Just a little thing that came up in my mind.
Based on lyrics from "Dead Inside" by Muse.
He knew he liked her since the moment he met her, but he started to want her from the moment he saw her lithe body on that dance floor, alien hands and bodies touching her warm skin. Her bare hips moved and entranced him, inviting him to get close, daring him to touch her, waist contorting and giving the view that it was thinner that it was supposed to be. It was like a drug.
She was always like a drug, an immovable center, her presence, her energy, always floating around them and warming his soul. Leaving him begging and crying for more.
But she was soulless. Even he could see that behind her eyes. She had returned to his life, but he always felt that she was still dead, a gleam behind her emerald eyes that never appeared again when she was close to him.
She accepted the bodies getting close to her, hands and legs and arms eager to feel her warmth just for a second, but her eyes were only for him. Or that's what his mind wanted to think.
Her skin felt so warm to caress, and his body moved to its own accord, legs trying to encompass her movements and hold her close, nose and mouth attempting to breathe and taste the little she could give to him. What was left of her, he wanted all. He needed all, if she wanted to bring him back to what he once was.
But he knew it all along. On the outside, she was ablaze and alive. But she's dead inside.
She stepped away from him for a moment, and he smiled. It was almost like she wanted him to escape, like she wanted to release him from her, although he knew better. He always knew better. She liked to give him an inch while he was up to give her the entire galaxy.
And she knew it all along. On the outside, he had nothing to give her, but he could peel his own skin and deliver that to her as a gift, if that's what she wanted. He could let go of everything, because she was the one that needed control.
In the darkness of some abandoned alley, her lips felt warm to the touch. Her legs climbed to his waist when he moved inside her, and just for an instant he thought that he had finally saw the magic in her eyes. That energy and that drug that always pulled him to her.
In her bed, months later, he held her and embraced her, definitely surrounding to her warmth, unable to turn back, to be the man he once was without her. Their limbs entangled together, his hands moving and begging her to feel him, to hold him, eyes needing her gaze on him, to open up to him. His mouth opened and pleaded to her to stop hiding, to be alive, to—at least—let him fill her.
And he knew how much he insisted. Spirits knew how he asked, how he begged, how he pleaded for her to give him something, anything.
He gave her everything and more. He gave his own soul to her, all that she could have to touch the sky if that's what she wanted, but to come back to him. And a year later, she had left him in the cold.
He gave her all that he was, even his own name, and she had left him out to die.
Now, in the aftermath of love and war, his lips feel warm to the touch, his skin so warm to caress, and his words seem so real to anyone that listen, because she taught him to.
Shepard taught him how to lie, how to survive, how to control and hypnotize. She taught him everything. And now, on the outside, everyone saw Garrus Vakarian as the greatest guy, her second in command, the perfect image of the man she had left to guide the galaxy to peace once again. But he knew that better. He knew he had become just like her.
Now he's dead inside.