A/N: I haven't written fanfiction in many, many years but I feel like Renegade!FemShep and Garrus don't get enough written about them. You can be an unlikable, mean badass and still find love, right? I'm not sure if I'll continue writing these one shots but we'll see. Maybe there are others out there who like the idea of intergalactic Bonnie and Clyde, 22nd century style.
I always imagined renegade Shepard as a cross between Kara "Starbuck" Thrace from BSG 2003, and strangely enough, Severus Snape from HP. Both are immensely heroic, selfless character capable of intense loyalty and love, but damn, they insist on acting like cruel, petty assholes about it along the way.
Many years later, Garrus Vakarian would try to reflect on the first time his human female gave him that dizzying, adrenaline-fuelled clench in his chest.
He was sure it wasn't the first time she'd openly come on to him, a mischievous grin tugging at her mouth. It had been surprising but ... right. In retrospect, they had always been only a matter of time. Had it been at the precipice of Dantius tower, then? The svelte assassin had descended and Garrus was awkwardly, uncomfortably but undeniably jealous at her instant approval. The way her eyes - somehow still so cold in spite of the eerie red glow they'd taken on - had traced Krios's steps, as if downloading every cadence of how he moved into her brain. Although embarrassing, Garrus was fairly sure that wasn't the first time either.
No, of course not. Fittingly, he thought, it had to be that moment - that gloriously fucked up, clarifying moment on the MSV Fedele.
She hadn't hesitated to give the kill order on Garrus' word alone; unspeakably flattering trust among turians.
Writhing on the floor, pathetic and small,"Dr." Saleon died quickly enough from a single, expert shot to the chest. Garrus stood over his body, numb with what he'd done; handing out life to the deserving and death to the dastardly. This was the realm of the infinite now, an almost spiritual energy pounding through his veins and pressing fiery against his carapace. He'd killed before but not like this: a predator catching and cornering his prey, letting him beg and deny accusations just long enough to make it an execution. No handcuffs, no paperwork, no reciting of rights; instead, a clean bolt of justice on a lifelong coward. Beautiful.
Less climactically, he started feeling a trickle of discomfort at what he'd just done. It was a strange feeling; was he elated that he'd done the righteous thing, or because he'd done what he'd wanted in spite of every righteous, moralizing law he'd been taught? The anxiety of wondering whether his victory was tainted annoyed him; an obese, unwanted cloud pissing on his perfect moment.
"That was ... satisfying," he noted aloud, determined to believe it. Turning away from the dead salarian, he looked down at his rifle, trying to project aloofness as he fiddled with it.
She'd been watching him; unflinching and unreadable, as always. Eyes dark and lacking any warmth as they surveyed him. But there was something else there - something better than warmth or kindness or compassion - respect. Razor-sharp, blood-won respect. The same respect he'd glowed under when he conceded to wiping out the remainder of the Rachni race ("We already have a galaxy under attack and you were ... what? Hoping to add a little variety?" she'd sneered at the aghast turian councillor); or when he'd been the only one besides herself to unhesitatingly gun down any Thorian-possessed colonist that threatened them ("An unfortunate but unavoidable consequence, Admiral, sir," she'd reported tersely to Hacket.).
She stepped towards him, never breaking eye contact, jaw stiff. Garrus tensed in the cruel silence, awaiting judgement. "Good," she commended. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Remember that feeling."
She moved closer so they were only inches apart and glared up at him; unnerving, in spite of their height difference. He resisted the urge to squirm or backup - did she realize that turians only stood this close preceeding two things: fighting or fucking? Instead, he determinedly stared her down, hoping to mask his own intimidation with a suitably cool expression.
"That's how it should feel."
The rest was unsaid but understood, "I gave you that - let you have it. Don't forget it."
A firestorm of sensation released in his gut, flooding him. His pride and terror at what he'd done had mixed into some sort of euphoric pleasure. She had given him this moment; not because she'd made him do it, but because she'd trusted him to do what he knew he had always been meant to do. In an immense galaxy, crawling with scum - crawling with so much scum that they'd managed to build empires and planets in their own sick image - justice came at the end of the barrel of a gun. He didn't like it but it was the grisly truth about their existence and someone had to pull the trigger, someone had to clean up this mess - why not him? Why not them, together?
"Are we clear, Vakarian?" She stood in front of him, awaiting a response, eyes never leaving his.
Later, after the Normandy exploded, he would stalk his scrappy, cheap rental for weeks; barely eating, passing out on a thin cot, drowning his sense of loss in shit that would topple an Elcor; not bothering with furniture or hygiene or keeping in touch with the people who loved him and kept calling and just wanted to see how he was holding up; he would sign up for Spectre training (the hypocrisy, the disappointment); he would agree to a dead-end job with C-Sec again (trading his soul for paying the bills); but through it all, he would lie awake reliving this moment. The intoxicating, stomach-dropping thrill of standing on the edge of the power to terrorize the terrors of the galaxy, to do something ...
... the pride, burning in Shepard's eyes when he'd responded. Calmly nodding yes, popping the heat sink and slinging his rifle over his shoulder, all renegade black energy to match her black, cavernous eyes ...
He understood her. Craved her presence, the approval, the silent, shared view that this was how things worked. It was him and her, against a fucked up galaxy and unafraid of using the enemy's own despicable tactics on them.
Like a junkie, he'd eagerly anticipate the electricity that shot through his body every time she came near him, even long after leaving behind Saleon's rapidly rotting corpse, blood pooling around it.
"Move out. Blow this place to hell; I don't have time to be answering any questions."
He never forgot. Relishes the feeling still.
