I ... really needed to write this after playing through the end of ME3. For reasons. Of course everyone else is doing this too, but I figured I'd throw this little something in as well.
Note: I tried to leave everything as ambiguous as possible, but the only thing I have to specify is that Shepard did not survive. I got the "Shepard Lives" ending, and I kind of regret that I did, also for reasons.
/
A Bar up in Heaven
The strangest thing about the bar, Garrus decided, was that there was no bartender, much less anyone else there. It wasn't even much of a bar, really—just a chrome counter in a vast white space with two red stools, one of which he was now sitting at. There were a few familiar, worn-in details, like scratches on the surface and a ring of moisture where another cup might have been, but other than that there was nothing.
This whole place was nothing, really. At least the emptiness felt warm and comforting, enough to help him to decide that he probably wasn't in hell. Maybe he was just dreaming, and he would wake up on Earth in a pile of rubble—or on the Normandy, or on Palaven, or on the Citadel. Or maybe he really was dead. That last dash to the Citadel beam had stopped rather abruptly, and with the brief but powerful sensation of his body being consumed by fire.
His armor showed no signs of damage. It was as smooth and pristine as when he had first put it on. He remembered feeling intense pain, but had forgotten what it was like.
Garrus wasn't sure of what to expect. He had never been particularly religious, but had always been under the impression that a dead turian's spirit would join one of the spirits that he invoked the most. In that way, a turian could continue to contribute to the livelihood of something that meant a lot to him, even after death. What would that have been for him, the Normandy? The military? Spirits, he hoped it wasn't C-Sec. But he wasn't sure of what to make of this place, or the surreal sensation that time wasn't moving. No amount of speculation could have ever predicted what death felt like, and Garrus only hoped that he would get used to it.
Time ticked by without moving, and the strange headache caused by that sensation drove Garrus to the point where he wanted to beat his head into the empty bar. More than anything else he wanted a drink—preferably Ryncol, to dull the surreality—but it was hard to order drinks from a bartender who wasn't there, and at a bar that didn't even have alcohol.
Eventually, he heard heavy metallic footsteps—slow, unsteady, as if someone were limping. To his alarm, Garrus had no idea where they were coming from, as the abyss had a marvelous way of echoing all around him. He should have felt relaxed in the warm light of nothingness, but his instincts were kicking in, the distant memory of burning becoming much less distant, the sound of gunfire whizzing past and screams of agony almost immediate as—
—as Shepard appeared as if from nowhere, though in a way he felt as though she had always been there. She was limping, her face twisted in unimaginable pain, but her N7 was shining as if it had never seen Saren, the Geth, the Collectors, Cerberus, and the Reapers.
Then her face shifted, the muscles of her forehead and cheeks relaxing as her eyes grew wide with realization. "Garrus?" she asked. Her voice, right then, was probably the best thing he'd ever heard.
"Why are you limping?" he asked, hopping off of the barstool to help her.
Shepard frowned and straightened, her body forgetting the pain it had just felt. "I don't know," she said, uneasily. "You can sit down again. I don't need help."
A year ago, he would have said that she never did; he knew better now. She was strong and tough as hell, but she wasn't infallible. She doubted herself sometimes. He liked seeing that side of her, because it made her seem less like a legend and more like a woman.
"It took you long enough," Garrus said instead, settling himself back onto the bar stool. That was a lie, of course, since time hadn't really been moving, but saying it felt familiar and comforting.
True to form, Shepard raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "I was a bit busy saving the galaxy, Garrus," she said, joining him at the bar.
"And did you?" Garrus asked. Somehow, he felt like he should have moved on and stopped giving a damn, but after so many years of fighting, it was hard not to care.
"I think so," Shepard answered, leaning back against the chrome counter. "I made it to the Citadel, activated the Crucible, and that was it. I ended up here." She glanced over at him, her eyes dark. "I don't even know if it worked."
"What happened up there?" Garrus asked breathlessly.
She closed her eyes, turning her head away from him. "I don't want to talk about it."
He could see her eyes flickering under the lids, her body tensing with memories he couldn't even imagine. A part of him wondered if she had even remembered him when she was off saving the galaxy from the Reapers, but there was no point in dwelling on that.
"I understand," he said instead, debating whether he should reach out and take her hand. He quickly decided that he was being silly for having any doubts, and reached for her hand, feeling her now-familiar digits curl into his.
"Thank you," she quietly responded, and that was enough for him.
Garrus turned back out to the infinite light, sighing contentedly. "Is this what you expected?"
Shepard cracked open an eye. "What, the afterlife?"
"No, the bar."
"I don't really remember last time," she explained, and Garrus felt like a heel for having asked that in the first place. "Maybe because it wasn't permanent. And," she added, turning back to face the invisible bartender, "it's not much of a bar, but at least there's wine."
Garrus turned around in surprise, and, sure enough, there was a bottle of wine and two glasses on the counter. "Spirits. That wasn't here earlier."
"Well however it got here, it's the good stuff," Shepard said, releasing his hand to pick up the bottle and admire the label. "Damn. Death has good taste."
"Do you think one of us ... I don't know, willed it into existence?"
"Either that or Saint Peter dropped it off for us," she joked.
"Human thing?" he asked. It must have been. He'd heard of some of the human religions having minor gods called "saints." He admittedly had never tried to wrap his mind around the complexity of human religions.
"Yeah," she said, putting the bottle back on the counter. "Christian thing. Saint Peter, pearly gates, all that stuff. Then they either open the gates to let you into heaven, or they cast you off to hell." She glanced at him. "What about you? Is this what you expected?"
"I don't know what I expected," he admitted.
She smiled crookedly. "You promised me a bar up in heaven, Garrus."
"Well I got you one, didn't I?" Garrus drawled, leaning towards her and nudging her in the side.
Shepard smiled, leaning back again and staring off into the bright distance. "Yeah, you did."
Seeing her again was a little surreal: a part of him hadn't actually expected to meet her in the afterlife. Hoped, certainly, but to see her there next to him at the end of existence was just about a dream come true. He almost wondered whether she was really there or just a figment of his imagination, but he was happy never knowing, living with the fantasy of actually being with her. Incredible if it were real, but better to not ask.
Now she was quiet—distant. Her attention was focused on the non-existent horizon, staring intently as if she hoped to find answers to unresolved questions. Garrus stupidly felt the impulse to fill the timeless silence.
"I thought I ordered you not to die," he said. He wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny or trying to be sincere, but the words sounded strangled and uncertain to his ears.
That got her attention, at least. Shepard looked at him in mild confusion, angling her body towards him. "I'm a Spectre, Garrus," she responded, and though her tone was cocky, her eyes betrayed some concern. "I follow my own rules."
"Still," Garrus started, still hoping to diffuse the situation, "I ask one thing of you and you can't even do that for me?"
She seemed to have no response to that, glancing down at the invisible bright floor. The pause drummed at his head. He wondered if the floor was even there, or if his own mind was willing it into existence to prevent him from falling into the abyss. He didn't want to test that theory.
"You're ... not really in a joking mood, are you," Garrus finally said, feeling sufficiently stupid. Just as he thought he was getting good at being suave and romantic, too. "I'm sorry, Shepard, I—"
"No, Garrus, it's fine," Shepard insisted, glancing back up at him. She seemed tired, and her body was still carrying the injuries of battles fought during her lifetime. "It's just..."
He turned on his stool to face her properly, his arm resting on the bar. "Talk to me."
Shepard growled in frustration. "After all of that hard work, all of the energy we put into making the Crucible, all of the fighting and diplomacy, and Anderson..." She trailed off, shutting her eyes and frowning deeply. "All of that, and I don't even know if it worked."
That had occurred to Garrus. A part of him was terrified for what happened, for his friends, his home, and the galaxy itself. They had fought tooth and nail to ensure that everything would go their way, attempting to resolve age-old conflicts to the best of their ability, gathering up the biggest army they could muster, watching old friends die along the way, nearly losing even more... Losing themselves, too. But while he was curious, another part of him wanted it all to be over. He didn't want to think anymore; he just wanted to live—die, or however he was supposed to describe existing in this place—in peace. The Spirits couldn't affect the world and its inhabitants, so it felt strange to think about life when it wasn't something he could touch. He imagined that human religions felt differently.
"Shepard..." he started, sighing and slouching forward. "It had to have worked. If you activated the Crucible, then something must have happened." He glanced over at her. "We did it. I know we did."
"But I died, Garrus—we both died," she insisted. She was squirming in her seat, as if struggling between the urge to stand up and pace around, and the urge to sink into the stool and never stand up again. "We don't know if it worked, and if we have the power to look down at the world of the living and see the outcome of all of our hard work, I sure as hell haven't figured that one out yet. And damn it, I wish I could."
Garrus exhaled, and it came out as a small, pained laugh. "Yeah," he said. "That's understandable."
"I know it's over now," Shepard continued, massaging the bridge of her nose. "I don't need to care any more. There's nothing I can do. But I can't stop myself from caring, from making sure that everything is okay." Her voice dropped lower as she added: "Not after how hard we fought and how much we lost."
Garrus instinctively hopped down from his barstool, finding the space between Shepard's to be a little too large for his comfort. They were dead now, so there was no need for propriety or to hide their relationship—not that there had ever been much of a need in the first place, but they had always been a bit quiet about it, even amongst the crew. No need for them to see something so personal. Now who was watching, the Spirits? One of Shepard's human gods? Death itself? He could care less.
"Hey," he said, standing in front of her and wrapping his arms around her waist. Shepard seemed to instinctively shift her position to accommodate this, arching her back slightly to make room for his arms, spreading her legs so he could stand between them. She made no attempt to reach towards him, but this was better than nothing. "I don't know what to say about what happened or didn't happen, because I wasn't there. But after everything you did, I have a hard time believing that things didn't fall into place."
She snorted, and the hint of a smile both emphasized and contradicted the obvious disbelief that she felt. She was looking down and away, staring at something he couldn't see, probably because it wasn't even there. She was remembering.
"Look at me, Shepard," he murmured, almost removing his hand from her waist to caress her face. Fortunately, she moved on her own, turning her head to face him. There was still so much strength and conviction in her eyes, but her face was worried, streaked with light lines that emphasized her brief. Or, at least, he assumed it was grief, because he felt it too. "I believe in you," he continued. "I've believed in you since we first met on the Citadel, and I—" He stopped.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice quiet.
"I was going to say that I'll believe in you up until the end," Garrus explained, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward, "but that feels weird, seeing as we're past that point."
Shepard snorted again, and this time it seemed much more sincere. The smile breathed life back into her, and while lines still crossed her face, they seemed much more delicate. He understood that humans found them unappealing, but Garrus wanted to trace them with his fingers, his tongue.
"Death has that effect on people," she said, her voice wry. He wondered if she spoke from experience.
"Tell me about it," he answered, smiling into his words. "I've had this weird headache since I got here."
They stayed there for a moment, Shepard wrapping her arms around his cowl and tracing the details of the armor with her fingertips. She was studying it intently—she always seemed to be thinking about something, never really sitting back and letting things wash over her. He wondered if she had the chance to enjoy victory before she died. It seemed unlikely, given how uncertain she was of the outcome, but he hoped so, for her sake.
"Garrus?" Shepard asked. She was frowning again.
"Yeah?"
"What if this isn't really you?" She glanced at him uncertainly. Her resolve had been privately dropping for some time now, revealed only in brief moments of doubt and questions about whether they would succeed, but she had always put up a brave face when it counted. Garrus again found himself in the position of comforting the woman who would save the galaxy, a role he accepted with pride and with sadness. "What if I'm just imagining you in my own little corner of heaven?"
"Well, the fact that you just asked me that means I'm not imagining you in my little corner of heaven," Garrus responded, tightening his hold on her, "so I'd say the odds are in our favor."
Shepard smiled crookedly. "You're sure?"
"You're not?" Garrus tilted his head to the side. "You seem pretty real to me."
"Same for you," Shepard said, tilting her head down as her lips curled seductively. He knew before she even moved that she was going to stand, her feet propped up on the footrest, shifting her arms to wrap behind his neck for purchase as he tightened his hold around her waist. She was slightly taller than him at that angle, so she pressed her lips against the crest of his fringe as he breathed into her neck. The resulting position was off-balance and nearly awkward, but with her, it was perfect.
Heaven wasn't a bar; it was standing there with Shepard.
"After everything we just went through..." Shepard started, speaking into his carapace, "it's hard to believe that I could have some kind of happily ever after."
"Death is a happily ever after?" he asked. His voice rumbled in her neck, and she shivered.
"It is when you're here too," she breathed.
They had long since affirmed their love for each other, so the words shouldn't have affected Garrus as profoundly as they did. And yet his heart felt like it was floating in his chest, quick and weightless, to the point where he was strangely glad that his armor would prevent her from feeling how much his pulse had quickened. Maybe hearing those words in this new, non-life made them feel so much more real, but he wasn't entirely sure. Whatever it was, he was more than happy to accept it without questioning or drawing it to attention.
"Are you getting romantic on me, Shepard?" he drawled, tilting his head back to get a better look at her face. He was willing to tolerate the added discomfort if it meant seeing her.
Shepard leaned back slightly as well, urging them back to the bar. "Haven't I earned it at this point?" she asked as Garrus guided her to a sitting position on the barstool.
"Hm, fair," he answered, chuckling. "Though for what it's worth, I agree," he added more sincerely, unable to resist the temptation of running his hand through her hair. "If there's anyone I'd spend eternity with, it's you."
"Glad to hear it," Shepard said coyly.
"Though I'm hoping the others will show up at some point" He tilted his head, mandibles twitching in amusement. "It'd be nice to see everyone again."
"Uh-huh," she said dryly, pulling him a little closer to her. "But if you don't mind, I'm going to be a bit selfish and hog you for a bit."
"That shouldn't be a problem," he responded, lowering his face to hers.
She kissed him. The sensation was strange and would probably always be strange, but like the rest of their bizarre physical relationship, it had quickly become quite pleasurable, if not actively appealing. To his surprise, he didn't feel the strange tingling of their incompatible proteins, and while he missed it a little, he wondered whether death was giving them a very, very generous gift. From the way Shepard pulled apart with wide, astonished eyes, she must have been thinking the same thing.
"Why do I think we're going to enjoy ourselves in the afterlife?" he asked.
"I have a few ideas," Shepard supplied, leaning back and letting her eyes roam over his frame. She did that a lot, and he still enjoyed the attention.
"You know..." Garrus started, glancing at the bar, where the wine remained untouched, "we haven't had our drinks yet."
"There's no rush," Shepard offered with a shrug. "Not like we need to be anywhere any time soon."
She had a point, he decided. Eternity seemed like a pretty long time. "So I guess we'll just ... lazily make our way over to the beach house, then?" he suggested. "Hit up a few more bars along the way?"
"Hm, not without a fight," Shepard decided. "It just wouldn't be the same without someone to shoot."
Garrus laughed incredulously. "You just died in a war, and you still want to fight?" He shook his head. "I don't believe it."
"Oh, come on, Garrus. We can't let ourselves get soft." She nudged him aside and hopped off of her bar stool, stretching her neck and rolling her shoulder. She probably didn't need to anymore, as he imagined that the stiffness that always plagued her there wasn't much of an issue, but it was a familiar habit and he was grateful that she had just indulged in it. He almost told himself because it made all of this seem real, but then he reminded himself: this was real. He had died, and Shepard was there with him.
"You know," she added, glancing back at him coyly, "if we were able to imagine up some wine, I'm sure we could get ourselves some mercs too. What do you say?"
Garrus laughed, walking up to wrap his arms around her midsection. "That's what I love about you, Shepard," he said. "Always keeping me on my toes."
She chuckled and leaned back into him. Together, they stared out into the warm abyss.