This is my first Mass Effect fic (and my first fic in about five years). I haven't played all the way through ME2 yet—so go easy on the rookie!

This story is set shortly after recruiting Garrus in ME2 and learning his backstory, before his loyalty mission and before the "reach and flexibility" conversation.

A.A.R.

or

No Distractions

Garrus's voice had changed.

It wasn't just the metallic tang it had acquired—though Shepard supposed it would be some time before she got used those dual tones coming from any organic being, let alone a friend. The effect, common though it was in turians, was even more pronounced as a result of the cybernetic implants that had saved his life. Like the scars on his face, it would serve as a permanent reminder of his brush with death on Omega.

No, the difference was subtler, but also more profound. The easy, lighthearted sarcasm Shepard remembered had darkened into a self-deprecating cynicism that had her more than a little concerned. His whole demeanor had been subdued, even defeated, ever since he'd awakened in Normandy's med bay. Oh, he tried to fake it. Jacob, meeting him for the first time, had pronounced him a "tough son of a bitch" when he'd escaped Doctor Chakwas's ministrations, but Shepard had seen straight through his façade of normalcy. She'd played along for the sake of his pride, vowing to speak to him in private about it later.

And "later," she decided, would be now. Lately, every time she had gone down to the Normandy's main battery to talk to him, he would mutter something about "calibrations" and politely but firmly turn her away. This time, Morgan Shepard was not taking "no" for an answer.

She didn't really want to push him like this. Under normal circumstances, she would allow him his privacy to work out whatever was bothering him, but on a mission like this, she needed everyone firing on all cylinders. No distractions. And that meant clearing the air.

She found the turian hunched over the main weapons console as usual, deliberately absorbed in whatever questionably necessary adjustments he routinely locked himself away doing. Pausing in the doorway, she considered how best to get him to open up. He would likely take too gentle an approach as pity and resent it intensely. Too direct, and she feared he'd clam up yet again.

"Hey, Garrus," she said finally, "have you got a minute?"

Garrus straightened and turned around, but he must have seen something in Shepard's face because his usual evasions died unspoken. "I… Sure, Commander. What do you need?"

"It's not about what I need." Shepard stepped past him and leaned on the railing beside the console, gazing into the orange-red glow of the Thanix cannon assembly as she considered her next words. "You told me about what happened to the team you assembled on Omega, but I don't think you told me everything." She turned and stared into Garrus's piercing blue eyes. "What's eating you?"

Garrus stiffened, then sighed. "I guess it had to come out sooner or later." Shifting uncomfortably, he cast his eyes downward, unwilling to make contact. Shepard was surprised to see him looking embarrassed. "I didn't think it would be a problem at first," Garrus rumbled, his gravelly voice further roughened with strain. "I mean, I've been in more than my fair share of shootouts, taken more than a few hits. I'm no stranger to battle and the nightmares that come after. But when Tarak jumped us in that gunship… I just knew that was it."

Shepard suppressed a shudder at the memory. There had been no warning, no time to take cover. Just the roar of powerful machine guns, the blaze of a missile, and Garrus had hit the deck. Hard. The sight of him lying there, maimed and bleeding—so much blood!—had shaken her more than she cared to admit.

"I guess I'd gotten cocky," he continued. "I mean, you'd just shown up and not only pulled my ass out of the fire, but we'd come out with barely a scratch! We were the old invincible team again! But then, out of nowhere, bam—" he slammed a fist into his open palm in a startlingly sudden outburst—"and I knew for sure I was a dead man." Garrus took a deep, unsteady breath. "That kind of thing burns itself into your brain, you know?"

Shepard nodded. "I know." Spaced. Losing air. Can't breathe… She shook herself out of her memories. Garrus needed her here, now.

The turian was pacing now. "The problem is that every time I close my eyes, every time I let my mind wander, I feel those bullets ripping into me again." He made a dismissive gesture, straightened, and faced Shepard square. "I'm just a bit… battle-weary, I guess. I'll be fine."

But he wasn't fine, not by a long shot. Perhaps he'd forgotten over the intervening two years, but to Shepard it had only been weeks since they'd served together on the Normandy SR-1. She could still read his scaly face like a book, and she recognized what she saw. She'd seen it before. Dealt with it personally. Truth be told, she was still dealing with it.

"We humans have another name for that," she said, crossing her arms. "It's called post-traumatic stress, and it's not something you can just sleep off."

"But—"

Shepard cut him off with a wave of her hand. "You need help, Garrus. I want you to talk to Crewman Chambers, the ship's counselor. She's trained to help people in exactly your position."

Garrus looked pained. "With all due respect to Crewman Chambers, Shepard… I'd much rather talk to you."

Shepard blinked, taken aback. "Me?"

"I'm not questioning Chambers' competence," Garrus said quickly, "but she's so young. Innocent." He sighed. "You're the only one on this ship I think… truly understands." He spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the entire ship. "We alone out of this entire crew have stared Death directly in the face—and spit in his eye. We alone have stared into that abyss, and come back from its edge."

"And now the abyss is staring back into you," Shepard paraphrased softly.

Garrus looked surprised. "That's—yeah, that's it exactly." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Spirits, Shepard, I think I've got more in common with you than with any turian I've ever known."

"We understand one another," she agreed. "Look, I'm no expert on turian psychology, but I'm here for you, whatever you need. You can talk to me, to Kelly, to Dr. Chakwas, whomever, but you are not alone in this, Garrus."

"Thanks, Shepard," he said, relieved. "I should really get back to work, though."

"I'll leave you to it. Just remember what I said."

"I will. And… thank you, Shepard."

Shepard couldn't put that conversation out of her mind, replaying it over and over as she tried to go to sleep. She was in no way qualified to officially diagnose PTSD, but she knew it when she saw it. Hell, she'd lost friends to it.

She would not lose Garrus.

Bringing Garrus aboard had made her feel orders of magnitude better about the mission and the crew. Having a familiar face on a strange ship full of strange people would keep her anchored, she'd thought. Remind her of who she was, and who she had been, and keep her from getting lost in the Illusive Man's machinations.

But it was more than that. Garrus had been—and still was—a friend, the one she'd trusted most out of her old crew, and certainly the new. And that voice of his gave her warm feelings in unexpected places…

Wait, what?

Shepard let out a long, controlled breath as she finally acknowledged those feelings long enough to examine them. She and Garrus really did have a lot in common, she realized. More than just shared experiences in battle. They had the same dry sense of humor, the same drive, the same values. Alien though they were to each other physiologically… dared she entertain the thought that a relationship just might work? I said no distractions, not driven to distraction! She thought—but it was with a schoolgirl grin.

And talking with him had always been so easy. She was sure he'd find his voice again.