later; Santiago and Cecilia’s involvement imply that the crime syndicate is involved somehow.

The next question is out his mouth before he can stop it. “Why does your hair look like that?” Great. Fucking. Spirits. Why do I always say the wrong thing at the wrong time?

Shepard’s frown disappears and she laughs instead, tilting her head to the sun. “This is my natural hair.”

“And I continue to sit here, humbly waiting for an answer,” Garrus responds dryly, charmed by her laugh more than he wants to admit.

She laughs again, a careless little thing. He’s certainly never heard her laugh as much as he has in the last few weeks. It suits her. A lot. “Sorry. What I mean by natural is that this is how my hair grows on its own out of my scalp. Humans can make changes to their hair through the use of chemicals. Right before I joined the military, I put some chemicals in it to make it straight and that brown color. I kept that up right until the end of the war; by that point I’d been doing it so long I learned to do it on my own. I was too paranoid to stop.”

It makes sense if she was trying to hide her identity; it’s a simple but effective change. “Did Cerberus ever find out?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Yes and no. Those types of cosmetic changes are incredibly common among humans. They were shaving my hair down to the scalp like Jack, but the only thing Miranda ever mentioned to me was that she noticed my hair was black. I don’t know how much they found out about my childhood, but it never came up.” Her hair is both confusing and intriguing; he has to resist the urge to pull on a curl himself, just to see if it really does bounce back like when she does it. They chit-chat a little bit more after that. She tells him some stories about Isabella and their childhood together, and he can tell by the affection in her voice that she adored her cousin. Garrus finds himself telling her another story about his own mother and the time she taught him how to bake bread. He wants to ask about Shepard’s mother, but she hasn’t said anything beyond her name and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Mia starts waking up, and after a quick snack of fruits and water, she sits and stares at Shepard expectantly. It’s funny and ironic to see Shepard’s stare reflected back at her through the face of a five-year old.

Shepard smiles and taps Mia on the nose. “Is it time, my little girl?” Mia nods enthusiastically and jumps up from her seat to grab the big case Shepard carried earlier, and carefully drags it in front of her. Shepard touches her forehead to Mia’s and kisses her hair. “Okay.” Popping open the case, she pulls out a string instrument of sorts that looks just like the toy she left on the plaques earlier. It’s a warm golden-brown color, made out of wood and six strings. She settles it on her lap and plucks a string. Mia turns off the music player.

“That’s a guitar, isn’t it?” he asks, curious. “I know a lot of the asari homeworlds have versions of them.”

“That’s right. They’re very common here, and I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of street performers with them too.” He makes a noise in the affirmative as she plucks the strings and twists the knobs at the top. Turians have similar stringed instruments, but the sounds they make are very different. He’s occasionally seen street performers with guitars in the asari and human enclaves on the Citadel, but he rarely stops to hear them play.

“Auntie’s very good,” Mia states proudly, her tiny little chest puffed up. “Everyone says she could be pro-fessional. One day I’m gonna be as good as her.”

Shepard chuckles in amusement and pinches the girl’s cheek. “No Mia, you’ll be better. Anyways,” she flicks her eyes away from the guitar to him for a second, then continues tuning the guitar, “my mother taught me how to play. It’s how we made money once in a while, before she got too sick. I didn’t have many chances to play during the military, but I started playing again when I came back, and I take classes with Mia. I like singing to my mother and to Isabella, when I can.” She strums her guitar a few times; it’s a warm sound, pleasing to hear. For once, she doesn’t make eye contact, but stares at her guitar as she lightly runs her fingers across the strings. “I’m gonna sing,” she says, her voice steady even if she refuses to look up. “I don’t know how it’ll sound through the translator, so you might want to pause it and have speech to text on your omni-tool if you wanna listen or… something. I don’t know. Sorry in advance if I hurt your ears.”

She’s nervous. Yelling at the most powerful people in the galaxy? No problem. Singing a song to a deceased loved one in front of someone she’d never played before? She’s rambling. If someone told me years ago that Commander Shepard had musical talent I would have laughed my way to the Citadel. Garrus resists the urge to laugh outright, but his mandibles flicker out in amusement.

As if she could read his silence, Mia turns around, her arms crossed and glaring at him. For a five-year old, she has a pretty intense glare. Those schoolyard fights are starting to make a lot more sense. “You’re the best. He’ll like it. Or I’ll kick him.”

That startles a laugh out of both of them. “Thanks Mia. If you do kick him, aim for his spurs.”

Mia shuts the guitar case and scoots to the side so that they’re sitting in a triangle. Garrus pauses his translator and turns on speech-to-text on his visor. She’s never even so much as hummed around him, and he tries not to let on how curious he is about her musical skills (though he’s a little wary). Shepard straightens up a little, rolls her neck and takes a few deep breaths to calm her nerves. After carefully playing a handful of notes, she strums in earnest, and starts to sing. He’s rarely heard Shepard without his translator and its modulations. Her voice is strong, smooth and slightly husky, though a little strange to him without the layer of subvocals. It easily fills the clearing, with the guitar complimenting, not competing, with her singing.

You are the sadness in my eyes
Which cry in silence for your love
I look in the mirror and see in my face
The time I have suffered for your goodbye  

Mia is humming along, swaying to the song. He can hear the forest quiet down as she plays. At the edge of his vision he can see a handful of humans peeking out of similar small clearings as the one they sat in.

How I wish, oh, that you still lived
Sooner or later, I will be with you to continue
Loving each other

Oh. It’s a song for a dead loved one. Her emotions come distinct and sharp through the music, and he doesn’t need a translator to hear the love and grief intertwined. By what he thinks is the second verse, there are tears trickling down her face. The song reminds him of his own memories of his mother. His mother with flour on her talons. Or her typing away at her favorite terminal, in the midst of writing a new book. The two of them standing outside, and she’s teaching him constellations. The clearing is filling up with noise again, but this time it’s following the rhythm of the song Shepard’s singing, and by the end, it’s dozens of human voices singing the same words. It’s… beautiful, in a strange, alien way.

She slowly stops strumming, and for a second there’s silence. The next moment the forest explodes in sounds, startling both Shepard and Garrus. He turns around and sees people hugging each other, or toasting drinks. There’s screams that end in heaving sobs, multiple strange, stuttered long yells, sighs and wails of grief. Mia claps for a second, then stops.

He turns his translator back on and turns around to compliment her on her singing and ask about the song, but he stops.

Shepard’s crying.

She’s not crying the small little tear from their first meeting or the silent tears when she was comforting Mia. These are big, heaving, silent sobs that shake her entire body, much more powerful on the frame of a grown woman than a human child. Mia’s standing and it’s hard to tell who’s comforting who, because they’re both clutching onto each other for dear life. Mia is crying again, these ugly, nasty sobs that tear his heart in two. No child should be crying like that at such a tender age. It makes him want to fight the Reapers all over again, if only to make them feel an ounce of the pain they inflicted on an entire galaxy.

He doesn’t realize something’s wrong until he hears a wobbly, scared, “Auntie? Auntie!”

Garrus looks up and Shepard’s making this strange breathing sound. She’s exhaling more than she’s inhaling and her hands are twitching slightly. His visor’s showing that her heart rate is rising rapidly and that her breathing pattern is highly abnormal. Shuffling over as fast as he can, he carefully pulls the guitar from her lap and sets it aside. “Shepard? Shepard, can you hear me?” Her eyes are glassy and full of tears that are still falling. She’s not making eye contact. “Athena, Athena? Xochil!” She blinks once and her eyes flicker to him, her body still trembling slightly.

“You’re breathing too fast. You have to slow down. Can you match Mia’s breathing?” Shepard blinks and gives him a tiny nod, but on her next exhale her entire body shakes. Damn, he hates the horrible gasping sound she’s making. Mia twists herself into her lap and hugs her as tight as she can, her entire body shaking with the effort. Somehow Shepard finds his wrist and she grips it with all her might; her hold is so painful that he suspects she’s grating his bones together. It takes what feels like an eternity, but eventually Shepard’s breathing slows down, and while she’s still crying, she’s not making that dreadful noise anymore. Mia moves for a bit to grab napkins for Shepard, but beyond that, no one moves for a good, long while. It’s not until Shepard’s tears start slowing down that he reflects about what he’s doing.

What he’s supposed to be doing is investigating Santiago Reyes and Xochil to see if they’re affiliated with a crime syndicate and whether they pose a problem for the Hierarchy. Instead he’s sitting in the middle of Spirits-knows-where, up in the hills, with the suspected second-in-command and her adopted daughter. Eating and talking and generally having a very enjoyable time, if he wants to admit it to himself. Better than the dry dinners he’s been having with the turian entourage. Sure, Mia’s very cute and spirited for such a small human, and Shepard is kind of the same old Shepard at her core, but happier, without the weight of the universe on her shoulders, but that’s not nearly enough to justify what he’s been doing the last two, three weeks since they’ve met. And that’s not getting into the whole Shepard/Xochil debacle. Or their regular meetings with Santiago and Cecilia where yes, he’s picking up an interesting picture of the relationship between Jaguar Arms and the Panthers, but it doesn’t help his case of fraternizing with the enemy when he’s hanging out with Santiago (who’s way too relaxed for a president of an arms company) and Cecilia (who’s grumpy but somehow manages to take care of everyone).

Do it right or don’t do it at all, he hears in his father’s voice.

But aren’t there multiple paths to the same solution?

He can see his father’s brow-plates press together. Spoken like a Spectre. Always disregarding the rules, justifying the means to the end.

By coming today I saw evidence that suggests that the police are being paid off by the Panthers. I wouldn’t have learned that if I stayed home.

In his mind, his father is silent, ending the argument with a look that says, ‘you know better.’ And he does. He just doesn’t know how to feel about it. Or maybe doesn’t want to think about how he actually feels about it. Because a lot of evidence is adding up that Shepard is wrapped up in something shady, and he’s a Spectre. Even if it’s not an intergalactic problem, he's going to feel ethically obliged to inform Earth authorities of anything he finds out. This weird we’re-almost-friends-again thing that’s going on is only going to end in heartbreak. Again.

He rubs his forehead and looks down. Shepard is quietly wiping her nose, finally out of tears. Her face isn’t wet anymore, but there’s these white little crystals all over her cheeks.

“What’s on your face?” he asks, his curiosity present in his subharmonics. Shepard frowns, then touches her face.

“Oh, that’s salt, I guess,” she croaks, her voice hoarse from all the crying. “Human tears have salt. Guess my tears dried before I wiped them off. Our sweat has salt too.” His eyes flick to her exposed collarbone.

A dark room, lit blue by the glow of a fish tank. A pleased sigh, the scrape of her nails below his fringe. There’s a slight wet sheen to her skin, and as he licks her clavicle (he learned that word later, when he asked her), he can taste salt.

Garrus closes his eyes and tosses the memory to the depths of his brain. When he opens them again, she’s encouraging Mia to get up and follows seconds after. He feels empty. He doesn’t let himself think more about why he does.

Shepard grabs a water bottle and uses a damp napkin to wipe off the salt of her face, and does the same for Mia. She checks her omni-tool and the time. His visor lets him know it’s past noon. “It’s getting late. Ceci and Santi are getting ready to meet us back at the aircar, so I should start packing up.” She chugs the rest of the water bottle and tosses it into one of the baskets. He helps her gather all the empty boxes, leftover food and she starts putting things away. Once everything is cleaned up and packed, Shepard picks up Mia and she stands in front of the plaques.

“Bye Mommy, bye Chavela. We’ll visit in a few weeks. Say bye, Mia.” Mia waves down and says her goodbyes. By the time they return to the aircar Santiago and Cecilia are there and they have the same worn out, but happy look that Shepard has. He has a feeling they could tell Shepard’s been crying, because they wrap Shepard in a hug between the two. Santiago kisses Shepard’s hair and Cecilia kisses her on the cheek.

“All good?” Santiago asks. Shepard nods and puts Mia down to start packing into the trunk of the car. Santiago helps, while Cecilia holds Mia’s hand and walks up to Garrus.

“What’dya think, little bird?” she asks Garrus as they watch the other two pack the car. Mia tugs to go somewhere, but Cecilia just grips her hand, ignoring her complaints.

He thinks to himself for a moment. What did he think? It certainly wasn’t how he expected to spend the day. “We don’t have anything like this where I’m from. We don’t really hold onto bodies or do anything special after the funeral. This is… different. But good, I think. It’s strange to see people crying and laughing in the span of minutes, but there are moments where it makes me think that there’s something to it. Talking and remembering the dead, I mean. It reminds you of who they were.”

Cecilia nods and grins, slapping him on the back. “Good. That’s the whole point of this shit.”

The ride back to the city is a muted affair; Shepard drops Cecilia and Santiago off first, then she starts driving back towards her apartment.

He starts feeling brave enough to joke. “What, am I walking back home?”

Shepard huffs. “No. I’ll call you a taxi from my place, I just wanted to show you something first. Then you’ll be free, I promise.” They park the aircar and she makes him buy a bundle of orange flowers from a nearby vendor while she pulls Mia out of her carseat. Walking inside the apartment building, the smell of the orange flowers is overpowering; the hallways are littered with flower petals, and there’s little trails leading up to most of the doors.

As they make their way to her apartment he comments, “Looks like a flower grenade went off in here.”

Shepard rolls her eyes as she opens the door to her apartment. “You’re not wrong. In fact, get to shredding, because we’re about to do the same. Just leave some flowers whole.” She disappears down a hallway to tuck Mia into a bed. While he waits he shreds some of the flowers and leaves the petals on the counter. A few minutes later she returns with an empty photo frame in a hand. 

“Oh, that was quick,” she comments, sounding pleased. “It usually takes me forever to do so many.”

“Getting slow in your old age?”

“Ha-ha. Okay, that’s enough. Now grab a pile and we’re gonna make a path from the door to the altar.” She starts first, trickling petals from her hands to the altar. He follows and it makes him feel like he’s participating in an ancient ritual of sorts; the orange petals are bright against the white tiles.

Shepard opens a window and sighs. “God, they fucking reek. The things we do for love.”

“Really? They just smell funny to me,” he says, sniffing a flower.

She walks back to him, where he's standing in front of the altar. “The flowers are meant to guide the dead where they’re supposed to go. That’s why there’s a flower grenade everywhere. But that’s not why I brought you here, I just remembered I forgot to do that on our way back. I know you’ve seen it, but I wanted to show you the altar, and ask if you wanted to place some flowers on it. And…” 

Here he can see her hesitate. She’s still holding the empty picture frame, tapping one corner in her palm. “I...I wanted to offer you the use of my altar. For your mother,” Shepard explains, staring at the pictures in front of them. “Don’t feel like you have to. I’m sure turians see death in a different way, and I completely understand if you don’t like the idea. But I want you to know she would be respected and honored here, if you wanted to honor her today.”

He’s at a loss for words. It’s not like he didn’t have some sort of curiosity about it, but it was clear from the last two weeks that these are extremely personal, an art in love and pain. “Are you sure?”

She looks at him with a tiny smile. “I’m sure. Don’t ask me, ask your mother.”

He remembers his mother in life; she was always wearing bright colors, always complaining about dreary turian fashions. Cakes in bright blue and green and yellow. 

“I’d think… she’d approve. She liked colorful things.” Shepard hands him the empty picture frame, and he uploads his favorite photo of her, the one where she’s smiling and holding a bouquet of flowers. He hands the frame back to her and she places her in an empty spot, moving some flowers out the way. The altar is crowded with faces he does and does not recognize, a testament to the type of life Shepard has survived. How many people has Shepard lost throughout the years? There are easily over twenty frames on this altar alone, and most of the picture frames flicker through multiple people due to lack of space. 

She sighs again, though this time it sounds wistful. “Do you want a drink? I don’t keep alcohol in the house, but I have other stuff.” He says yes.

Garrus sits on the couch and she sits in the armchair, and they reminisce about the dead. Mordin’s experiments, Thane’s best shots. EDI’s strangest questions. Legion’s conception of the soul. Williams’s love of poetry that neither of them ever understood. Shepard shares how she met Anderson for the first time during the N7 program. He tells her of his mother’s love for baking. She tells him about her mother giving her her first guitar. She doesn’t cry anymore, but her voice goes soft, and she has a gentle smile on her face as they talk. His subvocals waver occasionally, but neither of them mention it.

Eventually Shepard’s omni-tool beeps and she reads the message, then swears when she notices the time. “Shit, I didn’t mean to keep you this long.”

“It’s fine. Did something happen?”

“I have plans for tonight and Mia’s babysitter is on her way. I need to change and get ready.”

He finishes the rest of his drink, sensing that their time together is coming to an end. “I can take a hint, you know.”

She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “It’s not like that and you know it. It feels rude kicking you out but I will do it.”

His mandibles flicker in amusement as he stands up from the couch and walks to the door. “Sure, sure. I’ll only go quietly because Mia is sleeping.”

“Wow, what a gentleman, thank you so much,” she replies sarcastically, opening the door for him. He steps out in the hallway and turns to say goodbye when she speaks first.

“By the way, thank you for… earlier. It… really helped. I’m not… always at my... best... today, and I’m always worried I’m gonna scare Mia and I don’t want to. It made it a lot easier, you being there. So… thank you, Garrus.” His heart stutters a little. It’s the second time she’s called him Garrus since they met. She gives him a small, secretive smile. “I’m happy you came around this time, you know. We got lucky. You asked me once how I made peace with all the dead, and about my mom. This is a big part of it. It’s part of my grieving process, I guess. I remember and I cry and I smile and I repeat the cycle, and if I’m lucky sometimes it’s less crying and more smiles. But that changes, too, and that’s okay.” She shrugs. “Everyone has different answers. This is mine. I don’t know if it’ll help, but I hope it brings a different perspective.”

He’s trying to figure out how to keep his heart locked up where it should be and not where it wants to be. It’s impossible to tell right now where it’ll end up. “It does. And thank you... Xochil,” he says, her new name feeling strange on his tongue. “For everything.”

Her eyes widen in surprise and suddenly she’s giving him this bright, brilliant smile that’s a little feral at the edges. “Anytime, Garrus. Have a good rest of the afternoon. Keep an eye out for pickpockets during the parades.”

Shepard shuts the door as Mia starts calling for her. Garrus stands aimlessly in the hallway for a few seconds, trying to remember if he’s ever seen her smile like that before. He has, after surviving the Omega-4 relay; it's the exact same smile that started giving him the ideas that started all this, that have landed him here, outside her door on Earth, almost just as confused as those first few nights on the Normandy. Oh, he’s so, so fucked. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe it was a good one. But somehow they’re alive after a galaxy-ending threat, so it has to count for something, right? Being alive?

He takes her advice and spends most of the afternoon and night in the streets, soaking in the energy of the city. As the sun starts to set, the celebrations intensify; there are moments where he’ll see a human skeleton out of the corner of his eye, making him jump in surprise. It’s a riot of color and lights, made all the more intense with the heightened grief. He thinks humans are more resilient than the galaxy gives them credit for. When he returns to his apartment, he still has all his credit chits in his pockets along with three more of those dextro candies he knows he didn’t buy. It’s incredibly stupid to eat a random candy he finds in his pocket, but he’s drunk and far too gone in more ways than one to care. He pops one in his mouth, and he finds out it’s sweet and spicy all at once.

It’s by far the best thing he’s tasted on planet Earth.

Chapter Text

The entourage's visit to Earth is coming to an end. It’s been a little over a month since they’ve landed on Earth,  and the logistics of the deal are being finalized. The Hierarchy is starting to ask Garrus for definite evidence about whether they should proceed with the deals.

The problem is, he has no solid, concrete proof, not in the way government likes it. There’s a reason why C-Sec is so set on rules; considering the Hierarchy established the Citadel’s law enforcement, it’s obvious why it’s so insistent on following the word of the law, at least on paper. Rosenkov Materials and Aldrin Labs have come back clean (well, Rosenkov has the usual legal tax-evading tactics, but it’s still legal if morally ambiguous) and while Jaguar Arms continues to pass muster, there’s still… something that just doesn’t sit right. It’s the instinct that landed him in the midst of arm smuggling deals with little to no evidence, but right nonetheless. 

Sure, there’s guesses, conjectures and circumstantial evidence, but he has no paper trail, no vids, no audio recording that he can present and say, “Here, this is proof that Jaguar Arms is a front for the Panthers.” The closest anyone’s come to admitting that Jaguar Arms is affiliated to the Panther’s is Santiago’s little rant of ‘the family business,’ (which he didn’t record, because who would even suggest such a thing to a stranger), and Shepard’s inquiry about being the turian she met a few weeks ago (which he doesn’t fully understand the dynamics of the underworld here, because it turns out human crime syndicates are wrapped up in human culture) and the potential police situation (which is circumstantial at best, with no transaction or words as evidence). Otherwise, the three have been tight-lipped since then. And he’s starting to think Santiago’s rant wasn’t as random as he originally suspected; out of the three, he’s the one who’s alluded the most to the Panthers and the most reliable source of information. Cecilia has hinted at something exactly three times. Shepard has said nothing beyond their first encounter in her childhood neighborhood, with the only thing tying her to the syndicate being her tattoos and her teeth (which are pretty damning evidence, all the same). 

It should stop him from meeting anyone in that yellow apartment, but it doesn’t, and it’s hard to figure out what exactly makes him go back every time. In fact, after their little escapade on Day of the Dead, Mia had the audacity to fall asleep on top of his legs the next time he saw her and absolutely no one cared. (He did feel honored and a little pleased at her trust, especially after seeing her scream and kick the security guard in the knee because she tried to pick her up without Mia’s permission. A Shepard through and through.) The apartment almost serves as an unspoken, liminal space, where they’re all trying to figure out what exactly to do with one another.

Shepard doesn’t call him by his first name again. She still jokes with him once in a while, and is honest with him when he asks her a question (and will tell him when she can’t answer), but he can tell she’s keeping him at a distance. Whether that’s for his or her benefit remains unclear. He’s doing the same, but that one day of easy comfort was enough to make him miss her with an unexpected fierceness. Looking back, he’s more open to admitting that he went with it all because that’s kinda what Shepard does– she shows up, tells you what to do and you follow without thinking. Or maybe that’s just a problem he has, though looking back at the Normandy’s crew, he’s not the only one who’s fallen victim to being told what to do.

However, it’s clear that after the holiday, things change for Shepard. As the ‘head of security,’ she continues to accompany Santiago on any business-related events and meetings, but she looks more tired than before. There are a few times where he walks past her and he catches lingering human scents drifting off her skin, along with an unfamiliar, chemical smell. 

After some early meetings with Aldrin Labs (who've come up cleaner than Jaguar Arms or Rosenkov Materials), Santiago asks him to meet him in Shepard’s apartment for some advice on how to approach a particular request for the Palaven team. Somehow over the last few weeks he’s built up a casual, friendly relationship with the CEO. He’s easygoing for a man in power, and his quick-wittedness is the type that Garrus finds himself being friends with sooner or later. Santiago is slightly younger, full of an optimism that makes it hard to believe that such a man would be capable of any type of crime. But he knows better than to fall into that trap of thinking, after years of C-Sec and fighting crime on his own terms.

It’s a cloudy afternoon and Santiago has asked him to visit for some follow-up advice. Garrus has managed to extract a promise from Santiago to answer some of his past questions about Earth governments and crime structures. Cecilia has left the apartment to pick up some food down the street, and Shepard is taking a nap. Mia is currently watching TV in the living room with them but she’s not paying them any attention. “This is more of her regular schedule. She was organizing that event for Day of the Dead, so she had different hours then,” Santiago says casually, chewing on some human snack. 

It’s rare that they’re left alone, and it’s a chance too good to pass up. He tries to think of a way to ask for more information without making Santiago feel like he needs to keep quiet. Lately it’s become a bit of a game; if Garrus asks the right question, Santiago will smile and give him an answer. He’s become quite an interesting and consistent informant, in a strange way. Garrus still doesn’t know why the CEO, out of all people, is the one most willing to give information while being the one most at risk, but he’s realizing that the man is much more clever than anyone gives him credit for.

Glancing at the young girl, he thinks about how Shepard’s always rushing her about. “Does her usual schedule interfere with taking care of Mia?”

Santiago gives him a sly smile . “Yes and no. It’s not the healthiest schedule for Xochi, but she can do things in a way where she’s mostly busy at night, and can at least pick up Mia from school. Sometimes she can’t drop her off though. My turn to ask.”

“Sure.”

“Why is the Hierarchy so hesitant to approve the paperwork? It’s all settled, but it’s curious that they’re taking so long to talk it out. Is that a turian custom, to take that long?”

Ah. So Santiago, at least, knows something’s not right. He’s never been good at this type of politicking, but he’s improved over the years. “The Hierarchy is known for its red tape. They like to know that everything follows their regulations and laws. So, they like to take their time to make sure clients, future business partners, and such are up to rank. Give them time to figure things out, it’s normal.” He takes a sip of water. Santiago doesn’t smile, but his eyes shine with an emotion he can’t read. It’s almost like… satisfaction? But that can’t be right; why would he be happy over slow paperwork?

Santiago nods in understanding. “Thanks, Garrus. I’ll keep your words in mind.”

There’s a loud thumping noise coming from somewhere in the apartment, and a few moments later Shepard appears in the living room. The moment he sees her, he knows something is not right. She’s standing still, but her brown eyes are wide and her pupils are blown out. She looks terrified. 

Santiago stands up immediately and grabs Mia from the couch, who isn’t crying but looks just as scared as her aunt. “Stand at the door and do not let her out, no matter what. And don’t touch her!” Santiago urgently whispers to him, distancing himself from Shepard with Mia in his arms. There’s no sign of recognition in Shepard’s eyes. Her skin is wet –sweat, he realizes– and his visor is marking her breathing and heart rate at an abnormal rate. Streams of tears start pouring out her eyes, and she starts making this horrible, gasping noise as she shuffles into the living room.

“The door!” Santiago scream-whispers at him, and he quietly presses his back to the door. He’s never seen Shepard like this, and he doesn’t know what it means. Mia is curled into Santiago’s arms, crying quietly. Shepard starts speaking, and for a moment he thinks his translator is glitching. Santiago’s face is full of concern, but he’s far too calm for him not to know what’s going on. Her face is pale and her chest is heaving, and Garrus can barely make sense of the next few words.

“–it was him, he made me, please, please, kill me if it’ll make it right, I deserve it, you deserve it–” and the rest is just Shepard and her human voice with no subvocals, sounding like she’s pleading and scared, increasing in pitch the more she talks. It’s incredibly disconcerting and unnerving; he wishes she would stop whatever this was, this strange imitation of wakefulness. She’s walking aimlessly around the apartment, and there’s a pile of toys that Mia left earlier, and she’s about to trip over them, but she doesn’t seem to care and his body moves before his mi–

“No! Don’t touch her!” Santiago yells at the same moment he grabs Shepard by the shoulders to stop her from taking another step. There’s a blood-curdling scream in his face, her eyes wide, and he hears a metallic thud before he finds himself stumbling back a few steps, unexpectedly winded. She kneed him at the waist with her right leg –the metal one, he notices– in an attempt to free herself. His armor blocks the blow but it had been enough to get him to let go. She trips over the toys and falls anyways, then stumbles upright, still speaking gibberish. For a few more minutes Shepard aimlessly shuffles in the apartment, sobbing and holding her stomach. Then just as suddenly as she appeared, slowly walks back towards what he thinks is her bedroom. The apartment is silent, though he can hear Mia’s quiet sobs. It feels like an eternity, but through his visor he knows it was only about ten minutes.

“What,” he starts quietly, his voice calm but his subharmonics shaky with a mixture of confusion and anguish, “in the fucking Spirits was that?” 

Santiago’s eyes are shinier than usual, and he’s rubbing the little girl’s back in an attempt to soothe her. The door clicks open and Cecilia walks in with bags of warm food, frowning like always. “Why wouldn’t the door open? You all knew I was co–” she looks at both of them and changes her question “--what happened?”

It’s Mia who answers, her voice wobbly. “Mommy had a bad dream again. It was scary. She said someone should kill her. What does that mean?”

It’s one thing for a child to know what death is, and another to explain murder.  Those are words that should never be spoken by a child. Cecilia is angrier than he’s ever seen her, and she looks at Santiago with a cold, hard stare. “I told you she needed to work less,” she hisses angrily, hands shaking. “You already know how she gets when she’s not sleeping and ta–” her eyes flick to Garrus and she cuts herself short. “We’ll talk about this later, Santi.” She drops the bags on the counter then reaches out for Mia; the young girl moves to her arms. “Go check up on her and make sure she’s back in bed,” she orders Santiago and he nods, following Shepard’s footsteps.

For Mia’s sake, he resists the urge to growl. The little girl is shaken enough and she doesn’t deserve to be so scared in her own home. “What was that? That’s more than a bad dream. Her eyes were open but she was unresponsive.”

Sitting down in the armchair with a sigh, Cecilia grabs a nearby blanket to wrap Mia in. “Your type doesn’t do that?

“What, wander around like husks? No, not that I’ve seen,” he snaps. He just wants to know what the hell he just witnessed. There was no way that was natural. Shepard’s never done anything like that, ever. Did someone, some thing change her?

“Well, we do. They’re called night terrors. Kids get them all the time – Mia used to have them – but for adults… well, they can happen when they go through something bad.” She modifies her explanation due to Mia’s presence, but he thinks he understands the gist. Humans will move in their sleep and it looks like they’re awake. Waking nightmares, moving but unaware. Cecilia finds out that he touched her and calls him an idiot without hesitation, informing him that when Shepard was in the midst of a night terror, she always gets violent. During Cecilia’s quick explanation Santiago comes back and gives a thumbs up to Cecilia. 

“She’s in bed sleeping,” confirms Santiago as he slouches on the couch.

“ Sleeping ? After all that, she just goes back to sleep like nothing’s happened?” Garrus asks in disbelief. Tears and screams and incoherent mumbling offering to be killed to what, pretend it didn’t happen? It doesn’t make sense.

Cecilia nods and gently rocks Mia, who’s curled up in her lap. “Yeah, and she won’t remember what happened when she wakes up. But we will. We always do.”

The apartment is a suffocating, despondent place after that, and he does not want to remain for a second longer. He’s lost his appetite and takes his food back to his lodgings after saying goodbye. Looks like the war did have an effect on Shepard, after all, she’s just good at hiding it. He remembers how she would stare out into space, her gaze empty. How in those final days he felt like she was cracking into pieces, and he was worried that she wouldn’t be able to pull herself back together again. Maybe she’s more expressive, but he’s starting to grasp that while Shepard somehow managed to put herself back together, some of the pieces don’t fit the same anymore.

It’s not like he’s been sitting idle. Despite (or maybe because) of how well the three humans are treating him, Garrus refuses to let his guard all the way down. He’s learned his lesson the hard way on that one.

According to the reports passed to him about the Panthers, it looks like they run most of the city and a majority of the southern region of the United North American States. Whoever is running the syndicate makes sure their members are loyal to the death, and they’ve somehow gotten the residents to trust them too, because they let nothing slip. But he’s ex-C-Sec and a failed vigilante; Garrus knows how and where to blend in and can smell a criminal a mile away. Sleep starts to escape him again, a dangerous thing for a species that already has a short sleep cycle, but while the dead don’t haunt him as they used to, his guilt does. Guilt about looking into the Panthers behind Shepard’s back, because she might be a criminal. Guilt about how he’s wasting time on Earth, running errands for the Hierarchy when he could be out doing something good and productive in the galaxy. Guilt because Shepard’s been dealing with Spirits-knows-what and he hasn’t been there for her. Guilt because there’s still a seed of anger and frustration and bitterness in him towards Shepard, because she decided to stay on Earth and never tried to reach out. And maybe that’s unfair, after she saved the entire damn galaxy, and it’s asking for too much of one person, but he can’t help it. Sure, he understands her reasoning, but it just doesn’t seem like enough. The Shepard he knows –knew– didn’t let anything stop her. This one… well, this Shepard he’s unsure about. So instead of sleeping, he uses his nights productively and starts looking for information on his own, using some of the details Santiago has given him so generously.

His investigation about the Panthers leads him on a merry adventure through the glitziest of skyscrapers, the colorful middle-class neighborhoods, and back to the slums. The stench of the slums brings back memories of Omega, of betrayal and sorrow. There’s a moment where an older human girl (around ten, he thinks) comes up to him and begs him for a few chits, her big brown eyes wide and desperate. Her black hair is messy, she’s covered in dirt, and her face shows she’s missed far too many meals. For a moment he hears Shepard’s voice, casually telling him about a moment of her childhood, “ ... used to sing for money, but it was never enough. ” They save a galaxy, and yet there’s still children starving afterwards. And worse, now he knows that there always will be, no matter what he does. Maybe he did expect better from a place that raised Commander Shepard. Garrus gives the girl a few chits and leaves. He’s had enough of slums for a lifetime, though it’s only a matter of time before he finds himself in one again. Hopefully not on Earth. 

No human gives him any solid leads; they all give him lies and dead ends, tight-lipped about discussing anything even remotely to do with the Panthers or the city’s criminal underworld. It’s not until he starts hitting the scattered non-human enclaves that he starts getting somewhere. If there is something that binds together criminals, it’s drinking, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he finds a place run by the Panthers. And if the alcohol happens to dull some of his thoughts, well, that’s just an added bonus. After a few nights of hitting asari clubs and salarian bars, he gets a tip from a drunk turian.

“If you’re looking for fun, it’s definitely Rapture,” the old vet slurs over a whiskey, his markings faded and eroded. “Human-run. I swear those human girls move better than asari, but they get some asari too. You’ll know you’re in the right place if you see a black varren-looking thing above the bar.” That’s promising. Maybe the black varren is a panther or something similar.

The next night he pays Rapture a visit. The building is located at the outskirts of one of the nightlife areas. His research shows that the club’s existed in this place for about three years, but its legal permits went through about six months ago. Definitely suspicious. After he pays the cover charge, a young human female in all black ushers him in. The club is lit in blue and purples and it’s jungle themed, with fake leafy, green plants plastered everywhere. He makes his way deeper into the club and finds himself near the main dance floor. The music is loud, with a strong enough bass that he can feel the vibrations in his chest. It makes him grind his teeth, reminding him briefly of a battlefield, and it takes him a few moments to tell himself that he’s not about to face down a wave of endless enemies. He’s worked on this, he reminds himself. After a few slow breaths he still feels tense, but once he’s sure his mind won’t warp his reality, Garrus surveys his surroundings. The dance floor takes up most of the first floor, and people of all species are dancing and drinking. There’s a long bar tucked against one side, with tables and booths pressed against the other walls. A meter or so above one of the bartenders there’s a large panther, frozen in mid-roar, hanging from the ceiling on almost-invisible threads. Now, finally , he’s onto something. Human and asari dancers are scattered across the dancefloor on different platforms. From here he can see that there’s a second floor, with a smaller dance floor and booths tucked against the side–presumably the VIP booths.

Garrus orders a drink and is lucky enough to find a small, empty booth in the corner; the music is good enough that it keeps most people on the dance floor, though his translator’s failing to keep up with the words. Leaning back in his seat, he can just see the back section of the second floor. It’s sectioned off from the rest with glass walls, floor to ceiling, with couches in the center, facing the dance floor. It’s too dark to see their faces, but his visor counts off six bodies in the glass box: one on the couch, and five others scattered around the room. As he’s watching, another person comes in, this one with long hair flowing past their hips, and they gracefully slip onto the lap of whoever’s sitting on the couch.

He sits for the next half-hour sipping his drink. For the most part, the club is running like any mid-range club on the Citadel; the energy seems a little grimier than Purgatory, but drinks are flowing and most of the patrons are dancing. There’s the usual low-level crime; he sees at least two people pay for party drugs, and someone selling a bright pink powder he’s pretty sure is illegal on Earth. A pretty asari comes by and straddles his lap, flirting and trying to play with his fringe. Garrus waves her off as good-naturedly as he can; while he’s not here for pleasure, he doesn’t want others to know that. After ordering another drink, he starts debating his next course of action when he hears someone slowly approach him from behind.

“Not a fan of asari, turian?” a husky voice asks, and he senses someone leaning over the back of the booth. He turns and he comes face-to-face with Shepard. They haven’t met outside of meetings since she had that nightmare, and when he tried to ask her about it she denied it ever happening. The frustration has only fueled his search for information. This is also when he realizes she was the long-haired human in the glass box.  Somehow her hair is dark red today, one side pinned back with a gold snake. It’s so sleek it moves like water over her body. She walks around the booth and he can see she’s in a skin-tight, dark red bodysuit similar to the dancers, though showing less skin. It emphasizes every single line of her body, and he can even see the muscles in her thigh shift through the cloth. This suit exposes her upper chest and her shoulders, her panther tattoo on full display. Her left hand is gloved, like always. His eyes flick between her waist and her collarbone. It’s meant to be temptation dripped in red, and damn if it doesn’t look on her. It’s this perfectly curated look that makes him realize with a start that Shepard is very particular about her appearance; even on the Normandy, there was never a hair out of place, or a wrinkle on her uniform unless it was an extreme emergency. The only times he’s seen her even remotely disheveled is in the privacy of her quarters, whether it’s been the captain’s cabin or the comfort of her own apartment. A common thread that unites these two people in his mind.

Shepard either doesn’t notice or ignores his staring, which doesn’t matter anyways, because what she does next confuses and arouses in equal parts. With more grace and much more confidence than the asari, she straddles his right leg. She’s very warm in between her thighs. She gives a seductive smile that reminds him of the profile vid he saw a few months ago ( Wait, wasn’t that agent’s body found in a dumpster weeks later? ), caresses his fringe and leans over to his right ear.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Vakarian?” she hisses angrily. Her hand is placed lightly on his fringe, in a perfect position to either caress or cause him extreme pain. It’s hard to tell which one she’s thinking about doing. She leans back so she can see him and shifts her body closer, enough that her hips are starting to press against some of his plates. He tries not to think about this because if the look in her eyes is anything to go by, she’s certainly not. 

“I’m exploring the city,” he drawls as casually as he can. “Someone recommended this place. Said they had a funny-looking varren in the front, so I wanted to check it out. It reminds me of your tattoo.” He lightly flicks her right shoulder.

Shepard gives him a smile that’s more canine than teeth and he can tell he’s hit a nerve. Looking over her shoulder, Garrus glances up to the glass box just in time to see that the person on the couch is Santiago, who’s now standing directly behind the glass, looking down to the dance floor. They make eye contact but Santiago makes no move to show that they know each other. He disappears from view seconds later. There’s a small pinch at the base of his neck and his attention is brought back to Shepard. She knows exactly who he was looking at.

“Didn’t think you were the jealous type.” 

There’s a harder pinch, in retaliation for his attitude. She responds, annoyed, “No, I’m just bitchy.” Taking a look into his cup, she stretches her arm and holds up a finger; from here, he can see a human bite mark on the underside of her arm. Huh. Moments later a dancer hands her a drink. Shepard turns to him and holds up her cup. “Cheers.”

Garrus doesn’t move his cup to clink with hers. “I’m not exactly in a cheery mood,” he states, keeping his voice as level as possible. Any show of emotion and Shepard will use it to her advantage. Spirits, he knew that they were wrapped up in something suspicious, and while his evidence is still circumstantial, he knows what it all means. He knew this was coming, he saw the signs, he saw her with a gun talking about streets and mistresses, it’s the entire reason he’s even on the damn planet, but did it have to be true? That after everything she taught him about respect, and strength, she didn’t believe in any of it? That she decided to ignore how she saved the galaxy and return to petty crime, for some unknown, unfathomable reason?

Shepard smiles again. Through clenched teeth she says, “If you don’t want to get stabbed when you leave, I suggest you hit my cup.”

His mandibles flicker out in disdain. “I think I can take on a few humans, thanks.”

Another fake grin. Her cosmetic canines stick out a little, poking at her bottom lip. “Now, how many turians have you seen me stab?”

Less than the amount of asari commandos he’s seen her stab with a omni-blade. It’s still a pretty high number, considering how many turians work as mercs. “Yeah but that’s… well, you. ”

She tilts her head. “What if there’s more of me?”

He remembers the dossier, glances at the two thin lines that run down her chin. ‘ Possibly runs the flesh trade... including mercenaries…’ He looks at her and she’s still smiling, wiggling her cup. A stab wound would be hell to deal with, especially on Earth. 

“Cheers,” he says begrudgingly, clinking her glass. He can feel her thighs relax a little. So that means something. They both take a drink and look at each other for a few seconds. In this lighting, her eyes look black and empty, as if he’s staring out into the depths of space. Shepard's eyes flicker around them but she doesn’t move her head. Eventually she meets his eyes again. “Good spot. Makes this easier.”

Makes what easier? She shifts in his lap and takes another drink, then frowns at him. “Are you this dry with all the strippers? God, no wonder Alia complained. Put your hands on me or people are gonna notice. We have things to discuss.”

Garrus doesn’t say anything, but places one hand on her thigh, brushes her hair back with the other to expose her panther tattoo. For what it represents, he can’t deny its artistry; it’s detailed and beautiful, and captures the ferocity of the animal mid-roar. He read on the extranet that a jaguar’s bite could pierce an animal's carapace, and that’s how he felt with her, like she was biting down on him and he was breaking apart. And here he thought finding her would make him whole again. 

“You’re not a stripper, though,” he tells her calmly, much calmer than the mix of emotions in his head. What the hell is her role here? Seduction? Enforcer? Bar manager? The old Shepard was never coy or sultry. In fact, he’d argue she was incapable of flirting, always going for the direct route. Whoever this person is, she’s far too confident in her own sensuality; it gets on his nerves and he doesn’t want to analyze in what way. 

They’re so close together that he doubts anyone beyond arm’s reach could be able to hear them, especially with the music blasting. Interestingly, their booth continues to be left empty and no patrons have tried for the spare seats. “How would you know? You just turned away one of the best strippers we got.” Her eyes routinely flicker behind him, always searching. What is she looking for? She looks back at him with a cool look. “You always did have terrible timing. You shouldn’t be here.”

He keeps playing along. For now. “As far as I understand, I’m completely within my rights to be here. I’m not breaking any laws.”

Shepard doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she drags a nail down his front. He can barely feel it through his clothes but it feels like a trail of fire. “You’re not. But this is not the best night to be here.”

Garrus hates that she can still make him feel this way, even after all these years. He bounces his leg twice, shifting her a little closer to him, just to see if she’ll react, or say something, anything. She does nothing to acknowledge the movement. “Seems like a perfectly fine night to me.” He hopes she doesn’t pick on the tremor of his subvocals.

“Yes, it always is,” she responds, distracted. Fully leaning against him, she rests one hand on his chest and the other lightly on the side of his neck, curving around his body with practiced ease. Shifting so her hair covers most of her face, she starts speaking into his ear again. This time her voice is fast and urgent, less distant than she’s been since that day at the graveyard in the hills. “We’re expecting trouble one of these nights. Everything points to tonight, but we’re not sure. I’m drinking with you, so you’ll be safe from… certain people. But I don’t want you to get mixed up in this mess. You’ll have to stay for a few more hours or it’ll be suspicious if you leave too soon. Dance, get with a girl, use the backrooms, whatever. Drink, but be careful.” He feels more than sees her move, and she slips something into his pocket. “They’re sobriety pills, in case you drink too much. Don’t worry, they’re duals. The packet is open because I took some earlier.” She gently pulls on his fringe, guiding his gaze to the bar on the opposite side of the room. “If there’s trouble, go through there and there’s a trapdoor in the first door to your right. Take the tunnel, run straight and it’ll let you out on May 10th Street. You should be fine out there. There’s another exit past the bathrooms, but that’ll be what most of our regulars will use and you don’t wanna be caught up in a crowd.” She leans back and gives him a soft smile. “Be safe,” she says, and starts to stand up.

Be safe . Be safe, be safe, be safe. It echoes in his mind, a reminder of the last words she spoke to him.

Moving on instinct and bad memories, he grabs her by the hips and holds her down to his lap to prevent her from leaving without an explanation. Almost immediately he sees two dancers swiftly jump off their platforms and walk towards them, but without turning around Shepard lifts a hand. They return to their spots and continue dancing as if nothing happened.

“Don’t do that again,” Shepard snaps at him, though she doesn’t do anything to move out of his lap. “It’s not a good look for you.”

He spends a few moments staring into her eyes. She looks perfectly at ease. Irritated, even. But he knows the commander lies.

“Are you in trouble?”

He sees something flicker in her eyes, a familiar emotion he recognizes but never sees on the commander. Apprehension.  “No.” She’s silent after that, offering no further information.

“Then what is it?” he insists, gripping her a little harder.  Her suit tears a little under one of his talons. He doesn’t file them down as much as he used to.

Another quick glance behind him, and her eyes return to his face. Her voice drops almost to a whisper. “We just need some more time…”

“For what?”

Shepard bites the inside of her cheek. “Where’s Santiago?”

A glance through his visor shows that Santiago is back on the couch, surrounded by three bodies. “He’s sitting down and talking to three other people.”

Her next words tumble out of her in a rush, almost as if against her will. “I can’t tell you. If it was up to me I would’ve told you everything in the first week, but we’re being watched, all three of us. And it’s more complicated now that I have Mia to think about, I can’t be stupid.”

“Tell me what?” he asks urgently. He hates flying blind, and she’s implying there’s something else here at play. That she’s in trouble. 

“Ugh, Garrus, loosen up, your talons are poking through my clothes. You better not touch any of the girls with those things, they hurt and they’re not used to it. Okay, that’s better. You really haven’t been to any strip clubs recently, have you? I’d force you to file them if I didn’t know you.”

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“I’m not, I already said I can’t tell you,” Shepard says as she lightly runs a nail below his fringe. He lets out a low growl against his will, the sensation rippling through his skin and she gives him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, it’ll be suspicious if I sit here and do nothing. Anyways, I don’t have enough time to tell you right now, it’s not safe, and it’s a long story and you’re a terrible liar.” It’s the first time she’s spoken to him, him , the way they used to, since the day they visited her mother’s grave, and it’s to give him a warning. Somehow he’s not surprised.

A waiter starts approaching Shepard from behind with a single drink on their tray. She notices his gaze and follows it, then wordlessly takes the bright purple liquid the waiter offers her. Brushing a hand against his grip, she slightly pushes against his hand and he releases her. She stands up in one graceful motion and looks down at him for a second, drink in hand. “I have to go. Remember what I told you.” As she leaves she brushes the last of his fading scars on his face with her bare hand, an unexpected tender motion in a public place. Then she’s weaving her way through the crowd with her hair flowing behind her. A drunk human male tries to grab her by the waist, but she deftly avoids him and cracks him with a backhand slap so strong the man’s nose starts to bleed. He’s tossed out the club minutes later. She doesn’t look back once.

Garrus follows her advice. Shepard may be a lot of things, but if she’s taken the time to warn him about something, he’s going to listen. She got him alive through a war, after all. He stays in his seat in the booth, and after a while a group of three turians join him and they start chatting. They’ve been here for a few months for business, and they swap old war stories, an old soldier habit that gives him a chance to talk about some of his adventures to a new audience. Santiago rarely leaves the glass box; instead, people come and go constantly, chatting and drinking with him. Shepard, on the other hand, flits around the club everywhere; sometimes she’s perching on an armrest next to Santiago (he can only tell it’s her because of her ridiculously long hair), sometimes she’s behind the bar whispering to the bartenders, and at one point he sees her sitting on one of the dancer platforms, talking to a young dancer. She sits on the lap of an asari and they share a drink from the same cup. In another moment she’s next to an older human male up in the VIP booth, but doesn’t drink anything with him or touch him. Shepard takes an offered smoke from another man leaning on the second floor railing, and she licks something off of a human woman’s wrist. Anyone she accepts something from is seen later in the glass box or given free drinks on the house. Like him. His new companions are more than happy to stick around for the free drinks, and two asaris even dance for them for a while. 

The club gets busier and just when Garrus thinks he’s had enough of the loud music, the flashing lights, the annoying vibrations he feels in his body, he hears a loud boom from the main entrance. Smoke billows into the club, and it’s chaos in seconds. For the first time in his life, he’s on the opposite side of a raid. And it seems like the local police pulled out the big guns, because dozens of human agents in full riot gear swarm to the dance floor. He looks up towards the glass box just in time to see Shepard grab Santiago by the wrist and run out the back wall. If Earth raids are anything like the raids he’s done in Zakera Ward, he does not want to get caught up in the red tape afterwards, Spectre status or not. Gun shots ring through the club, and he glances up to see the glass walls crack, but they don’t shatter. With the music still blasting and the screams, it’s hard to tell where the shots are coming from and he doesn’t plan to stick around to find out. His new friends dash towards the bathroom exit, and he weaves his way through the crowd towards the bar. A bullet flies past his leg and embeds itself into the bar. The bartender waves him through, screaming “ Hurry up !” and elbows a human in the gut. Guess he didn’t have permission to come out this way.  

He goes through the trapdoor and the tunnel is bigger than he expects, with multiple branches in different directions. Running straight ahead, he notes that there’s dozens of people scattering through the routes, most likely to other parts of the city. Eventually Garrus emerges in an alleyway behind a Japanese restaurant and times his exit out into the main street. He briefly hides in the shadow of an alleyway across the way to watch the exit he surfaced from, but only four other humans show up after him. No Shepard or Reyes. After about an hour of waiting and no police force, it seems that no one else is coming. There’s still enough late night crowds strolling around to blend in with, so he discreetly steps behind a group of humans and asari.

 It leaves him with a lot to think about. It’s another of those damn flashes of honesty, a glimpse of the woman he knew. Also, how would she know about a raid by law enforcement? And why was this damn syndicate giving him so much trouble? He was able to piss off three merc companies on Omega, the closest thing to hell in the galaxy, but it’s taken him weeks to find one Panther location. Granted, he’s on an alien planet and that always makes it more difficult to investigate, but it also means someone is trying their best to hide. At this point, there’s very few people that are skilled enough to prevent him from finding out information, and one of those people just warned him of an upcoming club raid. Why the hell would Shepard bother telling him about it, when she hasn’t told him anything else?

Chapter Text

When Cecilia opens the door to Shepard’s apartment, the first thing he notices is that she’s frowning. Once Garrus steps inside, he sees that Santiago and Shepard are whispering frantically sitting on the floor in front of the couch, leaning so close to one another that Shepard’s curls are brushing against Santiago’s face. They don’t look away from each other when he sits down in the empty armchair, or when Cecilia puts some snacks on the table. Garrus realizes that he doesn’t hear the pitter-patter of tiny human feet. “Where’s Mia?”

“She’s with a babysitter. We decided it was best to not have her here today,” Cecilia responds tersely.

“What’s so special about today?” he drawls, a little sarcastic. He hasn’t seen or heard from any of them since the raid four days ago, and the more he thinks about it, the more annoyed he gets. He hates being shot at without his armor, and he’s been holding his temper in check since Santiago asked him to meet up with no explanation.

Cecilia shoots him a cryptic look, much like the ones Shepard gives him. Maybe this is where she learned it from. “You tell me, you idiotic, useless space cop.”

Santiago suddenly grips Shepard’s face between his hands, a fierce, determined expression on his face. “We can do this. We can. You saved the fucking galaxy, Xochil. This is nothing. He’s just a tiny little stupid human with too much hair. We got this.” Shepard bites her lip and nods as Santiago gives her a quick squeeze around the shoulders, then acknowledges Garrus for the first time since he stepped into the apartment. “About time you joined us, little bird.”

“I wasn’t the one who spent the last three minutes whispering into her hair,” he points out, annoyed.

Santiago waves his comment off and clicks his tongue. “Yeah yeah little bird, don’t get jealous, it’s not a good look on you. Ruins the look of your feathers. You’re about to know what the whispers were about anyways,” he says, rubbing his hands.

“Unfortunately,” Shepard mutters, staring down at the floor. 

“You need this the most. Think of Mia.”

Groaning, she drops her forehead to the coffee table, right on top of a datapad. “I am. It just sucks.”

Cecilia sits on the opposite side of the coffee table with a toolbox and gestures to Shepard to come sit next to her. Shepard stands up and slowly limps over; Garrus realizes this is the first time he’s seen her in shorts since he’s been on Earth. Today she’s wearing the modern prosthetic she revealed on his first visit. With her real leg beside it, he can see that it’s a mirror replica of her real leg. The prosthetic has a scratch across the thigh and shin, and there’s exposed wires at the knee. He remembers the shots fired at the club, and thinks he has an idea of where the damage came from. Her left leg is a bit of a surprise. There’s an intricate black tattoo she didn’t have before, of two snakes wrapping up from her ankle, up her knee, past her exposed thigh and up past the hem of her shorts. The snakes are exquisitely drawn and move with the movement of every step, the muscles in her thigh pulling taunt as she starts to sit down, her shorts sliding up her thighs and showing more ski–

His omni-tool beeps and he sees it’s a message from Santiago, who’s sitting next to him looking oddly smug.

SR: staring much, lil bird? im sure if you ask nicely she’ll show you, just do it when mia isnt here. and stop being so obvious about it ceci will crack your head open i seen her do it she will
ps.it goes up to her hip
pps.& before you get mad i havent seen it she told me.she got it two yrs ago. u have a lot more competition to worry about and im not part of it. btw one of the new apt guards asked her out and she said no. but my friend asked her yesterday and she said shed think about it so hurry up
ppps. ceci’s seen the full tattoo tho & she said it suited her (:

He glares at Santiago, who just smiles, and types back a message.

GV: I wasn’t staring. I didn’t know she had a tattoo on her leg, that’s all. Also, I can take Cecilia in a fight, I’m not worried. I already told you, I’m not interested in her and I’m not asking her out. I’m leaving soon, it doesn’t matter.
SR: Oh my god ur so unromantic

What the hell was Reyes thinking? Where did he get that idea? Shepard lets out a long hiss and Garrus looks up in time to see gripping her right thigh in pain. “Ceci! I thought you knew what you were doing! This is connected to my nerve endings!”

Cecilia hums, ignoring Shepard’s complaints. “Okay, you can pop off the leg again. I need to fix the knee and I want to add some upgrades.”

“But it’s such a bitch to put on,” she whines. Shepard complains now? 

“I’ll let you bite Santi for pain relief.”

“Deal.”

Santiago looks over in a panic as Shepard presses the sides of her right thigh and the leg slides off. “Waitwaitwait, no deal, I still have the scars from the last time we did that, I cannot have any more scars from Xochi, it’s humiliating.” Cecilia ignores them both and picks up the leg, placing it on the kitchen counter and settling down to work.

Shepard rolls her eyes at Reyes. “Fine, but bring me the lidocaine. It’s on top of my dresser.”

He watches as Shepard massages what’s left of her right thigh. There’s a scar at the bottom of her stump, but otherwise, her leg just… ends. It’s very strange to look at. He’s seen a few amputees after the war, but most opt for clone replacements. An amputation is a reflection of strength, of battling death and refusing to give up. There’s an irony in this that he doesn’t miss, that for someone who spoke so often of dying, she’s probably the ultimate survivor. For a moment he remembers the searing pain from the Reaper beam, and he instinctively winces and grips the armrests. Fortunately, no one notices.

“My right ankle itches,” she grumbles.

Santiago responds almost immediately as he heads down the hallway to her bedroom, “You don’t have a right ankle.”

Garrus looks up into Shepard’s face, examining her closely. There’s a thin cut that’s healing across her cheek, and there’s very faint bruises on her neck that look suspiciously like human fingers. “What?” he asks, both to distract him from his memory and because while it’s rude, Santiago is right, and Shepard currently does not have a right ankle.

“My missing leg. It itches. Humans get phantom limbs, we think our limbs are there even if they’re not,” she explains morosely as she stares at her right thigh. “It’s both weird and incredibly fucking annoying.”

Cecilia snorts from the kitchen counter, not bothering to look up from her work. “Well, if someone didn’t decide to block a bullet with her knee, she wouldn’t have this problem.”

“I wasn’t about to let Santi get shot!”

“I think it’d do him some good.” Cecilia stops for a second and looks at Garrus. “Heard our little bird was at the party. What’d you think?”

Santiago’s back with the pain cream and he hands it to Shepard, then sits on the couch. “I think he did great,” Santiago answers for him, “He didn’t get hit and made it out alive, what else could you ask for?” Great to know that the commander’s standard for a job well done isn’t unique to just her. Shepard responds by throwing the tube of cream and hitting Santiago right on the forehead. “What the fuck, Xochi!”

“What should’ve happened is he should’ve been turned away at the door,” she scowls.

“How was Chente going to know to do that, huh? We didn’t know he was coming. We did what we could and it worked out.”

“Well, someone did take a potshot at me,” Garrus adds, letting his displeasure show in his subvocals. He knows Shepard will pick up on it. “I’ve had better nights.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. They probably wanted revenge on us. But don’t worry, they’re sitting in a jail cell with charges pending,” Santiago says smugly. “Oh lighten up all of you, it went perfect! Flawless! And the old man doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Shepard rubs her neck and glares at her friend. “Yeah Santi, flawless, sure, for you. I get choked out by a bodyguard and took a shot for you. I hate being choked.”

“Oh whatever, you’re fine, you’re like half robot anyways. You got your hit back anyways.”

Garrus looks at Santiago. He’s a little worse for wear, but there’s no visible injuries and he seems fine. Shepard’s more beat up, but it looks like she’s upset about the injuries happening than the pain itself. Still, he finds he doesn’t like to see her bruised and cut-up. He thought that this, at least, would be behind her after the war. Santiago and Shepard are still bickering and he’s learned by now that if no one interrupts, they can go at it for hours. “And what exactly went so flawlessly that it ended in a club raid?” he interjects sharply. He’s done his own research; the official story is that there was an anonymous tip-off about a major drug deal going down in Rapture and a major supplier was arrested. Though knowing that the local police are also bought off by the Panthers, he finds it highly suspect that the dealer was arrested in one of their clubs. No sane criminal would allow such a breach on their territory. On top of that, it was likely that the police were allied with the syndicate, so a police raid shouldn’t have happened in the first place. At his question, both Shepard and Santiago straighten up and look at each other. Cecilia returns to tinkering with the prosthetic leg in front of her. Reyes and Shepard nod and Santiago leans back in his chair. His demeanor shifts, now full of a quiet, serious confidence; it’s no longer the happy-go-lucky man he’s known on their off-time. He’s reminded that Santiago is the president of an arms company, and a competent one at that. The man just never puts on that persona outside of work.

“We’re staging a coup,” Santiago states crisply, crossing his hands. 

Well. That certainly was not what he was expecting, but his first thought is that it sounds incredibly like a Shepard thing to do. She’s upset the balance of the galaxy multiple times; why not upset the criminal underworld of Earth too, while she’s at it?

Shepard and Cecilia both groan at his declaration, ruining the serious effect. “Santiago, we are not staging a coup,” Shepard sighs, dropping her face into her hands.

“It sounds more fun that way. And it’s not entirely off, we are trying to overpower my fath—”

“What we are trying to do,” Shepard interrupts, raising her voice over Santiago’s, clearly deciding he was acting like an idiot, “is legitimize the businesses we run. Jaguar Arms is completely above board and all its transactions are legal, taxes and all. We managed to legalize Rapture and the rest of the clubs a few months ago. We got licenses for the dancers and sex workers two months ago, and so everything’s in the system. That’s all we can get away with and that’s what we want anyways, we’re not interested in the rest.”

Garrus crosses his arms. This is a turn of events, he has to admit. “Wait. Are you saying that you’re all trying to go… what, legitimate?”

“Trying is the key word. It’s taken us years to come up with a plan. We’re almost there. The raid was part of the plan. We knew Jacobson was running drugs by meeting clients at Rapture. He’s been competing with the Kings to run asari sugar and been using Rapture as a base. He’s the last big player that was still left at the club, so we were thinking about how to get him out. We let it slip to the cops that Jacobson was running something big. We told the Kings that Jacobson was talking to their supplier. And we told Jacobson that the Kings were acting up. Coincidentally, Jacobson pissed me the fuck off a few days ago, so I was able to publicly pull my support and could justify it.”

That was an intricate mess of lies and double-crossing. He was almost impressed. Almost. He would be more impressed if he wasn’t shot at or being kept in the dark.  

“Pulling your support?”

“Did you see an older human male, no hair, taller than me? On the second floor in one of the VIP booths. I know you saw him, you always survey the room, don’t act dumb.”

He remembers her sitting next to the older man on the second floor. “The one wearing a dark blue shirt.”

She nods. “That’s the one. He offered me a drink and I didn’t take it. That’s me pulling my support. It means that whatever happens to him, we won’t retaliate.”

“So if you wanted him out so badly, why did you support him at all?”

Shepard glances at Santiago, who leans forward. “He’s left over from my father’s time running Rapture,” he explains. “They’re old friends, so when I took over, I had to keep him around to not piss him off. Lucky for us, he managed to piss Xochi off in a way that my father will have to respect our decision for withdrawing our support, old friend or no.”

“What did Jacobson do?” he inquires. The room goes silent for a moment. Even Cecilia stops moving.

It’s Shepard who breaks the silence. “He hurt two of the girls,” she responds coolly. “I found them drugged, bruised and bloodied in a hotel room a few days ago. There's a strict limit with who and how rough people can get with the girls, and he crossed a line. The boss and I have an understanding, and Jacobson knows the rules.” The image he pictures is strong and vivid, one he’s seen a handful of times in Zakera Ward. And while she’s being a little vague about it, he can read in between the lines and see that Shepard’s probably running the sex trade, if she’s personally handling these types of matters. Whether it’s on behalf of the Panthers or the newly-legal Rapture is unclear, though it’s likely the same thing. He doesn’t know how Shepard’s able to say things so calmly, but when he looks at her, he sees a silent fury in her eyes.

“You mentioned that they’re licensed sex workers. Can’t they report it to the police?”

“They can and they did, but it’ll take a while and the drug trafficking charges will take precedence. Most they’ll get is a payout. Don’t worry,” she says, and her smile is all teeth, “he’ll get what he deserves. I’ll make sure of it.” Shepard’s always had a mean streak. If the police only do a payout it’s because the Panthers aren’t leaning on them to do more. Plus, the raid happened because of the Panther’s approval; a power play to show who really runs things. ( Months later, he gets an alert on Jacobson during some downtime in between missions– found dead in his cell with evidence of genital mutilation, and it’s publically declared as a suicide. He doesn’t feel bad for a second. )

There’s another silence. Suddenly Santiago stands up, goes to the fridge and brings a drink to everyone. He hands Garrus a bottle of mid-range turian rum. “Special for you, little bird.” Next he holds up his bottle of beer and makes a toast. “You’ll rot in hell, Jacobson. You smelled nasty and stained our couches.” The rest mumble their agreement and take a sip. 

That could explain why Jaguar Arms was still suspicious; while it was a legitimate business, the issue lies with the owners and its employees. It doesn’t seem like a typical front, and it’s unclear how the Panthers are using the business. The clubs are in murkier waters by the sound of it, but in the typical way. Also, Shepard and Reyes were more than likely wrapped up in the ‘family business’. While it explains some of their inconsistent behaviors over the last few weeks, it still doesn’t sit well with him. 

Shepard makes a hand gesture; Santiago pulls something from his pocket and tosses it to Shepard. She puts it in her mouth and inhales, smoke floating above her seconds later. “Damn these cybernetics,” she complains, “it’s so fucking hard to feel anything anymore, my body just tosses everything out like water.”

“Considering how it’s made you less stupid and saved your life multiple times, I think it’s a good change,” Santiago comments mildly, “Plus, you have Mia now to think about.”

“Yeah, but I miss my shitty lungs anyways.” The smoke wafts up and smells like apples with an underlying current of the nicotine some humans liked. He refuses to think about what else he doesn’t know about her. 

Santiago claps his hand together and returns to sit on the couch. Shepard props an elbow on the coffee table and continues smoking. “Back to business,” Santiago continues. “Point is, Jacobson is now out, and there’s no one big left but low-level runners and the usual crap that you always find at clubs. The club is legally in my name now, along with Jaguar Arms. The end is in sight.” He sighs and leans on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “We’re almost free.”

He can see Shepard looking at Santiago with a soft, open look on her face. The Commander Shepard he knew would never let an emotion like that cross her face in public. “Don’t get too excited, Santi. We don’t know if it’ll work.”

Santiago sits up instantly, his eyes flashing with a sudden determination. “It has to, Xochi. It has to, I’ll make it work.” He can see Santiago clutching the couch so hard his knuckles are turning white. So he really is determined to pull this off. Interesting.

Shepard rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. “This is where the Palaven contract comes in. We know they’re in talks with Aldrin Labs and Rosenkov Materials. If we manage to land the Palaven contract or another intergalactic company, it’ll bring us the credits to be able to establish ourselves independently.  We’re also not starting a gang or trying to claim territory. We don’t have to worry about an actual fight, since UNAS won’t stand for another major turf war within syndicates, it was one of the conditions they had for Mexico when the country joined up.” She talks a bit more about the options for current employees and how the overall company could progress. Depending on the future, the nightclubs could be sold, and the main headquarters can be moved if needed. It’s a thought-out plan, with contingencies he wasn’t expecting. 

She takes a smoke and continues speaking. “If we get an intergalactic deal, that does a few things. One, the boss is an isolationist to his core and anti-alien. He wants to stick to Earth and Earth only. We’re hoping he’ll disown Santi and Ceci, and while he respects me, he also hates my guts for a bunch of reasons. I’m hoping he’ll leave me alone but I’m making plans in case he doesn’t. Two, if he tries something with the company, there’s now other planets involved and it becomes an intergalactic problem, which means intergalactic laws and protections. That also means more eyes poking around his businesses, which is the last thing he wants.” She gives Garrus a wry smile, using the cigarette to point at him. “In our defense, we weren’t expecting a Spectre to appear out of nowhere for a business deal. I’m blaming Santi for that. I manage more of the day to day stuff and keep my head down, so I have no idea what he’s been putting out there about the company. We know we’re suspicious, but we didn’t realize it was that public. I think we underestimated turian ethics.”

He’s staring at his bottle. They’ve outright said they were affiliated with the Panthers now, though they never said the name. The boss must be the higher-up above them, and by the sounds of it, the man in charge is also Reyes’s father. In turn, Santiago and Shepard are as high-ranking as rumor has it, if not more. So it seems that Santiago probably ran operations in Mexico City, and Shepard was in charge of certain sectors. Very similar to that first initial briefing, so many weeks ago.

“I don’t know what a Spectre is doing mixed up with an Earth business deal, and it could be that your real mission has nothing to do with us, but we thought you should know anyways. You would’ve found out eventually, I know you would’ve,” she shrugs. “We’re not asking for your help. We know this has nothing to do with you and doesn’t benefit you. But we– I ,” Shepard corrects herself as Cecilia shoots her a glare, “wanted you to know. ”

Her eyes are open and honest, and it’s that, that more than anything that pisses him the fuck off. When has he ever been able to say no to her? She’s not verbally asking him for his help, but she’s suggesting it. Shepard has never done something for only one reason, there's always another plan, another way out, a trap, something, and he just wants to see her for once, talk to whoever the hell is residing in Shepard’s body, to figure out whether whatever they were, whatever they felt was actually re–

He storms out of her apartment without saying a single word. Behind him he can hear Shepard tell her two friends to let him go, and a small part of him wishes that she tried to stop him. But no, that’s not Shepard’s style, no, she just talks and talks until you start thinking that she’s right and you’re wrong and she knows better than anybody. Isn’t that how she convinced the Council? Saren? The krogans, the turians, the salarians, everyone to unite? Somehow united species that were at war for centuries to fight together?

But where was she, afterwards, after going out in a blaze of glory and seemingly coming out alive and well out the other side? Sure, she was missing body parts, but she had her little girl, a little nest of her own, tucked in a neighborhood in her hometown. Did she even think about the war? What it took from all of them? He’s blessed that his father and sister are alive, and he knows she only has her niece, and that she has those strange waking nightmares now, but he doesn’t feel like being fair. He still twitches at flashing lights, even after years of therapy and medication. Doesn’t like smelling smoke. He expected the worst and saw it, and the guilt of sacrificing hundreds of thousands of lives keeps him up most nights. Maybe a part of him thought she would understand that too. The pain of seeing your home destroyed –she was Earthborn after all– and he’s seen her stand in the middle of the rubble of her childhood, but she just stood tall and shot at him instead (even if she didn’t know it was him, it didn’t matter, she should have known, just known). It’s better now than it used to be, the memories, after healing from his injuries from the Battle of London. It’s been a long, long road and seeing Shepard is re-opening those wounds, reminding him of bad times with good memories. Especially when she goes from smiling to sullen in seconds, from friends to a stranger he can’t recognize. He thought that seeing her alive would at least answer some questions but it’s only created more. She just brushes everything aside and acts like everything’s fine, like they’re the same friends as before, like he’s been around for years and knows everything when in fact every time they see each other, he learns something new. She adores spicy food, she likes to put on makeup, she loves sparkly jewelry, she plays music all the time–

There’s a loud, cracking noise and there’s a few kids down an alleyway lighting some firecrackers. The sound is too much for his brain and he hails a taxi before the sound overwhelms him. While the taxi drives towards his lodgings, he finds himself thinking whether he’s going to live the rest of his life like this, stuck in gray areas with no end in sight.

Every time he thinks he has Shepard figured out, she likes to remind him he does not.

At first, it was her reputation. He expected her to be as cruel and efficient as the rumors, but instead found a rational woman, self-assured and unafraid. Her distant professionalism made him think that maybe the rumors were exaggerated after all. The lying is unusual, sure. A liar is insincere to themselves and others, and cannot be trusted in a moment of battle. Or so he was taught. However, in combat Shepard always covered her crew and consistently put herself in harm’s way for them. And despite her strange way of doing things, she always treated him with respect, and somehow between torrents of bullets and a dozen planets, they became friends. By the time he left the Normandy SR-1, he thought he finally had a sense of who Shepard was: a liar on occasion, but a defender, too. Always got the job done, no matter what. No matter the cost.

Then she died. And came back to life. Like the stories of the old titans, who died in war but their spirits lived on to inspire. Their time with Cerberus is strained; she never trusted them from the start, and made it clear to be ready for betrayal when it came, because it was a matter of when, not if. He witnessed the stress of it pressing her down, and while she lied less, she spoke less as well. At some point the line between admiration and lust begins to blur, and there are brief moments of tenderness between them that make him think Shepard has a sweetness to her soul that she hides from the world. As the war escalates, he realizes that wasn’t the whole truth; Shepard wrapped herself in layers of secrecy and darkness, an ever-shifting galaxy that refuses to settle. But there’s light in there, too, and when it shines through it’s so bright that he’s desperate to help her in her darkest moments. In those final months facing the Reapers she was angry and frantic, always on edge, but he tried to remind her that she mattered too, and she couldn’t let herself burn out. But at the end, that’s what she did anyway: burned so bright that she disappeared. And that’s where they’re stuck right now. He's never known Shepard outside of a fight for survival, and she’s still trying to figure out what to do with herself. She doesn’t want to return to the Alliance, but even by returning to her roots, she found herself in a position of power. It’s almost funny to see her live in denial of the strength of her soul.

Calmer now that he was a few days ago, he concedes that he’s seen flickers of the Shepard he knew; she explains what she thinks she should (and nothing more), and there are moments of intense vulnerability, of her trying her best to fulfill some of her past promises. Like speaking about her mother, talking about grieving. Playing the music she grew up with. But then she shuts up and stares into the distance and refuses to speak a word. The last few weeks on Earth have been enlightening and infuriating at the same time, and he feels like they’re circling around each other, a star and a planet stuck in orbit.

Well, he’s had enough. Garrus refuses to be dragged along at her speed any longer. He’s spent too much time looking for her, and too much time working on his own shit, to leave Earth without at least some answers about how this all came to be. Cryptic hints and meaningful looks with possible lovers be damned. She can’t avoid him forever. He won’t let her.

Chapter Text

Shepard’s the type of person to do things when she wants to, the rest of the world be damned. So Garrus decides to take a leaf out of her book, as one of his old coworkers used to say. He sends her a message.

GV: I need to talk to you, alone. When are you free?

She responds about an hour later.

X: Free at 1200 tmrw. Will this take long?

GV: Depends.

X: Meet me roof of my apt. Have to pick up Mia 1400 .

The rooftop of the apartment is decorated with dozens of plants and there are clothes drying in the sun. The center is a big, open space with various chairs and a small table, where Shepard is curled up in one of the chairs. She’s looking out to the city skyline, holding a steaming cup of coffee. He can smell from here, sweet and earthy, a constant scent he thinks is imprinted in her skin. There’s also another chemical smell mixed with the coffee that he can’t figure out. She briefly turns and nods to him in greeting, then returns her gaze back to the skyline. He takes a seat across from her with more noise than is really necessary, but she doesn’t turn.. Her hair is her own today, black and curly; she’s wearing a loose black shirt and pants, and from this angle he can just see the edge of a faint, red line on the center of her chest. No black glove today, and her prosthetic finger stands out slightly against the rest. She’s sipping her coffee but otherwise she sits, relaxed, looking like she’s content to sit here all day and drink and let the world pass her by. This is the first time they’re meeting since he stormed out of her apartment, and it’s the first time he’s messaged her directly. He’s a little surprised she even responded, if he’s honest.

Garrus can’t figure out why almost every single moment they’re alone abruptly overwhelmed by waves of anger and frustration that come to the surface. Maybe Mia is a more calming presence than anyone gives her credit for. “Sorry, don’t let me disturb your morning coffee. It’s only past noon,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Shepard simply blows at her coffee and takes a sip without taking her eyes off the skyline. He doesn’t know what she sees in it; two-thirds of it is still rubble and it’s such a mix of heights and styles that it’s rather ugly. “I slept at seven in the morning today. Morning or noon, this is my first cup of the day.” Her voice sounds tired and raspy, like it usually does when she hasn’t slept much. It’s how she used to sound all the time, towards the end.

“Didn’t know spending a night drinking and dancing was considered a job these days,” he remarks coolly. This seems to prick her awake, because while she doesn’t fully uncurl from the chair, she jerks up and looks him straight in the eye for the first time. Good . But still she doesn’t say anything, just stares him down. “What, enjoying the view?” Her expression doesn’t change, her eyes don’t waver. Somehow that only makes his own temper worse. Is she going to pretend like nothing’s changed, like always? Anger usually wins out with Shepard, it’s just a matter of finding the right thing to say. She always took things too personal for a career soldier. A dangerous trait in turian soldiers, and ignored in human ones. “No sarcastic remark? Cryptic message? A lie, at least?”

Carefully setting her coffee down on the patio table in between them, she unfurls her legs beneath her, sits properly in the chair and leans back. It reminds him of how she would sit and chat with the crew on the Normandy, especially when they needed to vent. In fact, he realizes that’s exactly what she’s treating this as: a casual chat.

“Why are you here?” she calmly asks, picking up her coffee and taking a sip.

“I wanted answers.”

She looks at him, lost. “We gave you answers, as much as we could.”

“Not about them. About you.”

“...Me?”

“Yes Shepard, you. How did you end up in this mess in the first place? Who goes from being a galaxy-wide hero to an underground criminal? Why ?” He wants something real . An answer, something, anything beyond her stupid little fake smiles and her enigmatic expressions. He wants to see that she felt something, anything, that their late nights and stolen moments weren’t nothing. 

She makes a weird expression, one he recognizes as displeasure. “Don’t use that name. And I’m not a criminal.” 

Oh. Oh ? So now she’s just going to lie straight to his face? Is that the extent of their relationship? “Considering you were the one who told me about your plan of legitimizing businesses, I think you are.” She seems unfazed by this accusation and he decides to try a different tactic, employing a classic piece of Shepard advice. Do not hesitate when the enemy is in your sights. “And that’s not considering what you did during the war, the lives you sacrificed. By the way, the batarians still consider you a war criminal and have you on open trial for what you did to the Bahak system. They’re still struggling to find somewhere to relocate to. Between Torfan and Bahak, well, it’s not looking good for you if you decide to leave Earth, Shepard.” It’s a low blow, one he would have never thrown at her, one he didn’t even believe in (and the Hegemony is on the brink of being dissolved, it’s a miracle they’ve lasted this long), but he just wants to, to break through to her, make her talk to him, somehow. It works. Shepard freezes mid-sip, and her hands shake as she puts her mug down. Coffee spills out of the mug onto her hands, turning her skin red, but she doesn’t seem to care. There’s a spark of anger in her eyes now; his visor beeps at him. Threat level: one.  

“Oh, so I’m a war criminal for doing what no one else wanted to do? Bold of you, Archangel. Did you ever stop to think on Omega that it was your ego feeding your little crusade of justice? No one asked you to save them, you just decided to do it all on your own.” She laughs, and it’s cruel and malice wrapped in one and it stings. He doesn’t want to hear it again. “There’s no use for angels in hell. What, you thought that somehow you were going to single-handedly stop crime on Omega? For what? That doesn’t stop the kids starving in the street, slavers looking for bodies, that’s eternal, Vakarian, and it’s what rich kids like you don’t understand, that no amount of fucking ‘good intention’ will ever change a place like that, no outsider knows what it’s like to starve, or steal, or whore yourself out for money. Why do you think Aria didn’t give a shit about your little group, huh? You were doing her a favor, wiping out the merc groups, controlling their numbers. Did you know she tripled her eezo shipments while you kept everyone busy? That’s why she had so much damn eezo when the war started. ‘Cause she knows what power is and how to hold it.” Her voice is dripping with bitterness and he knows she’s aiming to hurt now. Suddenly he realizes he doesn’t want to hear whatever she’s going to say next. She’s always been good at this, at finding weaknesses and using them to her advantage. It’s a healed wound but it doesn’t mean he wants her to cut it open again. 

“Don’t,” he manages to snarl. There’s a seed of truth in there, somewhere, but it’s not what this is about. He knows he’s baring his teeth, subvocals low and threatening. The visor informs him that her breathing is steady but her heart rate is picking up.

The rows of sharp turian teeth do nothing to intimidate Shepard. Instead she leans forward, propping her elbows on the table. “Oh?” she pouts sarcastically, “Did it hurt your bleeding heart, Vakarian, to hear the truth? Ashamed that a stupid little human girl from Earth figured it out before you did?”

Damn her and her stupid fucking, inherent confidence in whatever she does. Unwavering, unquestioning, always convinced her way is the best way. There has to be something he can throw in her face–he remembers her abnormally low academic scores from her recruitment file, and sneers. “At least I could read when I was eighteen. Weren’t your aptitude scores some of the lo–”

Garrus knows he’s hit a sore spot, because Shepard’s expression changes instantly. Threat level: six , and next thing he sees is a blur of black and he’s rolling on his back, years of military training kicking in on instinct. Shepard’s pretty stupid to even try and fight him like this; he’s in full armor today and she’s in civilian clothing. Yet that doesn’t stop her. She’s hammering away at him, but all he feels are slight thumps. Even without armor he has to be careful; she aims for his head in between punches to his torso and arms, and she even tries to snatch his visor off his head. An instinctive bite (that misses by millimeters) stops her from trying it again. 

A lot of people made a huge fuss about Shepard’s close combat skills and while he’s seen her in action, he’s never sparred with the commander. She never asked, he never offered. In a way he thought he would feel more threatened, that he’d be facing the ultimate equal. Instead he’s keeping up with her blow-for-blow. So much for a galaxy-level threat, if she is as good as she gets. Her hits are precise and quick, but useless against his armor. But she’s slippery too; she keeps dodging and ducking, and every time he thinks he has a grip on her, she gets away. It’s unclear to him what she’s trying to accomplish by putting up a fight when she’s at a disadvantage. Just when she starts to slow and he thinks he’ll land a hold that will immobilize her, he hears a crack. Something shifts, and his chestplate splits in two along the side seals. There’s no time to process his shock because she immediately follows up with a punch to his left mandible. Garrus avoids it, but it’s close enough to his face that he catches the tell-tale sheen of biotics pressed tightly against her first.

He’s sitting in the mess with Tali and Alenko, and they’re all relaxing with a drink in hand. Over the last few weeks and missions they’ve struck up an easy camaraderie, and they occasionally find themselves spending their downtime together. At one point Tali turns to Lieutenant Alenko. “Commander Shepard told me the other day that you’re a much stronger biotic than her. Is that true?”

Alenko fidgets a little in his seat. Garrus knows he’s a loyal soldier, and the admission of a commander being weaker than a soldier doesn’t sit well with him. Always honest, Alenko responds. “Yes, in a way. I have an L2 while she has an L3, so there’s a cap set due to implant differences. But the commander has control I could only dream of.”

Tali leans forward, intrigued. Even Garrus has to admit he’s a little curious. “What do you mean?” she prompts.

Alenko looks into his cup. “She can be incredibly precise with her abilities. She can pull a gun to land in her palm and start shooting. I can pull the gun towards me, but I can’t always get the handle to land on my palm like she can. I can set up a biotic barrier to block bullets, but she can redirect a bullet in motion to go somewhere else. Her mass effect fields always land where she wants them, the size she wants them. She tries to teach me by putting a bunch of cups in a pile and tells me to move only one, but I keep pulling up two cups instead of just one. She can pull up one every single time.”

“I don’t see how that would help her in combat,” Tali muses.

Alenko gives Tali a funny smile, like he knows something she doesn’t. “Don’t underestimate the commander. She’s full of surprises.”

He’s a fucking idiot. Is he some soldier fresh out of boot camp, to be letting his emotions get the better of him? Shepard never attacks without a plan; of course she was playing with him. She knew she couldn’t do any real damage to him in his full armor, so she struck the weak points and seams in his armor with her biotics until it cracked, keeping him busy with punches to his face, his spurs, to distract him from what she was really doing. He didn’t even know it was possible to do that with biotics. How did she even know where to hit? This was also a recent purchase through Spectre requisitions. It was an expensive set that was custom-made and took months to manufacture. And she broke it in minutes.

Oh, it’s fucking on.

Garrus catches a glimpse of her smile when his armor breaks; it’s feral, all teeth, the same one from the deathmatch recordings. Threat level: nine . The adrenaline is rushing to his head, his temper, frustrations, and anger meshing together. He throws a fist to her face and she jumps back, doesn’t give the chance to get into a good stance before she’s jumping and swinging her heel towards his face —for a moment he’s surprised she can reach this high— but he’s quick enough to grab her foot and slams her to the ground. She’s winded, but she puts human flexibility to use and does a strange move that has him flying over her head, scrambling for a landing.

It’s a blur after that.

Shepard fights dirty . In a practice match she’d be disqualified immediately. In his life he’s fought plenty of humans in close quarters. As he avoids a series of quick jabs, he finds himself cursing every single human he’s ever practiced within the past. Either they were holding back or following some sort of martial code, because Shepard is making him work for every single move. She’s the fastest person he’s ever sparred with by light-years, and she knows exactly where to hit. There’s no time wasted with taunts or threats, and she’s laser-focused on her opponent’s every breath, every twitch. It’s a masterclass in fighting if he had the time to appreciate it, instead of keeping up with the toughest challenger he’s had in years.

Garrus goes for her right leg, gambling that the prosthetic might be a weak point in her stance since she hasn’t had it for long. It becomes painfully clear she’s been practicing for that exact assumption; Shepard side steps with ease, whirling around and somehow stomping on his foot hard enough that it hurts, boots and all. Damn biotics. He does manage to come back in spectacular fashion, tripping her onto her back, and manages to grab her right knee in a lock. She slams her forehead to his (shit, human foreheads are way harder than he thought possible, those krogan heatbutts make a lot more sense now) and thrusts a pointy human elbow in his cowl that has him grunting in pain and rolling away. At some point he realizes he should pull her hair (he forgot that could hurt) and he’s rewarded with a howl of pain. But even as she’s screaming, she doesn’t stop moving; Shepard grips his arms and tries to twist them to the left, and when that doesn’t work, pulls herself up while he’s grabbing her hair and lands a nasty knee strike to his waist. He splits her lip. She cracks his left mandible in revenge. In one instance she even manages to pull at his fringe, a physical taunt of his earlier stunt with her hair.

It’s a fast dance of pain they’re both intimately familiar with, and Shepard doesn’t leave him with time to think about anything beyond his next strike or block. Time blurs, and he doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually they both start to slow down. And that’s when Garrus sees his chance: she stumbles on her left leg just a little, and her next punch is just a fraction slower, this is it, she’s getting tired–

He’s flat on his back, his fringe scraping uncomfortably against the floor, a shimmering orange omni-blade steady at his throat. Threat level: ten.

They stay like that for a long, long minute, staring at each other. Her hair is an absolute mess, hovering around her face like a black cloud. Her lip is slowly dripping blood onto his neck, and there’s a cut above her eyebrow he doesn’t remember giving her. Her clothing is ripped, blood dampening the black fabric. After they glare at each other for a few more seconds, Shepard blinks rapidly, her face shifting through a series of emotions so quickly he can’t tell what they are.

Threat level: zero . And then she starts to laugh. It’s hysterical, insane and intense, but there’s a little bit of relief in there, too. It feels… right, somehow, and it’s catching, because soon enough he finds himself laughing too. She withdraws her blade and rolls over next to him and lies down on the roof, staring at the sky. It’s bright blue and the clouds are lazily swirling around one another. His keelbone aches, and Garrus has a feeling one of his feet is badly bruised. He also has the feeling she’s gonna start talking. She never could deal with taunting.

“I’m being so fucking stupid,” Shepard manages to gasp out between laughs. Something melts between them under the bright blue sky, and something melts in Shepard too, because she starts talking, the words rushing out like she’s been waiting years to say them. “When my mom was dying we were struggling to get food and pay rent. Joined the Reds because I felt lost, didn’t know what else to do, had no money. It’s just what kids did, when they got nothing. After she died I worked my way up. Got noticed by the Panthers and joined them when I was fifteen.” She’s silent for a second, and he momentarily wonders whether she’s going to mention the disappearance of the previous gang leader. She doesn’t. “I was pretty and young. Started out in the nightclubs, working as a look-out, runner. Got paid more if I took on extra jobs. Things like that. One night a patron tried to grope me without paying and I slammed his head against the dance pole so hard he passed out. Some higher-up noticed and I started training as a fighter on the side.” Well, Shepard was always a little excessive at times. Looks like that’s been a lifelong trait. She explains a few more things about her early life, along with the relationship between the military and the poor on Earth. It sounds almost predatory, to have more military offices in poorer areas than affluent ones. During Shepard’s late teens, the Alliance introduces a new initiative during a dip in enlistments that includes recruiting minors with records (within reason). 

She talks a little about the recruitment officer who approached her, and he remembers seeing the name in her file. “Ceci knew him, apparently. He tried to recruit her, but she said she didn’t wanna be another soldier. Did you know she studied at MIT? Anyways, she told me one day that Wright was gonna talk to me whether I wanted to or not. At that point I was training full-time as a fighter and was making a name for myself in the Earth underground fighting circuits.”

Shepard laughs again, but this time it sounds normal. “They called me the Impala ‘cause I was smaller than most of my opponents but fast. Don’t laugh.”

“I wasn’t going to. I think you fractured my keelbone.” It’s definitely bruised, at least. But at least she’s answering questions now and not putting up a wall. He’ll reserve judgement to see if the pain is worth it.

“That’s what you get for talking shit. Anyway, I know it’s a stupid name but you don’t get to choose your names, people pick it for you. The Nine Circles of Hell is one of the biggest deathmatch tournaments you can get into. It’s held every three years and only the best, meanest motherfuckers on Earth get in. It’s nine fights over two days, five on the first and four on the second. They’re back to back fights, no breaks. No biotics, weapons, enhancements or drugs but otherwise, anything goes. You go until someone surrenders or dies. Winner takes all.” He can hear the excitement in her voice as she reminisces. Shepard keeps talking, getting into the rhythm of her story. Between the warm ground below him and the warm afternoon sun, he’s more than content to lie here and hear the answers to questions he’s been wondering for years. Plus, his shoulder hurts. “I don’t know how I got in. I was new to the scene and unknown on a big scale. I think the Panthers must’ve paid my way through. I almost won the whole thing, but I fumbled a move and ended up in second place.”

A busted shoulder and a bloody lip, a wild bloodlust better suited to a varren than a human. “I saw a recording of the fight,” he admits. 

“Did you?” she asks, her tone curious. “What’d you think?”

“Fast,” Garrus replies immediately, remembering the footage and her feral smile. “Intense. But… there was something about the way you fought that you just couldn’t look away. You fell for some of his bait, and by the time the fight ended it was clear he had more experience than you did. But your potential was obvious.” His subvocals murmur in amusement. “If we fought at seventeen, you would have definitely crushed me in two minutes. I didn’t have an ounce of your confidence or skill.”

Shepard laughs and ends in a cough. “Instead it took about thirty minutes.”

“You just got lucky.” They both know that’s not true; Shepard caught him with a feint he wasn’t expecting, but he feels the need to try and defend his dignity anyway.

“You keep telling yourself that, Vakarian,” she tells him, amused. “Anyways, Wright was going at me hard after the fights. I wasn’t interested at first, but…” she trails off, pensive. He waits, trusting that she’ll continue. She does. “I… was getting into some heavier shit. I don’t know what Wright knew, but I think he suspected. After Nine Circles I was put on more front-line shit, got bumped up.  Bodyguard, enforcer. The Panthers… it was serious. Running the Reds was small compared to this. But people started treating me with respect. They’d leave me alone on the street and the clubs. If they shot me, I had something to shoot ‘em back with. I had people to back me. No one cares about the daughters of whores, but a girl with a panther tattoo? That made people listen.”

Stretching her arms to the sky, she lets out a small hiss and some of her bones pop. “My cousin–Isabella, Mia’s mom– she was the last family I had left. She was begging me to leave, saying she was scared she was gonna find my body in a ditch someday. But it was getting to my head. I had more money than I’d ever seen, even when my mom was alive. People would cross the street when they saw me. It felt… good, to be respected like that.”

It’s hard to imagine Commander Shepard involved in deathmatches and gangs, but the young, feral girl from the profile vid? It would have been stranger if she wasn’t running with a gang. At such a young age, how would she have learned the difference between right and wrong, with no one to teach her? No wonder Shepard didn’t worry about doing the right thing as much as he did; she wanted to survive, and couldn’t always choose how. 

She lets out a long, sad sigh. “It was money. It’s always money in the end when you’re poor, you know. Isabella started getting sick, and the money I was earning wasn’t enough to get the help she needed. Panthers didn’t care about me and said no when I asked for a loan. I went to Wright and asked how much the Alliance would pay me. He gave me a number – biotics get crazy incentives to join –  and Ceci did the math for me. It would be enough to cover Isabella’s bills. Wright said Alliance would cover room and board and they’d arrange everything so… I enlisted and left.”

Garrus lets Shepard’s story sink in. If her mother and Isabella had survived, what would have happened? Would the galaxy have survived? Or would another person have fulfilled Shepard’s role? Would she have stayed on Earth with her mother, unknown to the rest of the universe? Would they have met? Or would they have been stuck on opposite ends of the galaxy, never aware of the other’s existence?

In a different reality, would Shepard be happy?

Subconsciously he brushes a hand across his clan markings. Anyone who can read them knows he’s from a high-class family from the homeworld. As embarrassing as it is, people always trip over themselves to talk to him, to be his friend. He’s never really had to fight to be seen as a person worthy of existence, not in the way Shepard has. To prove himself, sure. Not for basic respect. But now he knows the galaxy can be a cruel place, and that children with no homes are treated like animals. On Earth, in Omega, at Palaven. The story is the same and so is the theme: the unworthy are not worth seeing. It’s why she looks so alive when fighting , he muses. It’s an acknowledgment that she’s a threat, that the enemy must see the danger before their eyes in order to have a chance to live. No wonder she’s always been a little edgy about his background. It gives him a lot to think about. Shepard tends to do that to a person, to look at things from a different perspective. Or maybe that’s just an effect she has on him.

Some questions still press at the front of his mind, especially with this new information. “Then… why did you go back?”

Shepard sits up with a groan, wipes the blood off her face with the collar of her shirt. Her cybernetic healing is already kicking in; she’s stopped bleeding and he swears her lip is knitting itself back together in front of his eyes. She pulls a knee up and props her arm on it, resting her head in her palm and looking at him. Drumming her fingers on her face, Shepard gives him a tiny smile.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve never had a real job,” she responds dryly. “My UNAS citizenship is under Athena Shepard, and obviously that’d light up the system if I did anything.” She twists her sides to stretch her back. “I woke up in a hospital missing a leg and a finger. But I was on Earth, and I didn’t know if anyone I knew was alive, if the city had survived. And it hit me that the Reapers were dead, and that if I went back to the Alliance, I’d be trapped for weeks answering questions. Asking after the well-being of criminals typically raises a lot of questions when you’re an Alliance soldier. I wasn’t in my right mind, my omni-tool broke, I was alone, powerless, I didn’t have any way to prove my identity or contact anyone, you were all MIA, comms were out and I just, I wanted to see if Isabella or Ceci or Santi were alive so bad that I just… went to go look for them.”

Garrus leans up to stare at her. She ran away ? He makes a sound of disbelief with his subvocals. Shepard recognizes the sound and tries to hide a grin behind her hand. “So after saving the galaxy and changing the fate of the universe forever, you decided to run away ?” He says it as a joke, but he reads in between the lines; she wanted to know if her loved ones were okay. Hell, if he had crash-landed on Palaven, he might’ve done the same.

“Hey, you know the amount of red tape that comes after shit like this. As you so politely reminded me, I can barely read–”

“Athena, I’m sorry, I didn–”

She leans over and flicks his forearm to shut him up. It works. “No, you did, it’s fine, I’ve heard way, way worse, trust me. And you’re right, I could barely read. Obviously I got better at it, but I still hate going through paperwork, I suck at it. I’m sure you had loads of it when you went back.” After the Normandy found its way back to a populated planet, he remembers the barrage of questions the crew had to sit through, the endless meetings that went on for weeks, the dozens of reports he had to file. She continues, “I left the hospital as soon as I could–”

“I bet that means you really broke out when you weren’t supposed to,” he mutters mutinously, remembering all the times they had to drag her back to the med-bay against her will.

“Yeah whatever, same thing. Not my fault they couldn’t hold me back and I was in a wheelchair on a dozen painkillers. I left and made my way to Mexico City, found Ceci and Santi out in the hills in hiding. I warned them for years that something bad was coming, and turns out they took me seriously.” Her expression fills with grief and her eyes start to water, but no tears fall. “They had Mia with them. They left with her but Isabella and her husband stayed behind because they wanted to help with the war effort. They were going to leave the city but were killed in a Reaper attack three weeks before the Crucible fired.”

 Her voice wavers now, more emotional than he’s ever heard her before. “It… broke me, I guess. I joined the Alliance for Isabella. Every time I was asked to fight the geth, the fucking Collectors, all those husks, I would think of her, Santi, Ceci. It’s what kept me going for so many years. I just...”

She makes a strangled sound and ruffles her hair, pulling at her curls. “I was a huge fucking mess, you have no idea. Worse than right now. And I’m so fucking old, I am so fucking old to be doing this shit, I know, I know , Garrus, but this is all I fucking knew before the military, and when I felt so lost, with Anderson dead, with Isabella dead, you and the Normandy crew missing in action, dead bodies everywhere, the city I grew up in and loved and hated completely destroyed. My mother’s not even buried where I fucking left her. And suddenly there’s a kid that I didn’t even know existed and she’s my responsibility because I’m the last person alive in her family, and Santi’s father is there, now he’s just the one calling all the shots, and he just starts drawing me in, and I’m slipping back into it like nothing’s changed.”

The frustration is creeping in her voice, and she’s getting louder and louder, a jumble of emotions tumbling out. It reminds him of their conversations in the dark, where if he caught her at the right moment, said the right things, her anxieties about the war would spill out. Then the next day she’d be in one of her foul moods, surly and silent, disappointed in herself for having a moment of weakness. On those days he would always find a bar of dextro-chocolate waiting for him in the main battery.

“There’s so many new faces but the structure is the same, the same rules, and I’m popping downers by triple dose just so they’ll shut up the screams in my head, I’m not sleeping, and I just get wrapped up in the same fucking bullshit I did when I was fifteen, the same fucking lies about family and money and power. And then there’s Mia and she’s waking up with nightmares every single night and she needs food and clothes and I’m the only person left alive she’s got, and if I don't do something she’ll be stuck on the streets, alone, just like I was and I don’t want her to. And so now Santi and Ceci and me are stuck in the same fucking spot we were when I was seventeen and we promised, we promised each that everything would change, and now it’s like the last fifteen years didn’t happen, like time didn’t pass and we’re all just stupid fucking children stuck doing the same damn shit our parents did and Mia is growing up in all of this and she’s starting to think that me coming home bloody is normal just like I did. It’s the fucking universe laughing at us, laughing at me for thinking I could be different.” 

She’s breathing hard and fast, her anger a palatable thing. He doesn’t realize her coffee mug somehow survived their fight, because suddenly there’s a blur of blue exploding magnificently on the roof of a building across from them. A flock of birds are startled and take to the skies. While he doesn’t agree with how she’s handled things, Garrus knows what it is like to feel lost; it’s just that instead of turning into a vigilante, she turned to what she knew. And wasn’t what he did, ultimately? He knew how to solve crime and used that to his advantage. She, ironically, knew only a life of crime before the military, and returned to that. It makes some strange sort of sense to him, though he could never imagine joining a crime syndicate. Although, he also grew up with a father in C-Sec, and she grew up with criminals. Maybe their environments influenced them more than he’d like to admit (though she clearly had no hesitation to point it out).

Shepard’s moodily staring at the shattered mug on the other building. He looks at her, with her hair puffed up around her face like a new moon, her face set in anger. When he found out what her name meant so many years ago, she was upset that he told her the name suited her. If she isn’t some sort of goddess of war fighting against the universe, then who is?. He thinks the name still applies, even if they call her something different here. 

  “If you get the Palaven deal,” he starts slowly, praying to the Spirits for guidance, trusting in their shared past, “that will make it possible for you to split from the Panthers?”

She turns to look at him, her hope a tiny, fragile thing in her eyes. She nods.

“You’ll keep the employees if they want to stay, protect them if something goes wrong?”

Shepard nods again.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Her smile reminds him of the Palaven sun, bright and borderline dangerous. It’s the smile that has a fierceness to it, one he’s rarely seen but is so entirely her that it makes his mouth go dry. He needs to say something, anything, before he says something incredibly idiotic like, I used to dream of seeing you smile again or Spirits, I’ve missed you or Are those new teeth as sharp as they look because –

“So, what should I call you these days?” Garrus asks instead, half-serious and half-jokingly as he looks at the sky again. His mandible flicks out as he speaks and he hisses, feeling the ache from Shepard’s earlier punch.

She hums then grunts as she stands up and heads to a corner of the rooftop; she comes back and carefully places a medi-gel tube in his right hand. “That’s a good question.”

“Why do you have medi-gel hidden in a planter on a rooftop?”

“Medi-gel only serves one purpose,” she responds as she grips her chin and twists her head. Humans cracked their bones in the most unnatural ways. As Garrus opens the tube and places some gel on his mandible, Shepard sits down again. “As for the name, Xochil or Athena is fine. I’ve been called both for a long time.” She taps on her omni-tool, prints a small stick then starts pulling up her hair. “I don’t really like Cruz,” she grimaces, “though I guess that is technically my last name. But I’ve never been called that.” Somehow she uses the stick to hold her hair up in a ball. What the hell. “But,” she pauses, and the look in her eyes is full of mischief and fire, very much like the looks that started this whole thing, and it seems his body still remembers what that meant, “I like it when you call me Shepard.” Then just as quick her gaze shifts into something softer, melancholy. “It reminds me of who I was. Am,” she corrects herself hastily. “Just not in public. I don’t wanna attract attention.”

Flower is a strange name for a warrior, but he’ll get used to it, even if in his head she’ll always be Shepard. And if she likes it, well, there’s no reason to stop either. “Oh, I think you wouldn’t have any trouble blending in,” he teases, trying to push his emotions somewhere where he can control them. It’s not working out very well. “I’ve seen at least six children called Shepard since I’ve landed on Earth.”

She rolls her eyes as she snatches the medi-gel tube from his hand, clearly annoyed. “Don’t remind me. Keep that up and I’m not giving you any more medi-gel.”

He laughs, a little smug he’s found one of her weak points. Despite her threat, she hands him back the tube and orders some food for the two of them. Meanwhile, she tells him there’s probably kids named after him too. There is, and he doesn’t admit it but Shepard can tell he’s avoiding telling the truth and teases him anyway.

Spirits, I’ve missed you.

He talks to the merchants and the Hierarchy, though they don’t need much convincing. Jaguar Arms is offering a good deal compared to many of the other human companies and are very accommodating (he doesn’t mention why they’re so desperate to impress). Dates are set, and following turian customs, Jaguar Arms is invited to Cipritine – along with Aldrin Labs and Rosenkov Materials – to complete the contracts and to participate in the Palaven trade summit. All three companies accept.

Turians are nothing if not efficient, and they’ve already booked a ship to leave for Palaven in two days. The night before he leaves, he receives a message from Shepard directly.

At Rapture tonight working. No trouble this time, promise. Come to the glass box. We have Denorian Beer. - X

This is the first time Shepard has messaged him first, and it gives him a tiny fluttering of… something. He decides to take her up on her offer (and he can’t deny that the Denorian Beer is a very good incentive). The club looks unharmed by its recent police raid, and this visit goes very differently from his first. The moment a young human woman sees him he’s pulled to the entrance and pushed through, to the great frustration of the ever-growing line behind him. Once he’s inside the club he’s pulled aside by one of the dancers almost immediately, and taken directly to the glass box on the second floor, already repaired from the raid. There’s a luxurious look to the second floor that nicely compliments the decor of the club without being obnoxious, something he’s learned is incredibly rare in nightclubs. Whoever ran the place had good taste. 

As soon as he steps in the glass box, Santiago stands up, swaying a little. It’s past midnight, and he’s probably been drinking since early evening. “Well well well, little bird, I’m sad to see you go but it was a pleasure to meet you at last.” He sticks out his hand and Garrus accepts his handshake.

It also feels like a good time to ask a question everyone has refused to answer so far. If the human’s drunk, maybe he’ll be honest. “Why ‘little bird’?”

Santiago blinks at him slowly. “Because…. Because? Just because? You kinda look like a bird. That’s it.” Well. That was incredibly lackluster. No matter how much he protests the nickname, no one listens to him. Figures. Reyes waves over a nearby server. “Get me a Denorian beer, a old fashioned, and send Xochil a drink to come over.” The server nods and disappears. He invites him to sit down in one of the many chairs scattered in the area, and nods towards one of the VIP booths. “She’s busy but she’ll come in a sec.” 

Some of the VIP booths have doors next to them, leading into private rooms. In the direction Santiago nodded, there’s the same server opening the door. From here he can see dozens of human bodies in various states of undress. Shepard’s right by the door, and by the looks of things she’s deep in an argument with a human male who’s holding a light pipe in his mouth. There’s a lot of angry pointing in each other’s faces; the server cautiously steps in and hands a drink over to Shepard. She chugs all of it in one go and starts to leave, but the man grabs her by the hips to hold her back. The next few seconds are predictable. She grabs the man's head and slams it against the wall, and he falls unconscious to the ground. Picking up the light pipe, she stops and inhales for a moment, exhaling a bright green smoke. After talking to the server and pointing to the body, she starts talking to some more staff and some people inside the room. 

As they watch events unfold, all Santiago does is snort. “She’s strict about the ‘no touching’ rule with the dancers. There’s always some fucking idiot who thinks the rule doesn’t apply to her too.”

She let me touch her thigh , he starts to think, but makes himself stop before his thoughts get more confusing than they already are. They’ve finally reached a weird type of peace between them, and he doesn’t want to ruin it. Garrus has long decided that something is better than nothing when it comes to Shepard. If that means being friends instead of lovers, he’ll take it. Better than her being dead or MIA. 

“So, are you gonna ask her out anytime soon?” Santiago asks out of the blue, in an extremely curious tone of voice. It’s startling enough that he almost chokes on his beer, but he manages to keep his composure.

Garrus snaps back, a touch defensive, “Why in the Spirits would I do that?” 

A door creaks open. “Why in the Spirits would you do what?” Shepard repeats while she exhales green smoke again. She’s in all black today, with a tiny top that just covers her chest and tight pants. Her hair is straight and black, brushing the top of her shoulders. Her teeth shine a weird blue color in the lights as she yawns.

“I was telling him he should try one of our signatures, but he doesn’t want to risk having a levo drink, the coward,” Santiago intervenes and gives him a small wink. It’s hard to know what to do with that human expression, and even less with the idea that Santiago decided to lie for him. He finds himself not minding it this time around. He also finds himself with the inexplicable urge to punch him. No wonder Shepard’s always picking on him. 

“Oh leave him alone Santi, he leaves tomorrow, I don’t blame him. The last time I had a dextro drink I was sick for two days.” She pours a shot of tequila into her mouth straight from a bottle on a nearby table, then heads back to the glass door. “C’mon, I wanna show you something.”

Garrus glances at Santiago, who just silently raises his drink towards him and sips. He stands up hesitantly. leaves his beer on the table and follows her into a dark hallway. They only walk for a minute or two before Shepard opens a door and they find themselves on the rooftop of the building. From here there’s a nice view of the skyline; it’s mostly new buildings from this position, shiny and brightly lit in neon colors.

“It’s safe to talk up here,” she says offhandedly, though he doesn’t exactly know what makes a place safe to talk for her. There’s some leftover scaffolding that Shepard jumps and twirls herself on, somehow perching herself on top of a metal bar. 

“Showoff,” he tells her. Somehow she still finds ways to impress him with her mobility.

She just looks down and smiles, her canines on display. The teeth are starting to grow on him. “You just realized?”

Garrus thinks back to all the different stunts she used to pull in combat situations, from straight-up insane to flashy. “No, I think we all knew.”

Shepard rolls her eyes and looks out into the skyline. She takes another smoke, and out here it’s easier to smell its weird musky-sour scent. A strange levo drug, then. Something’s on her mind, and if he just waits…

“I just… “ she begins. She’s silent for a few moments. He waits. “I….” There’s a loud exhale and she tries again. “I didn’t mean to fight you, you know. Being home it… it… well, it makes me fall into… old… habits.”

Shepard has never been good with apologies. In fact, he can’t remember if she ever apologized to him for anything, including the time she gave him a concussion by her driving in the Mako. Looking up at her, he sees that her short black hair is being lifted by the wind. He finds himself thinking her curls suit her best. “It’s okay, Athena. I forgive you. We all can’t be gracious winners,” Garrus smoothly responds, instead of saying whatever nonsense about her hair his brain wants to spit out. Of course once things are even a semblance of normal between them, he’s tempted to say something extremely stupid. 

She looks down at him with a tiny frown, opening and closing her mouth before she gives up on what she wants to say and laughs, a little flustered and a touch embarrassed. Maybe there’s some bad things about being back on Earth, but if she’s laughing like this, he can’t really think of any right now.

While he wants to keep chatting with her like this, there’s still something he's been thinking about ever since their talk on the roof. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, or whatever this is, but he doesn’t know when he’ll have a chance to ask. It’s a complete unknown when they’ll see each other next, especially since neither of them have mentioned it. “I would like to ask you about Sidonis.” It’s old news but since she brought up Omega, it’s been circling in the back of his mind. Letting Sidonis go doesn’t lay on him as heavy as it used to, but the deaths of his squad always will. In a way, there’s a small sort of strange peace knowing Sidonis is dead. Cosmic justice. Or maybe Shepard justice is more accurate. 

Shepard gracefully jumps down from the metal bar and leans on some of the scaffolding instead. “What about him?”

“He was found dead in ‘88.”

“Shame.” He can read her tone well enough to know she doesn’t mean it the slightest. 

“His death was estimated to be in ‘86. Found with his tongue down his throat. Was it you?”

She shrugs a shoulder with complete indifference. “Maybe.” He glares at her, hoping that their friendship is enough to push her to speak honestly. She twirls the light pipe in between her fingers, then relents with a sigh. “Yeah, it was me.”

“...Why?” It just doesn’t make sense to him as to why she would spare Sidonis only to turn around and kill him herself. It’s a contradiction and he hates contradictions. Shepard is full of them. Not black or white, but something in the middle. Solana accuses him of liking people who are his opposite, and sometimes he thinks she might have a point. 

Her brow scrunches up. She’s making that expression where she’s a little disappointed he isn’t keeping up with her expectations. It used to kill him to see that when he was younger, back when his feelings were pure admiration for his commanding officer. “I thought that was pretty self-explanatory. He was a traitor. He deserves a traitor’s death.”

“Maybe, but that’s why I asked to track him down in the first place. Then why stop me? You stood in the w–”

Shepard interrupts him, suddenly impatient. “Yeah, because you were planning on shooting him in the middle of a plaza! Garrus, there were three uniformed C-Sec officers meters away and two undercover sitting at a nearby table! I was not about to get caught with a dead body dropping after all the work I put in to move up the ranks. I thought you had something planned.” She crosses her arms and huffs, gaining steam. “I did some fast talking to try and get us out of there and regroup. I slipped a tracker on him for that. I know I told you it didn’t go as planned, but then you said when he was in your sights, you couldn’t do it and I…” she sighs, her arms dropping to her sides. “I was going to suggest a follow-up plan, to draw him out somewhere isolated. But then when you said that, I realized you weren’t me.” There’s a light touch to his arm. He looks down at her and he recognizes the emotion in her eyes: anger. But it doesn’t seem to be directed at him. “You never brought it up again, so I didn’t. Otherwise I would’ve helped. You’re a good person, Garrus. You care about doing good. You didn’t want revenge, not really. And even in your revenge you were kind. Shooting him would be generous for what he did.”

“What, cutting out his tongue and shoving it down his throat was better? He did nothing to you.” Maybe in those times he had enough anger to do such a thing, but now he finds it difficult to even think about taking such a drastic, cruel action. He can’t imagine Shepard doing it either, if he’s honest.

She gives him a frigid look, her voice oddly calm. “But he did something to you. For that, he needed something more than a bullet in the head.”

A part of him is touched by the sentiment, the show of blind, reckless loyalty that’s always been a part of Shepard, once someone gained her trust. But then he remembers her friendship with Massani, and the old merc’s message. How every time with the Council, the Reapers, even the occasional disagreement with the Alliance, she took it like it was a personal attack. The rest of him suddenly comprehends, understands, to the depth of his being, that what drives Shepard as a person, the savior of the galaxy, is not a desire for justice. It is a lust for vengeance. 

The morning he leaves for Palaven, Garrus finds a small box on his doorstep with an old-fashioned paper envelope attached. Opening the box, he finds it’s full of the sweet-spicy candy he’s been finding in his pockets for the last few weeks. He opens the note on his way out the complex. He knows enough about what English looks like to know that the note isn’t written in that language. His visor flickers, spits out ‘ Northern Latin Spanish detected ’, and it transcribes the text. 

Thank you for everything. Seriously. Don’t get into stupid shit and take care. See you next time.

PS. Since our little bird is leaving the nest, I wanted to give you some little gifts to cheer you up on your trip. Hopefully you like them.

The note makes him feel a little …hopeful, that maybe they could start being… something, again. The morning is spent talking to the Palaven team about logistics, and while they wait for their taxis he checks his messages. The Council is already requesting his presence in the Exodus Cluster for a Spectre mission involving some sort of high-level identity theft. 

There’s also a surprise package waiting for him, discreetly mixed with his luggage: a full suit of armor, in the style and color he prefers. It’s not quite up to the Spectre armor Shepard cracked (Spirits know how he’ll be able to repair that, if possible), but it’s damn good quality. Where Shepard found something like this on such short notice he has no clue, but he knows it’s her way of making it up to him. 

It’s not until the ship departs Mexico City’s spaceport that he has a chance to eat one of the sweet-spicy candies again, and he thinks that maybe there’s something to Earth after all.

Chapter Text

Over the next few months they send a handful of messages back and forth. 

Neither of them remembers who sends the first text (Shepard, with a little liquid courage in her system, a short, ‘ I hope you’re doing well ’) but it’s the start of picking up the remains of their old friendship. She asks him to wait a little longer on telling anyone she’s alive, at least until the business negotiations are settled. He respects her decision, but a small part of him also likes that she trusts him with this secret. On the other hand, she’s relieved that she has someone from her old life to talk to and that it’s someone who she knows will have her back. It’s the typical ‘hello how are yous’ mixed with a little honesty about their lives.

He’s in the middle of a shoot-out with Blue Sun mercs on the edge of Council space when he gets a message.

Sounds tough. Hope you’re good. Mia started taking gymnastics classes and I had no clue they were so damn expensive. I can teach her how to do a back handspring, why do I have to pay hundreds of dollars for her to go to a gym for babies to learn? Be safe. - X

There’s a short vid attached to the message, about a minute long. Mia runs and does a flip, smiling brightly when she sticks the landing. In the last few seconds an adult runs into frame – Shepard, judging by the mass of curls. Above her lips it’s just a smudge of colors, but she’s smiling widely as she picks up Mia and spins her around. Even with a privacy blur he can tell she’s proud of the little girl. “That was perfect!” she exclaims before the video ends.

He pulls off three perfect headshots after that.

The lights are pulsing in Rapture, forcing her headache to pound in the same rhythm. Bad day today. Started off wonderfully with a huge argument with Santiago, and now he’s frowning every time he looks at her. Fortunately it’s a slow day at the club, so she can at least stick to the bar and keep an eye on Santi. Mia’s been sick with a cold for the last two days and it's cutting into her sleep. The babysitter is a huge help, but it’s not like the babysitter can sleep on her behalf. Then there was that run-in with the Kings a few hours ago, there’s an upcoming deal later in the week that doesn’t sit right with her, Mia’s having trouble in school again, and she just wants her brain to shut up for an hour. Just one, that’s all she needs, and then she’ll be back and solve everyone’s problems, just like always. There’s enough drink in her that the cybernetics have given up and there’s a gorgeous blonde woman rubbing her thighs in a very promising way.  While crushing up a Hallex on the bar for that one last, beautiful hit into oblivion, she gets a message.

I was finally able to do some upgrades to the Widow. I’ve had two Spectres ask me to adjust their rifles for them and I’m thinking I should start charging them for it. Looks like Mia is getting good at those flips. At least she’s stopped kicking people in school. I’m out in the Voyager Cluster again for work, there was a beautiful sunset yesterday. Get some sleep. - G

There’s a photo attached of a desert and a sky streaked with gorgeous blues, pinks, purples, yellows and reds. She’s never seen anything like it. All that time running around in space and she rarely had time to stop and enjoy the scenery. She has sex with the woman but leaves the Hallex behind (it always leaves her extra sensitive to light for hours anyways), and apologizes to Santiago a few hours later once she’s sober. Shepard pays Mia’s babysitter extra hours and forces herself to go to bed. When she wakes up, there’s the vague impressions of blue, pink and red colors swirling in her brain, but she can’t remember why she’s thinking about it.

Someone’s trying to hack into C-Sec records and he’s been assigned to work on the case. After spending a long day in an isolated C-Sec terminal, trying and failing to track down whoever’s insistent on hacking high-profile Council records, he rubs his eyes and feels his omni-tool vibrate.

Happy xmas mia is sleping wish u were herere -xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxo

Attached is a blurry group picture of Mia, Shepard, Santiago and Cecilia. Shepard’s face is half-blurred as usual, but there’s a streak of red lipstick running from the corner of her lips, across one cheek. All their faces are pressed together and smiling, a familial, happy joy emanating from the photo. He has no idea what to think about this. As far as he remembers, she’s never sent him a drunk text. And this is clearly what it is, typos and all. Maybe she sent it to the wrong person. He also doesn’t know what ‘x-mas’ is supposed to mean. 

His omni-tool pings again, this time with a message from Santiago. He tries not to think too much about how one of his most regular correspondents in the last few weeks is potentially the leader of a crime syndicate cell. It’s not as hard as it would’ve been before – after a few years of running around with hired killers and shady associates, sometimes the only people who understand his life are those on the other side of the law.

Hahahapy christmas look she sang 4 the first time in forever shes singing more since she saw u ask her out already -sssssssssssssssss

Somehow Santiago manages to straddle the line between annoying and useful at the same time; he finds that ignoring his dumber comments is usually the best way to get him to stop. There's also a video attached to the message. It’s a short clip; in it Shepard’s swaying a little, but her voice rings loud and clear as she strums on her guitar, singing something about fishes drinking in a river. He feels a twist somewhere by his stomach. It's... good, to see her so relaxed and happy. Rare. But good. 

After a few hours he manages to track down the hacker on the Citadel; in it's half-ruined state, it has more hiding nooks for criminals than it ever did before. While he passes the criminal off to C-Sec for processing, he keeps wondering why anyone would ever sing about fishes in a river.

It's dawn. The rising sun must have been a sight centuries ago but it's a murky suggestion of light in the distance now, a vague red-orange. Shepard's supposed to take Mia to school today. But last night she fucked up and Santiago’s father found out. He’s never, ever, cut her any grace for her mistakes and this was no exception. There’s a great start to a black eye and her lip is bleeding. Something about seeing Santiago’s father makes her feel all of fifteen again, shaking and scared, somehow unable to defend herself. It’s instinctual, and no matter what she’s done out in the universe, here on Earth, her body reminds her who’s in charge, and it’s not her.

She’s hiding out on the roof holding a pack of ice to her face. Mia can’t see her like this, and she can’t keep coming home in blood and bruises like her own mother used to. Not that her mother came hurt all the time, but it happened. It was just a, a natural part of her work. A fact of life, a possibility at the edge of every day. She doesn’t want Mia to think that this is normal and all she can expect from the world, especially when Shepard knows, to the core of her being, that the galaxy is so much bigger than this. So much bigger than men who think they own the world and they own her, just because they know who she was.

Her omni-tool pings; it’s a message from Garrus.

Sorry for the late response. I’m over my cold, so I was sent out to the Horse Head Nebula for work. You should listen to her teacher; Mia’s smarter than you think. And Mia got her brains from somewhere. Not from you though, you have too many bad ideas. She does have your knack for getting into trouble though. Stay strong. –G

Stay strong. Stay strong. Mia’s smarter than you think . She places the ice pack over her eyes for a moment, letting those words sink into her mind. Can’t be weak, not this late into the game. Going down into her apartment, she slaps as much medi-gel on her injuries as possible, trying to get rid of the worst of it. By the time Mia wakes up she’s much more presentable, and Shepard takes a moment to tell Mia that yes, Auntie is hurt but she will get better. And it’s not ok to come home hurt all the time, and that she is trying to change jobs so it will stop soon. Mia is quiet, but her eyes are wide, staring at the black eye. They end up being late to school but Shepard doesn’t care. It’s the first time she’s sat Mia down to explain her injuries instead of acting like nothing’s wrong. That’s gotta count for something, right?

She has to be better. She will be better. There’s no other choice if she wants Mia to live a different life.

Chapter Text

Once, in one of the worst moments during their fight with the Reapers, Garrus told Shepard about his life on Palaven.  

She’s losing her fucking mind and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Thessia has fallen and this must be her breaking point, she’s so fucking tired of this shit, she’s heard from Santiago, Cecilia and Isabella exactly once in the last three years since this all started, and Thessia is burning and Earth is burning and she doesn’t know if they’re even alive anymore if any of this is worth it and her mind won’t fucking stop going in circles that damn motherfucker Kai Leng, she’s slipping she should’ve been faster, better, smarter, always expect the unexpected, reports are in that Taetrus has fallen and intelligence says Khar’shan is little more than ash.

Worse, she’s out of Xanax, so she can’t even take something to make her brain calm down for a damn minute. It’s been damn near impossible to find since the war started, and the black market is struggling to keep with demand.  And after Torfan, well, Alliance doctors are reluctant to give her any benzodiazepines. Not her fault they feel so good. But the galaxy is imploding on itself, Chakwas has been begging her to rest and maybe there’s something that can be done there, if she knows what to say. Shepard goes to the medbay and asks Chakwas to give her something for sleep. She doesn’t even care if the doctor disapproves anymore, she just wants to stop thinking for a few hours, wants to stop feeling anything. Chakwas looks equal parts concerned, apprehensive and relieved, and after Shepard’s usual smooth talking, she leaves with a syringe full of some sort of sedative-sleep-aid that’s supposed to knock out a krogran, meaning it’ll knock her out for at least eight hours. Might not be Alliance protocol but since no one has seen the commander sleep recently, no one cares.

On the way to her quarters she ignores every single person who calls her name; if she opens her mouth right now, it’s a very real possibility only insults and slurs will slip out (everything is slipping out of her control, including her words), and no one on the crew deserves that. In her cabin she orders EDI to activate privacy mode and to redirect any problems to people who can solve them for the next eight hours. There’s no fucking thing in the galaxy worth staying awake for right now– what the hell is another homeworld worth, anyways? It’s not like she’s managed to make a difference with any of them. Might as well let these fucking aliens deal with their own fucking problems, while Earth burns. No one gave a shit about them but she’s supposed to give a damn about everyone else? When has that ever worked out for her? Everyone just dies at the end anyways. She injects herself, stuffs the syringe at the bottom of her trash. Within minutes she’s blissfully unconscious. 

Hours must pass, because there’s someone making noise in her cabin as she starts waking up. Not a lot, just tapping noises and the shifting of clothes. There’s only one person allowed in here without her explicit permission, and even then, she doesn’t like him coming in here without letting her know first. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, it’s that she doesn’t want him seeing her at her worst. At least the syringe is hidden. Neither of them speak, but he’s observant enough that he’ll notice she’s awake. Instead of saying anything to break the silence, she stares at the window above her bed, into the dark abyss of space. Even after being spaced, she likes staring out into the stars. There are worse things than death. Like being sober when the world is going to shit. 

He breaks the silence first. “Do you know any of the stories of the constellations on Palaven?” She doesn’t know why he’s here right now, but EDI probably ran her mouth on her vitals or some shit and told him to stop by for morale or whatever. The AI is becoming a chismosa. What’s the English word for that? Was it gossip? Gossiper? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. 

“No,” she responds listlessly. Her mind is starting to kick on again. Shepard thought that she’d seen enough death, enough planets destroyed that it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Turns out it just reminds her that her home is dying. She’ll never see the Great Wall of China, never go shopping in Milan. It’s all gone it’s all dead they’re all going to die what the hell is the fuc–

The bed shifts a little as Garrus sits down near her. His talons run through her short hair, and the sensation is unusual enough that it starles her out of her thoughts. The smell of smoke and death drifts from her hair, and she decides right there and then to shave it off later. “My grandmother was a ship navigator, one of the best. She knew all different types of stories about the stars from different turian cultures. On Palaven, all the stories are about two young turians. Twins, a girl and a boy. The girl is strong and courageous, and her brother is reserved and sweet. The two of them are always together, and as the years go by…” His voice is little more than a soft rumble, and takes on a strange, storytelling quality. The sentences are shaped different from how he usually speaks. It’s a story about family and responsibility, like all their stories are. But he’s not asking her questions, he’s not telling her what to do, what’s her fault, what to do next. He’s filling her head with noise and nonsense and things that don’t matter. It’s exactly what she needs. For a few minutes Athena just listens to him speak about children and stars and swords. When he’s done with one story and starts on a second, EDI interrupts with an update from Hackett.

Shepard sits up without a word. Goes to the bathroom and takes a shower. Washes off the scent of fire and destruction from her skin. Fixes her hair, changes into clean clothes. Thinks of turian girls with swords and turian boys with spears. Thinks of Ceci and Santi and Isabella. Of Ashley and Mordin and Thane and Legion. No, no, she’s not going down like this. No fucking way. When she dies she’s taking as many motherfuckers as she can with her. 

She goes back to her bed, where Garrus is still sitting with guarded eyes and presses a kiss to his mandible. ‘Thank you’ can’t be said right now but she hopes he understands. Then she nods goodbye and heads down to the CIC.

He has to survive all this. He has to. He deserves nothing less. And he deserves so much more.

Space is as dark and mysterious as Shepard remembers.

It’s been four years since she’s been on a ship. She thought she would feel out of place after such a long time, but it turns out that if you spend most of your life in space, it becomes a second home of sorts. It’s borderline soothing to be surrounded by the vast expanse of the universe again. There’s a real nice observation deck and lounge on this passenger freight that’s become her semi-permanent position on this ship. If she comes at the right time, she can find a nice little corner and glare at the dark abyss of space with no one bothering her, like she’s doing right now. They’re set to dock in Palaven in two day-cycles, and her stomach is a weird bundle of knots. Her mind keeps circling around and around and around about the same things.

The reflection in the window stares back at her with a small frown. It’s strange to see herself without any Panther tattoos. A clean slate. This could’ve been her, had she been less stupid, smarter. Less scared. But, no. The moment she had nothing to her name, no power, no N7 stamp, no one to back her up — she panicked. She panicked, the world was fucked up beyond belief, and went right back to the first thing she’d knew would solve her problems. She never intended to go back after the Alliance, even though she said she would; the plan was to get a cushy little retirement going and leave that behind her. But then she woke up in a fucked up hospital in a fucked up body and realized everything and nothing had changed, that she was back on Earth with nothing to show for any of the things she’d work so hard for. So. Shepard went home. And home was gone, but there was those familiar tags on abandoned buildings. And then Ceci and Santi were, but it was back with the Panthers. They welcomed her with open arms. There was just something about seeing the familiar tattoos and unfamiliar faces and familiar signs and hearing a familiar language and words that made her feel like she was home, in a weird fucked up way. She knew the game and how to play it, and coming back ex-military the way she did, well, that worked in her favor, along with knowing Santi. And being higher-up wasn’t the same as being a nobody; no, it meant money and a place to live and people respecting her when she walked down the street, just like how people acted when they saw her N7. Just in a different world. Safe in a world that was blown to all fucking hell, where so many people that she cared about were missing or dead. Maybe there’s a twisted, fucked up sense of loyalty there too, coming back to wrap up things with a place that kept her alive. Every time she thought about leaving, or thought that maybe this isn’t what she’s meant to be doing, she felt bad. Guilty. She felt guilty when she left for the Alliance. And she felt guilty that she didn’t go back to the Alliance either, after everything she’s done with them, too. A lot of guilt, for a lot of things, and it changed by the goddamn hour and nothing gave her any easy answers. It’s so much easier to do what she’s told than to think about whether she should. 

Mia changed all that.

There’s no real memory of meeting Mia for the first time. The first few months in Mexico are a blur of sleepless nights, downers, opiates, experimental treatments, expensive physical therapists, and occasionally, blood. Not really a good time for her in general. When she tries to remember, all she can find are vague impressions of a small child with black hair, hovering around Cecilia. A lot of crying and wailing, but nothing much beyond that. The first real, sharp memory she has of Mia is of a strange-yet-familiar little girl sobbing, her shoulder all-funny looking. She bumped into the wrong person when Ceci wasn’t looking and was tossed into the street. Like trash. Dislocated her shoulder. Mia looked like a tiny version of Isabella, like the blurry photos her mother showed her once, and suddenly she’s choking an older man out and breaking his nose. The rage burned the last of her high of the night before. Or maybe the drugs heightened her anger. It’s a little unclear. It’s the start of something, though. Turns out Isabella had listed her as a godmother, even if her husband didn’t know who this mystery cousin was.  She started paying actual attention to the kid, and found out that even little children have their own personalities and thoughts. Someway, somehow, Mia does become her sun, a little ray of sunshine in the midst of all this death. It’s what pulls her out her grief and guilt, taking care of a young girl that’s already lost too much. Shepard suspects that without her niece, she would have been okay with living in a haze for the rest of her life, aimless.

Even then, it’s taken her years to realize that this situation is not good for any of them. Even if Isabella wasn’t alive, her daughter is. The kid deserves more. Her niece is all the good of Isabella: her sweetness, her joy of life. Her little girl is also starting to remind her a lot of Cecilia even if the two are not related; Mia is surpassing all her classmates in school, and her teachers are pushing for her to skip a grade. She can’t keep her trapped like this. Cecilia sacrificed so much to go to college, only to get sucked back into the family business decades later. It almost broke Ceci and she won’t let that happen to Mia too. That’s what snapped her out of her head, overwriting all her fears and worries: for Mia to grow happy, they need to leave. For some reason it’s easier to consider when it’s about someone else and not her. It hurts far more than she expected to leave Mia behind; the kid’s too little for space travel and Shepard doesn't want her missing school. In the meantime, Ceci has moved into her apartment while she’s away, and Mia’s babysitter will help. So at least the kid’s safe.

Then, there’s the damn business deal itself. In a way, this is an accumulation of almost twenty years of broken dreams and stupid hopes. The irony is not missed on her; she somehow managed to kill a species so old that she can’t comprehend how old they are, but can’t leave a glorified gang. Typical. She’s flying with a bunch of C-Suite execs from Jaguar Arms; they’re all from outside the Panthers and don’t know the shady origins of the company. On paper she’s employed as head of security at Jaguar Arms, and while she doesn’t really do any of the day-to-day security work in the company (hell, she doesn’t even know who does), she always escorts Santi around and is on-site with delicate transports. While there’s no real financial advice she can provide, she can at least witness for herself what the hell’s happening. Unofficially, she’s also here to smooth things over. Ceci called her a “cultural interpreter,” whatever the fuck that means, because out of everyone of the entire company she knows the most about aliens. Shepard’s always been good with words, she knows enough of turian culture to prevent a massive embarrassment. There is also an unexpected gift: Cecilia and Santiago got her UNAS citizenship so she could fly out with the team. She doesn’t ask how they pulled it off, and they don’t say. All she knows is that she now can (somewhat) legally exist as Xochil Cruz, and her biometrics aren’t pinging off everything in the system. So, there’s all that there, stressful but doable. She hopes. Maybe. If she doesn’t fuck everything up. Again.

And there’s that other thing that keeps annoying her like a damn fly, flitting in and out whenever the hell it wants. Does it count as an ex if you just disappear? Really, it’s the most infuriating thing on fucking Earth and galaxy to be thinking about, especially when she’s on the cusp of finally escaping the mistakes of her youth. And her adulthood. It’s really her adulthood stupidity that got her into this mess –she doesn’t really feel bad about what she did as a kid, she needed to survive– but she’s never liked feeling powerless, and that’s exactly how she felt when she woke up in a hospital bed in London with no name, no credentials and no leg. No, thinking of that won’t help anymore. What’s done is done.

Looking back at her reflection in the window, Shepard thinks it’s a strange fusion of the woman she is and the woman she could have been. It’s been a long, long time since she’s seen her natural, physical self, and she finds that she likes the look. In a way it gives her hope that maybe there’s a different version of herself out there, one that she would like more than whoever she is now. She caught Garrus staring at her hair more than once, and she swears one time she caught him out of the corner of her eye about to tug a curl before he held himself back. 

And there is that… problem. Seeing him in person was like being shot in the gut (she would know, since she was still healing from a gut shot when they met). Being so thoroughly charmed by an alien was never part of any of her life plans. And charmed was the right word, because Garrus never tried to seduce her, and maybe that was the appeal in the first place. Juan, Mateo, Caroline, Daria, Nathan, Se– well, point is she’s been seduced before, and it’s always predictable and nothing happens. Or everything explodes in her face. Shepard has a tendency to pick people who are absolutely terrible for her. But the best lovers in her life have never tried to convince her to do anything, and maybe that’s why she ends up so… charmed , by people who treat her as a friend first. She’s certainly not stupid enough to go for aliens on purpose; that’s a whole ass problem to deal with, having to explain human customs to someone for the rest of her life. Of course, her heart has never listened to her brain, even at the best of times. She thought she had put all that behi– oh that’s an absolute lie. There’s no point in lying to herself right now. All she’s ever done was simply gotten drunk out of her mind, or if she couldn’t, found something to keep her busy. Thinking of him always hurt, and seeing him again well and alive was more than she ever hoped for. 

Damn ships and their anti-smoking policy. And the bar on the ship is shut down, so she’s stuck gnawing at a weird fruit jerky thing to just have something to do. She’s never any good at apologizing, terrible with her emotions, and doesn’t ever know how to behave with exes. Plainly, her approach of ‘let’s just act like nothing’s wrong’ along with trying to keep at least some of the promises she made somehow just pissed both of them off. Shepard’s not even surprised it ended in a fistfight (in fact, it’s the third time it’s happened), but somehow it turned out to work out between them after all. Being with Garrus was always easy, no matter how much she tries to deny it– and fuck, does she try to deny it. It was just, he just… listened, and helped. God, he was way too good for her. Ugh. 

But no, the universe just loves to fuck with her. Now, years after the best relationship she ever had, she’s going to Palaven, alone. Garrus used to talk about his homeworld, and even half-joked about turian-in-laws. He had – has? – a way of wrapping his feelings with humor, in a way that made it oddly transparent and obvious to Shepard that he was actually serious about something but didn’t know how to talk about it. And she sure as hell wasn’t touching that conversation either. Her, married ? A wife ? Who would ever marry he– whatever, it didn’t matter, it didn’t happen, and it will not happen. Things are different in war. The constant threat of death pushes people closer together. The reality of peace drives them apart. They’ve never known each other outside of it. Maybe he was optimistic about them, but she knew that for a chance for them to have anything long-lasting, she’d have to be honest about who she is, and she doesn’t know if she’s even ready to have that talk with herself. She still remembers asking him about his rank and him being elusive about the topic. He wouldn’t be so evasive if he wasn’t close to the top, and since then she’s known there was a time limit to their relationship, even without staring down certain death. Alien species issues aside, Primarch candidates didn’t stay with Earth girl criminals. 

Damn, a drink would be nice. If she was back home she could’ve at least hit the training center at the compound. But no, instead she’s stuck on a passenger starship, completely sober, and stuck with her thoughts. Chewing on some mediocre salarian fruit jerky. Absolutely disgusting.

A soft, human male voice interrupts her hamster brain. “A penny for your thoughts.” It’s Anthony, Jaguar’s chief financial officer. Santiago can’t leave Earth for a variety of reasons (mainly that his father would be livid), and so Anthony is here in his place. It’s a good thing the turians and volus don’t take this as a slight. In fact, she thinks they’re pleased to deal with the financial guy. Anthony is smart, charming and reserved; he’s a good guy, and Shepard approves of him. She’s glad he’s on the trip.

“My thoughts are worth more than a penny, Anthony.”

He gives her a small grin. “That’s okay. I always have a use for a penny.”

Fuck, this guy was just so nice . They’re not close, but they’ve seen each other enough around headquarters that they have a friendly working relationship. “Oh, hush. It’s just a little strange to be in space, that’s all. I thought it would feel different.” As far as anyone knows, this is her first serious space journey. It’s not the truth he asks for, but it’s also not a lie.

Anthony nods. “I’ve been to Luna, but this is different. Calmer than I expected. Though I’m not looking forward to having to wear the radiation suits all the time,” he sighs.

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. At least we can get away with not wearing the suits for a few hours at night. I’ve heard they’re shifting most of the social calendar to nights to accommodate everyone.” Turns out that the Hierarchy was looking at purchases for various sectors, and decided to host some sort of trade summit. It seems that the Council had a hand in suggesting the idea to promote intergalactic connections or some nonsense, but she’s too far out the loop to care. One of the best luxuries of not being in charge, for once.

He sits down next to her, holding a stack of datapads with way too many numbers. There’s some screaming asari kid that’s serving as background noise. “Mr. Reyes mentioned you both struck up a friendship with one of the turians during negotiations. Will he be on Palaven?” Anthony asks casually, scribbling away at one of the datapads.

Santiago. The next time I see you I’m breaking your nose for the third time. Of course Santi told Anthony. For the leader of a syndicate cell, Santi sure as hell knew how to run his mouth. Problem is, he usually runs it for a reason, and it almost always works out in his favor.
In truth, she’s too scared to ask Garrus if he’ll be on Palaven. They’ve struck up a tenuous, delicate, weird type of friendship, one that’s she’s so happy it even exists after everything that she’s terrified of breaking the balance. There’s been some messages over the last few months, mostly about safe, nonsense things that don’t really matter. Having something, anything from him after four years of silence was enough to cheer her up for the rest of the day. She did try to ask on three different occasions whether they would see each other on Palaven, but she bitched out on all three. So now she’s just stuck with this ball of nerves at the bottom of her stomach. Fun.

Shepard plays it cool. “I’m not actually sure Tony, I don’t know who the turians will be having at the summit. But if we do run into him, I’ll introduce you.”

Her first impression of Palaven is that it’s all one color: silver. She finds that she likes it a lot more than the color of fire. 

After suiting up, they disembark at Cipritine; it looks like one of those pre-spaceflight vids of spaceports, all metal and curves. It’s a little jarring; even in four short years, she’s gotten so used to the mix-match of Mexico City’s styles that something like this looks even more alien than usual. Once they leave the immediate vicinity of the spaceport, the devastation of the war is clear. For kilometers the land is flat, the outskirts of the city full of rubble and debris, with the occasional construction mech picking through what’s left. Just like home. It’s the remains of all those fires and explosions she saw from Menae. The shuttle is quiet. Her mind is not. She bites her cheek to keep the memories at bay. At least there’s a city to go, in the end. People alive to fix what's gone. More than a lot of other places can say.

Gradually, the rubble gives way to neighborhoods and they’re in Cipritine proper. The reconstruction here is in full effect; there are parts of the city that look unaffected by the war, glinting in different shades of silver in the afternoon sun. All kinds of turians are walking about with purpose, and Shepard wonders what the capital was like in its prime. The city must have been massive, if the rubble was anything to judge by. Unlike Mexico City, Cipritine has focused its reconstruction to go from the center of the city outwards. It makes it possible to avoid looking at the junk in the distance, even if it’s only for a few blocks. Even as she’s thinking about new cities and old fires, Shepard can tell that the team keeps fidgeting behind her. It's the sight of so many aliens that have them on edge; most of them are Earthborn and have never travelled to space. It reminds her of how she felt her first time on the Citadel, landing on a place where humans were completely outnumbered. It’s one thing to see alien tourists, and another to be the alien tourist. A human knows the rules with other humans; aliens operate on completely different ones. “Be calm,” she reminds in Spanish, hoping that their turian escort doesn’t understand them. Neither of the turians turn.

Their escorts drop them off in a quiet neighborhood near the Aerarium Complex, the area where the trade summit would take place. It’s a block full of one-story homes with radiation shields covering the small patios and buildings. The two turians politely help them with their belongings and show everyone to their rental (they each get their own, thankfully), and after a final briefing, are left to their own devices. They all decide to take a rest in their new, temporary homes for the next few weeks. The houses look brand new, and shine different shades of white and silver in the sun. It’s weird to see such a suburban-like neighborhood near the city center, but maybe there’s not nearly enough people to justify denser housing. Well, that’ll be a problem for them to figure out in the future. Shepard opts for a quick nap, then wakes up a while later and risks opening one of the windows to peek outside. It’s dusk; on the silver planet, it turns out that dusk is a colorful but muted affair, another pointed reminder she’s not on Earth anymore, if the weird furniture wasn’t enough. It kicks off the circle of thoughts again, thinking back to lost relationships, big mistakes, and how if things had gone differently, if she had made different, smarter, choices, she could be here under very different circumstances. Happier ones. Better ones. Before she can wallow in too much self-pity, Shepard quickly resorts to one of her usual tactics: find something to keep her busy. She starts with investigating her temporary, alien home. The house has a different layout than what she’s used to, things are at strange heights and there’s a handful of things she has no clue what they’re for. But, it has the essentials and those seem pretty straightforward to use. There’s even a backyard with a low wall running around it, spacious enough for her to sit with a drink or run through practice drills. Perfect.

After she’s satisfied with exploring the rental, Shepard sits down in the living room and calls Mia, who’s ecstatic to see her after her guitar class. She excitedly shows off her a new chord she learned and talks about a new kid in her class. A few minutes later Ceci walks into frame, and they all chit-chat for a while until it’s time for Mia to have dinner. They say their goodbyes and Shepard sits in the silence for a bit. She’s missing her niece already. Damn the little girl for worming her way into her heart. Santiago’s next on the list, and the two of them run through logistics for the next few days; he leaves her with a list of instructions, along with a reminder to check her second omni-tool. By the time she’s done with her calls there’s a few messages from the crew asking about potential dinner plans. It’s nighttime now, and according to their omni-tools they’re good for three hours if they don’t want to wear a suit. They decide to leave the suits at home and go wandering for levo-friendly food, based on a recommendation list someone sent to Anthony. 

It’s a weekday and the streets are full of turians going about their lives. There’s not many humans on the streets (actually, none), and while they attract a few looks, no one bothers them. They all guess they must be located in some sort of ex-pat/immigrant/tourist alien area or something, because they find the levo restaurant much faster than expected. After a nice dinner and a few drinks, they slowly wander back to their little neighborhood, taking their time to soak in the newness of everything. The streets are clean, neat and orderly, and on foot, it’s easier to see that the silver buildings sometimes have strange imprints on the walls, or thin, delicate accents in complimentary colors to silver. It reminds her of jewelry. Once they return to their rentals, the finance team is anxious to prepare for tomorrow’s introduction; Anthony gathers them to meet at his house, located next to Shepard’s. 

After that group splits off, Shepard turns to the remaining two humans left behind: Alicia Rojas and Steven Garcia. They’re both in their mid-twenties and have the type of ambition that will take them far, if they aren’t stupid. The three of them know each other casually from their time at the Jaguar Arms offices and over the last few weeks she’s been preparing them for this particular mission. As a result, the glint in Shepard’s eyes is enough to tip the two off on her plans.

“Boss, don’t tell me…” Alicia asks, drifting off mid-sentence. Steven just looks defeated.

She grins, her canines just peeking out. The body-modification has grown on her over the years and she likes it more than she thought she ever would. It reminds her of a cat (well, which is the point – a panther is just a big cat, after all). “Then don’t ask.”

Both Alicia and Steven groan but dutifully follow Shepard through her house and into the backyard. The radiation shield is good enough at night that they can safely spend a few hours outside, which Shepard plans on using for practice drills. She knows that her staff thinks she’s old-fashioned for having them work so much on unarmed combat, but she knows from experience that a strong body only helps in a fight, and you never, ever know when you might find yourself with just your body as a weapon. Alicia turns on a portable music player Shepard brought, then the three of them review a series of kicks and punches for about an hour, their voices and music echoing in the quiet neighborhood. They end there for the day, and the other two leave for their accommodations.

The warm breeze is comforting enough that Shepard figures it’ll be nice to lie down on the weird silver grass. It’s drier than she expects, but not enough to deter her from lying down and looking at the night sky. The sky is hard to see on Earth through all the pollution, but on Palaven, the stars sparkle. It’s a sky she’s always been curious to see. It’s surprisingly easy to find the twins he told her about. A brave girl with a sword and a sweet brother with a spear. If she squints she can just make out the journey of their adventures across the stars, each constellation near them depicting a different fight. They both die in the end, in order to save their parents. It’s a bittersweet story, though it’s probably a pretty realistic ending for how heroes end up. She never expected to see these two with her own eyes. Much less alone, without him. This really isn’t the fucking life she wanted.

But then again, she never thought she would have a life to begin with.

On the morning of the first day of the trade summit, she wakes up absolustely exhaused.

The bedroom looks like it’s been attacked by a wild animal. There’s a ripped pillow somewhere in the corner, all the blankets are on the ground, and there’s a lamp lying on its side. Shepard looks down at her arms and there’s long, ugly red scratches, and little flakes of skin under her nails. Ah. Well. Guess that explains why I feel so tired . There’s no memory of the night terror this time, but like always, the dread and shame start creeping in. This was never a problem on the Normandy. No, it’s another gift from the war, coming and going whenever there’s a change in her sleep, or she’s stressed, or when she drinks. At least Mia isn’t here. Shepard bitterly puts the room back in order, trashing the pillow as a lost cause. Applies medi-gel to her scratches. Uses a stim shot. The self-disgust settles in her mind like an old friend. A infamous commander shouldn’t have waking nightmares, but here she is, cleaning up after herself like she’s a fucking toddler. And of course, on the day they're supposed to meet everyone and kick things off. Fantastic. Now to pretend she's a functional, normal human being on a day she does not feel like one.

She drinks a coffee, meets everyone outside at the agreed time, and they head towards the financial district. The first day of the trade summit reminds her of the Presidium. The Aerarium Complex is the heart of all financial matters of the turian empire, and the complex practically shines with newness. Unlike the silver theme of Cipritine, the buildings are all a stark white, blinding to her human eyes. Looks like the turians show off battle scars even with their architecture. Some of the buildings have bright gold cracks fusing structures together, a strange, artistic visual reminder of the reconstruction efforts. While she’s standing and waiting for the line to move, Shepard rubs her left pinkie, questioning whether it’s really worth saving the old walls. Wouldn’t it be better to just start fresh? Why keep old wounds around? To haunt you? For what? Garcia taps her gently on the shoulder to get her attention, nodding to the team ahead of them. It’s hundreds of people here, all of them dripping in wealth and prestige. It’s been a while since she’s been around rich aliens; for a second she feels all of nineteen again, overwhelmed by so much newness, the aggressive display of power. The next second she feels the reassurance of her own strength settle on her skin; she may not go by Commander Shepard, not anymore, but she knows what she’s done and that’s enough to give her the confidence she needs, in moments like this. It wasn’t always so easy.

 The first day is full of introductory meetings with other companies, with promises of re-establishing and finishing the contracts that were first started on their respective planets. Anthony navigates the groups of competitors with an ease Shepard admires, and that alone tells her Anthony is the perfect man for the job. Everyone’s perfectly polite and respectful, but they’re also all scanning each other for weaknesses. Jaguar Arms is attracting a lot of attention from the other Earth corporations; they’re a new player, born just before the Reaper War. Santiago was always a clever motherfucker, and it’s paid off in not just money, but a multi-billion company that bought out two established arms manufactures that went bankrupt due to factory damage. At least that type of intrigue and politics is behind her, and she just has to worry about keeping everyone alive. None of these people inspire fear, but the money talks haven’t started, either. She’ll reserve her judgement until then; maybe one of these nerds will surprise her once things get going. There’s not much for the security team to do, really, they just follow along a few steps behind and keep an eye out for trouble, though the stern-looking turian security staff seems like more than enough. Shepard wonders whether she’ll even get into a fight.

Oh, who is she kidding? She always does, somehow.

Chapter Text

The first week passes quicker than Shepard thought it would. She’s little more than a glorified body guard, and she’s not involved in any of the actual negotiations. All the security team really does is quietly stand to the side, decked out in light armor. The Hierarchy has mandated that within the Aerarium Complex itself, there are no heavy weapons or armor allowed. The only exception is the on-site security staff. Of course the turians are still militaristic to the bone; they’ve allowed security to have a pistol. Steven and Alicia grudgingly admit that by now that the no-guns practice maybe does serve a purpose.  While 'guarding', she idly keeps track of all the people they meet. It’s more out of habit than anything. It never hurts to know who your competitors are, either way. By the end of the first week Shepard has a general idea of all the points of entry and exit, along with blind spots in security. To the military’s credit, the week started with five but ends on two, so it’s likely that by next week there’ll be zero, unless they keep any intentionally as a sort of trap. That, and where the best canteen is. It’s doubtful that anything would happen under a Council-sanctioned summit, but she didn’t live this far relying only on luck. 

The last day of their first week ends early; the Hierarchy (or whoever the hell is in charge of this damn trade summit, because this ranking system is confusing as hell) is hosting a banquet to welcome all the off-world companies and organizations present at the trade summit. It’s part of the social calendar the Palaven negotiators sent in advance – turns out turians are dead serious about hospitality – that caused Santiago to spend weeks agonizing over the team’s wardrobe. Between Shepard’s knowledge of international fashions (a lot more than anyone expects) and Santiago (who everyone easily agrees has excellent taste), they managed to find clothing for their little entourage of eight. She’s surprised that the security staff is even being invited, but the staff they were in contact with was adamant about every foreigner attending, regardless of their role in the negotiations. 

Shepard feels a little ridiculous while getting ready that evening. Appearance matters, whether people like to admit it or not, and in the last few years, hers has changed quite a bit. She’s so used to putting on someone else for the night that it feels like she’s dressing up as someone else again, even though it’s her own face looking back at her in the mirror. The Commander Shepard thing, in day-to-day practice, isn’t something she’s that worried about; she’s always been excellent at turning the commander persona on and off at will, and she’s only been ‘recognized’ a handful of times on Earth. Even then, a quick ditzy smile, a few sentences in Spanish and it’s enough for people to leave her alone. Santiago says that her little act is her own ‘Clark Kent’ effect, and so far, it’s worked pretty damn well. Plus, Commander Shepard is still officially MIA and most people think she’s dead at this point. Nothing like a good ol’ death to throw ‘em off the scent. She would know.  However, Shepard’s not delusional; she’s not expecting to turn the heads of an entire room of aliens. But there are always certain standards and markers of beauty. Waists, bones, talons, fringes. Strength. And beauty has power. It comes and fades, but she’s determined to make the most of it while she has any. It may do nothing here, but she also loses nothing in trying. Still, formal wear has never really been a part of her wardrobe, and it’s strange to be wearing any.  The dress itself is strapless, with hidden boning to support the dress and it scoops a little lower in the back to accentuate her shoulder-blades. It’s made out of a dark purple, almost black silk that’s so fine she’s afraid the calluses on her hands will snag the fabric. It’s a bit of a gamble but she’s wearing nails, something she hasn’t worn very often but if worse comes to worse, she can bite them off like she used to. Shepard likes how her hands look with them on, but feels a little self-conscious with no gloves. Prosthetics became incredibly common after the war, at least on Earth; too much demand, not enough labs or scientists to keep up with the demand of cloned parts. And in her case, an unknown amount of high-end cybernetics to know how her body would react to a cloned part. Plus, the whole DNA thing. It’s easier to look at, now, and they work so well that she sometimes forgets they’re there. That is, until she changes or gets shot in the leg. Strangely it’s her pinky that somehow bothers her. It’s some of the best prosthetic work available on Earth right now, but there’s still a tiny seam that separates flesh from plastimetal. Usually she wears gloves to avoid answering annoying questions, but maybe that’s done more harm than good. Now she feels like she’s exposing some sort of secret. But it’s also way too humid to be wearing gloves right now, and the thought of being sweaty while shaking hands is disgusting and humiliating.

She sighs at her own thoughts as she fixes her hair. It’s pulled back into two loose braids starting from the crown of her head, with the ends tucked in a spiral bun at the base of her neck. The idea was to mimic an asari’s crests, but there’s only so much that can be done there. A gauzy scarf, some diamond earrings and bracelets complete the look. At least the makeup is a familiar enough routine that it calms her mind for a bit. After she’s done she takes a good, long look in the mirror. The effect is… something. There’s a little something for everyone to look at (well, turian, human and asari), if they’re willing to look past the human. Without the tattoos and without covering up her scars, she looks more like, well... herself. She’s never seen herself like this. So… glamorous. And she doesn’t know how to feel about it. Shepard thinks it’s a look that would work on a red carpet. Like when she was young and used to dream that she’d become a famous singe– the thought is thrown out the window as soon as she realizes what she’s thinking. It’s a stupid, stupid, little girl’s dream that will never, ever come true, and that’s been the truth since she was fifteen. No point in ever thinking about it. But this is also, if everything works, the start of the beginning. At least this version of who she sees in the mirror could be her, all the time, not just when she’s with Mia. On impulse she pulls out two curls to frame her face. A very human element that’s also all her. Maybe she could wear this again on a fancy dinner with Ceci and Santi. When they celebrate. If they celebrate. If they succeed.  Her omni-tool beeps at her, shaking her out of thoughts. It’s a message to let her know everyone’s outside waiting for her. Was she really thinking for that long? Why is she in the kitchen? Wasn’t she in the bedroom? Shepard pinches her underarm to try and clear her head. Her brain can’t get fuzzy right now, not when it’s important that they leave a good impression. Just to make sure, before she steps outside she grabs the bright eye drops on the counter and squeezes a few drops into each eye. There. Never hurts to be a little more awake.

Everyone’s already gathered in a small huddle in front of her rental; they’re all in different shades of purple, green and black formal wear. As she approaches the group, they turn to greet her; everyone’s dressed to their absolute best, determined to leave a good impression. Alicia sidles up to her, looking resplendent in a dark green, velvet dress, all muscles and tough edges. Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “Damn boss, didn’t know you had it in you,” she says cheekily, offering her arm to Shepard. The two women link arms and start leading everyone towards the complex.

Her mother taught her to never reject a compliment. “Thank you. Everyone looks perfect. I’ll be damned if there’s a better looking group of humans tonight.”

Steven lets out a wolf-whistle. “Hell yeah, boss! I’ve never looked so fiiiiine, maybe I’ll finally pull an asari tonight!” he yells from the back of the group. Anthony shushes him, though it’s clear he’s entertained by Garcia’s antics.

“As long as you report in on time, Steven,” Shepard responds good-naturedly. God bless the idiotic kid; he has a tendency to talk without thinking, and she highly doubts he has the ability to charm his way out of a misstep. No way he’s getting an asari to even turn to look at him. The complex is near enough that they’d wait longer for a taxi than it takes to walk there, and as they chat and walk they start seeing other groups of aliens heading in the same direction. Every person they see is dressed to impress, determined to leave their mark on the night’s social activities. It’s the first time they’re meeting the other attendees in a social setting, and there’s an excited, tense undercurrent to the crowds approaching the hall. Nothing like the promise of good food and liquor to try and one-up your competitors. They follow the groups to the banquet hall within the complex and after some extensive security checks (like that would stop her from causing a scene if she really wanted to), they’re politely ushered inside.

Shepard resists the urge to gape and look like a fucking fish, but there’s a handful of gasps coming from behind. She’d heard turian banquets were lavish, but she did not have the imagination necessary to imagine this. It’s a huge, open space with high ceilings, the walls white and decorated in different types of old-looking turian art. The ceiling was a pitch black-blue, with precious stones embedded. With the artificial light, they seemed to sparkle just like the night sky. On the eastern wall there’s a painting of a giant turian holding up two spears, made out of different shades of glass. Another painting is carved into the stone itself, showing a turian reaching out towards two small, round planets in the distance. Palaven’s moons, maybe? Different sculptures and art pieces were scattered strategically around the hall. There’s that strange Palaven greenery everywhere and the overall impression is one of decadence and luxury. Shepard’s incredibly thankful that at this point in her life, she’s been to enough fancy dinners with the Alliance and Santiago that she’s not at a loss like she was at twenty, too shocked by obvious displays of wealth to hide it. Still, she can’t entirely rid herself of thinking that she feels like she’s staining the air she breathes. A male turian server approaches them, takes their names and directs them to their seats. Out of the eight of them, she’s the only one who he pulls out a seat, and when he hands her a menu he brushes against her left hand, the one with the prosthetic. Oh, that’s interesting . He leaves to help other guests and she looks to Alicia to her right, who has a smug smirk on her face.

“You know, maybe Steven will get an asari after all, if they’re all that friendly. I’ll start taking bets,” Alicia informs her, and promptly turns to one of the finance guys. Soon enough the entire table is intrigued by the idea and while they hash out the rules, Shepard surveys the room. The kitchens are tucked to the sides, and the back wall opens to a lovely garden with a foreign but elegant water fountain. There’s drinks being served in different parts of the space, and a group of asari and drells are setting up their instruments on a stage on one side of the hall. The tables themselves are covered in dark blue tablecloths that accentuate all the exotic silverware, with artistic centerpieces that are a mix of Palaven fauna, with little touches of each group’s home planet. Their table has their centerpiece mixed with blood-red Earth roses.

There’s a half-dozen roses on the desk in her private quarters. They’re a bright red, a shade she hasn’t seen since her last shore leave on Earth. Shepard pinches a petal in between her fingers, the velvet texture familiar but forgotten at the same time. There’s a note attached to the flowers. ‘It was good to see you at the Apollo Cafe.’

She’s still holding a single petal when there’s a knock at the door. Granting permission with a tap of her omni-tool, Garrus walks in and she hears him stop a few steps behind her. She doesn’t turn around, too busy glaring at the flowers.

“Whoever sent you those doesn’t know you very well,” he comments casually. 

That startles her enough that Shepard turns around to face him. He’s holding a stack of datapads, calmly looking at her. “What makes you say that?” she asks. How in the fucking world did he know she hated roses? Past clients, old lovers, her mother’s admirers– every single time they fucked up, they would send roses. Always roses. 

His eyes flick away from hers for a second. “Yeoman Chambers gifted you some roses once. I overheard her asking you about them and you told her you were allergic to pollen. But I’ve seen you sniff the Earth flowers on the Presidium without a problem.” He shifts his body weight around, suddenly a little nervous, and leans against a wall to play it off. Garrus really needs to learn how to hide his emotions better.

Well. Nervousness aside, that was a surprise. Shepard never expected him to notice something like that. It surprises her, how much he pays attention to who she actually is and not who she likes to pretend to be. A small warp field flares to life in her left palm, and she dumps the flowers, note and all, into the field to disintegrate. “You’re right,” she agrees coolly, watching the paper vanish with twisted satisfaction, “this person doesn’t know me well at all.”

Hmph. Stupid little flowers. Shepard blinks the memory away and tunes back to the present. She’s pleased to note that their little human group looks right at home in all this splendor. Their outfits are impeccable, they look at ease, and they all ooze confidence. She’s so thankful to Santiago she takes back the promise about breaking his nose. He hand-picked everyone for this mission, and now that she sees them all together, she understands why. The other human groups look either unimpressed or far too shocked; they’ve struck a perfect little balance, appreciative but not overwhelmed, on par with the asari seated near them. And the asari are probably triple their age. She allows herself a triumphant little smile. This is it . This is the start of their little game with the devil. If they pull this off, it’s the start of a different life.

A flurry of servers interrupt her thoughts and they leave a multitude of drinks and a sea of small plates. The musicians begin playing a relaxing but happy tune, strange and soothing all at once. The turian server from earlier returns and begins taking their orders. He does nothing to her this time, but his eyes keep flicking to her missing finger. Shepard’s not usually the type to feel self-conscious, but for some reason, it makes her feel that way. She shoves the feeling to the back of her mind and ignores it.

After the main dishes arrive, they continue chatting about their week so far, and how they’re feeling being so far from home. The wine is loosening them up; no one’s drunk, but there’s a contentment to them that wasn’t there earlier. They laugh and chat like old friends (even if some of them barely know each other), and she can see eyes flicker to them around the room. She couldn’t have picked a better team herself; their personalities mesh wonderfully, and everyone knows how to behave. The food is asari cuisine, but it's fantastic, and when one of the turian negotiators ( Domna , Shepard remembers) stops by to inquire on how they’re doing, the crew showers her in compliments. Domna is a little taken aback at this enthusiasm, but pleased. The turian woman is also one of the main points of contact between the turian military and the Hierarchy and it would only benefit them to get into her good graces. Shepard tries her damnest to be as charming as possible; she thanks the kitchen staff, mentions how comforting the meal was, a compliment on Domna’s painted talons, and the turian woman is so flattered she promises them an aged bottle of asari brandy for their table.

After Domna leaves, Alicia whispers, “I didn’t know you knew turians so well.” 

“I’ve lived a long life,” Shepard replies, taking a sip of her drink. There’s an odd, wide, vast wealth of knowledge in the seedy bars of the Citadel to learn all types of useless shit. God, Alicia makes her feel old in more ways than one. However, an aged bottle of asari brandy was a very good sign. Especially these days; aged anything was hard to come by. The negotiators must be desperate to make good trades, if they’re willing to gift favors so easily.

Another round of servers show up to take their empty plates. Lucius returns, this time with the dessert menu. As he waits for the table to make their selections, his eyes flicker to Shepard once in a while, looking at her hair, her collarbone. It’s a bit of a surprise; she didn’t realize turians on the homeworld would be remotely open-minded to humans. Maybe the high death toll is making them look beyond their usual options, at least for companionship. “I’ll have the chocolate souffle, thank you.” It’s the only thing she recognizes on the menu anyways. He snaps to attention, nods and disappears again. Dessert is served within a few minutes, while the hall is slowly growing louder and louder in volume. The alcohol is flowing freely and people are starting to get tipsy, antsy to get up and move around. Shepard manages to eat a little bit of the souffle (it’s absolutely delicious) but she’s on the brink of being full and there’s still drinks to be had. The promised bottles of aged asari brandy show up as a reminder right around this time. After a glass, she excuses herself to go to the restroom, and by the time she goes back out to the hall, the dishes have been cleared and people are beginning to stand up and mingle.

Almost immediately, a human man in his 40s steps directly in her path. He’s not bad looking, and has a bit of that devil-may-care charm about him. Figures. Shepard’s always attracted the type. She’s seen him two or three times in passing, but didn’t know much beyond the fact that he seemed to wander indoors with his helmet off more than most people. 

“Good evening, my lady. Am I correct in guessing you’re associated with Jaguar Arms?” he asks with a grin. No tact, this one.

She gives him a small smile, trying her best to hide her canines. “Yes sir.”

He sticks out a hand, and she gives him a firm handshake. If he’s surprised by her callouses, he doesn’t show it. “A pleasure to meet you,” he says with an accent she can’t recognize, “I’m Brian Petrov with Rosenkov Materials.”

“Xochil Cruz.” It’s weird to introduce herself with a last name. As strange and complicated as it is, Shepard’s the surname she’s had most of her life, and the one that feels right. Saying Cruz feels like she’s posing as her mother, though they never used their last names for anything. 

“If you love a flower which happens to be on a star, it is sweet at night to gaze at the sky. All the stars are a riot of flowers,” Petrov replies with a smile.

Oh shit, oh fuck. He’s clearly quoting something. She doesn’t read. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. These were always the most annoying types of men. She gives him an amused, slightly coy laugh. “I’m impressed. Not many know what my name means.”

He waves his hand good-naturedly. “It is their loss. I have rarely felt so welcomed in a new country. I visited Mexico City a few weeks before coming to Palaven, and the city remains beautiful, even after everything that’s happened. The beauty is in its people, after all.”

Instinctively, she sweetly smiles at his compliment while committing that interesting bit of information to memory to report to Santiago later. Brian Petrov, Rosenkov Materials, in the city weeks before coming to Palaven. Scoping the competition? It wouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly how Santi learned when to buy the other two weapon companies. She’s rescued from doing any more thinking as Anthony approaches her with two wine glasses, handing one to her. Taking the offered drink, Shepard lightly places her hand on Anthony’s arm to bring him into the conversation. “Mr. Petrov, allow me to introduce Anthony Romano, part of the team from Jaguar Arms.”

Petrov’s eyes light up in recognition, as does Anthony’s. The two men shake hands and soon enough they’re deep in business talk about the arms market on Earth. Shepard doesn’t understand at all (now, if this was about the Tijuana-Manila-Brisbane trafficking route being investigated by UNIN, it’d be a different situation), so she opts to continue to stand there and look pretty. Within a few minutes, Steven politely pulls her from the conversation to go chat with Alicia and an asari from Serrice Council. The asari is very cute, young and full of energy. They flirt for a few minutes, just because they can, but then the asari’s whisked away by a coworker. The next few hours become a bit of a blur after that.

The drinks are flowing and Shepard realizes after her fourth glass of wine that she’s more popular than she expects. No one from the Jaguar team mentions she’s their head of security; in fact, they don’t mention her role at all unless she brings it up first, which makes her suspect that someone –Santiago or Anthony– must’ve said something to the team. Either way, it’s a stroke of luck; people are seeing an attractive, friendly human woman and are chattering away useful information, even if it’s not trade secrets. She talks to curious salarians and answers some of their questions, (“ yes, the food can be very spicy in Mexico, next time be careful on what salsa you request” ), a few business-minded volus ( “forgive me Vol-clan, but you will have to ask our financial team about that question” ), a trio of very beautiful, alluring asari (“ excuse me, someone from my team is calling me ”), and at least one very human-curious turian ( Jesus, those subvocals are not meant to be heard in public, you idiot ). Her looks work a treat on the humans and asari, and occasionally she catches a few curious glances from the turians present. Flattering, and a good sign, considering most of her outfits are in similar styles. 

It’s on her ninth wine glass that she notices she’s far too sober for the amount of alcohol she’s consumed. Normally she’d keep drinking, but she should probably take a break from the alcohol, for appearance’s sake. The banquet is in full swing; there’s no dancing, but people are laughing, joking and chatting up a storm. Shepard talks her way out of a real boring conversation with an elcor and politely books it to the attached, open-air garden. God, she doesn’t mind crowds, but playing nice doesn’t come naturally to Shepard, and it’s been years since she’s had to mind her tongue. Not that anyone’s been rude so far, but she has a tendency to be, well, ‘rough around the edges.’ The edges had softened as she matured, but the last few years sharpened them up again.

There’s a handful of people chatting out here but she manages to walk past to the opposite side of the water fountain without catching anyone’s attention. Here, she’s hidden from view from the main banquet hall, and the slight breeze soothes her always-warm skin. Tilting her head towards the sky, she has a perfect view of Palaven’s two moons. It seems like a lifetime ago that she stood on Menae, looking down on a burning planet. A different life, a different name. It’s hard to unite the two, to not dwell on the past when it haunts her so vividly. Shepard wonders how many of the dead haunt the planet now. In the military she was taught that turians believe that people and places created spirits. Did they still think that, living on top of ghosts? Is there even enough people alive to create spirits anymore? Did the spirits die in the destruction of their homelands? What was the point of being a spirit anyways, if they couldn’t do anything to help the living? 

She turns her back to the moons and drags a hand through the water of the fountain behind her, an attempt to distract herself. It’s crystal clear, and with the moonlight she can just make out a mosaic embedded into the base and sides of the fountain. It looks like giant turians walking across a silver-green plan–

An amused, familiar drawl interrupts her thoughts. “Well, aren’t you all dressed up?”

She jumps, startled, and looks up.

It’s Garrus. He’s leaning a few feet away, leaning on the rim of the fountain. She sends her prayers, thanks, blessings to the universe that he’s not wearing his visor tonight, because he does not need to know her heart is about to explode out her chest. He’s dressed in navy blue formal wear, with some sort of draping sash and a row of pins she doesn't know the meaning of. It… suits him. Fitting for someone so close to the ranks of Primarch.

In the privacy of her own mind, she admits that she had given up on seeing him tonight; she didn’t catch a glimpse of him at dinner, and was so focused on trying to act like a lady that she stopped thinking about him. Besides, he’s a Spectre now, and who knows where his job takes him. She didn’t want to waste time –or feelings– thinking about him if they weren’t going to see each other. Messaging semi-regularly is already more than she ever hoped for. Thinking about even seeing him again was too much to think about. Plus, why would he even be here to begin with? Now that choice of avoiding her problems leaves her in her current predicament: woefully unprepared. He already got the drop on her; she jumped when he spoke. Vakarian: one. Shepard: zero. Shit.

“Good evening, Vakarian. I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she manages to say, her voice smooth and relaxed. On the other hand, she feels like a ball of jelly. Shepard looks at her wet hand and takes the chance to use the water to try and refresh the strands of hair around her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Garrus stare at her hands as she twists the curls around her fingers. He doesn’t respond until he realizes she’s done and is looking at him, waiting for a response. Ah-ha . Vakarian: one. Shepard: one. Balance is restored. For now.

He coughs and acts like nothing happened. “We arrived late, right before the dessert portion. Solana was working late at the lab and she’s the one who asked me to come with her to the banquet.”

Huh, maybe that answers why he’s here. Shepard asks anyway. “So, is that why you’re here? You’re not part of the trade negotiations.” It’s not until after she speaks that she thinks that maybe that was a touch too demanding for the situation. Too late to take it back at this point, and she wouldn’t even if she could. She’s never liked questions she doesn’t know the answers to.

Garrus rolls back a shoulder in his usual casual demeanor. “Somewhat. She’s one of the head researchers for Salus Foundation. They’re looking to collaborate with other science corporations for medical improvements and to expand their inventory. Also looks good to have a ‘war hero’ attend the welcome banquet. Intergalactic solidarity, and all that.” He’s sarcastic at the end there, especially when he calls himself a war hero, but that’s a well-deserved title.

She scoffs in disbelief. Yeah, like we were all so cooperative before, when I ran around begging anyone for help. Before she realizes it, she’s responding with, “Intergalactic solidarity my a–” but manages to cut herself off before she finishes her sentence. It would not be good for people to overhear her criticizing their hosts. She takes a quick breath and says something else instead, trying to smooth over her misstep. “Sounds like Solana’s got all the brains in the family.” Head researcher for a medical company sounds smart. She doesn’t know what type of medical improvements that would mean, and doesn’t really care, honestly. 

While he must’ve heard her, he doesn’t point out her criticism or mention it. No one’s near them, but it doesn’t mean they can’t be overheard. Turians and salarians naturally have better hearing than humans, and it wouldn’t be surprising if the volus jacked up their suits with speech amplifiers somehow. Garrus just sounds amused when he speaks. “That’s what she’d tell you. I’m the better shot, though she’ll never admit it.”

Shepard rolls her eyes. “Humility was never your strong suit.” She needs a drink. Now. She can’t talk to Garrus like this. Things don’t feel awkward (though she never feels awkward to begin with), but it’s just… new. They ended things on a good note back on Earth, and their messages are maybe surface-level and that’s it, but she wasn’t expecting to see him here. It’s not quite their old, easy back-and-forth, but it’s something. At least the ribbing and teasing seems to still be there. It’s too late to be drunk for this conversation, but at least she can have something in her hands so she doesn’t feel like an idiot. Which is too late, she does feel like an idiot, dumb and unprepared for the weird fucking mix of emotions she gets everytime he looks at her, but she can ignore it. Right? 

She fiddles with the scarf across her neck, adjusting it in order to do something with her hands. “You could’ve told me you were coming, you know,” she suggests drily. There’s the temptation of saying it more as an accusation, but Shepard knows she could’ve asked. ‘Could’ being the key word. 

“I live in the city,” he responds in the same dry tone. 

“It doesn’t mean you’d be invited or be in the city. Your work keeps you in space a lot.”

“Maybe I just wanted to catch you off-guard for once.”

She gives him a deadpan look, unimpressed. He has the audacity to laugh.

Still. Even if he’s laughing at her, it’s nice to hear. For someone who cracked a lot of jokes, he didn’t laugh often. Even as she rolls her eyes, she grins slightly. It is good to see him again and be able to talk casually. It seemed like an impossibility for such a long amount of time, some sort of leftover fever dream. Even something short and simple like this felt almost as luxurious as the diamonds she’s wearing.

Shepard walks towards him, nodding towards the people inside. “C’mon, let’s get a drink and you can tell me about Solana’s work.” She knows nothing about medicine or medical research, but she figures if she can keep him talking that’ll give her time to gather her brain cells together. He falls into step next to her and tilts his head in the way he does when he's a little confused, but follows her anyway. They walk back towards the banquet hall and there’s a drink station on the boundary between the garden and the hall. After they get their drinks (he hands her hers, ever the gentleman), and they shift towards the side so they’re not blocking the way, Shepard immediately realizes her problem.

The problem is, Garrus treats her like a person. She can’t count on him to ramble about himself for a long period of time. He will eventually ask her about herself and expect a real conversation. Normally, this is exactly why she likes him in the first place (she refuses to even think about the other l-word), because just like the best people in her life, he sees her as a whole person and not what he wanted her to be. No, the problem here is that her brain is fuzzy and a little overwhelmed by his unexpected presence, and she’s trying very hard to maintain her cool, suave persona in front of him and all these people. The last thing she needs is a person who actually wants to hold a conversation. Damn him and all his goodness. Maybe she should go looking for the bumbling human from Devlon Industries. He wouldn’t be expecting her to produce a single enlightening, original sentence.

“She—Cruz? Are you okay?” Garrus asks, interrupting her thoughts. She realizes he’s waiting for her to respond now, and she doesn’t have a single clue what he was speaking about.

“I’m fine,” Shepard replies, waving off his concern with a hand. Somehow he knows about her new last name. Interesting. “Just a lot to think about.”

“Yes, because talking about medical omni-tools is such riveting conversation,” he states in a serious voice.

Is that what he was talking about? “Oh, so riveting.” Her voice has just enough sarcasm that he knows she’s messing with him. They both laugh, and the tension between them fades a little. She’s still trying to figure out what this new friendship looks like between them. Maybe she’s even a bit bitter that he decided not to warn her he was coming, though he clearly knew she was. Hmph. 

They take a moment to look at each other. It’s hard for her to tell turian ages, but he looks older than when they first met. Though she guesses she does too, in more ways than one. Ceci tells her she can get all the plastic surgery she wants but it’s not going to get rid of the dead look in her eyes. But she knows – knew, him. He’s changed. Since they met on Earth, she noticed it. Not a lot, not at his core, from what she can tell. He still cares about saving people and all that. But he’s more serious than he used to be, sharper-tempered. More sensitive to noise; she caught him flinching more than once in the apartment, especially when it got rowdy with Mia and the music all together. The jokes are still there though, something that came out again once they stopped being stupid and talked again. Maybe not as often than before, but still there. 

And he’s alive. With his family. That’s all that matters, really. Not her feelings or old wishes. 

Still, there’s something in the shift of the shoulders, his stance, that makes him look… tired. Very tired. Like he hasn’t been sleeping well. The question is out before she can shove it back down her throat. “Are you having trouble sleeping?” The worry seeps through her voice without her permission. Her brows furrow in concern and she forces them to relax back into a neutral expression. 

Now he’s the one caught off-guard; she can tell because his mandibles flare out in surprise. “The last few nights, yes,” he admits, his subvocals humming. “There was some… trouble out in the Voyager Cluster. It was resolved, but… Well. You know how it is,” he ends lamely.

Oh, Garrus. His consciousness always did weigh heavier on him than it ever did on her. Her heart twists itself in knots. “I do,” Shepard responds softly. But then she reminds herself she’s a grown woman, not a sixteen year-old with a stupid crush on the boy down the street. She’s better than this. Stronger. Suddenly annoyed at her own silliness over a man, a man she has nothing to do with now, she tells him in a louder voice with a bit of a clipped edge, “Talk to a doctor, ask them to give you some sleeping pills. You can’t be going on missions in that state.”

He seems a little taken aback at her sudden shift in tone. “I’m fine, it’ll go away on it’s own in a few da—”

“Xochil!” Shepard turns around towards the voice, and it’s Anthony, approaching her with a reserved smile. There’s a quiet trill of surprise behind her, but when she looks over her shoulder Garrus is calmly sipping his drink. She must’ve made it up. Shifting her attention back to Anthony, he stops and nimbly slips a glass of water into her hand. Just in time, because her mouth is as dry as the Sonoran desert. 

“Oh Anthony, you’re an angel . How did you know I wanted some water?” He plucks her half-empty wine glass out of her hand and sets it on a nearby table for her, then offers her his arm. She takes it without thinking. “Tony, I’d like to introduce you to Garrus Vakarian. Vakarian, this is Anthony Romano, the chief financial officer of Jaguar Arms.” Anthony’s eyes are flickering between Garrus and her, thoughtful. “Remember you asked about a friend on the ship here? This is him. He’s a Spectre from the Citadel Council. I wasn’t sure if he would be here, but I’m glad you were able to meet him. Santiago will be pleased.”

Anthony nods and politely puts his hand out for a handshake. Garrus takes it. “A pleasure to meet another friend of Mr. Reyes,” he says with a small smile.

“Likewise,” Garrus responds smoothly.

Anthony’s omni-tool flickers, and he discreetly checks his message, then waves the display away. Turning to the two of them with an apologetic smile, he says, “Ah, forgive me. I know I just approached you but business calls. Din Garla is requesting my presence. I hope we have the chance to speak later, Mr. Vakarian.” Garrus just nods lazily and raises his drink to him, ever casual with his manners. Anthony gently unwraps Shepard’s arm from his. “Let me know if anything comes up.” He pats her on the shoulder and disappears into the crowd. 

She turns and stares after the CFO. Hm. That was very unlike Anthony. Usually he stuck around for a few minutes at least, to make sure no one was being too forward. So he wants me to talk to Garrus, alone. But why? Does he know something I missed? Why did he pat my shoulder?

“He seemed in a hurry,” Garrus comments.

Still thinking about Anthony’s vanishing act, she speaks without thinking. “Oh, he’s a sweetheart. He’s just checking up on me to see if I’m doing alright. He’s been running interference for some of the more forward guests.” Shepard hears the rumbling subvocals behind her, but doesn’t pay it any attention. What are you trying to tell me, Anthony? What am I missing?

“Forward guests?”

She waves her hand around, her nails shimmering softly in the light. “Oh you know, people who get too cocky and can’t pick up a hint, then get mad if you say no. Can’t have people thinking bad of us. It’s easier this way.” Putting her free hand on her hips, she drums her fingers and uselessly tries to telepathically summon him.  Anthony, you idiot, come back. Or at least send me a fucking message, a hint. Something. C’mon you old idiot, we were doing so well. We can’t mess this up. You have three kids to feed! Anthony!

There’s a light, thin prick at the base of her neck.

Shepard can’t breathe. She feels warm all over and she’s praying to God, the Virgin Mary, Saint Death, everything, anything in the universe that she’s not blushing. The goosebumps she can live with, but not the blushing. The sensation continues down in a line a few centimeters, then just as suddenly, stops.

“This is new,” she hears from somewhere behind her. 

Her brain is slowly turning into goo and she’s desperately trying to scrape it back together. He’s talking about her tattoo. There’s a tattoo of the Sol system down her spine, extending from the base of her neck down to the small of her back. It was the first she got done after the panther; with only the syndicate tattoos, she felt desperate and lost in a body that wasn’t hers. Not a good feeling. Getting the Sol system was half-reminder, half-whim. A reminder of where she was in the past, and a whim because she always wanted something on her back. I guess he just missed this one , she thinks weakly, her brain on the fritz from his touch. 

Shepard takes a sip of water and takes a few moments to try and create a rational thought. Fuck. Vakarian: two. Shepard: one. “It’s actually my oldest one.” Her voice sounds steady to her ears. Thank god. “I had it done about three years ago.” She thinks she hears a humming noise from behind her, but it’s right at the edge of her hearing capacity. There’s a turian nearby that turns towards them with a look of confusion. What the hell is Vakarian saying?

“Pretty. Is it planets?”

“Yeah, it’s the Sol system,” she answers coolly. And then, possessed by the tiny little fucking demon, the voice in her head that always pushes her to get just one more shot, one more hit, one more pill, one more punch, one more comeback, to say something completely unnecessary, she adds, “It starts at the base of my neck and ends in the small of my back.”

There is a very, very, very loud silence. There’s a soft, trembling asari voice singing in a language her translator is having trouble keeping up with. Shepard can’t hear it but she suspects Vakarian is still making some sort of noise, because there’s a few turians looking around in confusion again. Her brain starts reforming and she’s starting to feel real fucking smug. She resists the urge to smirk and finishes her water. The light is much brighter here by the hall than on the other side of the fountain, and so she takes advantage of it. Leans down a little to put down her glass on a nearby table. Approaches the drinks station and asks for two drinks, shifting her arms a little so her shoulder blades shift. She accepts the drinks with a pleased smile and walks back to Garrus. On her short way back she’s stopped by an asari who compliments her with, “lovely dress, like the flowers of Illium.” Thanking the asari with a flirty smile, she rejoins Garrus, who’s leaning against the wall. For the first time tonight she can’t read his expression. Shepard offers him the dextro wine glass and he takes it without a word. She takes a sip, making sure she drinks a little too much. It leaves her bottom lip wet, and she wipes the excess liquid with a ring finger. Garrus’s eyes follow the movement.

So. Maybe there is something here after all. She raises her glass to him, treating him to her best charming smile. “Cheers? For plans going right?”

He gives her a good, long look, then raises his glass to meet hers. The sound of clinking glass sounds like triumph. “Cheers,” he says impassively. The wine tastes like victory.

This is why she listens to the little demon in her head so much. It’s because it feels too way fucking good when it’s right. Vakarian: two. Shepard: two. But as fun as this is, Anthony’s sudden disappearance is still bugging her, a reminder that she’s here to help her team, not spend the entire night flirting. Or investigating whether it would be well-received. She flickers her omni-tool on and huffs, looking into the hall and going on her toes. “I wonder where’s Anthony? He usually comes back by now.”

Garrus puts down his empty glass and takes a step towards the hall. “I’ll help look for him. I’m sure there are people looking for you.”

Shepard reins her surprise in and nods, following him instead of sending another message. As they take a few steps in the hall Garrus offers her his arm, and she takes it without thinking. Shit! Damn Santiago; he does this so often that she’s basically trained to take anyone’s arm without looking. At the same time, it would be extremely rude not to do so. He’s cooler to the touch than she is and he feels exactly as she remembers, though she’s only taken his arm like this once.

A red carpet, flashing lights. For a single moment she lets herself dream of a different life, one where she would be here because of music and not because someone tried to assassinate her.

“Looking good, Shepard.”

“I did my best without a carapace or a crest,” she replies demurely.

“Your best has my mandible on the floor. Damn!”

Shepard resists the urge to laugh and cry. She doesn’t know what her actual best is anymore, doesn’t know what she’d look like with her real hair and a dress she likes. She thinks she’ll never get to find out. She knows she’s dancing with death, and it’s only a matter of time before the last song plays. Still, her mother taught her to never reject a compliment, and his flattery warms her all over.

Brooks interrupts the moment, reminding her she’s here to find out who tried to kill her. “You know I shaved my legs for this, and I even put concealer over where I got shot.” Stupid girl. She could tell her there’s no concealer good enough for a gunshot.

Repressing a sigh and her disappointment, she instead gives the crowd her best generic smile. The paparazzi eat it up; Commander Shepard is rarely seen outside of armor or uniform, and she’s showing more leg than anyone’s ever seen before. She just wants it all to stop.

If he’s also thinking about that old memory, he doesn’t mention it. Probably for the best; their situations are too complicated to really even do anything about… them, whatever they are. Friendly, sure. But more than that? Either way, it doesn’t matter because in a few seconds they’re approached by Mr. Petrov again. The alcohol must be kicking in for him, because his smile has a bit of a razor edge that wasn’t there before. However, he continues to act like a gentleman.

“Miss Cruz! A pleasure to see you again. You neglected to mention you were the head of security for Jaguar Arms. More than just a flower in bloom, I see.”

Damn. He really is the intellectual type, the type of guy that likes to talk in riddles and quotes. She should’ve known with that quote from earlier. Shepard doesn’t like to read and knows nothing about literature. The way to this man’s good graces would be by replying with some sort of book quote, but she doesn’t have that type of learning. Next best thing would be to say something witty.

Before she has a chance to respond, Garrus surprises her again and responds on her behalf. “The sharp thorn often produces delicate roses.” A quote? Compliment? And why roses? She hates the blasted things. Her hand on his arm twitches slightly, but that’s the only sign of her surprise. 

Petrov smiles, obviously pleased by this turn of events. “Ovid? I wasn’t aware that the human classics were taught on Palaven.”

“A lot of turians admire ancient Roman culture,” Garrus explains. He briefly meets her eyes and she recognizes the expression in them: a silent apology. Oh. So he does remember. “It reminds us of our own societies. My mother was a fan of Ovid.” For a second she debates whether she should hold the rose thing against him, but knows that would just be petty and insincere of her, especially after doing her a favor. She discreetly squeezes his arm in thanks, hoping he gets the message.

“And I of Victia the Eldest. An excellent writer about war and grief.” His eyes flick to her briefly, but he continues to talk to Petrov, something about books and pre-flight war literature. Yeah, she’s lost now. It’s boring as hell, but she nods and smiles along as if she understands perfectly. After a few minutes of this, Alicia appears out of nowhere to introduce her to another security team; she says her goodbyes to Garrus and Petrov, and lets herself be pulled away. That’s the last she sees of Garrus for the night.

Later in the night, the Jaguar crew hits it off with a group of asari from Serrice Council and they decide to leave the banquet to ‘go have some real fun.’ They all end up at an asari-run bar nearby and a while later she’s finally blissfully, mindlessly drunk. Maybe it’s a little irresponsible of her, but she finds it hard to care at this point. The young asari from earlier keeps brushing against her arm, her waist, and Shepard keeps thinking she feels too soft.

Chapter Text

By the end of the second week the Jaguar team settles into a comfortable routine. They all meet in front of Shepard’s house an hour before their first meeting of the day, where she’s been sitting outside her door with a steaming cup of shitty coffee for the last half-hour. Then they walk to the Aerarium Complex, where they meet with different turian divisions to talk business. For lunch, sometimes they eat all together, or break off into groups; either way, everyone must be accompanied by a guard while on the clock and Shepard doesn’t budge on this. Palaven is safer than Earth, but she isn’t taking any chances. Life has a way of jumping at her when she least expects it. Then they return to the complex for more meetings, have dinner as a group, and return to their neighborhood. The finance team splits to work, and she trains with the guards. Sometimes they’ll go out for a drink if they have enough time. She reports to Santiago daily, calls Mia daily as well even if they aren’t always able to talk. Their ‘days off’ are just as busy; Anthony and Santiago are nothing if not ambitious, and on days they’re not set to meet with turian sectors, they meet with other intergalactic companies. Always good to have a backup plan, after all. It’s also the time she looks at matters relating to the Panthers; Santi manages most of the work and she has bodies doing the in-person stuff, but there’s still shit she’s gotta run. There’s an order and ranking system to all of it, one that she’s always found comforting. She knows she belongs somewhere and how. Maybe that’s why she stuck around in the military for so long. Whatever, she’s no psychologist. Shepard’s made vast improvements to the organization, and there’s even police reports claiming the Panthers have become more militarized. Of course, the municipal police are in their pocket, so they can report all they want and nothing happens. In fact, Police Chief Chavez made some fantastic carne asada. She’d have to make sure to attend his next get-together. 

This routine suits her perfectly fine, and Shepard feels like she’s getting comfortable with staying on a new planet. With a consistent schedule, she’s even sleeping better, and there’s no evidence of night terrors when she wakes up. However, the universe has a way of messing with her, and something interrupts this pattern.

It’s their last day of meetings before their second free weekend in Palaven. For some reason unknown to Shepard they’re running all over the Aerarium today, and it’s not under they’re sitting for dinner at a Cipritine-style levo restaurant that she checks her messages. A video of Mia playing the guitar, some messages from Ceci, reminders from Santi, a message from Mia’s school, memos from Anthony, and, then, from someone unexpected. Garrus, and it’s just one line: Are you free tonight?

The fuck kinda question is this? Her heart starts to race on its own; they haven’t run into each other since last week’s banquet and haven’t messaged each other, either. It’s not unusual. They’ve gone up to twenty-three days without messaging (not that she was counting). They both lead busy lives and sometimes it means they lose touch for a bit. 

She checks the timestamp, and it was sent at 12:42. It’s 19:16. It’s way too late to answer now. Rude. It’s better if she just pretends she didn’t see it. Alicia cracks a joke and asks her a question, and it’s enough to distract her from the vague message.

They get back to their lodgings a while later, and Anthony and Shepard agree they should all have the night off. Shepard checks the time again. It’s 20:23. Yeah, it’s way too late to answer. Right? Right. But she can’t get the message out of her head. As she heads inside the rental she mechanically strips off her armor and changes, her mind still whirling around. Why is he asking her if she’s free? It sets her on edge. There’s no way she can stay like this, with her mind running around in circles. Passing a supply closet gives her an idea, and in a short time she’s holding the handle from a mop-like thing. It’s been a long time since I’ve practiced with a staff, maybe it’ll keep me busy . With her makeshift staff in hand, Shepard goes out into the back garden. It’s a warm night, but it’s not too hot. Twirling the staff around her hands, she settles into her first stance, and begins a series of passes.

On good days, when she’s able to break through her own brain and the moves blur together (and if she remembers how to do this, ‘cause it's been years), it gives her a sense of tranquility. Turns out today’s one of the good days. It takes a while to get rid of the awkwardness in her body, but muscle memory kicks in after a few passes. She’s warm and limber, the staff hits the weird silver-gray grass with a satisfying thunk, and she can feel her stress evaporate with her sweat. Everything’s a blur and it’s just her and the moons in the sky. Shepard finishes a drill, breathing heavy, then props her staff against a chair and takes a break to drink some water. She doesn’t notice someone is watching until she hears his voice.

“Somehow I’m not surprised you found a stick to whirl around,” she hears Garrus remark.

Her body reacts before her brain does. She does a spit-take.

Wow. Embarrassing much? Tragame tierra. Death would be a mercy right about now. How didn’t she hear him? He was almost as bad as Kasumi when he wanted to be. Shepard refuses to acknowledge him until she’s composed herself a little. She dumps the rest of the water bottle on her face, pulling her tank top up from the hem to wipe the water away. Pats her face dry longer than strictly necessary, using it as a chance to get herself fucking together. Once she feels a tiny bit human again, she lets go of her shirt and grabs the empty water bottle and her staff, turning to look at him. Garrus is leaning against the garden wall in full armor, and the bastard has his visor on, so he knows her heartbeat and breathing are higher than normal. Vakarian: three. Shepard: two.

“Hi, Garrus,” she greets him moodily, “thanks for the fucking warning.”

He looks taken aback for a second. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were so focused. But I did message you.”

In a fit of sudden frustration she throws the empty water bottle at his face. Maybe she’s predictable or he knows her too well, but he just tilts to the side and the water bottle sails harmlessly past him. “You know littering is a taxable offense in Cipritine, right?

“Then fucking sue me,” she snaps, sitting down in one of the patio chairs. Then it hits her: why is she mad? Why is she trying to pick a fight with him? Didn’t she go through all those drills exactly because she kind of wanted to see him, but didn’t know what to do about it? So now that he’s here, why is she being so bitchy? Shepard closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath through her nose, trying to let go of the anger under her skin. When that doesn’t work all the way, she does the next obvious thing: she slams her forehead against the patio table. Why is she so stupid? Why is she like this? Why can’t she be better, normal ?

There’s a shuffling noise and she can hear he’s rushing over to her. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks in a rush, worry clear in his subvocals. The sting on her forehead clears her mind a little, but Garrus’s warm hand on her shoulder is much more effective.

Shepard sits up and rubs her forehead, gently brushing his hand off her shoulder. “I’m fine, thanks. Just being stupid.”

He takes the chair across from her. Her staff rolls to the ground. “In your defense, I don’t think anyone who knows you would call you stupid.”

She huffs. “Then they’re fucking idiots.”

He leans back a bit, looks at her with a bit of concern. “Did something happen?”

Yeah, you messaged me and I didn’t know how to act. And you gave me a huge jump-scare and I look like an idiot. And you’re trying to make me feel better. That’s all. Yeah, no fucking way she was saying all that.

“No, I’m just in my own head about shit lately.” Wait. How did he find her to begin with? She certainly never told him. She turns to frown at him. “How the fuck do you know where I’m staying? I thought it was confidential.” Does this mean their location is at risk? Is she gonna have to talk to the summit staff? Garrus shifts a little in his seat, then sits still. Too still. Like when someone’s feeling a little guilty. Shepard narrows her eyes. “...Vakarian? What is it?”

“Your location is still confidential,” he assures her, though he’s starting to shift in his seat again. He looks off to the side. “I may have called in some favors. Domna is a family friend. It only worked because of my rank and Spectre status. You know how the Hierarchy is about citizenship and responsibility.”

No, she did not fucking know how the Hierarchy gets. She forces her face to stay neutral. Exactly how close was he to damn fucking Primarch, these days? To be able to just ask about the addresses of trade delegations without trouble? And Domna, one of the higher-ups in this entire summit, is a family friend? What the hell? It makes her uncomfortable– it’s been a while since she’s had that type of power, and she can’t deny she misses it. Here on an alien planet, she’s another guard, another soldier. She hasn’t been another anything in a long, long while, and Shepard finds that she does not care for it.

Those are thoughts for another day. She gives Garrus a slightly cynical half-smile. “I never thought I’d see you do something so selfish.”

He crosses his arms against his chest. “You didn’t answer my message.” 

For some reason his defensiveness makes her laugh; his reaction reminds her of when she catches Mia doing something she shouldn’t. The last of her temper fades. “I’ve been in meetings all day, I was at work! I didn’t see your message until dinner, it was vague, and I just figured it was too late to respond.”

“You work nights,” he points out.

“I work nights on Earth,” she retorts. “I’ve been a good girl and I’m usually in bed by midnight.” That wasn’t strictly true (not true at all, in fact), but it averaged out to midnight. Close enough.

“You can message me at any time, I don’t mind.” His subvocals make a strange noise she can’t recognize. 

Meanwhile, she stretches her arms above her head, picks up her staff from the ground and nudges him with it. “Fine, fine. Come on in, we can talk.”

Shepard leads the way into the house and she hears him follow, tells him to take a seat in the living room as she stores the stick. Hopefully there’s a way to insert it back to the mop thing. Once she’s in the kitchen, she pulls a few bottles of water, along with a few packaged dextro and levo snacks. The Jaguar team keeps mixing up the dextro and levo snacks during the summit meetings (it’s mortifying, really, a clear signal that they’re new to space and she can’t do anything about it without a stack of lies) and they all end up in Shepard’s house because Steven and Fabian’s appetites cannot be trusted. She carefully places everything on the table, and notices that Garrus has already taken a seat on one of the couches in front of the vid-screen. “Sorry about the water, but we could go order something if you wanted,” she suggests as she straightens up. 

Out of habit she glances at herself in the living room mirror and frowns as she gets closer. Her baby hairs have frizzed around her head like a halo, her bun is half undone. There’s no red spot on her forehead but her face is flushed from all of the exertion, and her tank top is twisted out of shape.  “Holy fuck, I look horrible,” Shepard mumbles to herself. Was she looking like this the entire time? She looks like a drowning cat. And her hair! Her hair’s looks like she’s been electro–

“No you don’t,” she hears from somewhere far away.

–ublic this would be incredibly embarrassing. What would people think? “You don’t need to lie to me,” she responds absentmindedly as she tries to tame her hair back in place. Maybe some ha–

“I’m not lying,” he responds coolly.

–ouln’t help with this. And her face is all red and sweaty, too. “Yeah, yeah.” 

“I’m not.”

Shepard’s not listening. “Give me ten minutes to look human again, I’ll be back. Make yourself at home.” He says something but she’s already disappeared into her bedroom. She takes a quick body shower to wash off all the sweat, then dumps what feels like a kilo of dry shampoo into her hair in hopes it’ll look presentable again. After that, there’s the double-check of her prosthetics to make sure they’re ok, then changes into a loose green shirt and black pants. Feeling much better about her appearance, she rejoins Garrus in the living room.

One of the drinks is open and the vid-screen is turned to some local news. Since he’s sitting in one of the armchairs, she tucks herself in a corner of the couch and grabs a drink. While she’s struggling to open the bottle she asks, “So? What was so urgent that you pulled rank to find my address?”

His mandibles flutter a tiny bit. “I… I wanted–”

Suddenly, a chiming sound rings through the house. Her omni-blade swivels out on instinct, ready for something, anything, and it takes a second for Shepard to realize that it’s just the doorbell. Garrus gives her a weird look while she checks her omni-tool. It’s Alicia, Steven, and two members from the finance team, Fabian and Mary. Only then does she sheathe the blade. He probably thinks she’s paranoid, and that’s probably true, after everything that’s happened. She unlocks the door remotely and by the way they all stumble in, they’re already a few drinks in.

Steven throws his arms out dramatically with a stupid grin. “Boss! You need to tell Fabian the asari trick.” 

She raises an eyebrow. If he says what she thinks he’s about to say, she’s giving him extra conditioning workouts until they’re back on Earth. “The asari trick?” she repeats nonchalantly. It takes every single ounce of control to not stiffen up. Damn . She thought they were too drunk to notice what she was doing in the bar.

Steven hiccups, grabbing a red-faced Fabian by the shoulders. She prays to the heavens that Steven will stop babbling. The heavens do not listen. “Yeah! The one with your finger, when you got that asari’s number at the bar last week! Fabian’s been trying to get with her friend but he keeps missing. We’re gonna go out to se—” the group finally realizes she’s not alone, and Steven takes this in stride– “oh, who’s this? Name’s Steven Garcia, guard at Jaguar Arms.” He sticks out a hand for Garrus to shake, and they both shake hands. 

The kid is a fun drunk, but he also talks far, far too much, and rallies back far too quickly. “So boss, you down to come? Your friend can come too, Rhia’s asking for you, let’s fucking goooooo!”

Rubbing her temples, Shepard puts her drink down on the coffee table and heads towards the kitchen, digging through the cabinets. She can hear them go through a round of introductions (“ This is Fabian, this is Mary, I’m Alicia and this drunken idiot is Steven, we’re all with Jaguar Arms ”) as she pulls cups, a pitcher of water, and some medicine. It also gives her a moment to work off her nerves (“ Good to meet you, I’m Garrus Vakarian, I was part of the delegation to Earth ”). Garrus is, obviously, the very last person on Earth —Palaven— whatever, that should hear about her sex life. She doesn’t want to think about why it bothers her so much when she’s never cared before. She resists the temptation to look in his direction.

Shepard breaks one of the pills in half and shoves it into Steven’s palm rougher than she intends; the glass of water spills a little, but he’s too drunk to notice. “Here’s half a sober pill. It’s early and you’re too drunk to be giving advice to anyone, so take this to get some of the edge off so I don’t get a call at 3am to come pick your ass out of your own vomit.”

“Nah, at 3am my ass is gonna be— ” and Steven responds with such a graphic, sexual image that has the group laughing and gagging in equal measure. Alicia looks aghast, and practically shoves the half-pill down Steven’s throat. That’s not nearly as fun as he thinks it will be , Shepard thinks, unimpressed but still amused.

“Don’t say that in front of our boss, you fucking dumbass!” Alicia hisses into his ear. “I’m so sorry Cruz, you know what he’s like when he drinks, if I knew he was this bad I wouldn’t have let him come here, I’m so s—”

“Rojas, it’s fine,” she assures in between laughs. It really is; maybe she’s not the most professional of bosses anymore, but she finds she doesn’t want to be. “Just make sure he gets home safe. Have fun, and do not let them convince you to try any asari moonwater or you’ll be throwing up for days. The dreams aren’t worth it, trust me.”

Undeterred even while half-choking on a pill, Steven complains. “What, you not coming?”

“No Garcia, I have plans for tonight.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s the weekend boss! Let’s go an—”

“Garcia.” She may not be a professional boss, but here, in the Panthers compound, or in the Alliance, she has never stood for defiance. Her tone is enough to cut through his drunk haze, and he straightens up, apologizes. The group is a little unnerved by her sudden change in demeanor, so they mumble their goodbyes and leave for the night. Shepard watches them leave. When’s the last time she’s gotten drunk with a group of friends? Of people she liked, where she didn’t have to look over her shoulder for someone slipping something into her drink? Christmas , her mind whispers. With Santi and Ceci, Mia safely in bed. Before that, who knows?

“Nice to see some things don’t change.”

His voice stirs her out of her thoughts. “Hmm?”

Garrus shifts uncomfortably in his seat, mandibles clicking. “It’s nothing. Look, I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening, I didn’t know you were busy, I’ll just see myse—”

“No, you’re fine,” she reassures him, lightly pressing on his shoulder with a finger. He stills. “My plan was to stay in. It’ll do them good to go out without the higher-ups around. I was hoping Cecilia would call me, but if she hasn’t by now it means she’s busy. You’re not interrupting anything.” Shepard goes back to her corner of the couch, grabbing her drink and some spicy chips on the way. As she opens her snacks, she resumes their conversation from earlier. “So? Why the visit?”

“I wanted to ask you how negotiations were going,” he replies confidently, taking a sip of his drink. “I know it’s confidential, but I was curious whether things were working out. For you all, I mean.” His sudden confidence dips a little at the end, the way it did when he was sincere but unsure if it would be well-received.

“Well, you’d have to ask Anthony for better details but from what I can tell, it’s going good. Tony’s also talking to other intergalactic companies, so there’s a chance if the Palaven contracts fall through we can salvage something else. I don’t know much beyond that, to be honest.”

“Hmmm. That’s good to hear.” Garrus pauses for a second, and Shepard can tell that he’s debating something. “Actually, there is something else I want to ask you about.”

“Alright.”

“Why the staff?” he asks curiously. “I know you practiced with it sometimes, before,” he adds awkwardly, referring to her practices on the Normandy, “but I’ve never seen anyone else use it.”

It’s an unexpected question. She gives him a searching look, but his blue eyes lock onto hers. He’s being honest. Maybe she can be honest, too. With him.

“It’s…” she starts, struggling to find words to explain the solitude, the disappointment, of those few first years in the Alliance. The teasing, the slurs, the fights, the reprimands. He waits for her to find the words. He always was too nice to her. “I… wasn’t exactly a… good soldier. In more ways than one. I was… really dumb.” Garrus’s brow plates shift and Shepard can tell he’s about to interrupt. “ Wait , wait let me explain. Normally, the Alliance requires at least a high school education, but most space soldiers have college. I didn’t have either. You’ve seen my scores when I enlisted. I didn’t know anything about math or tech, and I was in remedial classes for basically anything you can think of for years.”

“I thought schooling was mandatory on Earth,” he says.

“It is, but there’s always people who slip through the cracks. Poor people most of the time. But the thing I was good at was fighting, and I was better than all of those fuckers combined. I had some of the longest win streaks for the shooting range and the combat sims for years, right from my first year. Even broke some records in N-school.” Her eyes spark with the memories. It always felt so good to crush their little stupid egos into dust. So right . For a long time it was the only way she knew how to deal with feeling so lost in a new place. “Lot of kids didn’t like that, and I didn’t like them. The Alliance offers optional combat classes, so I took what I could to stay busy. At some point I was ‘strongly encouraged’ to take some martial arts classes to ‘help my anger and resentment issues.’ Took all different types of classes. Some of the exercises included staff drills. It’s old school, but it did help to burn off energy. I found it relaxing so I kept it up. Beats getting written up for fights.”

“You, fighting? I can’t imagine it,” Garrus drawls sarcastically.

It amuses her enough that she laughs. “I had a terrible temper– okay fine, a worse temper,” she corrects grudgingly as he raises his brow plates. The smug little shit. “I think Alliance brass would’ve been happy to see me go at the end of my contract. But then someone had the idea to invite me to N-school. Did you know I was one of the youngest graduates in N7 history? I was still a corporal when I got the designation. Then Torfan happened, and well, the rest is history,” she drifts off feebly. The Skyllian Blitz is an old wound, one that still aches once in a while. She feels stupid looking back now; somehow her life is built around sacrifice, when she hates the concept to the core of her being.

They let the silence circle them for a few moments, the vid-screen in the background playing something about a local art exhibition. He breaks the quiet with another question. “What was bothering you?”

“Huh?”

“You said you run through drills to relax. So, what were you stressed about?”

Damn him! Why did he actually pay attention to what she said? Why couldn’t he be dumber, stupider, less observant? But that’s exactly what you liked about him , a treacherous, tiny voice whispers in her mind. You liked that he was intelligent, that he listened to what you said, that he would cut right through to the heart of things, that he’d see you, who you were and what you liked, especially in be –

She presses her fingers to her temples again in an attempt to shut up her brain. “Got a lot of things I’m thinking about. I was just worked up about it. It happens. I’m fine.” He looks unconvinced, but doesn’t push it.

“It’s a complicated thing, trying to break a company away from someone else without them noticing,” he offers as an excuse. She knows what he’s trying to do; he’s trying to get her to talk if she wants to, giving her a chance to vent. Just like how he used to during their time on the Normandy. Some days it was the only thing that kept her sane. Well, somewhat. Her sanity has always been in question.

Shepard sighs. “You have no idea.” And he doesn’t; it’s sweeping the apartments for bugs every weekend, it’s looking over her shoulder every day. It’s taking bullets for Santi. It’s wondering what will happen with the enforcers she’s trained and what that will mean for them in the future, if she’s made things worse for them. It’s working out who they want to keep in the company and how. It’s spiking drinks and taking drugs to make the stress melt away. It’s tampering the hope that threatens to bubble up, now that it seems that they might actually, finally pull this off. Something of this must show up on her face, because suddenly Garrus is standing up and looking through her kitchen cabinets.

“Hey! Why the fuck are you digging through my kitchen?”

A white blur flies towards her face and she catches it with her right hand: her cigarettes from Earth. “I was looking for that. Come on, I want to show you something,” he tells her, guiding her towards the back exit. She follows without thinking, stumbling to put shoes on as she steps outside in the cool night air. He’s already jumped the back wall and waits for her to catch up.

It takes a few seconds until she notices she’s following him and doesn’t know where they’re headed. “Where are we going?” She really should’ve asked that before she left the house. And somehow she’s not alarmed or concerned. Hm. 

He gives her a vague, “You’ll see,” and doesn’t say anything else, no matter how much she pelts him with questions. After a few minutes of friendly bickering ( “I really don’t know why I’m letting you do this,” “It’s my irresistible charm,” “Oh shut up, you overdeveloped grasshopper,” “What’s a grasshopper?” “It’s an annoying-ass insect on Earth. They’re a delicacy in Mexico City now, you know. We eat them with lime and salt. They’re delicious.” “You eat insects?!” “What, you don’t?” “No civilized space-faring species eats insects,” “Don’t you have like a gizzard or something? You’re basically made to eat insects,” “Spirits, humans will eat anything” ) she suddenly finds herself at the edge of a massive pond, surrounded by lush, silver grass, tucked at the edge of the neighborhood. There’s something making weird noises, and she can see the water lazily rippling with the wind, the two moons reflected in the water. It’s a strange night, alien, but serene and peaceful. He leads her to a nearby tree and they sit underneath it, staring out into the pond before them. She lights up a cigarette and takes a deep inhale, trying her best to relax her body as she exhales.

“I didn’t realize this was so close by. How’d you know about it?” she asks.

Garrus is silent for a moment. “This used to be part of a larger park. I spent a lot of time here since a lot of my friends lived close by. My mother used to bring my sister and I here to feed some of the animals. Solana had a few birthdays here too. It was a popular place for families to get together, but after the war…”

No other words need to be said. The pond is clean and well kept, but it’s at the edge of a neighborhood and there’s nothing ahead but grass and a little bit of rubble. The landscape speaks for itself, a story that is echoed across the galaxy. Her mind flickers back home; the neighborhoods gone, the old artifacts that decorated the city nothing more than dust. The slums she grew up in are nothing more than rubble and a place for feral cats.

It’s true dark now. The sky is blue-black, speckled with little lights in the sky. A black void. Shepard feels like she could speak her secrets into the darkness and the darkness would listen. She should say something. That’s what people are supposed to do in situations like this. It’s clear that there’s pain here, in this little hidden oasis. But she’s never been good at comforting. It’s always been, “ Are we done? This won’t interfere with the mission?” “Can you set this behind you? ” In the military, that’s expected, but with people who she cares about… she messes it up. The war is over. Now the clean-up is pain and grief, not something she can point at with a gun. Her eyes flicker to Garrus; he’s staring at the pond with a hard look in his eyes, clearly somewhere else. Should she risk it? There’s very few ways she knows how to honor memories without blood. But she thinks he’s worth the try anyways.

She swallows, clears her throat and sings softly, not wanting to disturb the night.

In this night I conquer the silence
And the absence of sound creates a void
I’m sorry I have to go
In this house, ghosts don’t exist
It’s only memories
A thousand feelings
Of what we lived when you were here 

Shepard sings for maybe less than a minute. It’s intended as an acknowledgment of the suffering that has happened here, nothing more. At the edge of her vision she sees that Garrus has turned to look at her, but she doesn’t look at him. Instead, she squeezes her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on her legs. Some of the birds chirp in the night air. One of them sounds almost exactly like a chainsaw.

“You have a beautiful voice,” he says after a few moments. A beautiful voice . A curse and a blessing. A blessing she thought would get her out of the slums, and a reminder of ruined dreams. It didn’t help that her mom encouraged her stupidity, telling her that one day she’d be pretty and a famous artist. But for once, she can recognize this isn’t the time for her own frustrations. His subvocals are thick with an emotion she struggles to pin down, a thrum that hovers at the edge of her hearing. She remembers how he sounded after Thane, Mordin, his mother. It’s grief.

Sometimes she thinks grief is the only thing left in her. One of the only emotions left in a useless body. After his admission, it feels like she owes him something in return. No, not owe. That’s not the right word. He trusted her with a truth. It’s only right she trusts him with one in return. A real one. 

“When I returned home,” Shepard starts, her voice firm but devoid of any real emotion, “everything was different. Most of the people I grew up with were dead. One of the first places I went looking for was Isabella’s house. She inherited her grandmother’s restaurant –on her father’s side, our grandma died before we were born– that she grew up in. Restaurant on the first floor, they lived above it. When we were teenagers she used to sneak me food when her grandma wasn’t home. I’d sit at the counter and we’d talk. Sometimes she’d be too tired by the end of the day and I’d clean the place for her. Some of my happiest memories are there.”

A flash of a bright smile, short black hair. “Keep frowning like that and you’ll get wrinkles,” Isabella teases while pouring out some hot chocolate into a mug, the real stuff, hand-whisked. It tastes like pure heaven after the powder on Alliance ships.

Xochil stops worrying and laughs, too happy for words after seeing her cousin for the first time since her deployment. Being home after the loneliness of space feels like she can breathe again. The real sun on her skin, the music of her childhood fixes something in her, sitting here like this. “How can I be sad with you here? You, the rose of Escobedo?”

“Ugh, don’t you start with the stupid nickname!”

She blinks the memory away, the grief quietly squeezing her heart. “On my bad days in the Alliance, when I felt stupid and useless and lost, I’d dream of going back home and eating her food. Of sitting at the counter. Hell, of washing the damn floors, if it meant I could be somewhere where I belonged.” She squeezes herself harder on instinct. “I couldn’t find the restaurant at first and thought I forgot where it was. Then I realized I couldn’t find it because it didn’t exist. Turns out the block was completely leveled as a way to get rid of a street full of dragon’s teeth.”

There’s a sharp inhale next to her. She’s speaking into the night and the night is listening. The cool night air and the gentle silence is comforting, in a way. Maybe it’s because she’s on a planet that’s not Earth but just as full of the dead that makes it easier to think about all this. “I looked for her body, you know, and her husband’s. Found nothing.” No bodies for a grave. There’s no sure way to know how she died, but Shepard’s seen too much death to delude herself into thinking anything merciful.

There's a silence for a few seconds. “My childhood friend –his name was Neros– lived near here. We trained for boot camp together by running around the park. Killed fighting off a banshee to give his family time to escape. His family made it to the end of the block before they were killed by a Reaper beam.”

Shepard doesn’t say anything. There is nothing to say. She can say she’s sorry, but that would be a lie. She’s not sorry for someone she’s never known. Can’t be; if she lived that way, she’d be useless after the Skyllian Blitz. She is angry though; angry that this happened to him, to her, to the entire fucking galaxy. Life isn’t fair, but it just seems like a cruel fucking joke all the time.

“I think about the invasion all the time, you know. I built a career on being faster than my opponent. I keep thinking back to those six months I was grounded. If I had a team, if I talked better, faster, made people understand quicker, forced them to listen, would it still have been billions dead? Or maybe tens of millions? Would it have made a difference at all?”

He shakes his head. “There’s no point in thinking that way. You did the best you could with what you had.” He pauses. “I used to admire you for it, you know. How you somehow managed the ruthless calculus of war. You rarely doubted yourself.”

Yeah, I managed to deal with it by using an insane amount of stims. He doesn’t need to know that, though. Shepard takes a drag of her cigarette. “And I remember telling you to have more confidence in yourself. Or to fake it if you didn’t have it. I also remember you implying I was becoming a coldhearted dictator.”

“Your orders kept us alive, Shepard. The galaxy exists because of you. Don’t question that.”

“Of course I’m gonna question it. Most of the people I know are dead and I’m alive, somehow. And I’ll keep questioning it until I die, whenever that happens.” She extinguishes the last of her cigarette and lights a new one. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Garrus flexing his hands. He never did like it when she talked about dying. Maybe it’s some sort of turian code thing.

He turns to look at her. He has an open expression on his face, almost curious. “I was starting to think you never thought about it. The war, I mean. You seem so… unaffected, by it.”

She gives him a disappointed stare. “ I know you saw me have a nightmare, what, you thought I have those for fun?”

Garrus has the gall to look taken aback, then slightly defensive. “I didn’t know what to think about that.”

Shepard thinks to herself for a moment. Maybe he’d understand. He was right there with her, witnessed all those horrors too, the unnaturalness of something that should never exist. “Sometimes, I feel like a ghost. My body is going through the motions and my mind is outside of myself. I’ll blink and I’m at the grocery store and I don’t remember how I got there. I wake up covered in bruises and I don’t remember why.” There’s something about speaking in the dead of night, with no one but him listening, that makes her worries spill out. Kinda like when he’d sit and listen to her vent on the Normandy. “Ten shots of tequila and two Hallex pills, crushed and snorted for the strongest effect. But you have to take the pills before the liquor and within thirty minutes for the strongest effect,” she starts listing off in a clipped voice. “3 lines of asari sugar in fifteen minutes, a lick of za’isa and some whiskey. Or 9 shots of vodka and 2 bumps of skylight. I have it down to a science, at this point. Anything to shut up my brain on the bad days, where it was just visions of the dead swirling around in my brain.” Her empty hand squeezes into a fist. She’s not sure whether she should admit it’s still a problem, that she’s lost days in an empty haze. It doesn’t happen as often now, and not as long as it used to be, but still. She’s scared shitless at how he’ll take all this, but he’s seen it, he’s seen what it cost the galaxy, the horrors that emerged from dark space, from the unknown, what it cost them, what it cost her. It’s inevitable he’ll find out eventually, he’s too clever not to, and he’s going to be disgusted or disappointed, well, she would rather find out sooner rather than later. Garrus gazes at her with a neutral expression, and it’s one of the rare times that Shepard can’t figure out what he’s thinking. It makes her nervous, but maybe him saying nothing is better than saying something. The turian government is much more lenient on their citizens’ private lives, but she has no idea how that translates to social expectations.

He turns his eyes back to the surface of the pond. There’s something causing the surface to ripple, but she can’t see what it is. “When I came back, Palaven was in a worse state than when I left. Entire cities crushed into dust. Thousands of years of culture, of history, gone in months. Billions dead. Cipritrine was hit the worst of all. Most of the city was ash, and my family’s ancestral homelands were burnt to the ground.”

Shepard knows nothing of ancestral homelands, doesn’t know what’s the value in a strip of land that someone determined you were the caretaker for. Isn’t it better to be alive and breathing? Land is bought and sold on a whim, anyways. She’s been kicked out of enough places to think possession of land is an illusion of the powerful. But she knows this isn’t the time for her questions, knows that it doesn’t matter; grief is grief. The turians may not believe in ghosts, but the longer she spends time on the planet, the more she thinks she can feel the energy of the dead. Maybe if there’s enough dead they can create their own spirit. A cheerful thought.

“The Hierarchy worked hard –still is– to try and get us back to a defensible position. My task force was asked to figure out what to do with the Reaper bodies. That took us not just around Palaven, but many of the turian colonies. Places destroyed because I decided to save our forces for the Crucible. We survived, but at what cost? I just… kept myself too busy to think. I thought that if I could see that there were some of us standing, that we did survive after all, it would keep everything at bay.” He leans back on the tree, slowly flexing his talons. “I would wake up in a cold sweat, thinking that the birds were husks coming to attack. Or that the construction drills were Reapers.” He pauses. “I would dream of you running into the beam.”

Be safe , she told him. She remembers. Be safe because nothing else mattered. She was dancing with death and the song was ending. What use was saying ‘ I loved you and I’m dying for you ,’ when she was about to die and nothing could happen? When all it would cause was pain to both of them? The important thing was that he would live. What else mattered?

He doesn’t turn to look at her. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him, just takes another drag. Garrus makes a strange sound that makes Shepard think it’s some version of a snort, and he continues speaking. “Eventually the Council approached me and offered me Spectrehood. Said I was ‘a valuable asset to the galaxy’ and that ‘it would be an honor.’ My father disapproved of the idea, but at that point our task force was dwindling and I didn’t want to get stuck with the Hierarchy’s red tape. So I accepted the offer and took every mission they gave me. I try to make a difference, to let people have a shot of rebuilding a life after the war. It’s hard to remember there’s anything left, but when I see a new colony stabilize, or new structures, it… helps, for the bad days. To remember that there’s still life in the galaxy.”

Something that looks like a silver snake with two feet slithers past her feet. It looks strange in the moonlight, but they’re speaking of strange things anyways. 

“The ruthless calculus of war,” she repeats again. Somehow it hurts her a lot more to hear him feel so guilty about his choices when he did nothing wrong. His calls were the right ones, they always were. She was never an advisor for her home planet; hell, Anderson had to practically force her on the Normandy to leave. She would’ve tossed everyone in a black hole if it meant Earth could be spared. He had to play the game and figure out what would keep his people alive. It’s a different situation than what she found herself in that way. “That’s what it always comes down to in the end, when it’s just you and the enemy. What’s the price you’re willing to pay for survival? We didn’t hesitate and our people survived because of it.” She rests her cheek on her knees and turns to look at him. “Mia was born a few months before the first Reaper attacks on Earth. I don’t know how her mother raised a baby during the war. I have no fucking clue how she survived. I don’t think she should be alive, really. It seems impossible to me, but I think you have the right idea. People wanted to give her a chance to live. And because of that, she did. Living is a lot harder than dying.” She smiles weakly. “Trust me, I would know.”

Here, in the safety of midnight and darkness, she tells him a few truths. She tells him of the bad dream last night, of seeing Mia being evaporated by the beam of a Reaper. Of seeing her long-dead mother turned into a husk and waking up in a cold sweat. She tells him about some of the bad waking moments too; the last time she got too high to tell the difference between waking and dreaming, and that she was caught in a dream so vivid, so strong, dreaming of swarmers crawling over her skin that Cecilia found her covered in deep scratches all over her body, her nails bloody and chipped. She doesn’t tell him that she drank herself to sleep after that one. In turn, he tells her about his own nightmares: seeing all of Palaven turned to black ash. Seeing his father turned into a marauder before his eyes. The hatred of the dead left on the planet after suggesting a full retreat. And in reality, when during a mission a child’s scream startled him so much he almost pulled the trigger, thinking it was a banshee approaching from behind.

It’s not until Garrus starts shivering from the chill that they begin heading back to her house. It feels like in the dark, they’ve let something out that’s still too heavy to see in the sunlight. Before he leaves Shepard forces some chocolate into his hand (this one’s on her, she misread the packaging when she was looking for some at a store), insisting that it’s necessary to eat something sweet after all that bad talk.

“It’s past midnight,” he reminds her, amused at her insistence.

Shepard tosses her hair over a shoulder, planting her hands on her hips. “So? You’re a grown man, you can eat chocolate whenever you want.”

He flares his mandibles slightly. “Only if you eat some.”

“What?”

“I’ll eat some chocolate if you do. I know you have some, I saw it on the counter earlier.”

“Of course you fucking did, you creep,” she mumbles, but she grabs the chocolate off the counter anyways.

He’s biting into the chocolate when he says, “You’re right.”

“I’m always right. What am I right about?”

Garrus laughs quietly. “You’re right about eating something sweet. It does help.”

She gives him a small smile. At least he’s feeling better. He did have a way of getting stuck in his own head, and she didn’t like seeing him upset. “My mom taught me that. She was right about a lot of things.” 

A few moments later, they’re at the door and they say their goodbyes. Just as he’s turning to walk away, there’s something pressing on her mind, something important she’s forgotten. “Wait!” she shouts, quickly grabbing him by the arm. He turns around, clearly surprised and looks at her hand. Shepard lets go immediately, noticing his discomfort. “I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for listening to me. It means a lot. I haven’t told anyone that… stuff, so just… don’t tell anyone else. Please. But thank you.”

“You haven’t told Cecilia? Or Santiago?” he asks calmly. His subvocals are doing something complicated; there’s a sound that usually means confusion but there’s other noises too, a harmony that makes no sense to her human ears.

Shepard shrugs one shoulder. “No. They wouldn’t understand. But you were there.” It’s the truth. There is no further explanation needed. 

“I won’t,” Garrus promises, then gives her a look. Next thing she knows, he’s reaching out with a talon and tucks her hair behind her left ear. “Good night, Athena.”

“Night, Garrus.”

Shepard closes the door, her brain a little shell-shocked at the phantom sensation of him tucking her hair away. Careful and tender all at once. It’s… reassuring. Makes her feel a little human, especially after their conversation. Or maybe she’s touch-starved. Even after all that talk, she almost feels… better. She hasn’t really talked about any of that stuff with anyone, just bits and pieces with her friends, but she won’t burden them with her own problems. They’ve suffered enough. It’s different with Garrus. They used to be a team. Maybe they aren’t a team anymore, but she trusts him with her life. Maybe she could stand to trust him with a few secrets too.

Chapter Text

Something is changing between them. She suspects she knows what. But she doesn’t know where. Or exactly how. Or what direction it’s going. Or if she wants it to. Or if it should. But maybe she does want it to. But does he want it to? What is ‘it’? 

It’s like the other night they were at the pond. The pond was calm, but the wind pushed the water around, causing little ripples to form. That’s what it’s like. Something they’re doing is causing little ripples. She doesn’t know if the ripples will become something more. Or less. It’s all rather confusing. How do ripples work? Where do ripples go? What happens underneath the surface? Does it change? Does it matter? Should she skip a rock, just to see what happens? She doesn’t know how to skip a rock though.

Or maybe it’s the dream dust talking. She’s riding a nice high, this time for relaxation rather than escapism, and her body is less stiff than it’s been the last few weeks. Between standing guard, the social events, managing some of the Panthers’ business, and her idiotic, stupid little heart, she’s more stressed than she thought. But even as Shepard’s lying on the couch, her body is detoxifying itself and within the next half hour it’s all out her system. Better something than nothing, at least.

She’s drowsily watching some random sit-com re-run (something with salarian and an asari working in an office?) when her omni-tool rings. It’s Santiago; she pulls him up on the large vid-screen and rubs her eyes. 

“Hey girl, how’s it going?” he greets her after sipping from a coffee mug.

Shepard sits up with a yawn. “Oh you know, stressed. Hard to get a good high, the usual.”

He squints at her, suspicious. “You better not be working high. Not right now.”

“I’m not,” she promises. And even if she was, she’d be able to work just fine, so he shouldn’t be worrying about that. “Our first meeting for today is in a few hours and I just wanted to relax a bit. I wanted to update you on a few things that I heard...” 

They spend the next hour bringing each other up to speed. Shepard discusses the gossip and news she’s heard throughout the last few days, and notifies him of from her perspective of the business proceedings. It’s all going smoothly so far; the finance team is efficient and friendly, and they’ve made inroads with multiple intergalactic companies. It’s possible that even if they don’t land the Palaven deals, they’d be able to recoup their losses with a series of other contracts. Santiago’s father is distracted due to some problems with the Tijuana branch (suspected insubordination), so if they keep their heads down, they might, just might, pull this off. For all of Santiago’s restless optimism, he’s still cautious. He’s been burned before and now that the tide is turning in their favor, the pressure is starting to build. His face is thinner than it was a few months ago, and it hurts her to see him like this. Though there’s age gaps between Shepard, Santiago, and Cecilia, they’ve always had each other’s backs in one way or another, ignoring space and time; without each other, things would have been much, much worse. She might not even be here without Santi and Ceci. There’s a moment where they just look at each other, their anxiety and nerves clear in each other’s eyes. Like always, Shepard is the first one who gathers herself. “Keep an eye on the Tijuana branch, they’ve been busy. Aldina has always been hot-headed and thirsty for power. She’s been gunning for more Mexican states even if she doesn’t have the manpower to hold ‘em. There’s already talk of the Austin chapter fracturing and based on her past orders for men and weapons, she’s prepping for that but running short numbers, she’ll need double the manpower than what she thinks she’ll need. Irene is a bitch. We can use that to our favor.”

Santiago props his face in his hand with a thoughtful expression. “I think I see it now.”

“See what?”

He rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles. “I dunno, just… her. Athena, I guess.”

Shepard stiffens. They never used her Alliance name, and they rarely discuss her military past. It’s not taboo but she thinks it’s their way of not tempting fate. Santiago saying her name out loud feels like he’s summoning a dead spirit. 

“Not like what you think,” he continues, either oblivious to her feelings or ignoring them (probably the latter). “You’ve always been good at seeing the playing field, at people’s weaknesses. It’s just… a lot sharper now than it used to be. Your time in the Alliance refined that. I don’t think we’d be able to pull off half of what we’ve done if it wasn’t for you. There’s patterns and gaps you’ve picked up that I had no idea about. Maybe that’s why me and Ceci always struggled before, because we didn’t look at things like you do.”

She crosses her arms. It’s just another reminder that he’s tried to leave and failed. This might be their last chance; for something of this scale, forgiveness isn’t an option. “I’m just old,” she grunts.

“Maybe,” he concedes for a second, “but no. Remember when you visited when you were 22? Then 27? I noticed it then too. Every time you came back you just… knew so much more. I know you got a lot of feelings about your military service, but it’s a part, a huge fucking part, of your life. I don’t think you should just ignore all of it like it never happened. And I think that recruitment officer saw all that in you before any of us did. I was too young to really understand any of it.” Santiago pauses for a moment, but then bursts into unexpected laughter. “But Athena! What a cocky ass fucking name, a goddess of war! Is it a self-fulfilling prophecy at that point?”

Shepard frowns. The name’s always been a sore point; on its own, Athena was a fine name. Sounded nice, even. People just got too hung up on what it meant, and whether she lived up to it. “I didn’t pick the name, Santi. It was already legal by the time I found out,” she pointedly reminds him.

“I know, I know. But think about what I said. I gotta go, I have a meeting in a bit. See ya later.”

“Bye you fucker.”

“Damn okay I see how it is, bye bitch.”

With that tender goodbye, the call shuts off. There’s a faint reflection of herself on the dark screen, staring back at her. Shepard hates to admit it, but the fucker has a point. The Alliance is about half of her life at this point. The first few years were rough, but it’s undeniable that it left a mark on her and she left a mark on the galaxy in turn. I did always want people to look at me , she muses for a moment, I just didn’t think it’d end up being this way. If you told me at 14 I would save the galaxy I would’ve laughed and told you that nothing good happens to the daughters of whores. Hmm, considering what’s happened, maybe that’s still true . A glance at the time lets her know it’s time to suit up and head to the Aerarium, and she leaves those thoughts for another day.

That afternoon, the talks don’t go well. Shepard doesn’t need a fancy degree to look at Anthony’s white knuckles under the table to know the volus negotiator is saying some shit that’s not good. It’s a close call; one of the finance team members misstep and says something borderline rude to the volus, the volus replies with something that’s far too close to a slur for comfort, and the meeting is ended before things escalate. There’s so many nuances in these financial talks that it gives her a headache every time she tries to figure it out. Anthony keeps his displeasure behind pursed lips, but Fabian isn’t nearly as discrete. She has to hide Fabian in an alcove so he can rein his temper in private. On top of that, everyone but Shepard has very little experience with aliens, but there’s enough… maybe not anti-human, but wariness-about-humans sentiment floating around that the team is starting to notice that something’s off. The humans have cemented their place in the galactic galaxy in a way no one but the founding races of the Council have. Not to mention that humans have also done something almost unheard of: pressured another race to leave Citadel space. Not to mention having a seat on the Council with less than a century of being in space. On top of that, there’s a rumor of an asari diplomat telling a drell representative at a state dinner that Thessia was considering hosting a similar trade summit with human companies.  Out of all the Council races, the asari are the most isolationist and hardest to establish any type of relationship with. The fact they’re even considering opening their trade market to humans after less than a century of knowing them is shocking. That type of push and pull is exactly what Shepard’s used to; this isn’t a war summit to save the galaxy, but money causes as many problems as it can solve. It also means that this will likely have political repercussions, though no one will say it as long as the summit runs. She keeps an eye out to make sure Garcia and Rojas don’t touch their pistol too much. The last thing they’d need is some alien accusing them of human aggression, and unfortunately for everyone, Shepard will prove them right if provoked. Their last meeting of the day ends in a similar manner; tensions are running high for reasons she can’t quite catch, and they all leave in a foul mood.

All in all, they’ve had better days. It’s the first hurdle in their plan and while not completely unexpected, the blow still hurts. When they return to their neighborhood the finance team immediately splits to figure out a game plan and to update Santiago on the news of the day. Alicia, Steven and Shepard run through some practice drills, and if they’re a little rougher with each other than usual, no one mentions it. She dismisses Alicia and Steven at the regular time, then goes to shower and change into a clean set of clothes. There’s an anxious, worried energy running through her, one that is tied to her mind more than her body. Shepard decides that maybe tonight is a good time for biotic meditation.

Samara is the one who teaches her; Shepard was looking for a way to bond with the mysterious, alluring asari, and she’s learned that asking to be taught is always a good way to gain someone’s trust. Samara warns her it is easy to learn, difficult to master, but is willing to teach her anyway. 

“For asari, it is a way for us to be attuned with the flow of biotics within our body,” Samara tells her as they stand by the window and stare out into the abyss of space. Her eyes are reflected in the glass. Shepard wonders if Samara knows she has stunning eyes. It makes her feel like she’s made of mud. “It also refines our ability to mind-meld, though that is something I have not done in a long time. ”

“And for humans?”

“It can be similar. For anyone who masters meditation, regardless of species, it brings clarity to the mind. It brings awareness to how the biotics contract and expand in your body, and refines control. Though, it is not control that you lack.”

Shepard reads the underlying message. “And what do I lack, Samara?”

Samara turns to face her with eyes of a thousand years. It makes her feel like a child. In the eyes of this matriarch of an eon, she was.

“Serenity.” Shepard is taken aback. That’s certainly not what she expected, and it must show on her face because Samara smiles, not unkindly. 

“Well, not much serenity to be had in the galaxy. I think that’s pretty much why I was brought back.” 

“Serenity is found within. I do not pretend to know what you have been through Commander Shepard, but it is clear to me serenity has never found its way to you. You will need it in the days to come, to have somewhere to take refuge. Sit, and I will teach you.”

Fuck, was it hard. The trick was to keep a sustained mass effect field in the hands, and depending on the type of meditation, the ripple of biotics over the skin. Samara told her that while her control and endurance was excellent, she was lacking in power and scale; she suggested playing with different sizes of mass effect fields and concentrating on sustaining her biotics over different parts of her body. It was exhausting in a different way than a physical workout, but over time her biotics did strengthen. ‘Course, that went all to shit after she woke up from her coma. Might as well have been eighteen with a fresh implant. Surprisingly, the meditation has been more helpful than the usual exercises from N-school. I wonder what happened to Samara , she muses as she goes through her usual post-shower routine. She was right, after all. I hope we never meet, because I think she’d kill me with that Code of hers . It’s twilight now, so she goes outside and sits in the garden to meditate. Biotics aren’t looked upon too kindly with turians, but it's such nice weather outside that the idea of staying indoors is unappealing. Besides, if they didn’t like it they shouldn’t be snooping on private property anyways. Settling into a cross-legged seat on the silver grass, Shepard closes her eyes, starts counting her breath. A mass effect field flares to alive in between her palms, and she lets the sounds around her fade, keeping a faint awareness at the edge of her mind. It took months to figure it out, but there is something undeniably soothing about the feeling of her own biotics flickering against her skin. 

Time passes. The wind tussles her curls about, still drying from her shower. At the very edge of her consciousness, she can feel someone slowly approaching her from behind.

“Garrus,” she says slowly in a raspy voice. Her biotics shimmer blue against her body for a few seconds before they melt into her skin. Shepard twists around, blinking away the last of her meditative state. 

He stops a few meters away. “How did you know it was me?” Garrus asks, impressed. 

That’s a good question. How did she realize it was him? “Actually… I don’t know. That’s the first time I’ve been able to recognize someone when I meditate. Usually I can only tell if someone’s coming, but not who.” Remembering that he’s in the middle of her garden with no warning, again , she frowns and puts her hands on her hips. “And will you ever knock on the front door like a normal person? Or will I have to set up wards around the garden?”

“If you responded to your messages, I wouldn’t have to. And I did knock,” he responds in a defensive tone. Shepard checks her omni-tool. He’s right, he messaged her about two hours ago, and there’s a notification from the doorbell. Damn. This is starting to become a pattern between the two of them.

She hates being caught off-guard. “Okay, but what if I wasn’t here?”

“Reyes mentioned you were probably home.”

“And how the fuck would Sa–” she cuts herself off mid-sentence. That’d be Anthony, her neighbor. He’d definitely tell Santiago how they were all doing. She switches tactics. “Actually, why the fuck would Santi tell you?” 

He crosses his arms. “Feel free to ask him, because I’d like to know as well. Have you had dinner yet?”

The unexpected shift in topic throws her off. Just a little. She squints. “What’s it to you?”

Garrus lets out the turian equivalent of a sigh and rubs between his brow plates. Sure sign he’s getting fed up with her shit. “Just answer the question. Have you had dinner yet?”

“... No.”

“I knew it,” he mutters. In a louder voice he tells her, “C’mon, there’s a levo restaurant nearby.” He makes a sound of displeasure when he notices she hasn’t moved a single muscle. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Yes . Especially after the meditation. She’s starving. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“What?” he asks, confused.

“Just answer the question,” she mocks him, doing a terrible impression of his voice. In her own she asks, “I said, aren’t you hungry? Have you had dinner yet?” It’s early evening and she’s noticed that dinner time tends to be late here. Wouldn’t be good for him to starve. 

His head tilts a little to the side, slightly confused. “...No?”

“Then why are we going to a levo restaurant?”

He’s still for a moment as he looks at her. Shepard placidly returns his gaze. I can throw a rock into the pond just to see what it’ll do. She’s getting tired of the pond anyways. Or maybe she shouldn’t pay too much attention to her high thoughts. Anyways, surely he’s picking up what she’s putting down, right?

“...Fine,” he caves in. “You’re in luck, there’s a new dextro-levo restaurant in the area. We can go there.”

Shepard stands up and dusts herself off, then takes a few steps towards the house. 

“Where are you going?” Garrus calls out. She stops at the doorway and turns to look at him.

“I was gonna put my hair up and lock the door.”

“Your hair’s fine. Just lock the door and let’s get going.” 

Yeah, there’s no way she’s going in public without checking a mirror. She looks over her shoulder as the door slides open. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“You can’t be seri–” the door slides shut and cuts him off. Shepard dashes to the bathroom, looks at herself in the mirror, and quickly fixes her appearance until she’s satisfied. It doesn’t take long, so soon enough she’s back outside and shutting the door behind her. Garrus just gives her an odd look before he leads the way to the city center.

It’s a short walk to downtown Cipritine. The sun set a few hours ago, so she’s able to risk some time out without the suit (not that Shepard is the most responsible person about alien environments either way). The streets are busy with the usual post-work rush, with people running errands or having a social life. All the buildings shine with that new-building look, proof of the intense restoration efforts of the last few years. The city is all strange curves but while it’s silver, somehow the turian engineers have perfected the art of silver shades, so there’s still a distinct color pattern going on. There’s also a lot of different textures embedded or carved into the buildings themselves, though it’s impossible to tell if there’s a reason for that. Shepard has explored parts of the city but not in a way she’s really like to, so she promises to herself to go out on her day off. It reminds her of the old 2050s sci-fi movies. As she’s making a mental list of what to check out next, she notices something that makes her twitchy. 

“Is it just me, or a lot of people looking at me? It’s just me, right?” she asks, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. At least four turians turned to look at her and she’s getting more paranoid by the second. This didn’t happen when she was out in her light armor. 

“It’s your hair,” Garrus responds easily. “And because you’re human,” he adds in a sudden rush, “there’s not a lot of humans in Palaven, most of the support we received during the war was krogan support, and there weren’t many humans then. Though there’s been more humans recently in the last few years because of work with the Alliance and human corporations.”

“Uh-huh.” She’s unconvinced. Shepard scratches the base of her neck, a little self-conscious. On Earth, it flatters her ego; here, it makes her nervous. “So… why is my hair so… I dunno… strange?”

“It’s… unusual,” he tells her. One of his subharmonics is a tone of hesitation, but it’s hard to recognize anything else when they overlap the way they are now. “I think most turians haven’t seen hair like yours. Hair is already a strange thing to us, but yours is…”

“What, weirder? Alien? Exotic?” Somehow the thought of a turian finding her hair intriguing is enough to make her laugh. He takes a left and she follows. “I can’t believe a species that has talons finds my hair weird.”

“It just takes up so much space,” he teases.

“I can fix that.” She runs her fingers through her hair and pulls it over her right shoulder, styling it into a loose braid. “Better?”

Garrus glances at her but doesn’t say anything, leading her into a restaurant. Here it’s a mixed crowd; she can spot a quarian and a few humans. Despite the steel interior, it’s artfully arranged with a variety of local plantlife, giving the space a lively, bright look. A young turian girl guides them to their seats, leaves them with a set of menus, and leaves.

Yeah, she doesn’t know anything on the damn menu. She likes food as much, if not more than the next human (growing up poor and later on, biotic, doesn’t make you picky) but she rarely ate out on shore leave, trying to save her money to send to Isabella for treatments. And military rations weren’t exactly fine dining. Time for the ol’ tried and true strat.

Their server comes back quicker than she expects. Garrus orders something complicated and foreign-sounding, her translator tripping on the words. The server turns to her expectantly, poised to note down her order. Shepard surprises her with her best friendly-turian-smile (as she’s dubbed it), a smile that’s all teeth and some canines that has a better success rate on turians than anyone else. “Good evening miss. I’m sorry, everything on the menu sounds good and I can’t make up my mind. Could you let me know what are your most popular dishes?”

The girl is taken aback, but it seems like the smile works. The girl gives her a wavering, toothy smile and tells her, “Yeah! Our —— is our most popular dish, it’s a levo version of —— and I know the —— is popular with asari and humans, a lot of our patrons have said it reminds them of ——.”

Oh, so it’s still a bunch of words she doesn’t know. Shepard gives her a quick grin and replies, “I’ll take the first option, I’ve always been curious to try it.” The girl nods enthusiastically and dashes off.

Garrus leans forward and settles his arms on the table. “You don’t know what you just ordered,” he states. Like he’s telling her a fact he already knows, not a guess. Shit.

She leans towards him, though she doesn’t put her arms on the table. “Vakarian, you’re insulting me, that’s not nice,” she pouts. Maybe it’ll throw him off.

He makes an amused sound. “I would believe you if I didn’t know you. Every time we went out to eat, you’d always ask the waiter for a recommendation and nine times out of ten pick something from what they said. Even if it’s a place you’ve been to before,” he points out, with far, far too much confidence. Worse, he’s absolutely right. I take it back. I don’t know what I saw in this little shit .

“....”

“Now, don’t give me that look, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I will stab this fork underneath your fringe.”

“This restaurant just opened last month, I will not let you ban me from this place before I try their ——, it’s impossible to get a good dextro version since the Citadel. At least there’s no fish tank here for you to fall through to speed up the process.”

“Oh fuck you, I was attacked ! What’s the appeal in raw fish anyways, it’s raw!”

“Don’t you eat insects?”

“Don’t you have a gizzard?”

Their bickering continues until the servers bring out their food on steaming plates. Whatever she got, it looks delicious; it’s steaming, with a hefty chunk of unknown meat and unknown vegetables. Good enough. The first bite of meat is so good and rich, cooked in spices she can’t recognize that it has her eyes fluttering in pleasure. Garrus makes a sound that’s all amusement; even she can tell that much. Between the stressful day, the biotic meditation, and her fast eating habits, Shepard finishes her dish while Garrus still has at least a third of his food left.

“Do you do anything slowly? Leisurely?” he comments, staring at her empty plate.

She leans back in her chair, very satisfied with her meal, and thinks. “No.”

He taps a code imprint on the table. “There’s a dessert menu if you’re still hungry.”

Hmm. That gives her an idea, but she’s not sure if she should do it. The little demon in her head starts whispering what’s shaping up to be a real flimsy, but convincing argument. Why wouldn’t he? You’re sitting here for a meal. Drinks after are common enough for friends. Are you friends? Do you want to be friends? Either way, drinks would start something. It’s a step in a direction. I thought you liked to dance. Isn’t this the best type of dance, the push and pull? The thrill of the chase? 

She bites the tip of her tongue. Should she? What’s the worst he could say, no? You’ve already lost him once, so who cares? There’s still her whole situation and while they’re friendly, it’s still a little unclear how he feels about her beyond that. If he hates the idea she’ll have an answer.

  Fuck it. Shepard’s always been the aggressive type, and she’s getting real fucking tired of running in circles in her own brain. Scanning her omni-tool over the code to look at the dessert menu (oh, there’s chocolate ice cream) she goes for it. “Maybe, but I’d be down for drinks. I haven’t been able to explore the city much, the meetings have kept us busy.” Dismissing the dessert menu, she looks Garrus straight in the eye, all cool confidence. His mandibles flutter a little, but otherwise he’s not making a sound. Oh, so now he decides to be stoic. Incredibly useful.

“I… there’s a bar nearby that should work. For both of us. I mean, they serve levo and dextro drinks.”

Ha! So maybe he’s not so stoic after all.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Vakarian,” she says indifferently, flicking her braid over her shoulder. She should give him an out, at least.

“No it’s fine,” he quickly replies. “I just…”

“Just what?”

“It’s nothing.”

That’s enough for now. No point in pushing too hard, too quick. Besides, she doesn’t know what he was gonna say. She shrugs and casually checks her omni-tool while he excuses himself to go to the restroom. A few messages have piled in from the team about the plans for tomorrow, along with a reminder from Santi to check her messages (which means she’s got messages on her other omni-tool). It’s not until she hears Garrus’s voice that she looks up, realizing that he’s asking if she’s ready to go. She mutes her omni-tool and follows him out the restaurant, stopping by the cashier to pay her tab on her way out. It’s the same turian girl from earlier.

“It’s already paid for!” she chirps happily. “By your… friend.”

“Ah. Well, thank you for letting me know.”

“You’re welcome! And good luck,” she adds in a whisper. There’s a girlish excitement coming off the kid in waves. Oh, to be young and innocent. “He’s handsome!”

This girl personally witnessed them argue about a) raw fish b) whether insects were a viable source of nutrients c) shotguns versus assault rifles. Where did she get the idea that they liked each other?

Shepard doesn’t believe in playing fair. Garrus is waiting outside by the door, so this is a good chance to do some recon. With her best conspiratorial grin, she leans towards the server and whispers, “What do you think my chances are?”

The girl leans in closer, thrilled to bear witness to a blossoming(?) romance. One of her friends is nearby and has clearly been briefed on the situation because she’s leaning in, too. “Oh miss, they’re so good! Those subvocals,” she sighs, mandibles fluttering. 

“Good?” Shepard prompts. This was a great idea, otherwise I would’ve never known.

Both the girls nod. “ So good. Like, very very good,” says the friend. “My boyfriend doesn’t even sound like that and we’ve been dating for two years,” she sighs wistfully.

Gross. She hates to admit she’s been there far too many times, subharmonics or not. “Well, he sounds like that and we’re not dating. I think you need a new boyfriend.”

The original server whirls on her friend. “See, I’ve been telling you! Okay miss you have to go, he’s getting impatient. If anything happens please come back and tell us!”

 When she’s a handful of steps away Shepard overhears one of the girls wonder, “Wait, wasn’t that —— Vakarian?”

“No way, they were arguing about whether raw fish was good. No self-respecting turian eats fish.”

Drinks go way better than she thought possible. He takes her to a place that’s busy but not hectic, the music playing at a volume that makes conversation easy. They talk about her day (mediocre), what he’s been up to (short missions to nearby colonies), things they’ve done recently, with a thread of their usual bickering throughout the night. No confessions in the dark this time; it’s all jokes and laughter and she can feel herself slowly unwinding after a long day. It feels a lot like when they used to hang out, just without the stress of getting a life-or-death call at any second. Garrus insists on walking her back home (“ You don’t know your way about Cipritine,” “I’ve been dropped on hostile planets, I think I can manage,” “Remember that time in Tayseri Ward?” “That was one time! ”)

It’s… nice. It’s been a long time since she hung out with someone like this, without a gun strapped to her back, or making sure to pick the right spot in a restaurant to show off. This is the closest she’s been to a normal life in years, and it’s almost… fun. Maybe things like this can be part of her life again. Maybe. 

It doesn’t matter what Kasumi wants, she’s siccing the thief on the salarians one way or another. Cerberus on Sur’Kesh means there’s a leak, and if the damn STG doesn’t know why, it means they can’t be trusted. She’s not gonna run around blind, not with the dalatrass being a bitch. At least an extraction mission is relatively straight-forward; she’s run dozens of these, though usually called in as a last resort, the result of her reputation. Shepard’s never failed an extraction though, and she’s certainly not starting now.

“Liara, at eleven, singularity!” she orders, suppressing the enemy with gunfire as Liara breaks cover. There’s an engineer, two soldiers with two guardians behind; Shepard releases a biotic throw and the three go flying into the singularity, disappearing in blue flashes and screams. Liara and Garrus move up, finding cover on her right. That leaves her free to deal with the two guardians. She mail-slots the one on the left, but then something glints at the corner of her vision. Her body moves on her own, but as quick as she is the sniper’s quicker, and suddenly there’s an awful gurgling sound she’s all too familiar with. Garrus is clutching at his throat with blue, viscous blood pouring out, more than she thought possible. There’s a piercing scream to her left and Liara’s shoulder is blown out, exposing white bone with blue-black flecks. Then there’s a horrendous screech and suddenly there’s two spikes that burst out the earth, piercing both their bodies and there’s purple and blue blood mixing everywhere and her friends are still screaming but the blood is so much, on her hands and painting the floor it’s so sudden and then it’s Harbinger's voice echoing, “The power you chase is a mere illusion, Shepard, the dreams of a child ignored. Why do you resist? Submit. Submit, like you submitted to Fr–”

Shepard wakes up gasping for breath. The blankets are twisted around her legs and her clothes are damp with sweat. It’s been a while since she’s had a regular old nightmare. This one’s a weird, twisted dream of a real memory; in reality she spotted the sniper just in time and took a bullet meant for Garrus, cracked two of her ribs in the process.

With Eve on the ship, the krogans will eventually be open to supporting the war effort. Wrex is quick on the take, and with the genophage in play, he’ll cooperate. The salarians will be a whole other issue. Kirrahe was a pleasant surprise and maybe with some armament support he’d also be able to pull in STG reinforcements, with or without the dalatrass’s approval. He could work with the Alliance wetwork teams — Duarte may be annoying as hell, but she’s one of the best N7 infiltrators. Plus, she gets along with aliens. Between Duarte and Kirrahe, maybe she could ask if they could find some information on both the krogan and the current Hierarchy situa—

“Shepard.”

— nd then the STG could be moved to support the Crucible after. No, that’d be a waste of their skillset, she’d have to give that some thought. Ah, there’s a message from Lieutenant Odom. It’s funny to think that a guy from her first ever command now was part of an elite force. She desperately hopes Odom lives through this. Hm, looks like his captain is reluctant to help one of the turian colonies. Shepard can’t blame him, not with the lack of aid humans are getting at the moment. If she was on the ground she’d be thinking the same thing. Maybe they could be redirected to Elysium, that way they could hold the line and report on batarian refu—

Her terminal blinks out. Without looking up, she instinctively grips Traynor by the wrist. “What. Did I tell you. About turning off my terminal.”

Traynor’s eyes widen in alarm, though the commander doesn’t notice, too busy scowling at her dead terminal. “That wasn’t me.” 

Another voice speaks up. “Let her go Shepard, it was me. You shouldn't be standing here and you know it. If you haven’t noticed, you’re been holding your rib the entire time.”

Damn. And no, she didn’t notice she was holding her rib, though she’d bite off her tongue before she admitted that. It was straight to the medbay after getting back on the Normandy, but after that she needed to check on on Eve, Mordin, then Wrex, and then that message from Kirrahe and Odom and Victus asked about whether she could go check out that plato–

“Shepard. You’re supposed to rest for the next six hours. Doctor’s orders.”

She slaps her terminal back on. It flickers off. “Garrus, I swe–”

EDI interrupts. “Commander, Chakwas asked me to cut off your terminal access if you insisted on working. She said that in order for your ribs to knit back properly it is important for you to stay still for a few hours in order for the cybernetics to operate at their full potential. Otherwise, the healing process may be delayed.”

“I knew I should’ve had you stripped out my ship, you mutinous-ass AI,” Shepard mutters under her breath. EDI is incredibly useful until she isn’t, usually when she gets ideas of listening to anyone that isn’t Shepard.

“Don’t take it out on EDI, she can crush you with one hand,” Garrus chides. Of course he heard her, fucking turians and their hearing.

“Fine," she snaps, annoyed that he's right. "Traynor, I need you to contact Major Kirrahe and see how he’s willing to cooperate. Reach out to the 103rd Marine Division and get me Captain Wu’s contact, along with his current orders. After that, message Commander Liezel Duarte — N7, you’ll find her — on my behalf and tell her I’m calling in favor number two, she’ll know what that means. Once that’s through contact Michaels and tell her I want those intelligence reports from Menae on my desk in eight hours, Tuchanka in six.” 

“Spying on the Hierarchy? I’m standing right here, Shepard.”

“Yeah, and I don’t care. You don’t tell me anything useful and if you tell them maybe they’d start cooperating more.”

Traynor apprehensively looks at Garrus for a second, but focuses back on her. “Right away, Commander. Anything else?”

“Pass on any news about Tiptree to Joker but don’t let him know I told you to. Keep an eye out on Jason Ande–”

“Shepard.”

“Fine, Garrus, I’m leaving. Walk with me.” 

Her ribs ache as she walks back to the elevator. Actually, they more than ache. They straight up hurt; the painkillers and adrenaline must be wearing off at last. Both of them step in and are joined by some other crew members, so she doesn’t speak until they’re at her cabin. Shepard starts rummaging around in her desk until she finds a bottle of painkillers, and dry-swallows three without hesitating. “Who’s the primarch closest to the Krogan DMZ? Would they know about this bomb? Anything they could say that Victus hasn’t said already? Or is this conf–”

“You took a bullet for me.”

Shepard tries to turn on her terminal. Still off. Well, there’s the datapads. She picks one up and starts skimming through some updates on the Crucible. “Yeah, I did. Hm, I should get Mordin to look at these schematic suggestions, God knows I don’t understand any of the engineers when they send me this shit – hey! I was reading that!”

Garrus snatches the datapad out of her hand, then leans on the desk and crosses his arms, looking upset for some reason. Her legs are starting to protest against the concept of standing up so she carefully sits down in her chair, trying not to jolt her ribs too much. Broken bones heal in days now, but damn, did they hurt like a bitch.

“You took a bullet for me.”

“Yes, you said that already,” Shepard responds, with more patience than she’s had for anyone in weeks. She doesn’t know why he’s bringing this up. So what?

“Don’t do that again.”

She looks at him with a serious expression. This is new and if he’s getting ideas, she’s shutting it down right now. “You don’t tell me what to do.”

“It’s not about me telling you what to do, it’s about you staying alive.”

Resting a hand on her busted ribs, she leans back in her chair and briefly closes her eyes. “I’m alive until I’m not. If I worry about dying nothing will get done.” It's the only way to get anything accomplished, really. The fear is a constant, dull ache in the back of her mind, something that Shepard's learned to control years and years ago.

He shifts, somehow managing to sound even more upset. “You’re leading the fight against the Reapers. You. Your life comes before ours.”

“Didn’t exactly sign up for this, but sure.” Maybe this is some turian loyalty military shit. Whatever, she’ll agree to it for now if it calms him down, though she has absolutely no intention of obeying.

“You could have shoved me out the way.”

Shepard squints at the painkiller bottle; she could probably get away with another one, actually. Leaning over and opening the top, she calmly replies, “Wasn’t thinking, body moved first. I’ll shove you next time.”

He’s silent for a few seconds. She swallows another pill, and he takes the bottle from her and puts it back in the drawer it belongs. “You have to be more careful, Shepard. I– we, us, we won’t know what to do without you leading us.”

It wasn't a lie. She really wasn't thinking when she stood in the line of fire. There was the glint of the gun, Garrus, and she just… moved. It surprised her too when she felt the dull thunk of the bullets against her armor.  Usually her sense of self-preservation overrides any instinct to save a life at the cost of her own. Dozens of people have taken bullets for her in the past. It’s the first time she’s taken one for someone else. 

… Oh. That’s not a good sign. Not now, not when the world is falling apart like this. 

Shepard slowly stands up with a wince and a grunt. “Very well, Advisor Vakarian, I’ll take that into consideration.” The professional, stilted response puzzles Garrus, but he needs to know that he cannot tell her what to do. There are people who she wants, who she needs to survive this war, and for better or for worse, he’s on the list. In an attempt to shift the tone of the conversation, she adds, “If you make me a cup of coffee I’ll forgive you for the insubordination.”

Something gives her the impression he’s confused. There’s an awkward pause before he speaks. “Shepard, you need to sleep, you cannot have a stimulant before going to bed.”

“God, you’re starting to sound like Chakwas. C’mon, I took a bullet for you and you won’t let me have one cup of coffee?”

Garrus sighs in defeat. “That’s a cheap shot. Fine, but go to bed after.”

Shepard walks over to the couch and sits down, fully intending to drink a coffee. But by the time the coffee machine starts brewing, she’s already asleep.

She lets out a long sigh. Maybe that’s what she needs, a cup of coffee. Untangling her legs, she makes her way to the kitchen and pulls out the instant coffee from home. The taste is comforting, and once she’s done Shepard goes and sits on the couch, turning on a lamp on the dimmest setting possible. She misses Mia. Mia would keep her on her toes, too busy to daydream about the past. But Mia would also make her smile and laugh. 

Her Panther omni-tool beeps. An update from one of her informants; a new gang is trying to ask for protection fees and doesn’t want to pay dues. Shepard makes some calls, and as people rattle off information and dates and numbers, she stares into her cup. Nothing’s changed. She’s still stuck with emotions she doesn’t know what to do with. She should leave him alone – after all, she’s on the wrong side of the law (hah, what law, Earth is a mess) but she’s always been the type to want things she doesn’t have. After all that's happening, anything is more than nothing. Whatever that means.

Chapter Text

It’s almost like they’re real friends again, after their little impromptu dinner and drinks. They message each other almost daily, and when their schedules line up, get together for drinks or coffee. The talks continue to be tenuous at best; the situation fluctuates almost daily as all the corporations are now in the midst of trying to get as many contracts as they can, especially the arms manufacturers. While the Hierarchy doesn’t have the economic power of the asari (well, compared to before the war, at least), it’s a steady, guaranteed stream of income due to their military customs. All she does on this damn planet is stand and look scary while people argue about money and guns. Back on Earth she rarely attends Jaguar Arms meetings with Santiago unless it’s high profile; it’s a better use of her time to attend to Panther matters. It’s been a long time since she’s been a guard of any sort and it’s fucking annoying. Sure, she can boss around Alicia and Steven and calls all the shots on security measures, but that’s all she can do. She’s negotiated war treaties with the most powerful figures in the galaxy; with enough time, she could talk any of these bitches into a deal that would be to her advantage. Yet, she has to stand at the back of the room and silently watch as negotiations happen that will impact how effectively she’s able to leave the Panthers. She’s spent her entire life working on being able to control her fate, yet she’s always stuck in situations where she has to give up power to someone else. It’s infuriating. It sets her on edge. She snaps at Garcia and Rojas when she doesn’t mean to, blows Anthony off for dinner and goes out on her own instead. She argues when she means to say ‘sorry’ and storms off when she wants to discuss something.  Garrus somehow recognizes the signs of an impending Shepard explosion (maybe those last months of the war taught him the signs) and invites her to an open-air shooting range on the weekend to de-stress. It’s a good day to shoot, with pleasant weather and little wind to account for. Within thirty minutes they’ve started an intense but friendly competition. She’s rustier with a sniper rifle than she wants to admit.

“Oh come on, get your head in the game. There’s not even a wind to account for,” he calls out.

Shepard scowls and pops the heatsink. She’s not even that far off– four centimeters to the left of the bullseye up ahead isn’t that bad. It’d still knock down an enemy. But no, that’s not enough for the sharpshooter next to her. “Sorry that I’m no fucking bitch and like to see my enemies up close.”

He takes his time to line up his shot, unbothered by Shepard’s insults. “That’s because it takes no skill to take someone out from close quarters.” His bullet flies through the bullseye, and he changes out his heatsink without removing his eyes from the target. “Besides, you beat me up there on the Citadel,” he adds casually. Too casual, though. It’s easy for her to tell that he’s thinking about their… time, up there. 

She loudly slams the heatsink into her gun. No point in getting stuck in the past. “Yeah, when I was in top shape with a body fresh from the factory. It took me years to get to walking. Plus, urban warfare is different. If it’s bad enough that I’m on the street I’m not fighting long-range.” 

He’s quiet as she shifts to the right. Her last shot was a few centimeters off-center; this one cuts through the bullseye with ease. Garrus taps his omni-tool and the targets are cycled out for new ones: krogan silhouettes. Charming. “Urban warfare?”

Ah. Her eyes flick to Garrus. It’s not like they’ve never had a firefight in public places, but she can count them on two hands. Most of the time it’s warehouses, or enemy’s bases. Not someone’s neighborhood. Or a neighborhood you need to keep intact because there’s three buildings housing drugs and weapons. But he did have that stint on Omega, so why would he be aski– oh, he’s fishing for information. Well, she’s not telling him. No need for him to be dragged into her mess. “Earth’s a dangerous place these days,” she says as she adjusts her aim. “Haven’t you heard that Mexico and the US are threatening to secede from the United Northern American States? They’re mad that the Alliance conscripted their militaries during the war. They’re having trouble drawing the borders around the two states though.” Just as she pulls the trigger, the silhouette suddenly jerks and starts moving around. “Hey, what the fuck! They weren’t moving around before!”

Garrus just rolls a shoulder. “If you out of all people are talking politics, it means you’re bored. I thought maybe you needed a challenge.” He fires a shot that lands right in between the krogan’s eyes.

Now he’s up by two. Great. If this keeps going he’s never going to shut up about it. “Keep on talking shit and I’ll show you exactly how to slice off a turian’s spurs with a machete.”

The empty threat doesn’t faze Garrus. “With a cutlass? You really are old-fashioned, aren’t you?” The boom of his sniper rifle echoes in the empty space. The bullet neatly pieces the hole in the center of the target.

“The hell is a cutlass?”

“You’re the one who said cutlass, why are you asking me?”

“I said machete, not cutlass.”

“Now you just said cutlass twice– you know what, it’s probably the translators. Why does this keep happening? I don’t remember having all these lexical gaps before.”

Shepard adjusts her grip on the rifle, shifts a little to the right. Lexical gaps must mean when there’s no one-to-one word matchup, maybe? Garrus sometimes uses words she doesn’t understand. Not in the lexical gap sense, but in the ‘I went to school and you didn’t’ one. Hell will freeze over before she asks for a definition; she’ll just look it up later. 

“Don’t know, I don’t really think about it.” Sniping has never been her strong suit and it’s never been her preferred fighting style; there’s something about being up and personal that’s too tempting. Still, there’s no fucking way she’s letting him win. 

“From the way you’re shooting today, I’d say you’re not thinking much about anything.”

“Oh, you wanna fucking go, Vakarian? Okay, I see how it is. Give me your gun and I’ll show you how to use it.”

He rears back a little, already suspicious. He always was protective of his weapons. “Why?”

“ Why ? ‘Cus I’m using a Krysae and you got a Spectre X modded to all hell. Put us on a level playing field and we’ll see who’s the bett–”

Suddenly there’s a sharp, piercing wolf-whistle and a bout of laughter behind her. “Oh, is the birdman teaching you how to hold a gun, sweetheart?”

Shit. Shepard takes a few deep breaths to try and calm herself down. It doesn’t work. She carefully lowers her gun. “Thatcher,” she mutters bitterly as she turns around to face the group of four human men walking up to them.

“You know him?” Garrus inquires calmly as he follows her gaze.

“Not by choice, trust me.” She doesn’t bother to lower her voice, and in return Thatcher clicks his tongue at her.

“Oh sweetheart, there’s no need to pretend in front of him, he’s not human,” he croons. Ew, if he’s trying to aim for charming, he’s doing a terrible job. It sounds pathetic. “If you wanted to hold a gun, you just needed to ask, love.” Thatcher rubs the codpiece of his armor to crudely emphasize his point. 

Garrus stiffens. Shepard relaxes. 

Thatcher has been a pain in the ass since the second week she’s been in Palaven; she’s just kept it to herself the entire time. Men like this are a constant in her life. For the last few weeks he’s been needling her when they pass each other in hallways and other events, always with a snide remark or a crass comment. He even had the audacity to feel her up during a private event hosted by Aldrin Labs, where there were too many people to do anything but smile even if she wanted to break his nose. It’d complicate things for the company. Though at this point he must know she’s a head of security, he doesn’t seem to care. It’s exactly the type of person who always manages to get under her skin, no matter how hard she tries to brush it off. She’s been dying to teach him a lesson. They’re not at the complex, and after a quick check it’s clear that there’s no one else in sight. The adrenaline starts to pick up underneath her skin, a much-missed sensation she hasn’t felt in a few weeks.

Garrus has always been able to read her in battle; his eyes flicker to her and she knows his visor must be picking up on her rising heartbeat. “Are you sure they’re worth your time?” he drawls, loosening his stance. He also knows she can handle this herself. She did always like a man who’d let her fight.

“They’re not. But that doesn’t matter.”

Annoyance is creeping onto Thatcher’s features. He’s the type of guy who likes to provoke a reaction and hates being ignored. He starts coming closer, walking over with a smug expression. Just a few more steps . “Cruz, you don’t need a thing like that to show you a good time darling, you’re much better than that. Come with us, we’re much more fun.”

The little demon in her brain whispers a dozen responses, but this along with the frustration of the last few days is turning into anger, stronger than the desire to have a good comeback. If she was back home she’d have dealt with this the first moment he said something, but those rules don’t apply on a foreign planet. Shepard closes the gap between her and Thatcher. This close they’re at eye level, and even through his helmet she can see the twist of surprise in his eyes. “I’ve had enough of your fucking shit, Thatcher. Cut it off. I’m only warning you once.” Maybe at least that way she can have some deniability if something happens. Either way, he’s learning his lesson today.  

The sudden anger catches him off-guard but he sneers at her, clearly not believing a single word she says. “Warning me, eh?“ He tilts her chin up with a finger. “What can a thing like you wa–”

Shepard headbutts Thatcher in just the right spot, with just enough force that his eyes roll up and he falls to the ground, even through his helmet. On instinct the three men raise their guns, poised to shoot but she’s way ahead of them; she uses her biotics to fling their guns out of their grasp and has the nearest guard on the ground, choking him under his helmet until he passes out. It’s all instinct now; this is what she lives for, the rush of energy in the midst of a fight, the blur of combat. A pair of hands grips underneath her helmet, and she summons a touch of biotics on her elbow, slamming him in the stomach. As he lets go and doubles over to gasp for air, she stands up, grasps his helmet, and slams her knee into it. She meets the last man head-on; after a series of grapples and kicks, he slumps to the ground. 

Her blood is rushing through her body and Shepard can feel the warm flare of her biotics skimming her skin, searching for release. But there’s no blood yet, one more good hit, just so this motherfucker can learn his lesson so he doesn’t fuck with her again and shu–

Something holds her wrist before she can land a punch on Thatcher’s helmet. “Don’t. He’ll get radiation poisoning if you crack his suit, and Palaven is not lenient on aggravated assault, especially when the victim is unconscious.”

 His voice sinks into her hazy brain. She blinks rapidly, trying to think again.  She’s on top of Thatcher, her gun is somewhere behind her, Garrus is holding her wrist back. There’s no blood anywhere and nothing is moving. She’s fine. She’s okay. Garrus tightens his grip just a tiny bit, enough for her to look up and make eye contact. Strange skies, blue eyes. A hundred planets, a thousand battles. Not the first time he’s stopped her from making an unnecessary move. Weird how some things change and don’t change at all. 

Her brain starts up again and she knows he’s right, she can’t catch a case here. After a few deep breaths her biotics settle, her mind comes back and she looks at the unconscious bodies around her. They’ll live; none of the injuries are nearly enough to cause any lasting damage. Still, she’s still riled up, still pissed off that this motherfucker had the damn audacity to even think about pointing a gun at her. She pops open his visor and spits in his face, closes it quick. Flipping him over, she thumps a spot around his center back; a panel pops out and she pulls it off, messing with the wires underneath. Her tech skills are average at best, but after Tali threatened to jack someone’s olfactory sensors, Shepard dismissively told her that wasn’t possible and of course, affronted at the jab about her skills, Tali showed her how. That tactic never failed. Also, turns out it’s disturbingly easy and quick to do.

After replacing the panel, Shepard sits on her heels and laughs gleefully, a mix of spite and relief. “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks!”  That’ll teach the fucker to mess with her.

Garrus moves closer and pokes the man with the butt of his sniper rifle. “I can see that,” he notes dryly as his eyes flick to Thatcher’s face, but his mandibles are pressed tight to his face. Usually that means he’s holding something back but she’s too euphoric to care right now, too satisfied in her petty revenge to bother with something so small. “We should probably leave before we’re found out. I like this shooting range and I’d like to be able to come ba– what are you doing?”

Shepard’s rifling through the mens’ pockets. Nothing of use, and she doesn’t have enough time to copy data off their omni-tools for Santi. One of the guys does have a vape though (how old school), so she takes that.

“Are you stealing from an unconscious man?”

“Hey, he jumped me!”

“No, I’m pretty sure you made the first move. That’s just petty.”

“I’ve always been petty. Remember when Joker stole my stash of cookies?”

“No, I refuse to remember that, he was insufferable for a week. But point taken.”

As they walk away from the scene of the crime, there’s a strange, agitated energy coming off of Garrus that she can’t figure out. It almost reminds her of a dog pacing back and forth, though why it’s that image that pops into her brain she’s not sure. He stays quiet until they exit the range and walk back towards the skycar parking lot. Shepard waits patiently for him to ask whatever’s on his mind.

He breaks. “What happened?”

“Between me and Thatcher, you mean?” He makes a noise that she knows means ‘yes’.

“He’s part of the security staff with Devlon Industries, we met at a mixer. He came onto me, I ignored him and went for his better-looking colleague in front of him. Thatcher has been on my case since then. That was about two, three weeks ago. I can’t do anything in public, so it worked out that we met him here. Hopefully he keeps his mouth shut now.”

“What do you mean, he was on your case?” His subvocals are buzzing in a strange way. She thinks he’s upset but there’s something else wrapped around that sound too, one that her human ears are having trouble distinguishing. 

“Fuck, am I being interrogated or something?” Garrus shoots her a serious look, the one that he gives her when he wants her to cut out the crap. It’s rare enough that she relents almost immediately.

“Oh, the usual stuff,” she says breezily. “It started off with me refusing to give him my contact info. Then after he saw me talking to this asari it was about how adventurous I was. Then the more I ignored him it was how I was just around for decoration, that I was too good for Anthony, that he could get me a job at Devlon.” Shepard’s kept it to herself for a while now, and now that she’s talking about it, she’s finding that she actually has a lot of thoughts about the man. “I found out recently he’s just a regular guard, so he can’t even get me a job, terrible way to try and convince someone to sleep with you. Plus he has a Rolex that ticks, everyone knows that any Rolex from the last two centuries doesn’t tick. He should be embarrassed wearing that here, so he’s also broke and stupid, which is so much worse than being rich and stupid. He keeps trying to grab me when he thinks I’m not looking too, but he’s so obvious that he’s only managed once and that’s because I was distracted. He also said a few days ago that he’d give me something to suck on with my vampire teeth, the usual bad attempts, blah blah blah.” She’s rambling on now, letting it drain out of her. It’s a small thorn in her side in the big picture of much more important things, but it’s still a thorn. It takes her a few steps before she notices Garrus is out of step with her and  there’s a strong, loud droning noise coming from behind.

Oh shit, he’s livid . She’s only ever seen him like this a handful of times, and the noise he’s making is setting her body on edge, her primal instincts screaming for her to run. It’s easy to see what he’s thinking and before he turns around back to the range, she sprints and grabs him by his forearms. 

“Garrus, Garrus , listen to me, no, don’t, you can’t do anything, you’re right. I smashed his head in, it’s fine, he’ll stop.”

He tries to tug out of her grip, but she holds firm. “The usual stuff? He’s been disrespecting you for w eeks ? Athena, you didn’t even break his arm! That’s enough for an indictment in a court of law.” he snarls. The little girl in her is telling her it’s time to run, the commander yells at her to be tough, and the little demon thinks it’s kinda hot.

She gives him a slight shake, though it does absolutely nothing. It’s like shaking a stone statue. “It doesn’t hold in a human court of law. A turian Spectre cannot be caught fighting a human civilian, it’s not good optics. Didn’t you just stop me from cracking his helmet, what are you doing? Garrus, listen to me. Listen !” He’s still fighting her grip; in a final fit of desperation, she grabs the collar of his armor and pulls him down to face her, centimeters away from her face. He looks at her, his visor flickering. His eyes really are a striking blue. “Trust me, I want to beat him bloody more than you do, but you were right, I have to think about the company first. You know what’s at stake here, for us. For me. I’ve dealt with people like him my entire life since I was a girl. I got it. Trust me. Please.”

The droning noise abruptly dies off and it feels like someone’s pulled cotton out her ears. He relaxes under her grip, barely. After a few seconds she can feel that there’s something else rising in her, heighted by her adrenaline rush, and before it overwhelms her senses she lets go of his collar. She doesn’t want to make a mistake. He straightens up, disoriented.

Shepard throws him a peace offering, trying to ignore that familiar longing coiling under the surface of her skin. “If you still feel the need to defend my honor or whatever so much, you can do whatever after the contracts are signed. After .”

His mandibles flare out. “It’s not about honor. It’s about respect for you, as a person. He should have left you alone.” 

Hm. Maybe turians do have some sense. Respect is better than honor, after all. “Well whatever it is, it can happen after.”

“Deal.”

It’s early afternoon and she’s already sweating in her enviro-suit. Maybe the light armor would’ve been a better choice, but she came here on a whim after she realized she had nothing to do. Well, that and she woke up with a sore throat and pillows across the room. No way she was staying home after having night terrors again. It might be in her head, but there’s always a weird, sickly scent in the air that makes it hard to think. After sending out a new set of orders for some Panther informants, she left the city. Shepard’s always been a wanderer. Maybe she was doomed to leave Earth from the start, pushed by that insatiable curiosity to see new things with her own two eyes. It’s one thing to know there’s a world out there and another to see it with your own two eyes. Who knew it’d end up with her in the middle of a galaxy-ending war.  Rhia mentioned these ruins during their last conversation and though Shepard didn’t admit it outloud, it piqued her curiosity. There’s a small lake with some decently-sized ruins on the shore. For such a serene area, it’s completely empty right now, with no signs of life anywhere. It must have been huge when it was still standing; the piles of stone go above her head and go for kilometers, with strange writing still visible on certain surfaces. According to the extranet this used to be an old ass temple to some old turian gods. Now it’s just a bunch of black stone. Just like home. The rubble’s fallen in a way where there’s still some visible dark gaps, probably the lowest levels of the old temple. After carefully pulling some stones out the way, Shepard slips through a crack. The movement causes her right leg to ache; she bruised her thigh when she took her leg off for maintenance and it’s taking a while for the pain to go away. There’s streaks of sunlight streaming into the rubble, but her helmet light flickers on anyways and she takes the chance to survey around the space. It’s a small cavern here, with small structures scattered around. All the walls are carved with weird styles of art. She touches one of the carved walls with a gloved hand. There’s a huge, weird-looking turian with fangs that’s reaching out towards the sky, and there’s another next to it trying to touch the sun. There’s some sort of old wash of color on both figures, giving them a strange silver-green tint. It’s striking against the black stone.

It convinces her the place is haunted. She can feel it in her bones, that something here wandered way, way before humans even existed. The murals are interesting and seem to be telling some sort of story, but she can’t make any sense of what the hell it’s supposed to be.  After about half an hour of staring at some of the murals, there’s the sound of shifting stone. A dual-tone voice breaks through the silence. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting you to be in the ruins of Temple Chaelum.” Garrus’s voice carries easily in the enclosed space as he drops through one of the many cracks in the rubble. “Huh. I didn’t think any parts of the temple were still here.”

“You been here before?” she asks. They haven’t talked much in the last few days –they were both busy with their own things– so when he asked if she was free, she sent her location and left it up to him if he wanted to join her. Shepard’s not surprised to see him here but maybe she should be. Or maybe she’s getting too used to talking to him again. 

He makes his yes-noise, as she calls it in her head. “As a student, a lot of schools have trips to this temple. No one was allowed inside Temple Paaven, but visitors were allowed inside this one. I’ve only been here once.” He pauses for a moment. “This used to mark the beginning of the outskirts of Cipritine. Now you can’t even tell it was part of the city.” 

He’s right. She just popped the address in her nav and drove; she would’ve thought this was a get-away spot, not a part of the city. The war’s changed a lot of things. “What was it like?” 

“Big. Tall structures, with skylights. The outer ring of the temple is—was, open air. Thousands of years old and still in pretty good shape.” He stops to stand next to her as she stares at another mural. “Never thought you were the type to hide out in old temples.”

People love telling her what to do and how to behave. The things she needs to like and things she should not. Shepard goes on the defensive without realizing. “You asked if I was free, I said I was. This is what I’m doing today. If you don’t like it, leave.”

There’s an angry sound from her left, but then it changes into something else. Frustration. And there’s another sound that seems to be there but she can’t tell. “I’m not criticizing you. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” His voice is a little curt.

Sorry is on the tip of her tongue but that’s not her style. Instead she compromises with an explanation. “I like learning old stories from different cultures.” Cautiously, Shepard traces an engraving of some flowers embedded in a turian’s carapace. “I found out the temple had some old myths on the walls. I wanted to see them, even if there’s nothing left.” If something old, so ancient that it existed before humans did, was also gone because of her choices. The answer is yes. Sometimes it feels like the price for survival was too high. But maybe her spite is stronger, ‘cause she sure as hell didn’t like the idea of being enslaved to some AI machine. Still, it’s hard to deal with when there’s so many things gone from the universe. 

Garrus is silent for a few seconds, but she can feel him staring her down. Eventually he speaks again. “That’s the story of Curiaex, the first defender and one of the first turians. The story goes that she was peacefully tending to her garden when strange beings from the sky came and attacked her home. She stood up, grabbed the stones in her garden, and threw them at the invaders, even though she was outnumbered. But Curiaex was protecting her young and refused to surrender. Badly wounded in the process, but survived. Lost her sight and her right hand in battle, so she’s often depicted with a blindfold and a missing right hand. The lesson is to stay strong, no matter the cost. And devotion to family, but that’s a given in turian stories. Always have to remind ourselves to serve the greater good. ”

Shepard unconsciously rubs her left pinkie. Huh. An unexpected kindred spirit, worlds away. “Maybe everyone has stories about war,” she mutters, mostly to herself. 

“Why the curiosity? Most humans don’t ask about the old turian myths.” She starts scowling, and he notices before she does. “And stop getting mad— I’m curious because it’s something you’re interested in, not because I think it doesn’t suit you.” There’s a bit of a growl in his subvocals with his next words.

Stupid turians and their good eyesight. Well, more like one turian. Garrus always could read her too well. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye and gives him a tiny, wry smile. It’s the closest to an apology she is willing to give. Staring at the defender’s carvings, Shepard traces the flowers that wind around the turian’s arms. In a different time she highly doubts she’d even be allowed in here, but the war has changed many things. The turians as a whole don’t seem as religious as humans are, so maybe that’s why the temple has been an afterthought for reconstruction. The churches were some of the first things to be rebuilt in Mexico City, and she suddenly finds herself wistful for the constant ringing of church bells. 

“Do you know what my name means?” 

He hums. “Which one?” he asks dryly. 

Another small smile. “Fair enough. Athena.”

“You told me it was a goddess of wisdom and warfare.”

Shepard keeps walking down the open space, trying to see if there’s anything new. She finds a busted statue, broken a little above the thigh. Must’ve been tall once, but she’s all legs now with a carapace on the floor . “Yes. It’s the name of some old goddess. When I was getting a birth certificate, I asked the recruitment officer who found me to give me a new name, didn’t care what. He tried to tell me the name once, but I think I ignored him for some reason. Anyways, I didn’t know he named me that until I got the paperwork. Said I reminded him of a goddess of war, ‘cause of how I fought.” Shepard scoffs. “I told him he needed to let off the angel dust. The name was fine but… well. I already told you I didn’t get along with a lot of other soldiers in my first few years. The name was part of that.” As she continues walking around the area and through some of the rubble, the story comes out in pieces. How she had no idea who her namesake was despite it being taught in schools, how in her early years she was constantly shitted on by the other cadets for not knowing basic stuff and the name working against her. It was easier to go by Shepard. Less questions. There was an irony to her name in the end; it became part of the Alliance’s favorite cheesy taglines, (‘ humanity’s very own goddess of war,’ ‘join to strength humanity’s pantheon, in the footsteps of Captain Anderson and Commander Shepard’ ‘become a war strategist worthy of the gods ’) once she was famous enough to be hailed as a hero. “I listened to all the old stories on the extranet. I don’t know what I was looking for but I think I was trying to find an answer in my own way. Didn’t work but I liked learning the old myths. Still do, which is why I wanted to come here.” She doesn’t mention that there’s a part of her searching to see if all the suffering was worth it, if anything survived. Maybe that’s the real reason she hasn’t left Earth in four years. It’s easier to forget about the galaxy when space seems like a dream. 

Shepard stops and stares at an old broken down fountain she found a few minutes ago. Cipritine’s reconstruction is done in such a way that by standing in the city center, it’s hard to tell there was a war to begin with. But the further out, the more destruction. There’s only so much manpower when most of the planet is dead. Being on an alien planet is a very real reminder that all her choices led to consequences for everyone, for better or worse. “Death wherever I go,” she breathes quietly. It’s still enough for him to hear it.

“Anyone left is alive because you saved them.” Garrus’s tone is steady, but the frustration from earlier is back.

She half-shrugs in disagreement. “And I’ve sent hundreds of thousands of people to Saint Death. She’s got more souls than anyone else right now, I think.” The words slip out of her mouth and surprise her. These slip-ups are happening often now, much more than it ever did during the military; there’s no need to hold secrets now, and maybe part of her wants him to know. Shepard was never much of a believer, especially after her mother’s death —and coming back to life doesn’t exactly help— but she can feel her mother’s nails digging into her ear for her blasphemy. She bites her lip to hold back a smile. “If my mother was alive she’d be burning black candles for me by the dozen.” 

“... I can’t figure out if I want to ask about the black candles or Saint Death first.” His voice is cautious, but there’s a thread of good humor running through it. Shepard laughs, imagining how her mother would’ve sat him down to give him a long-ass lecture. She does something similar in her honor; not nearly the sermon her mother would’ve given, but she talks about her mother’s fervent following of the Bone Lady. It reminds her of nights spent praying rosaries, of black candles lit when her mother was feeling particularly wary, her mother’s insistence of always having a gold candle, eternally chasing wealth. Of the tiny little shrine tucked in a corner of the run-down room of the month, with a worn-out statue of Saint Death in her black robes with a candle and maybe a few gifts. She can almost smell the tobacco and mezcal, when they got lucky with some extra money. 

Mami has red, yellow and black candles burning all the time now. It used to be just red and yellow, for her job, but the older Xochil’s gotten, the more often it’s just the black candle burning, when there’s money for only one out of three. But as her mom is kneeling down with slightly shaky hands, she’s lighting a new color in front of Santa Muerte: purple.

“What’s the purple for?” Xochil asks harshly. It’s not like La Huesuda has done them any favors. They’re still poor, and Mami’s only getting sicker and sicker.

“For health, my love,” her mother explains. Mami has taught her how to read people, how to see when they’re lying and how to lie to them, and they lie to others, but never, ever to each other. “I’m not feeling well lately, and La Señora Negra told me in a dream that you’ll have a tough life in front of you. We need health for all that.”

Xochil scoffs and resists the urge to spit on the floor. Mami would pull her ear for it. “What we need is money, ama.”

Her mother gives her a placid smile. “That too, my love.”

Everyone tells Xochil her mother has the prettiest smile, that she’s the most beautiful woman in the neighborhood (before they sigh and say, “Oh, it’s such a shame she hasn’t married rich, my girl, what’s the point of being that beautiful and not using it?”).  Her mom’s smiling less and less, lately. With a frown she pulls out a small tequila bottle and all but slams it in front of Santa Muerte. The easy pickings off a drunk tourist she found wandering near the bars, along with fifty dollars. The tequila offering makes her mom smile brightly, then her mom holds her tight and kisses her cheek in thanks.

There’s the sting of tears for a few seconds but it’s easy to blink them away. “Shit. Haven’t thought about my mom’s prayers in a while.” Garrus is quiet while she speaks, listening to her old memories. What would her mother even say about the woman she’s become? With the blood of hundreds, thousands, millions on her hands? Would she be proud? Upset? Her mother was unpredictable at the best of times. Just like her. 

“I’m glad my mother died before she saw who I turned into,” Shepard finds herself saying, staring at a carving of a male turian with a missing mandible. “She would have hated it. Me. She wanted me to get out and stop running with the gangs, but she knew she was dying and I needed to survive. And I turned into another violent, aggressive, dumb bitch and that’s exactly what she was scared of.” The moment the words disrupt the still air she knows it’s true; her mother would be crying and sobbing, begging her to do anything, anything else to become just another body stu–

Garrus’s voice is apprehensive. “I doubt that’s true. I think your mother would have been proud to see into the woman you be–”

Shepard interrupts him in a firm, emotionless voice. “No. She wouldn’t. She’d love me, but wouldn’t be proud of me.” Her mother’s memory, even after her death, is too strong to even try and lie about it. She walks back to the opening she came through and climbs her way out. It’s dusk now, and the sun is setting. Garrus emerges from another gap in the rubble a few meters away. There’s a pressure on her chest and she needs a smoke, a drink, something to get rid of it. Fuck, the point was to come here to learn about some old stories, not to suddenly realize she’s living her mother’s worst disappointments. Even moreso now; she had left, finally left and was even famous, but now she’s right back in all of it. And there are times where it even feels right, when just by standing in front of someone they’re reduced to stuttering tears. When people nod to her out of respect, when she says she wants something done and there’s no questions asked. There’s a part of her that loves it, loves the attention and the power, but part of getting older is realizing that not all power is the same, and that life changes, and sometimes what feels good isn’t always good for you. If it wasn’t for Mia she probably wouldn’t even try leaving. Maybe that’s not true. Sometimes she thinks that if the Alliance found her after the Crucible explosion, she would’ve stuck with the Alliance, with what she knew. Maybe that would’ve been a better life. Or maybe it would’ve been worse, subject to the whims of the brass again, sent off to another mission, another plan– 

“Race you to the edge of the city limits. Loser buys the winner dinner,” Garrus suggests suddenly, his voice full of cocky confidence. He’s standing near his skycar, a sleek black model from four years ago. Her day rental is a dull red, also from around the same time. 

The dare surprises her, knocking her out her spiraling thoughts about dead mothers and bloody hands. A chance to crush Vakarian into the dust? She gives him a devilish smile that she knows he’ll see despite her helmet. “You sure about that? I was taught to drive by one of the best street racers on Earth.”

He makes a sound of disbelief. “Sure, Shepard. I’ve been unfortunate enough to ride in the Mako. You drive worse than a drunk krogan.”

There’s no one around so she doesn’t bother calling him out on the name. It’s… kinda nice, actually. “We’re racing on the ground. Loser buys dinner and a bottle of top shelf liquor.” The reward has to be worth it, after all. And she’s much better at racing on the ground.

“Deal. Hope you know where to find Baeti brandy, haven’t had any in years.”

They both jump into their skycars and the moment she hears Garrus’s engine roar to life, Shepard knows she’s in trouble. The fucker would mod his car. After syncing up their comm line, count down to one, and tear off towards the city. She slams on the accelerator, determined to put on a good show even if she’s doomed to lose. The good thing about an empty planet is that there isn't anyone this far out from the city, and they’re able to swerve around as much as they like. Shepard’s driving is reckless and opportunistic, and definitely unsafe for a public road. She comes close enough that she manages to clip Garrus’s bumper twice and he unexpectedly swears at her. Of course all it does is just make her laugh harder; she forgot how protective he was about his things. They cross the agreed finish line and it’s Garrus’s win with his jacked up car. As Garrus decelerates, she speeds past him.

“Even if you run away, you still owe me a bottle of liquor,” Garrus yells after her.

Shepard ignores him for a moment, following up on a thought she had seconds ago. She shifts the car and does a burnout, then a few more for good measure. Dust and smoke surges around her, and she’s laughing, maybe a little maniacally. It’s been a long time since she’s done anything like this; military vehicles don’t exactly lean themselves to moves like this (though she did successfully do a burnout in the Mako once, and Wrex banned her from ever doing it again).

Eventually the dust and smoke settles and Shepard sees the black skycar parked a few meters away. It’s covered in a coat of dust now and she can’t help but be pleased. Serves the little shit right. Garrus steps out with a slight cough, then approaches her driver side. “Showoff. Didn’t know you knew any car tricks.” He sounds amused and surprised at once.

She runs down the window and grins. “And you didn’t tell me about your engine. If this was a real race that would’ve given me the right to fight you, back on Earth.”

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same thing. I still remember when you scammed Donnelly out of his savings when you told him you didn’t know how to play Skyllian-Five. It was closer than I expected, for what it’s worth.” Glancing at the hood of her skycar for a second, he looks back at her. “Will you teach me?” 

Shepard just blinks. “What? How to burn?”

He looks away again. “I always wanted to know how. It’s legal in non-residential areas but being in the military, there isn’t much time to learn. Socially, it’s not exactly approved of. Considered old-fashioned.” Garrus looks back at her and his mandibles flare out in a turian grin, all teeth. “Burning? Is that what you call it?”

Rolling her eyes, she gets out of her skycar and into his. His first attempts are downright embarrassing and Shepard teases him endlessly for it. He seems to deflate a little at her constant ribbing though, so she tells Garrus about the time she tried to burn on an old-school truck and ended up crashing into a pole that left the street without electricity for half a day. By the time true night falls he gets the hang of it, and Shepard tells him that next time, they’ll race with similar cars and she’ll leave him in the dust. He laughs and she knows he doesn’t believe her, but she finds she doesn’t mind this time around. By the time they say their goodbyes Shepard’s in a downright cheerful mood. It doesn’t occur to her until she’s back in her rental home that he might have suggested the race to distract her from her bad thoughts. Her heart feels kinda funny after that.

Wait, why is her hand warm? When the hell did she make instant coffee for herself? How much sugar does she like with her coffee? Does she even like sugar in her coffee? Wasn’t there something her mom used to say about sugar and coffee? What if there’s sugar in the coffee already? Hm. This hasn’t happened in a while. She doesn’t like it. Can’t freak out, not with company in the house.  Garrus is saying something but she’s not listening. Is she just stuck like this forever? Defective? She never used to have this problem, but ever since she left the hospital there's been these gaps in her memories sometimes. She’s not prone to panicking, but it’s still deeply unsettling and it feels like she’s not in control of her body. And in moments like this, when someone else is there, it’s even harder to hide that it’s happening. Is she going crazy? Maybe she already is crazy. At least when she blackouts the memory is missing because of alcohol or drugs. Hm. A drink would be nice right about now. Good for the nerves. 

“Shepard? Are you listening?”

“Not at all,” she responds immediately, taking a sip of her coffee. No point in telling him she doesn’t even know what they’re talking about and can’t remember getting up from the table. The coffee does have sugar, and it tastes good. Better to play it off and change topics. He makes a grumbling sound but she talks over it. “I still don’t really understand what this munerax gladiaar is supposed to be,” Shepard says with a sigh, just managing to keep the whine out of her voice. It’s a genuine question, even if it might seem out of nowhere right now.

Garrus is silent for a second, then lets out a small laugh. “That was terrible.”

“Well I don’t exactly have a double-larynx to produce the right sound now, do I? I’m working with what I got.” There are open cartons of takeout scattered across the dining table, along with stacks of datapads and a portable terminal for Garrus. They were both free but Shepard has a backlog of admin tasks to get through (that she doesn’t disclose to Garrus and he doesn’t ask), and he has a few reports to write up for the Hierarchy and Council (which Shepard is curious about but doesn’t ask and he doesn’t offer). There’s some human nu-lofi playing in the background, and this should probably feel a lot weirder than it does, two past-lovers-turned-friends-because-someone-went-MIA-for-years, but it’s such a snug, cozy feeling for Shepard that she refuses to think too much about it and just lets it be.

“It’s a series of matches between turians or turian clans. It’s an honorable way to settle any personal or public disputes," he explains. "The match goes until one party surrenders, but no one’s died in centuries. Sometimes if there’s a turian who wants to prove his worth, or his martial prowess, they’ll bring in wild animals to fight as well.”

“What does the winner get?” Shepard asks, intrigued.

“Honor.”

“... That’s it?”

“...Yes?”

“So no money.”

“No, not unless there was some previous agreement.”

“Hold up. Wait. Wait. So you’re telling me turians have a day of deathmatches and they do it for free ? What the fuck is the point?”

“Honor.”

Shepard makes a gagging noise and Garrus laughs. “That’s so stupid. At least when I fought it was for money.”

“They’re not deathmatches,” he insists, clicking away at his terminal. “There’s set rules, and there’s referees present who will step in and call a match even if the two parties haven’t surrendered. Like I said, people haven’t died in a long time and life-threatening injuries are rare.”

As she pulls her curls to the crown of her head and twists, she keeps arguing with Garrus. “Okay, fine. So anything I need to know for the munerax gladiaar so I don’t embarrass myself?” Bundling her hair in a knot, she sticks a spare stylus in it to hold it in place. She catches him staring and gives him a knowing look; he coughs, embarrassed and answers her question as if nothing happened. 

“Uh, no, not really. They’re public events, and since there will be more non-turians than usual, it’ll be at night time. I feel sorry for anyone stuck on guard detail, the night matches are always a mess. Lots of drinking, eating and the like. We’ll be at the podium level; those are the best seats in the arena.”

“ We ? What do you mean, we?”

“Ah, uh… there’s something I need to tell you.” He stops typing and holds her gaze. He looks… nervous. “Solana will be there. And so will my father. They were both asked to attend.”

And so will my father . The father that he wanted her to meet, so many years ago. The sister he adored. The family he had she was willing to think about meeting, for once in her life. It feels like blood is spilling out of her body and pooling to her feet. A little like being stabbed, if she was honest. 

Her screeching is so loud that it hurts her throat. “ What ?!” She slams her hands down on the table, leaning towards him. He winces at her screams, though he doesn’t back down. “What the fuck do you mean your father will be there? When were you going to tell me this? Huh? You’ve had weeks!”

“I just couldn’t find the right time…”

“Right time my ass, Vakarian!” Shepard hits the table with enough force that a few datapads bounce and slide off. Pressing her palms to her temples, she closes her eyes and continues screaming at the top of her lungs. “Your father, the ex-C-Sec captain, and your sister, the genius researcher, will absolutely know what I look like.” Like she needed another reminder of how different her life could be if she was smarter, braver, better status. As quick as her temper flared, the anger melts away and is immediately replaced by dread. She slides back into her chair and rests her head in her arms. “I’m fucked,” she says, her voice muffled. Her heart is doing something weird that makes her feel bad. She doesn’t like it. “Maybe I shouldn’t go. Is it too late to call in sick? I can just skip it entirely.”

“I think you’re too… popular… to skip the event. People would notice,” he tells her in a detached tone.

“No, I think I can still skip.” It might look bad to their hosts, but she could lie and say she was sick, start setting the foundation for the lie now. There’s also no reason she should run into them — it’s a public event and by the sound of it, everyone will be there. As long as she sticks to the human sides she should be okay. Maybe. Or at least it’d be much easier to spot a turian approaching her in that section. 

“You’ll be fine,” he reassures her, far calmer than how she feels. “No one’s recognized you so far and your face has been plastered everywhere for years.” Shepard can feel him pull on one of her loose curls. “The hair helps. Most people won’t expect you to be working a regular security job. And you talk and move differently enough in public too.”

That’s something that’s been confusing her since they saw each other in that conference room all those months ago, that instant recognition when their eyes met, when hundreds of people have brushed past her without a second glance. “How did you recognize me, then?” She doesn’t have the courage to lift her head, but she knows he heard her all the same.

The silence is thick and slow, swirling around them like the way Garrus is twisting a curl around a finger. “I had your six for a long time, Shepard. It’s not something I would forget.”

God, he always did go for a direct hit. Her chest hurts like a bitch and she’s blinking away tears. “I know. I didn’t forget, either.”

Chapter Text

“I’m too hungover for this, they need to turn down the lights,” Alicia mutters grumpily, sliding down on the couch. 

Shepard fans herself with a weird turian fan-thing that someone handed to her a while ago. “I warned you.”

Alicia groans and snatches the fan out of Shepard’s hand to block some of the brightness from the lights in the arena. They’ve worked up enough of an easy friendship over the last few weeks that Shepard isn’t as offended as she normally would be. “How are you okay? You drank double what I did and you look perfect! I bet you were made in a lab.”

“I have my secrets,” Shepard jokes. The night before she decided to indulge in the classic solution for human heartache —drinking— and ended up with Alicia and Steven in some random levo-friendly bar. Garrus and her haven’t spoken since the other night in her dining room, and she’s tired of doing this weird, funky dance with her emotions. After the tenth tequila shot she came up with a plan and she’s sticking to it, even though she should probably leave things alone. There’s enough tension between the two of them that she’s pretty sure it’ll have some effect. Maybe. Hopefully?

Her co-worker does have a point though; it’s nighttime, but there’s a thick heat in the air that makes it hard to move. There was a dumb hope the radiation shield would help but of course it doesn’t. “It is warm,” Shepard agrees.

Alicia snorts. “Yeah, like you feel it with what you’re wearing.” It’s not really that revealing, at least not in the human sense. Her dress is an emerald green, made out of something soft but good for the heat. The collar starts a few centimeters below her collarbone, and these little straps that go up around her shoulders and around her arm. It’s form-fitting down to her hips, where it flares out loosely. But the back is exposed down to the small of her back, and her Sol system tattoo is on full display along with a handful of old scars. Her hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and with the return of nails, jewelry and makeup, she feels like one of the glamour girls from an action vid (though maybe the missing finger would ruin the look). Alicia gave her a borderline inappropriate compliment and Steven asked her what was the secret to her back muscle routine. All excellent for the ego.

“I tried switching with you and you said no.” They’ve been told to wear bright colors for luck; looking across the sea of people in the area, it seems to be some sort of dress code. Alicia’s in a deep yellow linen set that Shepard is deeply envious of and hoping to buy off of her later. She snatches her fan back from Alicia and smacks her on the shoulder. “And be nice when I’m the one who got you clothes. I should toss you in naked with the varren.”

“Ugh, don’t say that, I don’t even wanna think about the smell.”

They’re all sitting down on some very plush couches and snacking on some levo fruits after watching the first fight match of the munerax gladiaar. It was rather tepid in Shepard’s opinion, but someone informed them it was a warm-up match. They’re holding out hope that the more exciting matches will begin later. Anthony is chatting with a potential investor to her left, and the rest of them are lounging on sofas and low couches. Even if nothing fun happens , Shepard thinks while snacking on some asari grape-things, it’s so nice to sit and be taken care of. I’m okay with not moving the rest of the night. No wonder the higher-class citizens hold onto these seats so strongly, I would too . The arena is massive, with tiers from the ground to the top, and it reminds her of that old arena-thing somewhere in Europe. It’s sparkling with newness and yet the vast amount of empty seats is a constant, silent reminder of the casualties of the recent war. That certainly doesn’t deter the energy; there are vendors selling all types of food and wares, and people taking bets like their life depends on it.

Eventually a booming turian voice announces the start of the first real match; it’s a personal dispute between two turians. Sadly, they don’t announce what the dispute is (Steven thinks it’s over a girl, Alicia argues it has to be over kill count, and Mary thinks it's about money), but the match energizes the crowd. Both turians are clearly professionals and are fighting in hand-to-hand combat. Domna, one of the turian negotiators, explained earlier that no guns were allowed at the matches, and weapons were examined and approved by staff. Unlike humans, turians have sharp teeth and talons. Within minutes there’s blue blood splattering on the ground, and the crowd is making such a huge racket as if they’re trying to make up for the missing souls. After the match ends (the taller turian wins), Shepard peels herself up from the low couch, tosses her fan to Alicia for safekeeping and heads to a drink station to grab some more wine.

Rhia, the asari from Serrice Council, is the first person to approach her with a big smile and a cold juice. The girl is very nice; she’s sweet and enthusiastic in bed, and the two times they’ve slept together she’s had a lot of fun. But over the last few weeks her heart and mind are doing those annoying things that tell her she needs to stop doing things to hide her other emotions. Her reservations don’t stop her from flirting outrageously with Rhia, however, and by the time she returns to her group she has a misty look in her eye. There really was nothing like sweet-talking an asari. 

Anthony approaches her and subtly entwines their arms together, pulling them discreetly to the side; she can hear some alien animal roaring in the background, clashing with the clamouring of the crowd. “Reyes thinks Petrov is trying to take over two of our Palaven contracts, the pistols and heatsinks,” he murmurs in her ear, trying his best not to move his lips. No point in taking chances. “Word is they’re working on something with Ama-Lur, the rep he’s talking to right now. I want to try and put some pressure there.” He gives her a meaningful look. Somehow he’s ended up coming to her for help like this over the last few weeks; he claims she’s quick on her feet, but Shepard suspects Santiago had something to do with it. That, and she does have a knack for people, bad attitude and all.  “Reyes said to tell you Petrov likes Maria Felix.”

Ah. So Petrov likes beautiful, aggressive women. Maybe the intellectual was just a gimmick. Her eyes flicker to Petrov, who’s deep in conversation about three meters away. Her eyes flick back to Anthony’s. “I think I can give you fifteen. He’s not the type to stick with one person for long. Is that enough?”

He pulls the empty glass from her hand and leaves it on a nearby table. Anthony smooths down the front of his silk green button-up. “Plenty.”

A small smile escapes her, amused. “Does your husband know you’re this much of a smooth talker, Romano?”

“That's why he married me.”

“Cute. How are the kids? Send a message to Garcia to go to that door over there, past Petrov, I need an excuse if my first attempt fails.” Anthony’s fingers fly on his omni-tool, and Steven lumbers over to the door, grabbing a drink on the way. If he keeps being this useful she’ll get him with an asari before this trip ends, one way or another. 

“The kids are great, but I miss them. He’s in position. How’s Mia?”

“Good, I’ll try and get him on a first pass. I missed her first gymnastics recital. ” 

“Oh, Cruz,” he says sympathetically, squeezing her arm. She squeezes back. “We’ll be home and done with all this before we know it. Oh, the rep’s on the move. Good luck.” 

Game time. Shepard walks towards Petrov, toe-heel, toe-heel, swaying her hips just slightly, eyes locked on Steven and she’s praying he’ll make the first move, maybe she should’ve put on more perfume–

“Miss Cruz! What a vision you are!” Petrov exclaims, smoothly sliding into her path. She sidesteps him just enough so his back is to Anthony, who’s discreetly making his way towards the Ama-Lur rep. 

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Petrov. You look quite handsome yourself,” she starts, brushing his wrist slightly with her right hand. “Though I can’t understand how you’re holding up so well with a long sleeve shirt. The heat is suffocating.” A sparkle catches her eye, and she notices Petrov’s wearing a silver bracelet embedded with tiny Agessia diamonds. Huh. So he’s pretty well off. And it looks vintage too, these pieces have been impossible to find after the war. She had an eye on one before she, well, died and the world went to shit. Maybe he’d tell her about his seller if she’s smooth about it.

He laughs and she reminds herself to focus. “Ah my lady, not everyone can pull off such a stunning look as you can.” Shepard gives him a quick smile, flattered despite herself. “Speaking of suffocating heat, would you like a drink?”

Even better. They’ll have to walk farther away to one of the dozens of drink stations and bars. “Please.” He offers her his arm and she takes it, a little closer than maybe polite, but Petrov doesn’t mind. They take their time looking at the drink menus and after Shepard picks up a bright pink cocktail, they approach the railing to get a better look at the ongoing match. Currently it’s two groups of turians fighting a battle with odd-looking spears and shields.

“I’ve always admired how the turians have kept their history alive. I feel like I’m at the Colosseum, watching a match between gladiators.”

Ah, that’s the old-looking arena thing she was thinking about earlier. “Have you been?”

Petrov shakes his head. “I’ve never had the honor, and it’s nothing more than dust now. Rome was hit in the first Reaper strikes. So much history, gone.”

Her heart aches for an old, broken down building she’s never seen. How many things has humanity lost? Have they all lost? Everywhere she goes, something reminds her of the price they all paid for her decisions, her mistakes and her victories. The dead like to point out she’s still alive.

“Yes,” she sighs as the crowd cheers for the victor, their screams echoing in the half empty arena. “So much, gone.”

She flirts furiously with Petrov. After that touch of sadness at the start, he asks her about her work, and it becomes a game of trying to one-up the other’s knowledge about shooting strategies, mixed with soft touches and sharp smiles. They get so caught up that instead of fifteen minutes, they’re locked in conversation for twenty-five before someone comes and practically drags Petrov away. Shepard gives him a small finger wave as he departs and returns to the couch with the Jaguar team. Anthony nods and smiles at her, his eyes brimming with satisfaction. So, the talk with the Ama-Lur rep must’ve gone very well indeed . 

The low table is filled with a variety of dishes and the crew is chatting through dinner when a volus approaches them, asking if they’d be interested in playing any bets. Garrus wasn’t lying about the seats; even sitting down, it’s a perfect view to the dusty arena floor. It’s been easy to keep a running eye on the matches, and the more she watches, the more she enjoys it. She didn’t make it this far in life without some appreciation of bloodlust. The current match started five minutes ago but she can already tell who’s going to come on top, so she places a modest bet to start. The matches continue running and along with talking to other guards, flirting with attendees, and chatting with colleagues, Shepard continues betting. She’s got a good eye for combat (the best, some would say), and it’s paying off in a very satisfactory, monetary way.

A while later she’s alone, pressed against the guardrail, excitedly leaning towards the arena when she hears a familiar voice behind her.

“So, it does go down your back,” he drawls as a greeting. Shepard’s proud of herself for only twitching in surprise instead of jumping like her heart does.

“Hello to you too, Garrus,” she replies without turning around, laser-focused on the match below. C’mon, just one more of those weird wolf-looking things and it’s almost there… make me some money you idiots …

Shepard feels something lightly brush behind her right side. It’s Garrus. He’s slightly leaning on the rail next to her and has wrapped his left arm around her to hold the rail in front of her, loosely trapping her next to him. It takes every single ounce of control within her to not stiffen, flinch, or otherwise reveal how surprised (and affected) she is by this sudden movement. It’s also a very stark, physical reminder of how tall he is. And exactly how much she likes that. She’d almost forgotten. Almost.

“Glad to see you’re enjoying the matches,” he comments casually. He leans down slightly, and in a much quieter voice informs her, “Thatcher’s been glaring at you since you were talking to that human male earlier, the one with the red long-sleeve shirt.”

“Since Petrov ? That was hours ago!” she breathes. “Where is he now? Why haven’t I noticed?”

“Well,” he starts, looking at the match below them with mild interest, “considering you’ve been in high demand tonight, I’m not surprised. Your …attention has been in a lot of places.”

Her attention? And what was that weird sound in his subvocals? She’s never heard that one before. But if he had noticed Thatcher has been looking at her since Petrov, then didn’t that mean he’s been watching her since…? Oh. Oh . Well, if her guess is right, this she can work with. Suddenly the night got a lot more interesting.

She doesn’t look up from the match happening beneath them. “I guess so,” Shepard says thoughtfully, dragging a nail across her clavicle. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him fidget a little. Good. “I don’t always want to, but it’s rude otherwise. But,” she pauses and turns towards him with a sly, teasing smile, “don’t worry, I like paying attention to you.”

He stares at her in confusion for a few seconds. She holds his stare; she’s not smiling, but she knows he can see the amusement and the unspoken challenge in her eyes. It is a little more anxiety-inducing than she wants to admit; they’ve never really flirted with each other in the usual way (well, her usual way). Hell, it’s a little unclear whether he’d even be interested, though it does seem like he might be. Garrus is also one of the few relationships in her life where it was built off friendship first. It started with a night of ‘blowing off steam’ and just… grew from there. Looking back, maybe it was inevitable; a war is a hard thing to face alone. 

His mandibles flare out, once. “Oh . So that’s how it is,” he responds playfully. His voice is mostly subharmonics, and she swears she can feel, more than hear, the vibrations of sound coming off of him. It warms her up in more ways than one.

There’s a loud, horn-like sound that floods the arena, signaling the end of the match. She turns back towards the arena floor, makes a head count of the wolf-like animals left alive, and smiles. “Ah, I believe Din Garla owes me some money.”

“You’ve been betting on the matches?” he asks, shifting his left arm a little so she’s just that much closer to him. She lets him.

“I had 2,000 credits riding on that last match.”

“That’s a lot of credits for a —— match.”

She laughs, tossing her head back. “My translator gave up for a second there, so I’m guessing you mean those animals they were fighting. It is, but considering I started off with 200 credits, I think I’ve made a good amount of profit.”

“I have to admit, that is impressive.”

“Thank you. It was just for fun, but now that you’re here, I have you for that.” Her voice is a little more than a purr at this point. She turns to face him and leans back on the rail. They’re still a (somewhat) respectable distance from each other, but it’s the closest they’ve been to each other in years. Her nerves are lighting up and she’s feeling this buzzing, frantic energy under her skin that has nothing to do with her biotics. She lightly drags a hand down his left forearm, taking her time to uselessly arrange the cuff on his sleeve as she speaks. “So, why don’t you get us some drinks, and we’ll watch a few of the matches?”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, straightening up. Before he leaves he gives her a searching look that’s a little more raw, a little less confident. “Will you wait here?” 

She gives him a reassuring, honest smile and briefly places a hand on his forearm. “I’ll be here. Go get us drinks, I really am thirsty. If I move for some reason I’ll send you a message.” He nods and walks over to one of the drink stands. Shepard slowly searches the crowd, remembering what brought Garrus to her in the first place: Thatcher. However, he’s either left or mixed in the crowds, because she can’t see his ugly face anywhere. 

An asari who’s an enticing vision in violet silk approaches her while she waits, complimenting her dress and how it accentuates her tattoo. Shepard thanks her politely; while thirty minutes ago she would have fluttered her eyelashes and returned the compliment, it’s not something she’s quite as interested in anymore. The asari graciously takes the hint and leaves to go chat up a human couple. 

“People really just do come up and talk to you, don’t they?” Garrus asks, handing her a wine glass full of a blood-red liquid. 

“It’s my irresistible charm,” she jokes as she sips her drink. Oh, it’s Thessian wine. It’s been years since she’s had any.

“I think we both know there’s more to it than that.”

She tilts her head, intrigued by the hidden implication. “What do you mean?”

“You…” he trails off, his eyes trailing down her body. Shepard resists the urge to squirm. His eyes flick back to meet hers. “You’re stunning. And charming, when you want to be. People are attracted to that.”

Of course she knows all that, it’s the point. But his compliment was sweet. She gives him a flirty smile that emphasizes her cosmetically-altered canines. Something about it seems to throw him off (probably the canines), but he regains his composure quick enough. Closing the gap between the two of them, she slips an arm through his and looks at him expectantly. “If I’m that charming, why am I still standing here?”

He laughs and starts guiding her towards somewhere. “I’m not sure, but we can definitely fix that. I think I saw some empty couches over by the mosaic there.”

As he leads them to a seating area a distance away, Shepard remembers some of her earlier concerns. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask, have you seen Thatcher again? I’ve been looking for him but haven’t seen him anywhere.”

“Now that you mentioned it, I haven’t seen him either. We’ll keep an eye out.”

“I just hope he doesn’t do something stupid,” she mutters.

“I doubt it, not in front of all the staff here. It’d look bad for the company and they would risk their contracts.”

“Hopefully you’re right. He’s an idiot.”

Garrus helps her into a couch that’s clearly intended for only two people. Mhm. Interesting. Shepard takes another sip of her drink and looks out into the arena; there’s no match, but there’s people shifting the dirt around to disperse the blood and other fluids on the dust floor. Whenever I fought we had to fight in the blood. Guess this is more civilized . She crosses her legs and rests her left hand on her knees, shifting in her seat for a more comfortable position. It’s when she’s surveying the crowd for any familiar faces (she’s just curious, she’s not planning on leaving the couch anytime soon) that she feels something grazing her left hand and she jerks it away. 

He makes an apologetic sound. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m so sor–”

“Garrus, it’s fine, I was just surprised. Here,” she says, and offers her hand, palm up. His hands dwarf hers, and he cradles her hand with a gentleness she never uses with her own body.

Like on the night of the first banquet, she’s not wearing any gloves. It’s one of the best cybernetic prosthetics money can buy, and from far away it’s hard to tell, but close up like this, it’s easy to see it’s not organic. She’s not ashamed of the injury, it’s just easier to live her life without all the questions that come with it, especially from strangers. Now, in this unexpected moment of vulnerability, Shepard finds that she actually cares a lot more about his opinion than she originally thought. It’s not like it hasn’t crossed her brain at all, but she pulled out the thought as useless and refused to evaluate her feelings any further. And turns out she’s a lot more scared to find out than she wants to admit.

He lightly skims over the base of what’s left of her pinkie. “Does it still hurt?”

“In the cold, sometimes,” she admits as he turns her hand over. He’s cooler to the touch than she remembers, though she runs hot all the time now, thanks to the Cerberus upgrades. “When I have the prosthetic on it’s not a big issue, since it syncs up with my nerves and cybernetics really well. Who knew I really would become more robot?” she laughs. There is nothing else she can do but laugh; he can’t know this has turned out to be nerve-wrecking for her, not in front of all these people. “When I take the finger off –for maintenance, usually– I have to be careful grabbing things because I’ll forget I don’t have the finger for support and I drop things. And I think my grip is weaker than it used to be, but that’s hard for me to tell.” Shepard shrugs. The grief of her changing body is one she’s had practice dealing with.

Garrus continues to silently examine her hands, and it’s giving her some very nasty ideas about what else he could be doing with their hands. Stop it, she scolds herself mentally.

Instead of letting her brain run in circles and get her in trouble, she decides to ask something she’s been wondering about for a while. Maybe it’ll also give her an idea of what he thinks about her, too. “How do turians see amputations? Most humans go for the cloned limbs, but prosthetics are more common now after the war on Earth, especially if you’re poor. Too much demand for cloned parts. But almost every turian here who’s seen my hand looks at it for a few seconds, but I can’t tell what they’re thinking.” Her voice has a touch of apprehension she does not appreciate or approve of.

He turns her hand over and pulls at her pinkie for some unfathomable reason. “It’s rare. We also replace missing limbs with lab-grown parts, but with our body structure it seems to be a more complicated process compared to humans. Also, a cracked or damaged carapace leaves someone at a much higher risk of radiation exposure. It’s…” he stops, seemingly struggling to find the words to explain whatever he’s about to say. “It’s seen as a defiance of death,” he says finally. “It’s staring death in the face and fighting to stay alive, no matter the cost. It’s a mark of the strongest warriors. That’s why they look at your injuries. It’s a way to acknowledge and respect your strength.” 

Shepard stares at her hand in between his, speechless. That certainly wasn’t what she expected. A lost limb was a lost limb back on Earth. A defiance of death. Was that what life was, a defiance of death? To look at the enemy and say ‘fuck you’? To prove you’re stronger than the rest? I always saw it as a price to pay. A bad thing. But maybe that’s what it was, her mind whispers. Maybe they’ve all taken parts of me. The Reds, the Alliance, Cerberus, the Reapers, the Panthers. They’ve all taken parts of me, and maybe I won’t get them back, but I still have my soul. Wasn’t that why I enlisted? Saying ‘fuck you’ to being poor, to being treated like trash, to being stuck in the same shit as Mom? I’m still here, after all. Broken, and missing parts, but still here. That’s a defiance of some sort. She squeezes his hand once, an unspoken thank you. Neither of them are the philosophical types, but it’s unexpectedly given her a different perspective to consider about her life. Maybe the turians are onto something. Or maybe she’s just getting carried away with nonsense thoughts.

Lifting her wine glass to him, she offers a toast. “To defying death.”

He raises his in return. “To defying death.”

They chat and flirt for the next half-hour, weaving the two between running commentary on the ongoing matches. Palaven’s moons are truly in the sky now, adding a wash of silver to all the proceedings. However, the arena is so brightly lit that it doesn’t change much. She pulls his sleeve in jest. He brushes his talons against her neck, saying he’s tucking away stray hairs. She smiles and lightly taps his thigh to draw his attention. There’s a moment where he brushes her lower back, claiming he was removing a loose thread. She playfully tugs at some sort of symbol pinned to his shoulder, and learns a little about Palaven and war honors in the process.

If I’m not careful , she thinks, a little giddy as she drinks her wine and looks to see if she can spot a server in the crowd for some levo food, I might end up jumping him in the hallway. Maybe he’d even be into it.

Suddenly she remembers a very relevant, important fact in case she does manage to pin Garrus to a wall and have her way with him. Shepard whirls around just in time to catch Garrus trying to pretend he wasn’t staring at her back. She lets it go. For now.

“Isn’t your family supposed to be here?” she asks pointedly.

He shifts in his seat, though he doesn’t look away. “They are.”

“And? Won’t they notice you’re gone this long?” 

“Yeah, but Solana is busy talking to other researchers and my father is talking to the heads of other families. It’s boring.”

Shepard resists the urge to roll her eyes in public. “You’re an adult, Garrus. I know you can handle a few adult conversations with powerful people.”

He tucks a loose curl behind her ear. “But it’s so much more fun to talk with you.”

She has to bite her lip to resist the urge to laugh, opting instead to playfully flick him on the arm. As they continue talking (“I really did like that dish from dinner last time, are they serving it today?” “-——” “I have no idea what you just said.” “That’s the name of the dish, Cruz,” “How was I supposed to know that?”) a huge boom echoes around the arena and the crowds cheer as a large, silver animal with spikes on its back collapses to the ground, its blue blood stark against the dirt floor. “You owe me 100 credits,” she informs Garrus as a team of turians pull the animal’s body off the floor. Before he has a chance to respond, an unknown voice intervenes.

“So this is where you were? Dad’s coming this way, he’s looking for you,” someone says in an annoyed tone.

Speak of the devil and he’ll come. Dad? So it’s Solana , Shepard quickly thinks as she turns to look. There’s a female turian standing nearby, tall and confident, with the same eyes and markings as Garrus.

In a bored tone of voice, Solana makes a strange buzzing sound as she asks, “Who is this?”

Shepard stands, smoothing her dress down as she makes her way to Solana. It feels like there’s a bunch of bees inside of her, but she gives Solana her friendliest smile as she puts out her hand for a handshake. “Good evening. I’m Xochil Cruz and I’m part of the security team with Jaguar Arms. Mr. Vakarian was just saying he had a sister with Salus Foundation. A pleasure to meet you.” 

Solana shakes her hand and makes a sound of disbelief. “Mr. Vakarian? It looks to me like you’re both past that.” She looks at Garrus and snipes, “Is this why you've been busy?”

“Sol,” he warns her. Solana must catch something in his voice that she doesn’t, because whatever it is it’s enough for Solana to blink quickly and look at Shepard with renewed interest, giving her a once-over. Shepard lets her. 

“Really? Well, if I noticed, Dad definitely has. Oh and he’s coming this way, I’ve already had to deal with a lecture so now it’s your turn. Good luck you two.” Solana quickly walks towards a group of turians deep in conversation about omni-tools as Garrus’s father approaches them. 

It’s weird to think that in a different reality, in a different universe, they could have met in a private setting, introduced as Commander Shepard and the savior of the galaxy. Power and strength made flesh. Instead she’s meeting him as security for a weapons firm, another common face in the vastness of the universe. But she finds that now, seeing Castis for the first time, after fighting the Reapers, facing the Crucicle, she really doesn’t give a fuck what this man thinks about her. She doesn’t want him to dislike her (quite the opposite) but there’s a limit on whose opinions she cares about and this man has not made the list. It also doesn’t help that she has never understood Garrus’s complicated relationship with his father, but she’s never had a father and she chalks it up to that. 

The first thing she notices is that his father is tall. The second is that this man walks like a cop. If she’d ever met him on the street she’d give him a wide berth; on the battlefield, this would be the first man she’d try to kill to weaken the enemy. The third is that this man is dressed expensively, but simple. While both Solana and Garrus are wearing flashier clothing, he’s wearing something with a simple cut and dark blue; there’s a sort of draped cloth over his shoulder with an elaborate pin in gold. What’s the old saying? Money talks, wealth whispers? That’s us right now. I talk and he whispers . A part of her feels a little subconscious now of the small diamonds and emeralds in her ears and at her throat. War profiteering has been kind to many weapon manufacturers. Her expression is politely neutral as he comes and pats Garrus on the shoulder. Garrus’s eyes flicker to her, a little unsure, but he doesn’t say anything as his father speaks.

“Son, I was looking for you,” Castis says. His voice reminds her of when she took Mia to a waterfall and the water crashing onto the rocks was so loud they had to scream to hear each other. “Naila is waiting for you.” At this Garrus seems almost… embarrassed? But she doesn’t have time to think about it as the older turian turns to Shepard and acknowledges her presence for the first time. “Good evening, miss. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” There’s no real emotion to his voice, just empty pleasantries.

She offers a handshake in a more demure manner than she did with Solana, and he politely accepts. “We have not. I’m Xochil Cruz and I’m with Jaguar Arms, one of the arms manufacturing companies from Earth.”

“So you’re an arms dealer.”

“Only by proxy, sir. I’m here as head of security so I’m not involved in any of the business deals the way our finance team is.” Remembering what Garrus mentioned earlier about amputations and strength, she lightly clasps her hand in front of her, taking care to place her left hand on top, her hands clearly visible. If Castis is as observant as she thinks… 

And he is. The moment she shifts his eyes are on her, and she notices him blink as he notices her hand. It lasts a second and his demeanor doesn’t change at all, but at least he knows she’s seen battle. His eyes settle on her face, flickering around her features. She thinks he looks confused.

Garrus steps in, his voice calm and collected. “Cruz, this is my father, Castis Vakarian. He’s retired now, but he was a C-Sec officer for a number of years.”

Castis’s misstep seems to bring him back to them. “Ah yes, forgive me for my lack of decorum, I was lost in thought.” He shifts, and starts tapping his elbow, thinking. She’s not looking at Garrus but she can feel the dread coming off of him in waves. She really needs to teach him how to hide his emotions better.

He looks at her for a few more seconds and Shepard stands there sedately, as if old turians stare her down every day of the week. Suddenly he starts speaking. “Is this your first time travelling in space?”

“My first trip beyond the Sol system, yes.”

“And so you’ve never been on the Citadel before,” Castis drawls. A statement, not a question. 

She looks at him, nods. Her tone is polite but curious. “No sir, I’ve never had the pleasure.” Garrus is standing slightly behind his father with a growing look of alarm. Huh. Where was this going?

“A shame. As Garrus mentioned, I worked on the Citadel. You remind me of a woman I once saw in a security tape in one of our cases. A few years before Garrus joined C-Sec, we caught wind of a human female dancer who was also selling Alliance uniforms out of Zakera Ward. Two of my turian officers found her one night, and while one grabbed all the uniforms, the other chased her down.” 

No fucking way. She tamps down the urge to break out in hysterical laughter and instead tilts her head to indicate she’s listening. Is this what he’s gonna recognize me from? Not the infamous Commander Shepard, but the stripper?
Castis continues. “Eventually the officer corners her in one of the alleyways. She’s a mess and she’s crying, her face all wet. Blubbering complete nonsense, incoherent. The officer starts to feel bad, and as he approaches her to talk to her about her arrest, she strikes.”

She gasps softly, the perfect audience. At the edge of her vision she can see Garrus staring at his father. Castis nods and keeps talking. “She kicks and dislocates his knee, elbows him in the mandible when he falls, and runs away. His partner found him minutes later but we never saw her again.”
Time to look puzzled. She blinks a few times, then meets Castis’s steady gaze. “How is that possible?”

Castis makes a clicking sound. “What do you mean, how?”

“How old was the woman?”

“Our human staff said she was at most twenty-one once they saw the vids.”

“And she dislocated a turian’s knee?”

“Yes.”

“And she was a stripper?”

“Yes.”

Shepard pretends to look off into the distance, then looks back at Castis. “Well, she’s young, but if she’s not trained in combat, I find it hard to believe a stripper had the strength to dislocate a turian’s knee,” Shepard muses. “I’ve heard humans have a hard time fighting turians –I’ve never fought one, so I wouldn’t know– so I don’t see how a stripper had the strength to do that.”

Castis stands even straighter, and she knows she’s struck a bit of a nerve. This is the type of man who isn’t used to his judgement being called into question, especially from someone he probably considers beneath him. She’s just a lowly security guard, after all. Just as he’s about to contradict her observation, another turian comes up to Castis and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is, it requires his immediate attention. He stiffly apologizes for having to leave so abruptly and after a series of “excuse mes” and curt goodbyes, Mr. Vakarian leaves before things can escalate between the two of them.

Garrus all but collapses on the couch and hangs his head in between his hands; she decides to be more productive and gets more drinks. Placing his drink on the table when she returns, Shepard takes a seat and stares out into the arena, taking a sip. Oh, it’s Akantha wine. It’s been years since she’s had any. Having the drink in hand makes her feel more at ease. That certainly had taken an unexpected turn, but at least she knew what he looked like so she could avoid him.

“You talked back to him. You questioned him. No one does that. And lied to his face,” Garrus says weakly. He sounds stunned by her apparent audacity.

“That can’t be true, there’s no way he worked in C-Sec and didn’t get questioned at least once, it’s practically a job requirement.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he responds, distressed. “We’re… He’s… Well, he’s a high-ranking citizen. He speaks and people listen, and we respect his wisdom. We don’t question him in public.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know all that?”

He lets out a turian sigh. “I know. It’s not you, he won’t take it personal since he knows you’re a human. I think I’m still processing what just happened.” After he takes a few sips of his drink, he leans back on the couch and looks at her. 

“... So, was that you?”

The lie is out of her before she can think twice about it. “Of course not.” Garrus gives her a rather pointed look. Damn. This used to be easier. “Well. Maybe.”

“Figures. My father never forgets a case. Care to explain?”

She waves a hand around, trying her best to brush the whole thing off. Hopefully Vakarian Senior is too busy being important to bother interfering in her business. Plus, there’s no evidence. Probably. “The Alliance doesn’t pay much when you’re new, you know. I didn’t have any school, so I was paid even less. All my money was going to Isabella’s treatments and I wanted some credits for myself. I didn’t know my way around the Citadel but I figured someplace, somewhere, there was a freak who’d pay for a human stripper. I’d cover up my scars, put on some makeup and work a few nights here and there while on shore leave. Eventually figured I could steal some uniforms and sell them on the black market. I made some money, but I was so scared when C-Sec caught me.” She sighs, remembering the late nights and the aggressive customers. Her nights in Zakera Ward destroyed the illusion that space was any better than Earth. The powerful and the poor existed everywhere, even if so many on the Citadel tried to deny it. “I’ve never been in any serious trouble in space, and didn’t know the rules, didn’t know what they’d do to me, didn’t know how I’d get back home if something did happen to me. Hell, I barely knew the wards. That’s how I got caught so fast. The crying was real but I hoped blubbering would work as well on a turian as it did on a human. I got out of that one but I got too scared to go back. Stopped after that.”

“How old were you?”

“Hmm,” she hums, trying to remember. It’s been decades since she’s thought about any of this; all told, she didn’t spend much time dancing on the Citadel, just shifts here and there as an out-of-towner. “I think I was twenty.”

“Spirits. So while you were causing chaos in Zakera Ward I was still learning how to handle an assault rifle.”

“You’re still learning how to hold a rifle, Vakarian.” It’s past midnight now and the crowd is only getting rowdier as the night goes on. There’s at least two fights happening in different sections of the arena, though they’re cut short relatively quickly. She gives Garrus a chance to breathe before she drops her next question. “Who’s Naila?”

He tenses immediately and doesn’t meet her gaze. Oh? He turns his cup in his hand, staring into it as if it has the capacity to reply in his place. It takes him two tries to finally spit it out.

“Naila, she’s… she’s a bonding candidate my father approves of. We’ve been… talking, for the last few months.”

A bonding candidate? Talking? For months?

The skyline is beautiful at night, dark and mysterious. Maybe one day she’ll be rich and famous and she’ll be able to buy a place just like this, a place that has these big, beautiful windows from floor to ceiling. Ha. What a stupid thought. She knows better. She’s too old to be thinking she’s still gonna sing her way out; it was always going to be a fight. Or fucking. It’s still a toss-up. 

Her body is sore all over, but it’s not all bad; Valens is really nice and sweet, and always makes sure she’s okay. He’s her favorite client by far; he doesn’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to, and plus, he always gives her a little extra money when they meet. She was really scared at first and didn’t know what to expect with a turian, but he has a heart of gold and is way nicer than most human men she’s met. At this point, way nicer than most people she’s met, aliens included. They’ve learned a lot from each other, both culturally and physically, and she would even go so far as to call him a friend, even though she knows it’s not good for business.

He joins her on the couch and tugs her waist, and she turns obediently as he starts massaging her lower back, ever careful with his talons. She lets out a fluttery breath but doesn’t say anything; she’s learned that sometimes if you keep quiet, people will spill out their thoughts on their own without you having to do absolutely anything. And sometimes they tip more because they leave happier. But that doesn’t matter for Valens; she likes him and he’s worried about something.

“My mother called me today,” he tells her in a low voice. “About the bonding candidate. She wants me to meet her next time I go to the Citadel. Her name is Cialya.”

Ah. Valens is madly in love with a human girl on the Citadel. It’s why he started seeing her in the first place, because he wanted to know what it was like to be with a human woman before he said anything. 

“Oh, Val,” she whispers sadly. “Do you have to? It sounds so complicated. Why don’t you ask the girl?” She turns around and gives him a small, mischevious smile. “You make me happy enough, I don’t think you gotta worry about that anymore.”

He pulls her into his lap and tucks his head on top of hers. “I thought about that,” he says, and she can feel his voice vibrate through her skull. “But my mom would find out. She’s very particular about her family ties. And it’s family, I can’t just, ignore her. It’s complicated.”

Xochil sighs. Why do bad things happen to everyone she likes? 

“That’s right, turians do arranged marriages,” she exhales, remembering Valens. She blinks. Christ, she hasn’t thought about him since she ran into each other on the Citadel. Shepard desperately hopes he’s doing okay, though it’s very possible he’s just as dead as everyone else she knows. She’s used to being the other woman (mostly by accident, only once on purpose, and she’s grown since then), but she still feels like she’s being pricked by a hundred needles. It’s not like she ever thought or expected Garrus to wait for her; she wants him to live life, be happy. He had been somewhere off in the galaxy, and she didn’t know if they’d ever meet again. But a small part of you hoped he’d come looking for you, a voice in her mind whispers. And he did, in a way, even if it was by accident. Fuck, my idiotic heart always gets me into trouble. 

They can’t sit here. She can’t do this. Why does she even care? It’s not like they’re, well, anything. An item. A pair. Shepard and Vakarian storming heaven . That’s true. She’s not Shepard anymore, she’s Cruz, just like her mother. Alone. They’re nothing but friends to each other, whatever other ideas had been scrambling around in her head. She needs to leave. She respects Garrus far, far too much to flirt with him while he’s talking to a potential wife. Mate. Whatever, it’s the same fucking thing. If he tarnishes his own reputation that’s one thing, but she refuses to tarnish his. Turian relationships are private and vary greatly, but she knows from experience that Garrus isn’t the type to wander. 

She’s proud her hand doesn’t shake when she puts down her drink. Her gaze is steady when she looks at Garrus, who’s looking more panicked by the second. Why did she ever think she had a chance? Nothing ever goes right in her life. How stupid of her to hope that this could work out even for a few weeks, ignoring the conflicting lives both of them had. It’s like she thought before: Primarch candidates don’t date low-class Earth girls. They marry high-ranking turian ones.

“Vakarian, if you’re in marriage talks, why are you here?” she scolds him in a low voice. 

“Athe–Xochil, it’s not wh–”

“Garrus.” Something in her voice makes him stop immediately. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Why are you here, with me, when she’s waiting for you? In public ? I don’t know much about turian customs, but even to me that sounds disrespectful, and whatever is happening, I’m not playing a part in it.” Was he just using her to piss off his dad? No, he wasn’t like that. Was he? No, she wouldn’t go down that path, not this time. They didn’t fight the universe for him to question him like that. No, whatever is going on is his business, and she is going to respect it. She looks behind him for an excuse, anything, and she finds one in the volus she betted against earlier.

Shepard fixes her necklace in place and stands up, brushing any wrinkles out of her dress. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to Din Garla about my bet from earlier. Have a good night, and let me know how it goes with Naila.”

He attempts to grab her wrist but she deftly avoids him and leaves him behind. She talks to Din Garla with a smile that’s all teeth, and by the time debts are settled Garrus is nowhere to be seen. Xochil can feel the mounting pressure in her chest, the feeling she gets when she’s feeling too much, all at once, and it needs to come out. She messages the Jaguar team that she’s leaving for the night, and goes to find the nearest exit.

It’s too much it’s building up it’s hurting it needs out it needs to stop and she’s asking someone what’s the most popular place to go for a pretty girl like her and she gets a name and then she finds herself surrounded by darkness and bright lights. She thanks the universe that Palaven doesn't care about drugs, because they’re everywhere she looks. All it takes is approaching the bar alone and suddenly an asari is sidling up next to her, asking if she wants a drink. The asari’s eyes have a blue tint to them – a common side effect of azure drip – and Shepard knows she’s found exactly who she needs. If she times this right, takes the right dose, she’ll be sober by the time her next work shift rolls around and she doesn’t have to think about her stupid little heart and her dumb fucking brain and her own stupid choices where everything would be different if she just wasn’t so scared of being poor of being nothing of being ignored of being important of her past of her future of dealing with a fucked up galaxy for the rest of her life of being exactly like her mom of fucking up Mia just the way she’s fu—

The za’isa hits after a while and everything is blurring together in different colors, just like Mia’s scribbles on her apartment walls.

Chapter Text

She wakes up with the visceral need to vomit. 

Shepard leans over the edge of the bed and by some glorious miracle there’s an empty bucket right in front of her. She throws up until she’s dry heaving and it’s only bile coming up. A bit of vomit gets into her hair but she can’t bring herself to care. There’s some bright light coming from… somewhere and she’s convinced it’s frying her brain. If she moves too fast things blur together, and she has a feeling her cybernetics are working overtime to get rid of her last bender. She’s on something soft, at least. That’s way better than most times. And the blankets look real familiar…

She’s in her own bed. In her own rental house. In Palaven.

This is huge. A massive fucking win. She can’t remember the last time she blacked out and woke up in her own place. Is she getting better at this?

Her stomach does a weird roll and she’s throwing up in the bucket again.

Her omni-tool is nowhere to be found, but the time display on her nightstand lets her figure out she’s been out for about twenty-six hours, and she’s got about another day before she has to report for a work shift. Damn. The cybernetics were way too good; she was hoping to be sober six hours before her shift, not a full day. But she can fix that.

Shepard falls out of bed trying to get to the bathroom, and decides maybe it’s just better to crawl to it instead. Her legs are kinda shaky. The smell coming off of her is absolutely vile and may quite possibly make her throw up a third time, so a shower is the first thing on the list. She sits on the shower floor and runs the water as hot as humanly possible and sits in the water stream before remembering that this would be way more effective if she took off her clothes. Which, in fact, are actually her clothes, these are her own actual clothes. A bucket, her own clothes and her house? Holy shit, maybe she is getting better at being blacked out.

Once she manages to take off her dress, she looks at her body to see if anything is out of the ordinary. A loud gasp escapes her. She’s absolutely covered in bruises. And turian bite marks, in very specific places. Also strangely enough, there’s a few small bites right by where her prosthetic leg joins with her real leg. “Yo, these people are some fucking freaks,” she mutters to herself. There’s also what suspiciously looks like turian cum in her hair. Damn, guess you decided to have fun yesterday . She can’t remember any of it, of course, but considering she somehow ended up safe and sound with no real wounds or nightmares, she thinks it’s a resounding success. 

By the time Shepard scrubs her body clean, changes into fresh clothes, and empties the nasty-looking bucket (why the hell is her vomit purple? ) she’s feeling much better. The aching heart is still there and it’s only getting stronger the more she wakes up, but she thinks she can get some food in and track down something else before the ache gets unbearable. Hearts really are useless things. 

She grabs a glass of water on the nightstand (wow, she’s so proud of Xochil from last night), and is walking towards her living room when she hears a voice.

“Good to see you’re ali—”

The glass goes flying in the direction of the voice, and her biotics are flaring out towards the couches when the voice yells, “By the damn Spirits Shepard, will you calm down?!”

She’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Garrus steps out of the kitchen as he’s wiping at a cut on his forearm. “Crap, you really are a threat to the galaxy. Never seen someone that blasted and somehow wake up ready to fight faster than most soldiers.”

Maybe she’s still drunk. Or high. Or hallucinating. Or maybe it was some drell jello-shots. Hm. Did she eat mindfish again?

“I have no idea. Doesn’t do much for turians, though.”

“What?”

“You asked if you had mindfish again.”

“... Oh. I said that out loud?”

He makes a sound that reminds her of a sigh and he walks up to her, tilting her chin up to look into her eyes. “Hmm. Your pupils are still dilated. Go sit on the couch, I’ll take you some water.” His eyes always were a pretty blue. Last summer she took Mia to some cenotes in southern Mexico, and it had reminded her of the color of his eyes. Her eyes just look like mud.

She sees his mandibles flicker out and he makes an amused sound when he lets go of her chin. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me later, because I don’t think sinkhole is what you said. And your eyes do not look like mud. Go sit on the couch.”

The couch does sound like a good idea, and she is pretty tired. Grabbing a blanket nearby, she curls up in a corner and grabs the pad for the vid-screen, pulling up re-runs of an old C-Sec buddy cop show she used to watch while she was a cadet. She can hear Garrus quietly speaking to someone, but she’s too tired to care. After a while he comes and joins her on the couch, handing her a glass of water and two small pills. For a second there’s a jolt of excitement, but then she realizes what they are.

Shepard drinks the water but throws the pills over her shoulder. Garrus makes a strange noise that makes her laugh. “What?”

“Why did you do that?” he patiently asks.

She looks at him, surprised. “Because I don’t want to sober up, obviously. Besides, I’m already sober.”

“You’re not sober, you’re just conscious. There’s a difference,” he points out to her.

“Oh. Well, I’m getting sober and it sucks.”

He makes another funny noise and covers his eyes with a hand. “It’s like cadet years all over again,” he mutters. In a normal voice he asks, “Shepard, what will it take for you to take at least one of the pills?”

Shepard. Shepard? No one calls her that anymore. Her mind is crystal clear for a few seconds; her gaze shifts, and Garrus straightens up, confused at the drastic change in attitude. “Vakarian, you shouldn’t be here. Leave.” Her voice sounds far away, cold and demanding. 

“I’m not leaving.”

She sets him with a frigid stare. He stares back. “You have a marriage candidate waiting for you. You shouldn’t be in the house of a woman, even a human one. Leave.”

He presses a fist to his brow-plate, the way he usually does when he gets annoyed.

“I am annoyed,” he states, his voice a little clipped. How does he know what she’s thinking? She frowns. Maybe she is more high than she thought. “Yeah, you definitely are. I’ll explain once you’re sober, so please take the pills. They’ll speed up the process.”

She squints suspiciously at him. “So what do I get if your explanation is shitty?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if you explain and the explanation sucks? Then I’m sober. What then?”

“Are you asking for, what, a backup plan? A price for your sobriety?”

“Hmmm. Yes.”

He makes a groaning sound and puts his head in his hands. “Who knew the great Commander Shepard was so damn annoying? And how are you even coherent enough to be asking for backup plans?”

“I’m a threat to the galaxy.”

“That you damn well are. Fine, I’ll bring you Hallex or something if you’re unhappy later. Deal?”

Hallex definitely works. “Deal.” 

Garrus pushes off his knees to get off the couch and heads back to the kitchen. “How is it that when you drank with the crew, no one ever saw you like this?”

Her curls are still wet and sticking to her skin in an icky way, so she pulls her hair up and over the back of the couch. “The crew was sweet but no one knew how to have any fun, so I never got too drunk with them.”

He’s definitely digging through her kitchen cabinets again. “So because everyone kept their digestive systems intact, they weren’t fun?”

“Yep. Wrex could be fun though. He fights at least. He helped me perfect my headbutt.”

“You and Wrex are a menace to soci— Xochil, your hair is dripping water all over the floor.”

“It does that,” she says as takes two pills from Garrus and swallows them. “I’m too tired to dry it. Get a towel or something if it bothers you.” A few minutes later it suddenly goes dark and she realizes there’s a towel on her head. She manages to squeeze out some of the excess water before giving up and just puts her hair on top of the towel. He also hands her some bread that’s slightly sweet and filling, and they sit in a comfortable silence as they watch the vid-screen.

At some point she must have drifted off, because she finds herself waking up when she doesn’t remember falling asleep. Her throat is dry, her mouth tastes foul, and her head is pounding like a drum. “Aggh. Fuuuuuuuuck.”

“Feeling better?”

At the sound of Garrus’s voice Shepard sits up as fast as she can, and the room spins. Garrus is in the armchair next to her, leaning back and scrolling on a datapad. The vid-screen is still playing reruns in the background. Garrus was here? Well, she knew that but forgot, but then all the things she said…

Oh, this was so, so, so bad. She chugs the glass of water on the coffee table and thinks. Do. Not. Panic. I don’t know what did and didn’t happen yet. I did tell him I’d hear him out. 

Shepard slams the cup down, then slowly turns on the couch to face Garrus, pulling the blanket up to her neck. It’s a little warm but she needs the illusion of safety right now. He sets down the datapad on his lap, leans back in his chair and crosses his hands in his lap, the picture of casual confidence.

Of course, she starts with the most important question. “Why the fuck are you here?”

His mandibles press a little tight to his face. “Santiago called me.”

Oh, so things were just going to be confusing right from the start. Fantastic. “Why in the fucking world would Santiago call you ?” There’s a lot of disdain in her voice, a last-ditch effort to cover up her embarrassment. 

Garrus’s casual energy disappears and he sits up, looking nervous and worried at the same time. “He… well. He said your coworkers were looking for you, that you told them you’d all go out to lunch the next day. They messaged you and knocked on your door but you weren’t home. When he called me he said you’d been out of contact for about 20 hours, and he was worried about you. No one knew where you were.”

She hits her forehead with her palm. Damn. She had completely forgotten about their lunch plans the next day. No wonder people were looking for her. Maybe that’s why she lost her omni-tool.

Garrus continues, fiddling with the datapad in his lap. “Santiago asked me if something happened. All I told him was that you were mad at me. After that he sent me your last omni-tool location and asked me to find you and not tell the others. It was night when I found you at the pond I took you to a few weeks ago. Your omni-tool was by the tree, and you were sitting waist deep in the pond. Staring at the water.” He holds her gaze, a mix of emotions in his eyes she can’t read. “I’ve never seen you like that. So… listless. Empty. Your eyes were almost all pupil, so I knew you weren’t sober, but it was… unsettling. I asked you if you wanted to come out of the water and you just kind of looked at me and asked if that's what I wanted. I said yes and you just… stood up and followed me here. Gave you some meds and all you did was smile and stick out your tongue, no questions asked.”

Oh, she cannot tell him it’s because that’s how things between her and Mateo work when they hook up. Something warns her that’s gonna piss him off. Everything else sounds unusual though; that certainly does not match up with all the other times she’s been dragged out of one of her own messes. Santiago still has the scar from the last time she bit him, and she owed Ceci money for months for breaking one of her omni-tools. Shepard doesn’t bother to hide the surprise on her face. “Woah, that is weird. Usually I fight everyone.”

He glares at her. “It’s not a joke, Athena. It’s not safe for you to get that high for that long. Do you even know what you took?”

Ah, shit. This is why she didn’t wanna be sober. The remorse is starting to settle in now, along with the growing shame that Garrus, of all people, found her like that. She doesn’t answer his question and he makes an irritated humming noise. Now it’s time for the more awkward questions, because as much as she’d like to ignore them, she’s pretty sure Garrus won’t let her.

“Where did my dress go?”

“It’s in your bedroom. I helped you out of the dress and into your clothes, but nothing more than that. You crawled into bed and fell asleep immediately. Those bite marks are not from me,” he tells her, his voice carefully neutral.

Ah, yes, her body has decided that yes, it does remember how to blush and it’s doing so right now. She opens her mouth for a second and closes it immediately, realizing the question “well who are they from,” would not only be incredibly stupid but a waste of time, especially when he already told her he found her at the pond. 

Garrus somehow understands what she was about to ask anyways; he just closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Please don’t tell me you don’t remember who you slept with,” he pleads.

She doesn’t say anything.

“Do you remember anything at all? Where you were at, who you were with?”

She doesn’t move.

In a softer voice he asks, “What’s the last thing you do remember?”

She’s curling in on herself on the couch, the blanket wrapped around her. She doesn’t look at him. “I went to Silverlight after leaving the arena. I drank and started taking licks of za’isa.”

A heavy silence hangs in the air. “So you don’t remember anything from the twenty hours you were missing.”

She gives him the tiniest shake possible.

He makes a funny sort of inhale. “Athena, that’s… incredibly unsafe. What if something happened to you?”

Bad things have happened to her. Sometimes she wakes up in a place she doesn’t know. Other times she wakes up bloody, full of scratches and bruises. At this point in her life she’s pretty confident in her body and trusts that she’ll fight her way out of anything on instinct. Surprisingly, she tends to want to fight more than fuck, or sometimes both. She doesn’t really know. It’s just that at the start, the bad things sound like a good idea.

Shepard folds her legs underneath her and drinks some more water. Her head is pounding a little less but her heart feels like it’s pushing itself out its chest. This is not a conversation she wants to have with someone she respects more than herself. It’s not a conversation she’s been willing to have with herself, either.

“Are you going to say anything?”

She should. She really should. Something. She told herself she’d be better than this. He doesn’t deserve it, especially after he took care of her last night. This morning. Whatever.

“You shouldn’t be here, Garrus,” she tells him quietly. A tiny big part of her wants him to stay here, despite everything, despite looking disgusting and being disgusting and messy and gross and stupid but she needs to be better to him. 

He covers his face with both hands and there’s a strange droning sound coming from him. It reminds her of bees. “I already told you, I’m not leaving. We need to talk.”

Is it too late to grab the MLX4 pills hidden in the closet? Yeah, it is. Be better . With a shaky exhale, she gives him a small nod, unfolding herself from the couch. “Okay. Let me make a coffee first.” He gets up before she can and presses a hand to her shoulder, pushing her back into the couch.

“Sit. I’ll bring it to you.” He disappears into the kitchen.

It’s absolutely possible to survive this. She can do it. Her heart will break into a bunch of tiny pieces, again, but she can put herself back together. She’s done it dozens of times. It doesn’t ever get easier, but it’s soothing to know it’s possible. This one might be the last one she can handle, though. 

There’s suddenly a warm mug in her hand and more sweet bread in the other. “Oh, that was fast.”

“I started a brew after you fell asleep on the couch,” he explains as he moves down the couch and sits at the opposite end. Because he knows I get grumpy if I don’t have coffee after I wake up, especially after drinking. Oh fuck, I really don’t know if I can do this. But she has to. The coffee is just how she likes it, strong and steaming with just a hint of sweetness. The sweet bread reminds her of the ones from her favorite bakery back home. It occurs to her that he must’ve been here for a while if he was here when she woke up– did that mean he spent the night? She doesn’t want to think about it so she doesn’t ask.

After he sees her take a few bites of the bread, he starts speaking. “My dad has been trying to set a marriage for me since I was 22. Love matches are common, but it’s complicated to marry someone who’s not in your citizenship tier. For a lot of families, they think it’s easier to arrange marriages, and a way to keep power within families.  He didn’t push it too much when I was in C-Sec, but once the war was over… well… after…” He’s silent for a few moments, struggling to figure out what to say next. “After… after two years he thought it was time for me to move on. I think it’s his way of trying to help me move on. But we never found your body and, I’m sorry Shepard, but considering what happened the first time you died, I wasn’t going to believe you were dead until I saw it for myself. And it turns out I was right.”

Well, that’s certainly a valid point. She gives him a tiny, wobbly smile. He continues. “He kept pushing potential matches and I kept rejecting them. Eventually I met Naila. She told me from the beginning she wasn’t interested and was in love with someone in a much lower citizenship tier. Her family is very traditional and doesn’t approve of the match. I told her I wasn’t interested in getting married. We agreed to enter into marriage talks to buy each other some time. Keep up appearances in public, things like that, but that’s it. There’s nothing to us.”

It’s almost as if a ghost of a memory possesses her, and she finds herself repeating a similar set of words like all those years ago.  “Do you have to do all that? It sounds so complicated.”

He chuckles. “More complicated than trying to split from a crime syndicate?”

There’s a shitty little wriggling feeling in her chest that feels a lot like hope and relief. She squishes it down until she has more answers. “Point taken.”

He gives her a sad look that makes her squirm in her seat. “I didn’t mean to make you have a bad day,” he says softly. “I mean… I didn’t know Naila would be at the arena yesterday, or I would have told you everything before but I just… I don’t know…” 

No, anything but this she isn’t ready no fucking way but Garrus is an idiot and always wants to talk things out even though that’s the good about him but she ca–

He says it anyway. “What are we doing, Athena?”

Really? That’s just asking “what are we” in slightly different words. She hates ‘what are we’ conversations. People get too many ideas about what a ‘we’ when there is no ‘we.’ But this is Garrus. They stared death in the eye and somehow survived. And she really, desperately wants there to be a ‘we.’ But the war was one thing; they were surrounded by death. She didn’t think of a life after. Maybe if she did, she wouldn’t be in this huge mess. He doesn’t know what she’s really like outside of a life-or-death situation. She doesn’t know what he’s like out of a war either. It’s been years since they’ve seen each other, they’ve changed, but she can’t deny there’s still this… pull. Electricity. Spark. Something she can’t name. There’s moments where it feels like no time has passed at all, they’re still friends, just friends who no longer have to worry about the galaxy dying.

A huge sigh escapes her as she leans back into the couch and stares at the ceiling. There’s a dead weird-looking white bug right above her head. “I don’t know.” She doesn’t know. What about the business? His job? Her little Mia, her sun? Would Mia even be okay with him? Mia likes Garrus but it’s a completely different situation bringing him in permanently. And that’s if they manage to pull this whole stunt off. She can’t leave Santi and Ceci alone, they have to leave together. They have to.

There’s a pointed silence for a few moments.

“So… what… that’s it?” he says.

Be better. Be honest, for once . She puts her food and drink down on the coffee table before she makes a mess on herself. Twisting herself around, she faces Garrus, who’s giving her a blank look with his arms crossed. “No. It’s complicated. I’m…” How does she tell an ex-vigilante she helps run a crime syndicate? Would he even understand how she got sucked in? Does someone like him, who’s been fed and has a family and power his entire life even comprehend what it’s like to have none of it? What it forces someone to do? What she did, what she’s done to have even a sliver of power? How your brain tricks you to think you’re alone and helpless when you don’t have any? “... not a good person. Well. You know I’m wrapped up with the Panthers. You hate gangs and you hate criminals, and I’m both.”

He tries to contradict her. “We’re friends with the Shadow Broker, Shepard. If you think Liara isn’t becoming a criminal mastermind, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Her brow furrows a little when the Shadow Broker is brought up. “Word on the street is that the Broker is getting soft, she ne– sorry, that’s not what we’re talking about.” She rubs her eyes. “I’m still in a crime syndicate. With rank,” she grits through her teeth. It sets off every alarm bell in her head to even voice this; she doesn’t need to tell people, the point of the tattoos and fake fangs is that they can just look at her and know, if they’re part of that world.

“Yeah, you know, I’ve been doing some research about that. After the Reaper War, Mexico City has experienced a lower level of civilian crime compared to other megacities in the Northern American States. That big drop started around three years ago. Even pickpocketing is down. It’s pretty safe to walk around the city compared to places like New York or Chicago, which are doing worse after the war. Numbers around drugs and firearms are higher than before, sure, but most of it is staying in criminal circles and it’s not impacting civilian life. For a city of that size to be even remotely resembling pre-war crime stats is impressive, especially after visiting in person and seeing how much of the city is still rubble.” 

She furrows her brow a little. It's hard to tell if he’s being dense on purpose; Garrus is intelligent, clever, and has enough experience of the world now to know better than to look only at the good things. “You can’t be serious.”

His mandibles flicker slightly, and there’s a note of confusion in his subvocals. “... I am serious. I didn’t even think of cross-referencing country-wide crime stats until after my visit to Earth. It took me months, multiple requests to UNAS security bureaus and multiple police networks. A mysterious ‘Xochil’ suddenly pops up into existence three years ago, and somehow civilian life becomes more stable. I have a feeling those two are connected,” he says, giving her a meaningful look.

Can’t he see the obvious in front of him? He always tries to see the best in her, even if there’s nothing there. “How do crime syndicates work on Palaven, or the colonies?” Maybe it’s one of those strange cultural differences. And it kind of is; he explains that there’s very little crime on his homeworld, because there are so many private liberties. There’s simply no need for established crime syndicates. By the sounds of things, the societal structure is so wrapped up with the military that the few times syndicates do establish themselves, they’re eliminated almost instantly. There’s no need to ask about the Citadel; there’s too many tensions between races for anything similar to the Panthers to establish themselves. Aria and Omega is the closest thing, but Omega is an old, old place, with the only constant of the last centuries being its asari queen. And Aria doesn’t give a fuck beyond making sure she’s at the top.

Not that she’s much different, really. Maybe Shepard cares a little bit more about people beyond herself, but it’s not nearly as much as people seem to think. Yes, in a way she does want to protect who’s left; so many people have died on Earth. The streets are far, far emptier than they used to be, and after dreaming and hating for so long, she is desperate for things to be the same as before. But there’s also a benefit to having people trust in them instead of the government –which is in shambles, anyway, with two out of three UNAS countries threatening to secede– that she’s surprised Garrus hasn’t picked up on it. 

Shepard rubs her temple with a knuckle. There’s a few options here. She can nod and agree, and they could live with his implication for a bit longer. That’s definitely the easiest option. She can let him talk for a little more, ask him what he thinks it all means, and let him think that, too.

Or.

She could do the right thing and tell him the truth about why exactly Mexico City’s crime rate is so low. And why every single human he asked about the Panthers refused to give any information. Morally, the shittiest solution –the last one– is the right one. It’s also the hardest, and the most likely to break whatever relationship they have left, depending on how he takes it. He’s not nearly as rigid about right and wrong as he used to be, but it doesn’t mean he’ll tolerate everything she does. Although he pretty much always has. Which is part of her own emotional problems, why she’s gotten so attached, but it doesn’t matter right now. God damn it, why does he always make me feel this way? Why can’t I be my normal, shitty self with him around? 

She lets out a slow sigh. “It’s not that simple, Garrus. Mexico City used to be one of the biggest cities on Earth. Half the city’s population was gone within the first two months of the Reaper invasion. By the end of the war it was down to a third of what it used to be.” Shepard looks down at her left hand, at the prosthetic attached to her hand. Her mind is convinced there’s a finger there, and for all intents and purposes there is, but when she looks at it she’s reminded that it’s not her own. Well, in a way this entire body isn’t original to her either, but that doesn’t matter anymore. “I know that’s everywhere. The city was a mess, worse than when I grew up. I just… I just wanted it to look like before. That’s all. I wanted to feel like I was home again, not a battlefield. It was Santi’s idea, actually. He was always idealistic, wanted to do things differently from his father. So we did what old Earth crime syndicates used to do. Gained the trust of the people.” She explains what she knows about old criminal organizations on Earth and how they would run protection for their turf, and take care of civilians at times. As she explains the complex relationship of the Panthers with the residents of Mexico City, Garrus just looks… thoughtful. He doesn’t look mad, just like he’s… hearing her out, first.

Once she’s done explaining everything, he laughs. It surprises her; it’s not the reaction she expects. “So what, you decided that after saving the galaxy, you had to personally save your hometown too?”

It makes her crack a small smile. “I wasn’t really, ah, doing much thinking of my own those first few months, I have Santi to thank. I wouldn’t call it saving, really. It’s more like… trying to stabilize things, I guess.”

He shifts a little closer to her and gently grasps one of her hands between his. He’s cool to the touch, like a glass of water. “I know life after the war has been hard on everyone, but it was always going to be the hardest on you.” Shepard frowns a little and opens her mouth, but he squeezes her hand lightly and she closes her mouth instead. He continues. “You gave everything up to save the galaxy. None of us were coming out unscathed, we just didn’t know how.”

Another truth slips out of her before she can stop it. “I always thought I was going to die, so I never thought about after the war. There was no point.”

His grip suddenly feels like he’s trying to crush her bones into dust, and it takes him a few moments before he loosens his grip. 

“I… know,” he says haltingly, almost as if he’s forcing the words out. Garrus has, somehow, always been the best at reading her, and she doesn’t doubt that at her worst moments, he could see that belief written across her face. Maybe that’s why he was always talking about a life after a war, trying to convince her to think about the future. Well. Shepard’s not really surprised; especially towards the end, she doubts she was hiding it very well. It was one thing to think she would never make it past twenty-five because everyone seemed to die around then. It was another to see an entire galaxy die before her eyes and know she would die trying to save it. 

Maybe if she’d listen, she wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

“I know you’ve had to make some tough calls,” he continues, “And I’ve seen enough of the galaxy after the war to know that. But, it looks to me that you’re trying to own up to your choices, and I can respect that.”

Oh. That sounds a lot like absolution. Of acceptance and trust. She is not going to blubber like a fifteen year old girl. Fifteen-year old her definitely did not blubber, and it was not fucking starting today. No. She blinks rapidly in a desperate hope that her eyes stop watering, and it works (mostly). Her free hand lightly caresses his. How long has it been since someone just held her hand, just to do so? 

“There are some… things I have to settle first,” she says quietly. The bite marks on her body. More importantly, the business deal. “Almost everything right now depends on these business deals, and my–our, Santi and Ceci and Mia, our lives will change after.” Looking down at their hands, Shepard absentmindedly traces an aimless pattern on the back of his hand with a finger. “I’m still trying to… figure out how I fit, I guess. Who I was and who I am. I don’t want to drag you in my mess. You’ve built your life after the war in a way that’s good. I want it to stay that way. But, if things work out, after, then we can ta–”

“No.” It’s a growl, and the intensity behind it makes her look up, startled. He looks determined, and she can feel his grip tightening around her hands. “I’m not letting you disappear again, not without an answer. It’s a yes or no question, Xochil. I’ll respect your decision either way, and we’ll deal with the rest of it as it comes.” His onmi-tool pings and she pulls away first. This entire conversation makes her feel exposed and sensitive, kind of like a sunburn. Like if someone touches her she’ll flinch in pain.

Garrus is reading something on his omni-tool and his brow-plates shift in confusion. “I have to go, the Council wants to speak with me as soon as possible.” Standing up from the couch, he straightens his clothes and gives her a searching look. “Get some more sleep and order some food later.” In a more anxious voice he says, “I know this is a lot to think about after the night –day– you just had, and maybe I should have waited until you were feeling better, but I.. I just wanted to clear the air. Between us. But you really should rest. Stay on the couch, I’ll see myself out.”

She’s still processing her emotions by the time he’s opening the front door. She scrambles to the edge of the couch and stands on her knees to call out after him. “Garrus!”

He stops and turns to look at her before he shuts the door.

“Yes,” she blurts out, rushing to get the words out, “the answer is yes, it’s always been yes, just… give me some time to think. That’s all.”

Turian expressions can be hard to read, but this one is easy enough: it’s pure, unfiltered joy, and a little shy. “Oh. Uh, okay, I’ll, I’ll–”

She laughs at him and grabs a small pillow and throws it at Garrus, who catches it easily. “Go! The Council gets bitchy when you don’t respond fast enough. We’ll talk later.” He throws the pillow back with enough force that it knocks her on her back against the couch cushions, and the last thing she hears before the door shuts is his laughter.

Feeling much better than she has in months, she takes Garrus’s advice and spends the rest of the day resting. Shepard finds her omni-tool on her nightstand, orders an obnoxious amount of food and sleeps when she feels like it. She’s finally able to get a hold of Mia after three days of missing her by minutes (it’s her own fault, who enrolls a kid in both guitar and gymnastics lessons?), and they spend an hour talking.

While getting ready for bed, she checks her messages. The last message is from Santiago, marked as urgent. 

Hi X,

I’m writing this message because if I call you I’m scared you’re gonna just scream at me and not hear me out. And I don’t wanna damage my ears more, thanks.

Xochil. You know Ceci and me love you so, so much. We would fucking die for you. You think I’m joking when I tell you that but I’m not. I adore you in a way I can’t even explain to myself, ever since I was a kid. You remember when I used to follow you around the block, and then suddenly you’d just stick me in the nearest corner and get the shit beaten out of you seconds later? My brothers didn’t give a flying fuck about me but you did, and I don’t know why ‘cus there were plenty of kids you didn’t give a flying fuck about either. I only remember bits and pieces of when you were a kid ‘cus I was so little. But I remember you getting into fights all the time and just, looking really sad, especially after your mom died. I get it now, but I didn’t then. 

We were, no, we are so, so fucking proud of who you were. Who you are. Did you know Ceci has an archive of every single extranet article about you? Isabella used to send her articles. When you were called a butcher we knew better– it’s just another turf war, under a different name, a different place. It’s like you taught me: if it’s you and them, always choose you, no matter what. Fuck them. 

The few times you came to visit us you were changing. I said it before but its true. You were always smarter and faster than the rest of us (it’s fucking true bitch, who else have you seen lead a gang at 15 fucking years old? The next oldest head was 19). And every time you came back it was, like, you was just getting smarter and smarter and you’d seen shit beyond the stupid hellhole we were stuck in. I know it wasn’t easy, I remember what you told me about the kids being shit but they were shit ‘cus you were so much better than them and that was before you got all that schooling. You were so worried about Isabella, stressed about who you were and who you were growing up to be and how different that all was from what you thought that I don’t think you ever gave yourself the chance to breathe.

Xochi, we wouldn’t exist without you. Straight up. We don’t know the full story about the war but your nightmares alone make me wanna piss my pants. You gave up your fucking sanity for us. The galaxy. Me and Ceci and Mia would not be fucking alive period if you hadn’t told us to prepare. My dad thought you were a idiot but we knew better. He thought I was wasting my money building a legal arms factory but he was quick enough when the Reapers hit and we were able to give everyone guns. The fucker. 

God, we thought you had died. We cried for fucking months. When you showed up in a fucked up wheelchair with a old-school leg, high as fuck on painkillers but alive, god, we were so, so sososo happy. But somehow we find ourselves stuck in the same shit we swore years ago we were gonna get out of. Remember? You were gonna have a fancy apartment with big glass windows. Our brains are weird ass things. Somehow we’ve all convinced ourselves that this is it and this is all we know how to do. But if there was one thing you taught me in this bitch of a life, it’s to fight. You gave me my first knife. You taught me how to stab someone in the thigh (god that was so bloody the first time i did it), you taught me how to shoot a gun. I ain’t going down without a fucking fight. I know you’re tired, I’m not asking you to lead. I got that, I’m just asking for you to hold on a bit more. I know that’s a lot, but I’m just asking for you to be backup. That’s it. 

We want you to be happy so bad. It’s why we’re doing any of this. I wanna set you up so you’re good for life, as a thank you for all the shit you’ve done for me. For us. It’s not deserved or earned, it’s like, you should just, have it. I don’t care about the drugs or the drinking Xoch, it’s just every time you go off the deep end we’re terrified we’re not gonna find you again. You disappear so good that it takes us hours, days to find you, and you’re a mess and unhappier than when you started. 

I called Garrus because I know you trust him and I needed someone to make sure you were ok. Hell, I trust him and I met the guy a few months ago, he radiates good guy energy. I know you said you left a lot of important people behind, and I can tell he’s one of em. But he’s the best person you’ve ever liked– even Ceci likes him and C doesn’t like anybody. And I know he’s still in love with you too; I can’t read turians as well as you but I could tell he was confused about us. I’ma leave that to you tho cus I don’t wanna risk getting stabbed by an alien twice my size. You’ve been happier than I’ve seen you in years since you saw him. I don’t know why you're mad at him but talk it out, you’re grown. Why do you act so stupid with Mateo but you got this guy over here and don’t do nothing? I know things are complicated, but when the fuck has that ever stopped you? Talk it out!

We miss you. We’ll take a trip somewhere to celebrate once this is all over. And it will be over. I’ll make sure of it.

Tqm,

Santi

P.S. girl at this point I ain’t surprised you fell in love with an alien you were always a freak

Shepard furiously rubs her eyes in a desperate attempt to not break down crying. Oh, Santi . You were always the best of us. Maybe once she was back on Earth she’d talk to Santi and Ceci about more stuff. The bad dreams and the bad things she’s done. Maybe figure out how to fix her brain somehow. There’s life in the galaxy. She’s part of it. Maybe it was time she started acting like it.

Chapter Text

Shepard is trying her best to rein in her temper. So, instead of screaming like she wants to, she crushes the empty beer can in her hand. The finance team is huddled around the vid-screen in Anthony’s rental while she hangs out at the back of the room. Santiago requested her presence and even though the finance team doesn’t know why the head of security needs to be present, they don’t question it. 

Rosenkov Materials sniped their heatsinks contracts. No one’s quite sure what the final contract terms were, but they were enough that the turian military signed up for a contract of five years, despite the weeks-long lead up on Earth. It’s a huge profit for Rosenkov and a huge loss for them. 

Anthony silently places another beer in her hand and she chugs it immediately. “We still have the pistols,” he calmly reminds them all. “If we can expand the pistols to include their cadets and their one to three year soldiers, we can make up the profit difference. Also, it’s not all a loss. Ama-Lur is now considering us for manufacturing their Chakram Launcher, since most of their factories were lost in the war and they can’t meet demand.” He nods to Shepard and lifts his drinks towards her. Wandering around these events with a friendly smile (and holding her tongue) has paid off in more ways than one. She must be rusty though, if she didn’t see that Mr. Petrov was playing a different type of game. In her defense, this type of sleuthing around isn’t her specialty. Still, she’s too used to having the upper hand that Shepard hates feeling like she’s lost. “As Cruz found out for us, between Hahne-Keder, Wegner and Jaguar, we have more factories than most other companies. If we can’t supply originals, we can still make money off of licensing contracts. I know that wasn’t our goal but we can still recoup from our losses.”

Fabian interjects. “What about the civilian sector? Almost everyone on this planet carries arms, surely there’s something there.”

Shepard sighs, crushing the second empty can in between her palms. “I’ve asked around. Civilians are pressured to buy from companies the military approves of. And it’s essentially nonexistent, remember that they all serve from fifteen to thirty years old, so almost everyone is in the military, it’s the same market. Unless you’re one of the client races, like the volus.”

Anthony scratches his chin. “The client races. That might be something.”

“You’ll never get the volus, they’re the cheapest suckers in the galaxy, the mole rats,” Mary huffs. Considering a volus called her a ‘small-brain human’ yesterday during a lunch meeting, Shepard lets the insult slide. She’s still waiting for a chance to slam the volus’s face into the ground. But speaking of slamming heads into the ground…

“What are the specs on our sniper rifle, the Falcon?” she asks the group at large.

Andrea, the product engineer (whatever that means) within the finance team rattles off a series of numbers from memory. Hm. Those numbers were solid numbers for a sniper, and since it could handle kinetic barriers decently… well, she has nothing to lose by suggesting the idea.

“What if we pitch the Falcon to the turian police? Or any other police forces? I know we’ve been focusing on the military contracts, but their police could probably use weapons too. We can sell them on the Falcon instead of the Mantis, that’s their current carry.”

Fabian, Mary and Andrea put their heads together and start saying words she doesn’t understand. Shepard looks at Anthony instead, who gives her a curious look. He says in a thoughtful voice, “We weren’t looking at selling the sniper rifle. It’s slower than the other weapons, and it won’t be as big of an order as the pistols.”

Leaning against one of the tables scattered around the house (Anthony’s place looks like a war room), she tips her drink towards him in acknowledgement. “You’re right, but the Falcon matches the Mantis specs almost one to one but has a slightly higher shot count and works on kinetic barriers. That’ll be good enough for police, but if military sees it in action, they might be convinced to put in orders, too. And if we can make future upgrades even a little lighter, we’ll have a bigger market to sell to overall.”

“We’ll be in direct competition with Devlon Industries. They won’t take it well, their CFO is… demanding.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little competition.” And fuck you Thatcher, I don’t care that you’re at the bottom of the ladder.

Anthony gives her a small smile. “You’re wasted as a head of security.”

If only this man knew who she was. It doesn’t matter though; she’s come to enjoy Anthony’s company over the last few months and values his respect. “Ah Tony, who’s gonna stand and look pretty if it’s not me?” He just chuckles and shakes his head.

In the background, Santiago’s still on the vid-screen, deep in thought. “Very well. Draft up proposals for all those options. We’re running out of time. I heard Serrice Council closed a contract today for bio-amps. That’s no surprise to anyone, but it means that the turians are starting to sign. We need those contracts.” His eyes flicker to Shepard, then back to the overall team. “I need to speak to Cruz privately about some internal matters. Work on those proposals, and I’ll call back in about an hour. Put dinner and coffee on the company credit chit like always.”

The team says their goodbyes to both Santiago and Shepard. Once she’s sitting on her own couch in the privacy of her own rental, she calls up Santiago. “What’s up?”

He sighs dramatically, pulling at his hair. “Oh nothing, we’re just trying to finalize the contracts of a lifetime.”

She clicks her tongue at him. “Santi, I know. Look, there’s that racing festival this weekend. I’ll see if I can nail Petrov down and pull out those contract numbers. I don’t think I’ll be able to get much out of him though, not now that he got one of our contracts.”

Santiago snorts. “The only shot you got at pulling those numbers is by fucking him, I think. Good luck with that, I have no idea if he’s a pillow talker type of guy. Guess you’re gonna find out.”

Ah. That’s a good point. She bites the inside of her cheek. “I… think that’s off the table, Santi.”

He blinks in surprise. “Really? It’s never really stopped you before…” he pauses, giving her a knowing look. Oh, here it comes. “...Unless… you and Garrus… are…?”

She heaves a big sigh and slumps on the couch. “We’re working on it.”

“Uh, what does that mean liiiiike… good? Bad?”

“Good, I think. We need to talk some stuff out first, but… good.”

Santiago claps a few times, clearly pleased. “ Finally , I’ve been telling him to ask you out for months–”

“You WHAT , you poorly raised, son of a motherfu–”

“–Stop screaming at me, I'll call you later, bye!”

Santiago cuts the call and the house is silent. Flicking her omni-tool on, she hits the first playlist that pops up (some R&B in a language she doesn’t understand), through the house’s sound system as she prepares something for dinner, deep in thought. Garrus was called off-world right after his meeting with the Council; as such, they haven’t seen each other in almost two weeks. They’ve stayed in touch in short messages, and the only thing he’s mentioned about them is that he and Nalia officially called off their talks (and she immediately went to elope with her lover. Good for her , Shepard thinks). But she’s had time to think about her feelings (sober… mostly) and feels more settled in her skin than she has in a very long time.

After quickly eating dinner, she calls Ceci on video and the older woman pops up, slightly haggard as Mia is in the midst of pulling her hair.

“She’s trying to brush it,” she offers by way of explanation.

“Mommy!” Mia gushes as soon as she sees who’s calling. It felt wrong at first for Mia to call her like her mother, but Mia insisted that she knew the difference and that her auntie was her mommy, too. It makes her feel strange but she doesn’t want Mia to feel bad about it.

“Hi baby! How are you?” Mia begins babbling about her day, her new gymnastics trick, and as always, asks when she’s coming home.

Shepard bites her lip. “Three weeks at most Mia. I miss you and Ceci so much, I wish I was home.” Mia’s babysitter Camila comes into frame and waves at her, and declares it’s time for Mia to get ready for her guitar class. Once Mia’s out of frame, Ceci gives her a sly look and says, “So, I heard from Santi that you and that tu–”

She hangs up the call immediately. If Santiago was annoying, Ceci would be insufferable.

It’s night out and even after her usual training session with Alicia and Steven, she’s still full of anxious energy in a way that means she’ll have trouble sleeping if she doesn’t get it out of her system. Biotic meditation it is , Shepard decides, picking out a comfortable spot on the couch as she starts to tune out the music playing in the background.

Today though, it’s not working. She received a message from Mia’s school earlier that Mia got into another schoolyard fight with a human girl, and in the process ripped the girl’s shirt and hair out. Shepard’s proud her little girl held her own so well (and clearly won), but the school is threatening to take further disciplinary action if Mia doesn’t stop. They’ve made it clear they’ve been lenient so far –no kid comes out of a galaxy-wide war unscathed, and the school understands that– but Mia is starting to push the limits of that leniency. When she asked Mia about it, she said the other girl said something mean about Shepard. What the hell is she supposed to do about that?  She would’ve done the same shit in Mia’s shoes. Either way, the news has been circling around in her brain since last night, and there’s no easy solutions. Then there’s the updates from her Panther omni-tool about some of the girls not meeting their quotas and some interesting information about police movements in the city, all that require her attention for some reason. The girls, well, as much as she doesn’t care about the money there will have to be consequences, just to keep up with appearances. The police movements will have to be passed to Santi and some other people, maybe some brib– then there’s also that damn cryptic, half-vague message from Garrus that he’d be back in Palaven tonight. Sure, it’d be… nice, to see him now that they’ve cleared the air, but that also means they have to have a conversation about them, and she hates having conversations about… feelings, or whatever. Ugh.

The mass effect field in her hands flickers in and out of existence multiple times, a reflection of her current mental state. She really does try to keep at it, but she can’t deny the intense relief at hearing the doorbell ring and being able to have something to blame for her failure to concentrate. A quick check on her omni-tool lets Shepard see it’s Anthony and she lets him in. He comes in with a tight smile and a huge stack of datapads. That’s never, ever a good sign and almost a guarantee that there’s a special type of hell waiting for her in just a few minutes. 

“I know it’s late, but there’s some numbers I’d like you to look at. We have a massive order for the Tiburon Rojo and Tiger Phantoms back home, and we’re due to deliver in a few days,” Anthony says. 

Shepard resists the urge to kick him out and waves him over to the couch instead. Not like she was doing anything anyways. He carefully drops the datapads on the coffee table and she’s halfway down the first page of the topmost datapad when she stops and thinks for a damn second. Why is Anthony asking her, the head of security for advice? As far as he knows, she’s just muscle. Sure, she can read the report; she’s read hundreds of inventory reports over her career and regularly checks things like this for the Panthers. But Anthony shouldn’t know that.  She gives the CFO a good look. “Why me, Tony? You got a good team for this type of thing, I don’t think I can add anything.”

Anthony grabs another datapad and projects its contents onto the vid-screen in the living room. “The team is great,” he agrees easily, scrolling down to a chart with too many numbers. Worse, Shepard understands the chart perfectly. “I typically don’t look at these types of proposals anymore, but we want to expand into supplying mercenary companies and these are some of the longest-standing groups on Earth. I don’t know what orders look like for these groups and I want to see if we can sell them something else. Reyes suggested I talk to you.” He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. “I overheard you arguing about supply scenarios during the war with one of the complex staff the other day. I think you’ll be able to read these numbers just fine.”

Damn. Shepard looks at Anthony. Anthony calmly looks back. Kinda feels a bit like a staring contest. She’ll have to ask Santi where exactly he found this guy, because he was way too quick to be here by chance. While the Panthers have their own enforcers and hitmen, most mercs running out of southern UNAS pay their respects to the Panthers these days, so she’s familiar with how they run. Pointing to the bottom portion of the chart, she starts speaking. “A good portion of the Tiburon Rojo order is mods for shotguns. They’re notorious for being stingy, so there’s no chance of upselling them up on that. But, if we look over here…” 

At some point they get hungry and order delivery. It’s strangely familiar, sitting down with someone and pouring over documents like this. Annoying as ever though, enough that Shepard pulls out a bottle of wine to cope. Anthony offers her a cigarette, which eventually turns into a pack, and with the power of wine and nicotine they manage to get through the reports and charts in another hour or so.  He leaves, yawning, and as Shepard walks him out, she decides to enjoy one last cigarette outside before trying to go to sleep. While double-checking the radiation shield (in perfect condition, but still good to check), there’s the deluded hope that a smoke will help with her whirling thoughts, but it solves almost nothing. Her mind keeps skipping between Mia, the Panthers and Garrus in a circle, just like when she would stand in front of the galaxy map and try to plot their next jump, trying to determine the best course of action. Strange to think about it all now, on the other side of a war she didn’t expect to survive. It’s weird to think that the closest friendships she made were over the course of three years facing certain death, instead of the ten-plus years she spent serving in the military. 

Despite her reputation of being a human supremacist (Torfan tends to lead people into very specific conclusions), Shepard has no particular feelings about aliens. It’s hard for all the human propaganda to work on someone who spent a few of her formative years dancing and sleeping with the supposed enemy. It’s taught Shepard that even with backup organs or talons or crests, everyone’s on the same bullshit anyways. Everyone lies, fucks and kills, though the method may vary. Although her exposure to aliens was limited to the type who visit human strip clubs on Earth, what she learned in dimly lit rooms with loud music helps her read aliens better than most humans. So, while having aliens on an Alliance vessel is unorthodox, and Alliance brass does question whether it’s safe having them on board, Shepard knows that aliens trust and betray just the same way humans do.  And maybe people can sense it, because aliens approach her at a much higher rate than other humans. A krogan joins her crew, followed by a turian and a quarian. She’s always had a soft spot for krogans, though she’d break her nose before admitting it; they’re straightforward and bloodthirsty in a way she’s always admired. The turian is just another cop in Citadel colors, while the quarian is lost in a big galaxy and trying to hide it. 

Surprisingly, they like her. A lot. Even the damn krogan, and the krogans don’t like just anybody. Maybe after a decade in the military she’s finally learned when to be professional and when to be a bitch, because almost no matter what she does, her crew supports her. Even the turian cop kid. He reminds her a lot of Nihlus, actually. The type to go rogue and do whatever it takes, though this kid tugs at the reins more than breaking them the way Nihlus did. Though she only knew the Spectre casually before he died, he commented once that Shepard’s service history reminded him a lot of himself. So, if Vakarian reminded her of Nihlus, and he claimed Shepard reminded her of him, did that mean that Vakarian reminded her of herself? Weird. It’s weirder still when the kid has this intense hero-worship thing going on. She hopes for his sake it doesn’t turn into a crush. It happened to her and it did not end well. And yeah, she’s not much older, but Garrus’s lack of ‘gritty’ life experience makes her feel old as shit. While he’s done time running around in Zakera Ward, by his age Shepard already fought her way through Torfan, coming out bloody on the other side. Also, too many people are now either disgusted or intimidated by her to bother showing any admiration, so it’s been years since she’s had to deal with trying to half-mentor someone. Of course she does a terrible job at it. Tells him to be straightforward, to not hesitate when the enemy is in his sights. Typical Shepard shit, the things that have made her infamous but powerful.

Then she dies. Not the way she expected –she always thought a fight would take her out– but if she died saving Joker, she’s fine with that. Joker’s worth it. And turns out two years pass and suddenly there’s a whole new crew and a whole new ship and a whole new threat. Tali’s distant at first but it’s Garrus who doesn’t hesitate to join up, worn down and bitter by a fight that was doomed from the start. It’s a lesson he needed to learn. The nativity and goodness are gone, or so she thinks. When he admits that maybe it was the right move to not shoot Sidonis, right when she was going to suggest a different plan, that’s when it hits her. Garrus isn’t her; he’s disillusioned with himself, but he’s not fueled by bitter anger the way Shepard is. Suggesting revenge would be changing his nature in a way that isn’t natural for him. Sure, he has a vengeful streak, but while his is a streak, Shepard’s is more of a vengeful river. She likes who Garrus is, even all fucked up and moody as he is now. She doesn’t want to push him if he’s changed his mind.

In the end, it’s his unwavering loyalty that makes Shepard soften up. Trust is something she’s always looking for and rarely gets, and to have it so whole-heartedly is, is almost overwhelming. It feels like a gift in the face of death. It’s that and the usual want for stress relief that prompts her to proposition him in mediocre jokes he’ll understand. At first it’s a night before the Omega-4 relay and a few nights after, full of the usual fun of casual sex. But then the Reapers come, and suddenly, somehow, when she isn't looking, she’s relying on him for more. There’s no future for them, she knows that the right thing to do is to end things before it becomes too much, but she’s far too selfish to give this up when she’s about to die. It’s one of the few good things left to her in this life and she’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that he makes it out alive. What’s the point of fighting and dying if the people she cares about don’t survive? 

If someone told her ten years ago she’d be all messed up over a man, and a turian at that, she would’ve laughed until she was choking. But the universe loves to fuck with her, and here she is, in her late thirties, her emotions a mess over a person who’s actually probably worth it. Years of burying and hiding her feelings with other things have done nothing to make them smaller; now that she has to face them to some extent. Worse, they’re still there, as strong as ever. And she has to find a way for them to make sense. But her life is a mess, even on a good day, and what future is there, if any, after this? Then there’s the whole thing with Mia, and shit, she still needs to message the school back about the disciplinary plan, but why the fuck should she sign off on anything if Mia was right for fucking up some kid who had the audacity to mess with her little su–

Something hits Shepard, hard, on the back of the head. Instinctively a barrier explodes around her skin, and she finds herself staring at two moons above her head. She scrambles for a gun she doesn’t have equipped. Shit, maybe she should be wearing a gun holster at all times, it’s not like anyone on the planet would care. 

“How in the damn Spirits did you get on the roof?” a voice yells at her from the ground. The roof? What roof? Oh. She is on the roof of her rental, actually. There’s a weird flat section with some small vents to the side where she’s standing. Why the roof? She vaguely remembers walking outside with Anthony, and thinking about doing… something. Then just now, she was remembering memories from her service. But that doesn’t explain how she got on the roof. Hm. This again. She doesn’t like it. Never does. Better not to say anything, especially if someone’s yelling at her. The dual-tone is enough of a giveaway that she knows it’s Garrus. Knowing that it’s a friendly, she returns to her thoughts, even though he’s saying something. On top of Mia’s disciplinary issues, Shepard’s missing Mia’s second ever guitar recital this week as well. She tried to explain it was work, it’s always work, and is suddenly struck by an old memory — she’s nine with a part in the school’s play, a singing part and she’s so excited, her mom is so excited, but then she never shows up. Mom comes home late and tells her she had work, then goes straight to sleep . Is she doing the same thing? Isn’t this all for Mia? All the late nights, the fighting? Trying to find a way for a better, normal life? There will be other recitals, other nights she can be there, hap— 

A sharp pain on her thigh interrupts her thoughts. A second small rock lands by her feet. “Are you listening?” 

She looks down and scowls at Garrus, rubbing her thigh. “Obviously not.” Blue waves shimmer over her legs and she leaps down, neatly landing on the ground about a meter away from Garrus. 

He looks impressed despite himself. “Well, that explains how you got up there. Since when can you do a biotic jump? I thought only asari could do that.”

“No, it just requires a lot of calories and a lot of control. Liara taught me. It always leaves me starving though.” A part of her wants to feel awkward, but she shakes it off. She’s still trying to get her head on straight. God, getting lost like that always makes her feel like she’s scrambling for something that doesn’t exist.

Something brown flies at her face and she manages to catch it before it flattens her nose. It’s something squishy. It’s labelled levo on the wrapper, though the second word she doesn’t know. It’s labelled levo on the wrapper, though the other word is unknown to Shepard.  “You have a black hole for a stomach yet you forget to eat.”

She unwraps the bread and takes a bite before responding. It’s a soft type of bread, almost like a sponge cake. “Nah, I’m just good at being hungry. Doesn’t mean I like it though.” Her mind feels a little funny; it’s unsettling to suddenly find herself on the roof, but she can’t allow herself to panic about it now. The bread is on the sweet side, and she forces herself to focus on that for now. “Thanks for the snacks.” 

Garrus gives her a weird look. “What were you thinking about? Kept talking to you but you wouldn’t say anything.”

She waves it off with a hand. “Nothing important.”

He’s quiet for a few moments. Shepard can tell he’s deadly curious, but it’s not something she wants to share. The longer she takes care of Mia the more she wonders if her mom was a good mom. She’s never given it this much thought before; her mom was her entire life, but Cecilia insists that there are things that Mia needs that she has to give, and whenever she points out she didn’t have that, Cecilia laughs in her face and points out how fucked up she is. And that leaves her with a lot of feelings she doesn’t want. 

Well, she can look at those feelings later. Right now she’s got someone else to deal with. “What’s up with you showing up ran– whoa, what the fuck happened to your face?” Now that she gets a good look at his face, there’s a bright blue streak right below his eye, slashing across his nose. The wound doesn’t look too deep, and it just missed the base of his mandible. “Wait here,” she orders, nodding at one of the patio chairs nearby. As she walks inside the rental, she wolfs down the rest of the bread, then opens some of the front windows to air out the house. She’s a little nose-blind after smoking, but if she can still smell the faint cigarette smoke, Garrus definitely can. No point in making him suffer inside. After grabbing two drinks and a medi-gel pack, she heads back outside. He’s doing something on his omni-tool, but the display blinks out once she nears the table. With her usual casual demeanor, Shepard opens the medi-gel pack and starts prepping the gel. “So, big guy? What kinda sniper lets a body get so close he gets slashed in the face? That’s usually my move.”

“Slavers out in the Silean Nebula,” he tells her casually as she nudges his head to the side for a better angle. He seems almost… nervous, to be talking to her. It reminds her of where they last left off their conversation. Of course she’s thought about it, she just was thinking about it, and what it meant, and what it means for them, but she’s sure as hell not gonna be the one to talk about it first.  “A team of us have been tracking them for months, and we finally got a hit. Took out the operation, but someone got the jump on me and left me this gift.”

Shepard rolls her eyes. That’s exactly how he would describe an ambush. Pulling out the applicator from the pack, she starts carefully applying the gel onto the injury. She refuses to look at him head on right now —there’s a lot of questions answered but none of them about what to do after— that it takes a few moments for her to register the slight tug on her head. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Garrus try to curl a strand of hair around his talon. “What’s up with you and my hair?” she asks as she double-checks her work. He pauses for a moment and says something that her translator doesn’t pick up. “Say that again?”

“... It’s just… weird.”

“Yeah, we covered that the first time we had dinner together.”

He slowly pulls the curl, stretching it out as far as it can, then lets it go, watching as the curl bounces back to its original state. “How does it do that? Why is it so long but short at the same time?”

“Genetics, evolution, I don’t know. My mom had the same hair though. Not super common on Earth but you’ll still see it.” Hm, there’s another slash at his temple. She applies some more gel there, and for a moment she’s reminded of the Normandy, of a dozen battles where they all haphazardly applied medi-gel to battle wounds. Her more than him, really–the side effect of being a front-line fighter. Garrus hisses once but doesn’t move. Once she’s finished, she uses the back of her hand against his face to examine her work and make sure there’s nothing else she missed.

Instead of saying anything, he closes his eyes and nuzzles against her hand. It catches her by surprise. A sudden rush of affection threatens to overwhelm her; she bites her tongue before she says something dumb. She gently caresses the side of his face, a motion that’s familiar from years ago. “So, what brought you here before you bothered to take care of your own injuries?”

“I wanted to see you,” he admits, opening his eyes. The straightforward honesty is unexpected, but sweet. Garrus straightens up a little reluctantly, drawing away from her hand. “I know you said you needed time,” he starts a little nervously, “but, I just wanted to talk and see, well, see how you felt. Or what you were thinking.”

Shepard leans against the table, crossing her arms and tilting her head towards the sky. It’s a little easier to pull out the most important thoughts when she’s not looking at him. The night sky’s clear, the two moons in some moon phase she can’t remember the name of. The stars are bright tonight, and there’s a familiar pattern visible tonight. She speaks without really thinking about what she’s saying. “Livia and Ancus are out hunting a vasilix.”

There’s a surprised humming sound and Garrus goes, “What?”

Sketching out the shapes with a finger, she repeats herself. “Livia and Ancus, hunting a vasilix to present as payment to one of the titans. ‘ Twins, a girl and a boy. The girl is strong and courageous, and her brother is reserved and sweet. The two of them are always together, and as the years go by, their eyes are drawn to the tops of Mount Kaalika and their hearts to the silver plains of the Morix Baeti , where the greatest warriors test their minds and their emotions, ’” she quotes with an easy confidence. It’s a few lines from one of the first stories Garrus told her about Palaven constellations. “Isn’t that what you taught me?” Shepard risks a glance, and he has his head tilted towards the sky. She watches quietly as his eyes flicker across the constellations, then settle on her. The darkness dulls the brightness of his blue eyes some, but there’s still enough light that they can see each other well enough.  

For a few moments, all they can hear is the luscinix chirping their weird layered birdsong. “I didn’t think you remembered,” Garrus says in a quiet voice.

“Of course I remember,” she huffs, shifting so she’s facing him. Why is he so surprised? “It helped me a lot. I would repeat those stories in my head when my brain wouldn’t stop. I still do, once in a while. I told you at the temple I liked learning old myths.” Her omni-tool beeps –a reminder about Mia’s school– but she ignores it. 

“You never said anything, Shep– ow!”

She interrupts him by flicking his forehead. He’s making a fuss over nothing. “Oh shut up, I know that didn’t hurt. I told you don’t call me that outside. And what, you expect me to say every single thought I have?”

“I’m not fully convinced you have any thoughts.”

“Bold words coming from someone who got so drunk he almost drowned in a hot tub.”

“... Wrex said he wouldn’t tell you.”

“He didn’t, you just did. I just suspected.”

“You’ve been holding onto that for four years?”

“I’ve been holding onto a lot of things for four years.” Huh, that’s oddly more truthful than she expected. It’s apt, though. There’s a lot of things that have been swirling inside of her, both good and bad. This one though, this one she has a good feeling about. 

Garrus leans forward and rests his arms on the patio table. At some point when she wasn’t looking he took off his visor. Somehow things feel more… raw, between them like this. She’s always thought he used it as a type of shield, but maybe that worked both ways. “Like what?” he asks, silently drumming his fingers on the table. He’s nervous.

Shepard tilts her head back towards the sky, looking at the constellation that is supposed to be Livia lighting a torch. Strong and courageous . That’s what she needed to be, strong and courageous. She’s searching for the words to tell him, but she’s never been good with her words when it comes to things like this. 

Apparently she’s quiet for long enough that it sets him on edge. Garrus starts saying, “Sorry, maybe I shouldn't hav–” Why did he always insist on talking things out? Now he’s just being annoying. She interrupts him again by leaning down and swiftly pressing a kiss to his mouth. It’s just easier than explaining how she feels. 

Garrus jerks back a little but before she can think about if this is a mistake, he grabs her by the arms and tugs her into his lap. She follows, and soon enough he’s kissing her deeply, in the way they figured out years ago. It’s slow, and deliberate, and something about the way he’s holding her makes her feel adored. Safe. She can’t remember the last time she’s been kissed like this, with care and tenderness; her body relaxes on its own, her mind goes blissfully blank, and for once she’s focused on the present. It feels surreal that this is happening, a kiss on a planet she thought she would never be able to visit. 

After they break the kiss, and while Shepard’s slightly out of breath, she manages to say, “Well, I definitely don’t have any thoughts after that.”

Garrus chuckles, though it’s more of a subvocal sound than an actual laugh. “It was your idea.”

“And I stand by it,” she responds firmly. Her omni-tool beeps again, and it reminds her that there are a few things they need to talk about. “I do need to tell you some things, though.” He leans back a little, looking extremely anxious and worried all of a sudden. “Oh, no, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” she soothes him as she presses her forehead to his. The motion relaxes him and eases some of the tension in the air. “I had time to think. I don’t know what will happen in the future, but I’m willing to try for… us if you are, too.”  She pulls back to see him better and holds his hands in her lap. He looks wary, though after all they’ve been through, it’d be unfair to blame him for that. “I don’t know what it’ll be like but… we can figure it out together. How does that sound?” He nods. 

Well. There’s at least that, but there’s also the most important thing: her niece. “Also, you know that Mia is a big part of my life now. I’m not saying you have to… take responsibility or anything at all like that, but know that if we… we… well, that she’s something you might have to think about in the future. I will not leave her on her own,” she ends, a little fiercer than she intends. It’s still far off and it’s hard to tell these days what shape the future will take, but the one thing she does know is that Mia will be with her. No matter what. No matter the cost. Even if that means she has to pick Mia over others, she will. It would hurt. But she would do it. 

Garrus bumps her forehead. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Although, I have no idea if she likes me or not.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, she adores you.”

He looks at her, surprised. “Really?”

Shepard scoffs. “What, you think I don’t know Santiago’s been sending you messages for her? He’s a pushover for Mia, can’t say no to her.”

His mandibles flicker in amusement. “I thought Mia just bullied him into doing whatever she wanted.”

“That’s true too.” Almost on cue, her omnitool flickers again with another message from Mia’s school. She resists the urge to frown, but something must give her away because he tugs her in closer and rubs her back for a few moments.

“Is something wrong?”

Shifting her body a little, she lightly rests her forehead on his shoulder. The movement is familiar to them both; she used to do this when she needed a moment to think but didn’t want to admit it. He smells like how she remembers: a strange alien scent that she associates with turians and chissa –the fragrance of a Palaven plant– he often uses for his clothes and in his body care. It’s comforting in a way few things are, and she lets out a small sigh. “Mia’s school is asking some questions. Nothing out of the normal, but I need to respond to them soon.” He keeps slowly rubbing her back, letting the silence hang between them for a while. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable; she just needs a little bit of quiet, and peace, and he’s letting her have that. The luscinix continue their constant singing.

Garrus breaks the silence after a few minutes. “So…” he says lightly, “does that mean you’re free during the hamatidrok this weekend?”

Really? That’s how he’s broaching the topic? The question makes her laugh softly, though she doesn’t move from her position. “Mhm. Depends who’s asking.”

“I know this handsome turian sniper who might be interested. He might even have a new scar for the occasion.”

Still, it makes her smile. She straightens up and meets his eyes. The cut’s shallow enough that it’s already healing with the medi-gel, but Garrus looks more relaxed than she’s seen him since they first met on Earth. “Really? I didn’t know turians liked humans like that.”

He runs a talon down her lower spine, and it takes all her willpower to resist the urge to twitch. “He’s made an exception.”

“Wow, I feel honored,” she deadpans. “Let him know that I’ll have to be with the Jaguar team at the beginning, but I’m free the rest of the evening.” 

“I’ll pass on the message. Also, he mi– Spirits, will you ever learn to mute your omni-tool?”

“I know how to mute it! How am I supposed to know if I have a notification if it’s off all the time?”

“I remember at least three times where you gave away your position because you forgot to mute it.”

“Merc groups don’t count, they’re basically live target practice.”

They bicker for a bit more, but now that things between the two of them are more or less settled, her mind starts whirling back to her other problems. She suspects Garrus can tell her mind is drifting off elsewhere, because after another half hour he starts to get up to leave. He leaves the bag he brought with her, informing her there’s some more levo pastries inside. There’s another slow, slightly more sensuous kiss that threatens to take over her higher functions, but he just chuckles quietly and presses their foreheads together before he leaves. It’s a little overwhelming, a little daunting. Right after finding Ceci and Santi alive, and Mia, it’s one of the best things that’s happened to her after the war. It’s the possibility of a future she never even let herself consider. She doesn’t know where it’ll go, or whether he’ll even stick around if –when– he sees how wrapped up she’s in Panther business, but she’s too damn selfish to tell him right now. Whatever time she can get with him, she’ll take it.

Chapter Text

“500 credits on that orange-looking thing.”

“Be careful with your credits Garcia,” Shepard warns him absent-mindedly. The hamatidrok is a combination of racing games and festival rolled into one, and Garcia is running up a tab on bets. She just hopes it won’t bite him in the ass. Today’s event is much more casual; there’s only an official mixer for about two hours and everyone is encouraged to come and go as they please. It’s probably just some sort of hosting obligation than real summit business, but it’s nice to be outside like this. The race track is brightly lit, and the crowds spill in and out of the track to the nearby streets. The races are run with chariots – the closest word her translator can give her anyways– that are weird one-person vehicles with three wheels. Competitors try to knock each other out using a wide variety of tools and weapons, with money prizes for the top winners. It’s a lively atmosphere with music, food and drinks everywhere she looks. There are more important things on her mind. 

“Have you seen Petrov anywhere?” asks Anthony in a low voice as he hands her a wine glass.

She struggles to keep her voice down. “No! The bastard has been avoiding me since the heatsinks contract went through.” Maybe she’s taking this a little more personal than she should, consi–

“Interesting, considering he asked you out to dinner three days before that.”

She resists the urge to gawp at Anthony. “You heard that?”

“I think the entire hallway did. He wasn’t subtle.” 

God, did that mean everyone knew? And now he’s nowhere to be seen. Not that she planned on going out with him, but he could at least show his face around here. The only concession she allows herself to show her frustration is pinching her nose. “Alright,” Shepard sighs. “Hopefully he’s around here somewhere, the official mixer is coming to an end. If not, well, we’ll deal with that later. Let’s go in opposite directions and we’ll message.” Anthony nods, and they split up to go look for Petrov, leaving Garcia with his bets.

Recognizing a group of humans nearby, she walks up to them and greets them with a polite smile. Most of them are from Ariake Technologies, and she strikes up a silly conversation about the best way to die on a racetrack with one of the male researchers, who’s brave enough to directly compliment her on her spinal tattoo. The night’s look is simple compared to other times; it’s a dark orange loose top and skirt with a high slit on the left that’s only really visible if she’s walking quickly. Her hair’s pinned up in a high bun with a few loose curls. It’s depressing how boring galactic fashion has become after the war. Just her type of luck, that once she’s finally free to wear whatever she wants it’s during some of the most uninteresting fashion anyone has seen in decades. 

More importantly, the researcher is a dead end. No one in the group has seen Petrov. Shepard wants to scream. It’s not essential for them to have that information, but even the vaguest hint would be a help. Rosenkov is the first human group to have finally signed a contract with the military and having an idea of numbers and budget would help their own negotiations. She wouldn’t be surprised if there were other people looking for him for the same reason. In fact, it would make sense that he wouldn’t show up for that reason. That fucking coward.

Shepard’s in the midst of talking with some asari from Armali Council when she feels her omni-tool vibrate. After politely excusing herself from the group, she walks up to the edge of the viewing platform to discreetly check her messages.

Her most recent message is from Anthony.

AR: Nothing here. 

XC: Asked around and no one’s seen anyone from the Rosenkov team

AR: Likewise. I think they decided to skip this one

XC: I hope the Hierarchy is offended, that’ll help us

AR: We’ll see. I’ll keep you posted

XC: Sounds good

In better, less frustrating news, her next message is from Garrus from about half an hour ago. Oops. Missed that while talking to the researcher .

GV: Where are you?

XC: viewing platform, orange dress

She presses the rim of her glass to her lips, deep in thought as she stares down at the racetrack. What does Rosenkov have that we don’t? Longer legitimacy, but they have less factories than we do, and in our testing the heatsinks were of equal quality . Something was strange, she was no weapons expert (or maybe she was, at this point), but it didn’t seem normal for the company to sign up so quickly. What was she missing? Maybe they needed to get together and talk to Santiago, discuss their options…

Still deep in thought, she hears some footsteps and feels a familiar hand brush her lower back and settle there. Shepard presses the rim of her glass to her lips with more pressure, not looking up from the racetrack.

Garrus greets her with, “So, do you come here often?”

Terrible line. He needs more practice. “Would the Hierarchy take insult if a guest doesn’t show up to a sponsored event?”

He makes a confused noise but answers her anyway. “They won’t take it as a slight, but it doesn't reflect well on the guest’s honor if they didn’t show up without letting the host know first.”

She gnaws on the rim of her glass, then lets out a small exhale through her nose and lowers it. “Well, let's hope that’s enough.” Lifting her gaze from the racetrack, she turns and gives him a bright smile. There’s genuine joy in her smile; now that there’s some clarity between them, she’s determined to enjoy whatever time they have.  “And hello, sorry for the late response. I’ve been… busy,” she ends with a frown.

“Is something wrong?”

Shepard inches a little closer to him, lowering her voice. “One of the Earth companies signed with the military this week, Rosenkov Materials. They took over a heatsink contract we were aiming for, and we don’t know how they did it. I’ve been looking for Petrov, one of their staff, but he’s conveniently disappeared.”

His mandibles flicker out once. “Isn’t he the human male who asked you out to dinner?” he asks casually.

She stares at him. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a Spectre, I have my sources.”

“No, really.” There’s no way regular turians cared about human nonsense.

“... Solana told me. She was in the hallway when he asked. Said it was pretty public. And you told him you’d think about it.”

Shepard crosses her arms and turns to face him fully, causing him to drop his hand from her back. “And why on Earth would Solana tell you that?”

He shifts, looking a little flustered. “She… ah… suspects.”

“Suspects what, exactly? And why?” she presses.

“I may have… said something with my subvocals when you met her. Gave myself away. About us, I mean.”

“So she thinks… what, that we’re involved or something?”

“...Something like that.”

“Hm.” Uncrossing her arms, she takes a sip of her drink. “We’ll have to deal with that eventually, you know. She’s going to realize at some point. But, no point in worrying about it now.”

His voice takes on an amused tone. “All you do is worry.”

“Well, I’ve decided not to worry tonight.” Checking her omnitool, she adds, “The mixer’s officially over, I can’t find Petrov, and I’m off the clock now.” She heads towards the nearest exit, and turns around when Garrus doesn’t follow. “Well? Aren’t you going to show me around? I haven’t been outside the track, you know, and one of the women from Ariake Tech told me there was some levo street food to die for.”

“... Yeah. Yeah,” he starts, shaking himself out of his thoughts. He grabs her glass and leaves it on a nearby table as he offers his arm. She takes his arm as he tells her, “First it’s a man asking you to dinner, then a woman from Ariake Tech. Just how much competition do I have?”

“You have to stay sharp somehow,” she teases. “But I turned the dinner down the next day, just not in public, I’m not an idiot. I still can’t believe he thought that was a good idea.” 

The streets outside the racetrack are packed with people; there’s food stalls everywhere, along with different street performers and booths cramming the sidewalks. People are rushing in and out of nearby storefronts, and it’s an energetic, joyful atmosphere. She’s pretty sure she can see some kids’ amusement rides in the distance. They’re not even the only interspecies couple– she can see a few asari-turians, and even a turian-quarian couple as well. It’s so crowded in this part of town that no one gives them a second look. All the events so far have been much livelier than Shepard expected. “You’re all so serious about duty that you make the rest of us forget you’re capable of having fun.”

Garrus laughs at that. “There are few regulations when it comes to our personal lives. I think all the public events are a way to let us blow off steam from our citizen duties. Hamatidroks don’t get too rowdy because they’re common, but some of the annual events can get pretty chaotic.”

Ever on the lookout for sweet things to eat, she spots a levo-drink stand and tugs him in that direction. “Look! Isn’t that the fruit drink you like? They have a levo version, I've been dying to try it.”

Shepard has to admit, she’s fascinated. It’s similar but different to the events held on Earth. There’s entertainment, sure, but the music has a weird, multi-layered droning element that fills her head with a weird buzzing. Maybe turian music just isn’t for someone with a limited hearing range. The artists on the streets draw in different styles, focusing on mandibles and crests. The food is only familiar because of what she’s seen on the Citadel and during the last few weeks of Palaven. She hasn’t been to many events like these outside of Earth or what’s held on the Citadel, and she’s very intrigued by all the differences.

The first half-hour of walking around, it’s mostly Shepard updating him on the summit talks, and some minor updates on her personal life. She’s refuting Mia's disciplinary plan (of course) and looks like she’s winning. It’s nice, walking around like this, with no real plan, or purpose, or urgency. A luxury they’ve never had. An actual date. Downtown Cipritine is loud and colorful tonight, and with the music and distant crackle of chariots, it’s a strange, musical tapestry tonight. This is when she notices that Garrus seems a little twitchier than usual. Maybe they should stick to the quieter areas, if the sounds are bugging him. There’s a little seating area tucked into a quieter, less active part of the events that she suggests they sit at, claiming that her shoes are hurting her feet. He politely guides her into her seat and as he does so, his hand briefly brushes against her bare skin on her lower back. She takes her seat but gives Garrus a suspicious look. He just tilts his head at her in a question. Hmph. He does it again when they walk off to see a musician. Every time he touches her it feels like a static shock, like pulling blankets out of the dryer and feeling the static run across her hands. Now he’s just playing with her, she thinks, testing the water to see how she’ll react. Two can play at that game. She adjusts his collar for an excuse to bring their faces closer, and she uses the chance to look up at him through her lashes with a small, flirtatious smile. They look at each other for a few seconds; Shepard thinks Garrus looks a little shell-shocked if anything, but a loud booming sound reminds them that they’re still in public and for all the Hierarchy preaches about private rights, that doesn’t extend to public, off-duty events.

It’s only a matter of time after that. As much as Shepard would like to explore, she knows they’re not going to stay here for much longer. His mind is clearly somewhere else; he’s brushing her upper back more often, lightly rubbing her shoulder to get her attention if she focuses too long on a new food, or a piece of art she’s never seen. As much as she’d love to tease him back, she doesn’t know what’s acceptable or not when it comes to public affection here, so she keeps her hands to herself. The tension slowly builds with a growing sense of urgency, and she’s starting to get a little worried they’re not going to make it to somewhere private.

As she’s staring at the ceiling of Garrus’s apartment in downtown Cipritine, she wonders, How did I end up on the dining room table? This is what this is, right? But then he nips her shoulder and she decides to worry about it later. 

“Spirits, get this off,” he grumbles, tugging at her top. She laughs and lifts her hands to undo the small buttons on her neck. Out of all things, she feels like her body is threatening to burst out in giggles any second. It sounds stupid, and sure feels stupid, but it’s true. After all, she never expected to get this far, and the promise of sex is nice –fantastic, really, exactly what the doctor ordered– but beyond that she feels… happy. It’s that feeling that catches her off guard. He’s here, they’re here, and there’s no end-of-the-world threat hanging above them, where any notification meant thousands of people are about to die or did die. In fact, she mutes her omnitool, shakes it off and flings it over her shoulder as her top slides down her chest. There’s a loud clanking sound as it hits something.

“I have antiques in here,” he murmurs into her neck. One of his mandibles scrapes her jaw and it makes her twitch.

“Send me the bill then,” she snaps as she pulls the top over her head. Garrus graciously backs away for one second, but the moment the offensive article of clothing is off he’s back at nipping at her shoulder. It feels like soft prin-pricks on her skin, like touching the tip of a thorn to see if it’s really sharp.

He drags a talon down her spine –there’s no cloth-like feeling, so he must’ve taken his gloves off at some point, oh, there’s one somewhere on the floor behind him– as he slowly licks a collarbone. “Maybe I will.”

She shifts her left leg through the slit and wraps it around his upper thigh, using it to tug him flush to her. The apartment itself is quiet, with only the faint hum of electronics. The festival’s still in full swing, but the noise is faint and little more than background noise. Between the warmth of the apartment and her own body heat, her skirt is starting to stick to her skin. She’s desperate to take it off, but she’s holding out hope she won’t be the one to do it.

He looks down at her leg and touches one of the intertwined tattoos that run up her left leg. “This is a snake, right?” He’s tracing up past her knee, up her thigh, past the slit in her skirt. He starts tracing aimless, gentle little circles into her skin.

“Cobras,” she answers, her voice a little shaky. 

“Hmm. What do they do?” he asks nonchalantly, then leans in and bites her neck gently. She likes bites as much as the next girl (maybe more), but she’s never really let him do it. Too much time with too many people examining her body, and there were things that she wanted to keep to herself. That’s not a concern now, so she lets him do as he pleases. Plus, it feels good. Great, even, lights up her nerves in a way few things do these days.

Another small nip has her gasping and clutching at his shirt. “Garrus Vakarian, I am not going to explain what a cobra is while your hands are up my skirt. Look it up on the extranet.” 

“I have one hand up your skirt,” he corrects her. The other hand is tracing her spine. “And I’m busy, I can’t look it up.” He punctuates this with a lick to her collarbone. Turians and bones , she thinks, amused. 

Giddy. That’s the word she’s looking for. She’s so happy that she’s starting to feel a little lightheaded, but maybe that’s the hormones talking. It just feels… surreal, everything feels surreal in the best way, and there’s something about the warm air and the faint noise and the dim light that gives everything a blurry, dreamy quality. Already this is new territory; slower than they’ve ever gone, mostly at her insistence. And the war had a way to prove her right; a new concern, a new battle, another planet lost every day, every hour. The fear of Reapers taking everyone she loved from Earth was a constant pressure she never could completely let go of. Time was limited, then. Now it felt like time was endless, and some days she didn’t know what to do with all of it.

This is certainly one of the best uses of it, though. Garrus is slowly making his way down her chest with his tongue and teeth. gently nips the top of her right breast, making her arch into his mouth. He hums, pleased, and she wraps a hand around the base of his neck and digs her nails in, turning the hum into a sort of growl that rewards her with a long, laguid lick over a nipple that has her gasping in pleasure. However, he seems in no rush of anything, though with the hand up her skirt he tugs at her underwear. She braces her hands on the table and lifts her hips off the table to help. Why is he still wearing clothes? She pulls at a handful of clasps holding the shirt together, and eventually it slithers down to the ground in one piece. Huh. Looked like it was draped and pinned together, but before she gets too caught up alien clothing Garrus is slowly starting to kneel. She inhales sharply out of mild surprise and excitement; all those very nasty, vivid dreams (and some memories) of the last few years are starting to come back, and it’s only making her more pent-up and sensitive.

But, there’s a tiny, anxious thought that’s growing in her brain that she knows she’s going to need to address; she’s usually too drunk to care, or it’s a one-night stand and they’re more interested in getting to the important parts. Or both. But this isn’t either and if she wants this to be real, she needs to start talking.

“... my leg,” she mutters quietly. Garrus just makes a humming sound as he tugs her legs open a little wider.

She sighs and tilts her head back, staring at the ceiling. “My leg, Garrus,” she repeats, louder this time.

He stops completely, and looks up at her with concern. Oh, the table was a great idea. She adores this view of him, and she can feel herself clenching over absolutely nothing.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, worried.

“What? Do I look hurt? Of course not.” Was he being dense on purpose? Better to just get it over with. She exhales through her nose. Maybe she should’ve thought about this beforehand. Or talked to him about it. My fake leg is connected to my nervous system, so I can feel touch, temperature, things like that. But it’s made out of some sort of metal, so it’s not soft and won’t give under pressure. Won’t absorb liquids, either. But the rest of my thigh is pretty much normal human leg.”

His shoulders relax. A bored “oh,” is all he says as he tugs her closer to the edge of the table.

“Oh? What do you mean, oh?” she asks sharply as he manages to unclasp her skirt.

He stops ( why?? ) and places his hands over her hips, rubbing little circles over where can feel her hipbones.  He lightly rests his chin on top of her knee, holding her gaze with a serious look. 

“Athena,” he starts softly, and hearing him call her name like this feels like someone’s calling up the ghost of a past life, someone she’s forgotten to remember, who deserves to be acknowledged and seen, “you approached me after I took a rocket to the face. A little metal isn’t going to bother me.”

That’s true, but that’s also different from entirely missing a limb. Besides, his scarred nicely. She’s half-robot. “It’s more than a little metal,” Shepard insists. 

“I thought you said you weren’t going to worry tonight.”

She rolls her eyes. It’s one thing to talk about war wounds being a defiance of death, and another to have sex with it. “I’m not worried, I’m being realistic.” She shifts her hips up again and tosses her skirt to the side. Her prosthetic is an exact match for her skin color, and from far away not very noticeable but up close like this, it’s easy to see it’s made out of synthetic material. There’s a thin layer of silicone that covers her leg, but it doesn’t dimple and move like skin does. “See? It doesn’t look like skin.” She pokes the leg and the skin barely moves. Garrus runs the tip of a talon down the side of her leg, and the motion makes her twitch.

“Reacts like skin,” he says simply. She looks down at her own legs, and the tiny, discrete line between her real skin and prosthetic makes her desperately miss her leg.  Sure, there’s a lot of neat tricks hidden inside her prosthetic, but it’s still just a bunch of mental. And maybe it’s vanity but at least before she was still organic and human, and when she got shot she would bleed instead of exposed wires–

Garrus makes a strange noise and he suddenly bites her inner thigh, hard . It’s painful enough that it makes her hiss, but it effectively reminds her that before she got stuck in her head, they were at the start of something very, very promising. The anticipation and excitement is running under her skin now, and suddenly a prosthetic leg is the last of her concerns. “You bit me!” she gasps indignantly, though she ends up laughing.

“You’re worrying over nothing,” he offers as explanation, though he gently rubs the bite. “Relax,” he adds in a much softer voice. “You deserve it.”

He’s… not wrong. There’s only been two nights where she’s really, truly let herself go with him: the night before the Omega relay and the night before the Battle of London. Both situations where she thought she was going to die and might as well die having lived. As much as she enjoys sex she’s always exerting exacting control over her own body, and she’s rarely let her guard down with anyone. Old habits die hard, maybe. 

She bites her lip and nods, caressing the side of his face. He’s always looking out for her, isn’t he? “I will.”

“Good,” he replies simply, following up with a long lick of her inner thigh that makes her twitch. “Lie down.”

“Why? Maybe I like seeing you between my legs. Not everyone can say tha–oh!” He softly licks her as he holds her thighs apart, and the pleasurable sensation flares across her body. Oh. Maybe she should lie down. He repeats the motion, a firmer swipe this time, and she almost immediately relents, lying down on the table. Yeah, maybe sitting up takes too much effort. 

“I told you, you never could sit,” she hears him say smugly, followed by another nip to her inner thigh. Shepard bucks slightly; he shifts his grip so he’s holding her hips down.

“I could crush your head between my thighs, you overgrown lizard,” she threatens, but it comes out mixed with gasps and sighs as he swirls his tongue around. That familiar pressure is coiling with every languid movement, building and building and building. It’s far more intense than usual, and she knows it’s the anticipation and memory and emotions and feelings mixed in. 

He chuckles and his subvocals do something funny. “Hm, maybe next time.” Oh, her head is getting fuzzy, it’s getting hard to think. Her first instinct is to try and get a hold of herself before she gets too caught up, but she’s supposed to relax, isn’t she? So she stops trying to get her thoughts in order, which her brain happily complies with.

Maybe something in her body changes, because soon after she decides that he slowly slides a finger inside her, a familiar-but-alien sensation she hasn’t felt in a long time, not like this. She can feel her orgasm building up again. It leaves her scrambling for something to grab onto; she grips his wrist with one hand and the edge of the table with the other as her breathing slowly picks up. 

“Oh, fuck, fuck , please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Instead he slows down and drags out these small circles around her clit, and it makes her want to scream . He’s teasing her and it’s the best threat and the worst feeling at the same time. She manages to sit up but Garrus ignores her, pushing her legs wider apart. 

Shepard lightly grasps the edge of his fringe. “Up,” she orders. The only acknowledgement is another thrust of his finger and a nip on her inner thigh. She stifles a small gasp and digs a nail under his fringe, causing him to hiss. “I said, up.” He removes his finger and she clenches on nothing for a second, but the anticipation is building in her mind and in her body and she knows it’ll be worth it. 

He tries to slowly trail his way up her body as he stands, but she’s running out of patience and she desperately needs something inside her within the next minute. Nothing’s real beyond this and them and here.

She pulls at his waistband as she leans up to run to her tongue the edge of a mandible. By what she can feel, he’s already half-out his plates. “See? Now you’re in a good position to fuck me, so why don’t we try that instead?” There’s the dull prick of talons at her waist at her words, and he pushes her legs wider. Shepard’s quick to unclasp his pants, though she doesn’t do anything beyond admire him for a few seconds before he’s slowly pushing himself inside her.

Oh , she thinks faintly, I forgot about the ridges. Damn these turians. She hasn’t felt this in years (the blackout fuck doesn’t count, in her opinion) and it’s an instant reminder that yes, turians are very much built differently. Not better, necessarily, just different. It’s a very delicious feeling, and more than anything, there’s a certain type of satisfaction that comes with this finally, finally happening. Not that it’s been haunting her for months or anything.

“Oh, fuck ,” she whispers once he’s fully inside her. She doesn’t mean for him to hear it, but of course he does anyway.

“I thought that was the point,” he responds casually. There’s a faint vibration she can feel from his chest, though there’s no distinct subvocal sound she can pick up.

The short pause allows her brain to reform enough to be a little annoyed at him. She smacks his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, it will be once you start moving.” Just to prove her point, or maybe to get some of her energy out, she bites the edge of his cowl. There’s a small hiss and his hands dig into her waist, but he lets out a small laugh and listens to her anyways. She expects him to go fast, like they used to, like she wants to right now, but instead he goes so, so slow. Again . It’s a slow, almost lazy push and pull, one that forces her to think only of the sensations happening around her. The scrape of his talons, the occasional nip on her shoulder, the feeling of the ridges inside her. It’s a very specific, wonderful type of bliss, that as time goes continues the special type of torture from earlier. 

“--lease, please go faster, I’m going insane,” she finds herself blubbering, desperate to find a way to convince him to pick up the pace. She could probably do something herself, but her brain’s turning into mush and it’s becoming impossible to control her mouth, much less her thoughts.

His slow, steady speed falters a little at her words and Shepard, like always, is excellent at detecting weaknesses. “Please Garrus,” she gasps at his next thrust, digging her nails just a little at his waist, “please, just a little faster, a little, that’s all I’m asking, please, I’m so close, please .” She’s borderline about to scream with frustration (again!) but she can’t let him know that. Somehow he knows, because for some ungodly reason he goes even slower. A high-pitched whine escapes her throat and suddenly he stops. Shepard thinks she really might end up screaming any second.

“What was that?” he asks, sounding mildly alarmed.

“What was what, Vakarian?” she snaps, annoyed and incredibly pent-up.

“That noise you made.”

She blushes out of embarrassment. Was that why he stopped? She can’t remember ever whining (or begging) before. It’s not like they had the luxury to go slow, though, or he would’ve found this out sooner. Well, too late now to save face. “The whine ? The whine because you’re going so goddamn slow?”

“Oh. Is that what a human whine sounds like?”

“Garrus. If you don’t finish fucking me first, I’ll make sure you never hear it again.”

He laughs –though it’s more of a rumble than anything– and nuzzles her neck. “Don’t do that, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” The tenderness is sweet, but then he bites her shoulder again, making her twitch. He slowly starts picking up speed, damn-fucking-finally, presses a knuckle against her clit, and soon they’re at that fast past she so desperately wanted.

“Ah! Yes, there, there , oh god I missed this, you always know how to fuck me, oh fuck,” she gasps, and she’s making all types of noises now, digging her nails into his shoulders and wrapping her legs around his hips. One more thrust and she knows she’s right at the edge she was at earlier, and if he stops right now again she swears she’s going to break his spur—

He moves a hand from her waist into her hair. His eyes are dilated from lust, and noticing it gives her an intense, smug satisfaction. “Let go,” he breathes into her ear. 

She comes almost at once; it rushes through her body at once and she feels him growl in response. He continues thrusting through it, though his steady speed begins to stutter. By the time she’s dealing with the little aftershocks, she feels him twitch and start to swell slightly. Soon enough he follows.

Shepard falls back on the table and she’s taking large, gasping breaths, her body is still trembling with the aftershocks. It takes a while for reality to sink in, but the cold table helps a little with her warm skin. The first real thought she has makes her bite her lip, trying not to smile. It’s so fucking stupid and silly but it makes her want to laugh anyways.

Garrus is braced on his hands above her, tugs at her lip. She can see there’s a little bit of worry in his eyes, so she gives up and laughs like an idiot. “We didn’t make it to the bed!” she splutters between laughs. 

He looks stunned for a few moments as he looks down at her, mandibles fluttering slightly, but then he laughs and presses his forehead to hers. “No, we didn’t,” he agrees, his voice low but satisfied. “But I think we will eventually.”

It’s easy, being with him. It’s easy and happy and it’s fun, it always has been, with the teasing and the joking and the awkward moments of tenderness. And to be able to have that here, now, without death looming over them, alive, is intoxicating. It is honesty and trust infused with sincerity and joy and she knows it’s something that she’ll have with no one else, no matter how many times she’s tried to find it somewhere else, or lie to herself about it. It’s being known and respected and adored, but she can’t say all that without sounding absolutely insane and so she laughs again and kisses him, hoping he’ll understand without words.

As she slowly wakes up, she realizes a few things. One, she’s not alone. In fact, she’s in a very big, turian-style bed. She only knows what they look like because Garrus complained about her bed on the Normandy and showed her a picture on the extranet. It’s not too different from human beds, just rounder and softer and more curved. Well, maybe a lot different, but it’s still very comfortable for a human. Two, it’s pitch black and she has no idea what time it is. Out of habit she flicks her wrist to check her omnitool, but when nothing pops up she remembers it’s somewhere in the dining area. Probably.

Before Shepard has a chance to move, Garrus is pulling her back towards him and nuzzling her neck. “Go back to sleep.”

“Be careful, or my hair is going to get tangled in your mandibles. And I’m not sleepy.”

“Mhmm. Just don’t get up, then.”

“Why is it so dark? It’s almost noon.”

“I can’t open the windows or you’ll be exposed to the sun’s radiation.”

At that she gasps and sits up. “I don’t have my suit! How am I supposed to get back?”

He’s tracing the edge of her tattoo on her hip, where there's one of the cobra heads with its fangs exposed. “You could just stay here until evening,” he suggests a little too casually. “I mean, I don’t know if you have anything else planned today, I don’t want to assume…”

  Shepard stretches before lying back down in the bed. “Well, I was planning on spending the weekend with you, and I am assuming,” she turns and smiles at him, “so it’s fine by me. We just won’t be able to go outside until evening. But I do have to call Mia later.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can find a few ways to stay busy.” His voice sounds exactly like a purr.

She laughs and she’s so impossibly happy that it feels almost like a dream. They stay in bed for a while longer but then Garrus gets some sort of call. By his expression she can tell he’s conflicted about answering in front of her, so she presses a kiss to his temple and leaves the bedroom, grabbing a loose bed sheet on the way out. No hard feelings on her end; there’s plenty of calls she’d refused to take in front of him, and it gives her a chance to explore the apartment. They were far too busy trying to undress each other that she hasn’t looked around the place at all. 

In her opinion, the place is fucking luxurious. It reminds her a lot of Anderson’s apartment, just without the loft. There’s big windows that go from the ground to the ceiling (with the weird external shutters closed because of her), and it’s very spacious. It reminds her of all the wealthy people she’s ever slept with and how she used to dream of having an apartment just like this. Anderson’s apartment never really felt like hers, not really. It just reminded her that he was fighting the good fight on Earth, in the broken buildings and dust, and she was in space with a hot tub. She only used the place when she absolutely had to. Now she has a nice, average apartment with scribbles on the walls and average windows. She wouldn’t change a thing. Though a bigger bathroom would be nice. And she’d still like those windows. And new appliances. And a bigger closet. And new cabinets.

It’s so warm in the damn place. Even standing in the apartment naked feels like a hot spring day, though the bed sheet is made out of some light, cool material. The place sticks to darker colors, and it gives the space a moody, modern look that Shepard can appreciate. The kitchen is silver and black, and there’s a huge vid-screen in the living room, surrounded by shelves with a bunch of different things. Model ships, odd sculptures and shapes, and even real-life books. The books look funny though, and have a weird shape compared to human ones. It’s when she approaches a small stack of them next to the vid-screen that something glints in the corner of her vision.

There’s some dog tags on a shelf. Human-style. Curiosity gets the best of her, and on a closer look, they’re her dog tags. That she left with Anderson. Here, on Palaven. 

With a shaking hand, she gently pulls them up by the chain and sure enough, she can just make out the words Shepard, Athena . The tags themselves are warped out of shape and one of them is half-broken. Some of the words are melted off, but there’s no denying they’re hers. Fuck, she never, ever thought she’d see them again. 

“You did good child, you did good. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Anderson never gave out compliments easy and even drenched in blood with a gut wound, there’s a spark of pride in her, that she did something that he approves of. “Anderson?”

He stops responding. One of the few souls who knew her, really knew who she was and where she came from, yet always expected her to be just as good – better – than the rest. Dead.

Her heart breaks. This is the end. There’s no way she’ll outlive Anderson. Legends don't die. 

Her vision’s blurry and there’s so much blood coming out of her that she thinks this is the end. But Hackett’s voice is insistent, and here, at death’s door, it’s the faces of Isabella, Santiago, Cecilia, Garrus, Tali, Joker and Grunt and Wrex and Liara and Mordin and Thane and everyone she’s ever cared about flick through her brain. It’s a lot more faces than she’d ever thought possible. The living need to survive. The dead need her to finish what they started.

Somehow she has enough strength to pull Anderson’s dog tags off his neck. Shepard wants to have a piece of him when she dies. So she can die with him, fighting until the end. In turn, she puts her own tags in his hands, a piece of her to stay with him, so he’s not alone in this god-forsaken place with the Illusive Man.

Hackett’s voice crackles over the comm line. “Nothing’s happening. The Crucible’s not firing…”

The world feels like it’s getting a little blurry at the edges. No, she can’t lose it now. Embarrassing enough that Garrus has seen her fall apart at her mother’s grave. And a night terror, though no one wants to tell her what happened. No, she won’t lose it here. The metal digs into her palms, a sharp counterpoint to the fuzziness in her brain. A few drops of blood drip to the floor. These tags shouldn’t be here to begin with. 

She goes over to the shuttered windows and opens them, radiation be damned. It’s a decent view and easy to see the progress of Cipritine’s reconstruction efforts. Would be on brand for Garrus to have picked a spot exactly to observe how the city is rebuilding. It peters off at the edge of the city center, but even from here she can see cranes and construction mechs scattered around like little ants. 

She keeps rubbing her thumb over and over the dog-tag while staring at a half-built skyscraper. It’s hard to believe she’s holding it after all these years. These have been through a lot with her: enlistment, bootcamp, N7 school, the Skyllian Blitz, Torfan, New Canton, Saren, dying, the Reapers, the Catalyst. These days she’s feeling a lot like these fucked up tags. Maybe it’s a little ironic that Anderson was the one who returned them. In a weird way he’s the one who set her down this path, though neither of them could have ever imagined things turning out like this.

The Alliance loves to send her to the Terminus Systems and the Attican Traverse. At this point she might as well buy a damn apartment out there, instead of trying to rent something on the Citadel.

Someone opens the door and a familiar deep voice calls out, “This is a smoke-free area, Lieutenant-Commander Shepard.”

In one smooth movement she drops the cigarette, snuffs it out with a boot, and salutes. “I didn’t know, Captain Anderson. It won’t happen again.”

“That just means I won’t catch you again,” he retorts, though it’s accompanied by a small smile. They’re in a small, ignored greenhouse on Arcturus Station, one that Shepard found years ago. Anderson looks around and scans the small space, then returns his steady gaze to her. “I wanted to congratulate you on your success in defeating the pirate force before they hit New Canton and Ferris Fields. It’s impressive work, considering many thought you were seeing things that weren’t there.”

‘Thank you, sir,’ is what she means to say, but what pops out her mouth instead is, “A butcher chops animals into smaller pieces and sells the meat. I’d be a terrible butcher if I cut a piece of meat and I can’t tell where it comes from, with the Alliance used to buying what I sell.” What the hell did she just say? Since when is she so philosophical? Running her mouth is not going to help her get her own command, no matter how long she’s known the captain! 

Anderson is taken aback for a second at her sudden lyricism, but instead of reprimanding her he just nods slowly. “They always like to wrap things up neatly. No loose ends. You provide that for them.” Then, he surprises her. He pulls up his omni-tool lighter and offers it to her, nodding at her right pocket where she has her pack of cigarettes. Shepard keeps her hands behind her back so he calmly flicks it off, unoffended. “Some of them forget what it’s like, being the one doing the killing. What that does to a man. What he has to do to forget.”

“Forgetting isn’t the problem, sir.” Never has been for her, anyways. Impossible to live this long without figuring that out before going crazy. “The problem is when the killing doesn’t solve anything.”

He just raises an eyebrow, then turns out to look at the darkness of space. They’re both silent as they watch a tech crew with mag-boots fix a broken antenna outside. He breaks the silence first. “Well, I got a problem that needs some solving and I think you’re the woman for the job. I’m picking a crew for a shakedown mission and I want you as my XO. Think you’re up to it?”

Shepard doesn’t hesitate to respond, though the shock of being asked by the great David Anderson kicks in hours later when she’s alone. “With you, Captain Anderson? Of course.”

“No smoking, and I mean it, Shepard. I will not have you gunking up the air.”

“Yes, Captain.”

And somehow she ended up with his command and saving the galaxy. She gets caught up in remembering her time with Anderson –it’s a softer ache now, but the guilt will always be there– that it’s the sudden disappearance of sunlight and vista that brings her out of her memories.

“There may be radiation protection in the windows but it doesn’t mean it’s 100% safe for you to be exposed to sunlight in the middle of the day,” Garrus tells her while pressing the button for the shutters. He sounds annoyed.

Opening up her hand, Shepard shows him the dogtags. They’re smeared in her blood, though the cut is minor and stopped bleeding a while ago. “I remember leaving these with Anderson,” she responds in a detached voice.  

Garrus takes a small, tiny step back, though his mandibles flick in concern. He responds hesitantly, “The Alliance found them when they found Anderson’s body. Kasumi gave them to me.” 

Of course. Kid couldn’t keep her fingers to herself at the best of times. “So. She stole them.” 

“Shepard?”

“These are supposed to be with Anderson,” she repeats again. “I didn’t want him to be alone.” Tilting the half-broken dog tag, there’s the edge of a tiny circuit board that’s just visible. “Huh, looks like the local tracking chip is intact. Is that how they found his body?”

“That’s what I was told. And that Anderson’s tags were never found.”

“Well, his are crushed flat, so that’s probably why.”

His voice is cautious, wary. “How would you know that?”

She shrugs. “Because I switched our dog tags after he died. Didn’t want him to be alone with the Illusive Man.”

Garrus just… looks at her. Doesn’t say anything. He’s waiting. He’s waiting for her to talk about it, if she wants to. Just like he used to, back on the Normandy. It’s what she liked about their friendship. He let her do things on her own terms, not when he thought it was right. Sure, there was the occasional push, but it was never forced.

And maybe she should talk about it. In four years she hasn’t told anyone but the dead. It haunts her in a way that she knows she will never, ever be free of again. It’s less, now, than it used to be, but it comes in the shapes of night terrors or forgetting where she’s at or being angry for no reason.

But.

It’s not safe. There’s still so much to figure out, and this entire… thing , hinges on whether she actually leaves the Panthers. Garrus may be willing to compromise for a bit, but she has no idea how long it’ll actually take to fully leave and he has a short tolerance for things that aren’t clear cut. 

Shepard looks down at the bloody tags in her hands. But maybe she can tell him something. But what? The entire story sounds insane, even when she recited it to her dead mother in the middle of the night like a lost prayer.

Her mouth answers for her as she twirls the tags in between her fingers. “I killed Anderson, you know.” She sees Garrus’s mandibles press tight to his face, but he doesn’t say anything. She continues. “The Illusive Man was indoctrinated by the end. No surprise there. He had some Reaper mods that… that took control over us. I can’t explain it, it felt like, it felt like I was a prisoner in my own brain. My body wouldn’t listen to me, and next thing I know, I shot Anderson. The mod–spell–thing stopped, I killed the Illusive Man. Then me and Anderson sat down, and then he died. Last thing he said was that he was proud of me.” Her voice shakes a little at the end.

He brushes back some of her hair. Wiping at her face with a hand, she’s surprised to realize her face is slippery and wet. He gently guides her to sit on the couch, leaves for a moment and returns with some medi-gel for her hand; she’s starting to shake, and her tears are falling thick and fast. She thought she’d be able to hold it together more than this, but the pain of killing the man who’s the closest thing she’s ever, ever had to a father too much to bear, to haunt her for as long as she lives.

It’s hard to figure out why the dog tags started all this. That’s not true– it’s because those dog tags reminded her of the last time she ever saw Anderson. When she woke up in a dusty London hospital with nothing but the admiral’s dog tags and a pre-paid credit chit she always kept stashed in her under armor, she didn’t know what to do. Somehow death let her go, again. It was Anderson’s dog tags that tipped off the salarian doctor that his patient might actually be the famous Commander Shepard, but with no access to, well, anything, he could never confirm it. Maybe him turning a blind eye to her possible identity and her eventual escape was a way to let her decide her own fate. Salarians were always level-headed about things like that. A clean slate, a new life.

But this? This is the first time she’s held something from her past in years. A very real reminder that at one point in time, she waged war against something older than humanity. And that every single step was fueled by a very desperate desire to see her people survive. Nothing more. Nothing less. If at the beginning of this whole mess she knew she could whisk all her loved ones away to safety and live, she would have done it in a heartbeat, galaxy be damned. But the Reapers made that impossible. So she did what she had to do in order to survive.

Pieces of the truth start spilling out of her between quiet tears. Stepping into the beam and seeing mountains of human bodies. Seeing the Illusive Man, no longer fully human, consumed and destroyed by his own ideas. The mind control, the shot, the bullet she lodged in his heart. Triggering the Crucible to dock.

And that’s as far as she gets.

She’s never thought she’d tell even a part of this story. Trying to explain the rest to someone seems impossible. Her brain still can’t fully comprehend what that was, and as years go on by, the entire affair gains a blurry quality. It’s getting harder and harder to remember the details, and she’s grateful for it. The sharpest memory continues to be Anderson’s death, the feel of her arm swinging up against her will, Anderson’s wide eyes and the drip of his blood onto the floor. And the anger. The indescribable rage, of being tired, of being used again, and again and again. And for the longest time, feeling like she could do nothing about any of it.

People always did tell her she took things too damn personal. Funny to think that’s what saved the universe in the end.

Garrus is silent the entire time, holding her loosely as her story comes out in jagged, incomplete pieces. Somehow seeing her dog tags in an apartment on Palaven of all places, after so many years, has made the story come to the surface against her will. Maybe that’s really why the drinking, the drugs, the sex and the fights were so out of control that second and third year, once she could walk. Because she was just trying to bury it somewhere where it would never, ever come up again. Trying to cover it up with something she knew and something she could control, even if it was bad for her. 

But she’s not alone. Not right now. Garrus was there, right up until the end, saw all those horrible things that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Eventually her soft sobbing turns to sniffling, and Shepard, oddly enough, feels… better. Lighter. It won’t last long, it never does, nothing does, but it helps.

While it’s her first instinct to say nothing else, she can feel his curiosity and worry like a living, pressing thing. “I made a choice,” she adds haltingly, “and it ended the Reapers.” Understatement of the century, even for her. But that’s all she’s willing to say on the topic, and instead of speaking further she wraps herself tighter with the bedsheet, ignoring the warm heat and her damp skin. Shepard doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he’s been real quiet, just listening. Like he always does. 

Garrus reaches out and holds the hand with the dogtags, gently caressing her palm. They’re silent for a few minutes, but it’s a comforting type of quiet. Like the type of quiet of an early morning that goes with a cup of coffee. “... You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee, would you?” 

He looks at her with mild… consternation, she thinks. She learned that word last week from Anthony, after he complained about a potential trade partner. “No,” he drawls, half-amused, “I don’t, since I can’t drink that, if you remember. Being dextro and all.”

“Boo, you should,” Shepard complains, scooting closer to him and curling into his side. He lifts an arm so she can get more comfortable. There’s another brief silence while she tries to figure out what words to say. She really does feel better; the weight of her memories isn’t lighter, and they’ll never leave her, but it’s easier to think about them now. And it’s easier to think about Anderson too. Other people would have pressured her to finish her story, to talk about the Catalyst and the boy and almost dying, about waking up in a hospital lost and confused and broken. But he let her talk on her own terms. And that’s what she adored about him, that he respected her and knew what she needed, sometimes before she knew herself. A warm feeling curls in her chest, and she thinks the word for it is something that should be said but the world has a way of taking people from her when she does, and things aren’t safe, not yet.

“And thanks,” she says instead, her voice slightly muffled. Thanks isn’t nearly enough but it’s close, and she hopes that he can at least feel the sincerity of it. “For everything. Really. It would have been so much harder without you. For a lot of different reasons.” So much harder and so much worse, without him. A light in the dark. 

Shepard suspects that if this was four, five years ago, he’d brush her off with a bad joke. Instead he pulls her closer and rubs her back in soothing circles. As her eyes are slowly closing shut, exhausted from crying, Shepard hears him speak, his voice quiet and deep. “And thank you for surviving.”