Chapter 1

Coming back to life was a bitch.

Things hurt that had forgotten how to hurt, muscles felt stiff and frozen, opening eyes was a painful chore. But, more than the discomfort, and more than the confusion, there was elation. She hadn't known such a deep thrill, something that rang to her very core, in as long as she could remember. She remembered the explosion, Jokers face, his mouth forming curses at her. She remembered how her tank had broken, how she had grasped and panicked, so unlike her, gasping for air in the dead of space. She remembered, but now she was here. Breathing.

Alive.

It was glorious. Glorious, and terrifying. For how could she be alive? Who had brought her back? What day was it? Where was everybody else? She heard a voice call out instructions, urging her to rise, commiserating in a distracted way with the pain she would feel, and part of her recognized the voice, even though she didn't – not really. She couldn't put a face to it, nor a name. That confused her.

But she forced lagging muscles into protesting motion, her instincts to obey such a command overriding her pain at the motion. Plus, it sounded like a damn good idea, if something was about to attack her, as the disembodied voice was implying. She found the gun groggily, the ammo slipping between sleep-deadened fingers several times before she could jam it home, feet slipping from her unsteadily as she dived into cover. Still, her aim was solid, and she took out the offending GETH with something close to her old ease.

Coming back to life was also confusing.

Time began to pass really quickly, after all of that. She met up with a dark-skinned man she hadn't met before, his intense eyes catching her own as his polite voice gave her a very unsatisfactory breakdown of events, the tone suffused with a certain familiarity that unnverved her. She didn't know him, much as he spoke as though he knew her. She didn't like it. Didn't like being left out of the picture, especially one that was so closely tied to her, and let her frustrations be known. He seemed to sympathize, but then they were being attacked, and she was forced to watch with grudging respect. He used biotics she wouldn't have anticipated coming from him, as well as a certain familiarity with a gun that the part of her that was a commander nodded to.

But his skills scarcely satisfied her, and the rest of the day was just as confusing, just an unsatisfying. And scarring in a way that went beyond facial blemishes.

Miranda. Jacob. Cerberus. All those little bits of information she had hacked out, learning she might not be exactly who she had been. Two years. It all hit her like a blow to the gut, only the lasting ecstasy at being alive, gloriously alive, kept her standing, moving, shooting. She picked up bits and pieces, and everything was unsatisfying, confusing, or disheartening. What the hell had happened while she was gone? Furthermore, could she really believe this story? It sounded like something made up… a fairy tale, a dark one. The only proof was neglible, the feeling in her hands, the muscles that felt new and untried. And she couldn't make herself believe that, couldn't make herself accept that they hadn't drugged her. Maybe they had even kept her under for the full two years, but surely she hadn't been dead.

She ignored the vague memory of space, the assurance of death. She hadn't died.

It was that simple. That simple, and that vague.

Time passed in an odd manner, leaps and jumps. Moments seemed to stretch into infinities, thoughts swirling and racking her brain, while she was able to look back and all but gape at the amount of time that had passed since she woke up on that table. Her scarring was less, her hair, shorn during the process, was growing again. Her muscles had become more toned, although not to the point they had been before… that.

Even after all this time, she didn't believe she had died. Everyone had told her – convinced her, even. Or thought they had. She accepted it as a fact logically. It didn't matter, in a way, so long as they stopped pestering her about it. And her mind was elsewhere. On her team. She had run into Tali, and that short, distracted meeting had still filled her with such a sense of satisfaction. It was wonderful to see how the woman had grown so strong and determined, even though she mourned the fact that she had chosen to stay with the flotilla instead of helping her. But, well, her mission was questionable, Cerberus untrustworthy, and her own loyalties vague and wavering. Mainly she was here because it gave her something to do, and access to materials.

And she was using them, everyday. She searched for them, high and low. She couldn't count the number of times she typed their names into search engines – nicknames, titles, real names, names of people they had known, names of places they had frequented. She was developing an addiction, this looking for her old team, and Cerberus could only deflect it by assigning her to missions.

But even these missions she took with pleasure, always hyper-aware, eyes scanning for more than enemies and traps. Actually, she was so distracted by her constant search for her old team, scattered as they were, that she was nearly shot several times that she should've been able to dodge. She actually did get shot a few times, every time ending up in the med bay with Chakwas or the interesting salarian doctor, more focused on her research than on recovery, much to their distress. She was happy, though, in a way. She had Chakwas there, and Joker. He had given her a thrashing when they first met up again, though… but eventually he had confessed how happy he was to see her. That had made the woman smile. It was good, good to have him back. Good to have him in the air.

Oddly enough, good to have him with EDI.

She had been shocked to find out, rather belatedly, that they had an AI onboard, but was quickly growing accustomed to its presence – even dependant on, much as she loathed the crutch. But still, EDI had her uses. And her humor, shocking as that had been to the two humans in the cockpit, when EDI had cracked her first joke… having to explain it afterwards, much to the relief of the two of them. Since then, she had noticed a peculiar bond between the two, a back-and-forth sort of transaction, in use even when it wasn't necessary. Sure, Joker bitched and moaned about her nearly every time she went to see him, but he was happy. His eyes were aglow, his flying was splendid, and his wit sharp-edged. It made her happy, even through her own distraction.

And then one day, she was given a mission. Really, it was normal, boring, but her body was lean and strong, her mind sharp and clear, her spirit writhing and begging for a distraction, so she took it – with gusto. It was on Omega, and she was supposed to recruit somebody named Archangel. She had scoffed at the name, imagining some savior-figure, working maybe off of old religious texts, or somebody equally crazy. It might be a pity-killing, at the end of the day, but at least the hunt would have some merit.

So she went, and found some interest in the planet itself. It was… crazy, and exultant with life, thrilled with itself. She found herself drawn to it, and was shocked by that – before her… well, she called it her death to make the others happy, but she still didn't believe it. But before her two missing years, she would've hated this place, hated the way it held itself, the pride that was showing through its riotous filth. But now she savored it, adored the pride in which it showed even its darkest corner. She loved how alive it was – swarming, as it was, with sick, filthy, rich, beautiful life. It was heady, intoxicating, and she was almost distracted enough to explore, steeling herself just before her feet started to take her off in a wrong direction. She made her way into the club that was rumored to have information on the person she was seeking, spoke with somebody who proclaimed herself queen. She was an admirable enough woman, but Shepard rather disdained such high-handed claims, even when made with reason, and proof. She preferred people who could hold modesty along with power, and so disliked the woman from the start.

But her respect, however grudging it may've been, was not misplaced. The woman pointed her in the right direction, after all. There was a small altercation here and there, but she got in with the group that was going to kill Archangel, barely paying attention to names or faces… she'd be killing these men later, if everything went accordingly, after all.

And everything did. She could almost be convinced that she was lucky, were she the type to believe in such vague things, since there was a particular ease in getting through the men she had previously sided with. Well, it was no luck that had disarmed their machinery, but that was only one portion of it. Maybe her reactions were coming back to her… the thought suffused her with a quiet, contained pride.

Chapter 2

Well, goddamn. Had she gone through every possibility, every option, every name or face she had expected to see when she met Archangel, this wouldn't have made the list. Not in a million years of reciting that list would this have been on it.

It was easy to claim she was shocked – but, at first, it had all gone so smoothly.

"Archangel," she said, her tone her classic command, dark blue eyes steely and cold, dark brown hair curling around her ears, face set in hard, determined lines, pistol held threateningly at half-mast, the picture of caution, of command. He had sighed, shifting his rifle to lay passively across his knees, turning to face her before methodically unsealing the clasps that held his helmet in place. She lifted the pistol slightly, frowning at him, at his silence, showing quite clearly and quite silently that she wanted no funny business. Well, and how funny it was all about to get, were she prone to irony.

She actually forgot about the pistol in her hand when Garrus set the helmet irreverently to a side, giving her a vague smile, one filled with sorrow that she could see even past his alien features. "Shepard. It is you." The words by themselves were simple, but the amount of emotion and exhaustion behind them… staggering. Had she been less lucky, she might've shot him then, a compulsive squeeze that would've, at this angle, hit somewhere in his stomach. Maybe it was a good thing she didn't believe in luck.

Instead of shooting him, the pistol clattered to the ground, and she just about followed it. It wasn't that she was a weak woman, or prone to fainting spells or overwhelming emotion, but this… somehow it felt more like she was the one seeing a ghost from her past, instead of it obviously being the other way around. So many things flooded her just then that all she could do was stare at that blue face, paler than she remembered it, paler than she cared for it to be. He let her stare, bless him, let her collect herself, let her shove her emotions somewhere… somewhere else, somewhere not here, not now.

At some point she realized she was still standing there, gawking at him, his head cocked calmly to the side as he waited her out, and that made her mad. Irrational, but true. She shot him a glare, an expression rife with confusion, and his eyes widened. But then she blushed, and she hated that even more, and she didn't want to hurt him, but…

She had thought he was dead.

He didn't come up in her searches. The Illusive Man had said that he had "disappeared". He hadn't sought her out when news of her return spread. The obvious solution, then, was that he was dead. It even made sense. He had a good, commanding spirit in him, too – surely he would've found some way to bide his time after she had gone. Perhaps he had gotten a team that didn't stay with him, or a group that wasn't strong enough for someone they went after. A part of her had accepted that, even as everyday she typed his name in, his favorite foods, his homeworld. She had already mourned him for dead. And now he was here, dark, small eyes hooded with concern and confusion… fear? But why, why fear? She suddenly felt furious, her emotions all coalescing into simple, manageable, direct-able fury – it was remarkably simpler than horror, or shame, or confusion. Shock or pain or joy, this horrible, overwhelming, terrifying joy that threatened to make her act a fool, to make her run up and press against him, that threatened to break every bit of distance she had painstakingly worked between her and her crew. She couldn't let that happen.

So, let the anger come. She could at least use that.

She breathed out, the sound harsh in the silence that had grown between them, and at the sound he jerked as though struck. Well, so let him, she'd deal with it later. Everything… later. Not now. Fighting first, making sure he survived for her to yell at later. "Garrus," she said, acknowledging him and trying to not let her anger into her voice, although the small, easily missed widening of his eyes showed that she probably hadn't been that successful. She didn't let herself sigh aloud as she directed Miranda and Jacob to take up positions in the household he had boxed himself up in, taking her own position near him… but not too near. She wouldn't be particularly helpful up here, either, not with her pistol. The temptation to go to the bridge and deal with them dangerously close-range (at least dangerously when they had such an advantage) was almost overpowering, but she swallowed the urge back.

"Shepard…" this time it was her turn to flinch, but when she forced herself to look at the turian, he was merely holding out a rifle to her, his dark eyes focused on the battlefield so intensely that it looked as though he'd set the metal piling of the bridge afire soon. She took it hesitantly, avoiding those dangerous talons more out of emotional caution than physical fear. It was a good gun, though, and would give her much better reach. Good.

So she took position, fired down, kept her eyes off of the turian despite their desire to stray, and generally did decently. But she couldn't do as well as she'd like, distracted as she was. Images of his face as she had glared kept forcing themselves to the forefront of her mind, even as she took careful aim with the scope, or received the kick from a shot. It just kept haunting her, and she knew that, if she dared to turn and face him, she'd meet those dark eyes and they'd be hard. And that hardness would not be cruelty or anger. Frankly, she didn't think she could survive if she looked right now, and saw the raw emotion in him, the emotion she felt as a practically tangible thing between them, quavering and bucking like a mad thing. She would never be able to get the image of that out of her head, and she couldn't afford such a thing right now. Part of it, though, was weakness… she could admit that, at least to herself. Grudgingly.

Everything was going well, and she was reaching down to grab more of the ammo that was scattered so haphazardly about, when she felt the strong hands, talons digging in hard enough that she would've been cut had she not been wearing her arm, grasp her and shove furiously. It was only after she was falling, falling, tumbling sideways to lay, stunned more by the fact that he did it than the landing itself, that she heard him call out, word cut off. The sound struck a deep horror within her, part of her shriveling and quailing but, like everything else, she pushed that aside. There would be time for that later… time for horror, for unbelievable shame at her petulant behavior, for her deep sorrow. She pushed herself up halfway, twisting her head to the side, feeling the sluggishness of air, then realizing it was her own senses, dulled and dimmed and rattled as they were. She blinked furiously, trying to dissect the scene of the bomb, before she noticed what was important – a blue, armored form lying supine upon the ground, part of his breastplate blown clean away, black scorching covering the rest.

She actually hesitated – that might've been the worst part of it all. It was horrible, unbelievable, really, to see him like that, but the fact that she didn't react immediately, didn't leap to his rescue, that would haunt her. And it wasn't that she didn't care, just that her horror outweighed her sense of action, of duty, outweighed her priorities. She screamed at herself to get up, to get him, to drag that man to cover, to stand guard over him like a feral thing. She might have actually screamed the words, too, she couldn't say afterwards. But finally she did react, leaping forward and almost falling again as she felt sharp pains blossom in lower leg and shoulder, but, as with absolutely everything that was not getting Garrus to shelter right that moment, such concerns were pushed away.

Sternly ignoring the mixed, confusing sounds of Miranda and Jacob wrestling for positions, alternately using biotics or shooting at the copter that had managed to get in the back and shoot Garrus all but point-blank. She was unable to make out the words that they yelled back and forth over the overwhelming hum of the blades, and didn't much care. She couldn't move him, since it might damage him more, so instead her grasping, desperate hands landed themselves on a crate, and dragged the heavy thing over with shocking efficiency. It was wildly ineffective, but right now she was more determined to not see the death that would come for them both than she was at some attempt to keep it from happening. It was ridiculous, in retrospect, that she crouched over that good man, that dear friend, teeth bared in pain and protection. She was willing to die with him. Not for, not to save, not in defense of… just to snuff out her own life along with his.

And she was just getting used to living again, too.

She was almost willing to believe in luck, or some cosmic guidance, when she heard the blades falter once, twice, and then stop altogether. They came on in fitful spurts, but she knew it wasn't enough, wasn't going to keep them afloat, and the grin that broke out across her face was savage as she heard the crash of metal into metal, the long grind as it skidded across the bridge before falling to the floor below, surely taking out many of the enemies she had sided herself with less than an hour beforehand.

Suddenly, though, her care for such things left her, and she looked down at the man below her. She only saw his back right then, but even that was a disheartening sight, the burns ravaging the blue armor. She let Miranda and Jacob hold the stragglers at bay as she moved cautiously off of him, grateful that in her fierce, protective stance she hadn't touched him. But now she did, laying armored palms against him and turning him gently as she could.

There was a mixture of feelings, then. A painful blossom of relief, hope, and joy as he took in a gasping breath, and a subsequent plummeting of spirits as he coughed it out and, with it, blue-black blood. How exquisite this would be, how poetic. She returns from the dead only to find her unwitting confidante, her dear friend, her Garrus, dying. And her last glance at him? A glare, petulant and bitter and- no. Fuck this; he was not going to die like this. She had come back from the dead, right? Well then it was true, wasn't it, that her stubbornness knew no bounds! Certainly she ignored any such bounds as she turned him to his back, tilting his face to the side, and staring down into eyes that flickered open and closed, into a face that sagged despite the fact that it was scaled and not fleshed. She stared into those eyes that were only intermittently revealed, and she spoke. She wasn't aware of speaking, and Jacob was the one who told her that she had been.

She had been afraid to ask what she had said, really. She was better off without knowing, and thankfully Jacob, perceptive man that he was, had understood that without her needing to say it.

She talked to him, though, for… well, she didn't know how long. She commanded him. She screamed at him. She begged him, in a whisper so low even she couldn't make out the words. Sometimes his eyes stayed open for a while and almost seemed to focus on her – on her moving lips, on her own desperate, blue eyes, on her shorter hair. But other times they clenched shut and stayed that way, or blinked, each time longer than the last. Her memory of that time was both lacking and clear, since all she could remember was seeing those eyes, and the relief and terror mixing in her, turning her stomach into a gurgling, protesting mass, and her head into a pounding center of anguish. But she couldn't remember where Miranda and Jacob were, or when Chakwas and the salarian doctor arrived. The next memory that wasn't dark, brilliant blue eyes focusing and unfocusing, closing and opening, was another image – his mouth opening, then closing. A pregnant pause, and it opened again, and he managed to gasp out one word. "Shep…" Not even a full word, really, but she understood.

That was when things started filtering back in for her. The concern of the other crew members regarding, not him, but her. She was incredulous until she realized why – they didn't know Garrus. Maybe the Illusive Man knew, and obviously Joker would've, had he seen him, but nobody else. No wonder they were so confused. She had been stern the whole time she was with them, strict and succinct, never wasting time or energy on frivolities, never showing passion. And suddenly that dam had broken, and how spectacularly. She didn't try to explain, just stared at them, stared at their questionings and their glares and their looks of sympathy and concern until each one had gone away, all in their own time.

Chapter 3

Thoughts were… vague things, imprecise. They couldn't tell you the time when you begged to know, or let you see outside of closed eyes. They couldn't show you what was in an individual's heart, nor what you looked like. Garrus found that he was frustrated with thoughts and thinking, something he rarely experienced. Right now he would give anything to use his eyes, to catch a glimpse of that face again, that face that was so… so right, and so, so wrong. She was Shepard still, that much could not be denied, but she wasn't. Death has never looked so good on someone.

But even his own jokes were doing no more than irritating him at this point, and he felt as though he struggled against bonds – not even literally, he would've killed to feel a literal struggle. But it felt like swimming in gelatin, this slow, painful upward crawl. Honestly it was so much easier to fall down, but his commander had issued him an order. He could hate her later, but for now he had a mountain to climb, so he took a deep breath – except not really – and moved up another aching, torturous step.

Chapter 4

She was feeling her own frustrations, but such things were primarily chosen covers for her horror, and the nausea that threatened to cripple her if she thought of him dying. One thing she didn't question, though, was the intensity of her devotion to the man – it made sense, after all. She had searched his name the most, and expected the least. She really had mourned him as dead, in a quiet way. To have the relief settle in, and then this happen… that was cruel, even the hardened commander could find no other word for it.

Chapter 5

He made it, although he was barely hanging on. He put all his focus into opening eyes, and saw her own dark ones above him. The intensity of her stare kept his eyes open now, almost taking his effort out of the motion. Why… he couldn't understand why she looked at him like that. There was fury in that dark blue gaze, but something so soft that it frightened him more than all the anger in the world. He had never seen his commander look so sincere, and the wonder of it kept his eyes open. He was exhausted, and wanted to sleep for a week, at least, but right now his only interest was in those eyes, in memorizing that tenderness. It was either an eternity or mere seconds later that he cracked a painful grin, his mandibles flaring out faintly, and he finally dared to blink. When he opened his eyes again that softness had come to the forefront, although it was quickly pushed back. Still, it was as though he had touched something magic, something that couldn't have ever existed, and it was worth the return of her anger.

"You…" She leaned forward intently as he rasped out the word, anger temporarily replaced by concern, by urgency. His grin grew wider. "Are kind of…. creepy, when you…. do that, Shep-" He had spoken too much, and his grin was destroyed as he broke into a coughing fit that would've had him gasping with the pain of it if only he could find the breath, but that competitive spirit had been kindled in her eyes again, and that made it worth it. He leaned back into the comfort of the pillows, blinking at the thought. Odd. Pillows? "W-where?" He worried aloud, the action of speaking making him hurt more, but the need to know overwhelming. Again, her eyes softened, but just for a moment. Each one felt like a victory.

"The Normandy." The words were simple, so there must've been something in his face that gave him away – a widening of his eyes, perhaps, or maybe his mouth hung open, because surely she was wrong. She gave a small smile, much more bitter than joyful, and explained. "It's a copy of it. Joker is flying it, though. They… ah." She lapsed into silence, and he tried to provoke her into speaking by glaring, but soon the effort tired him out, and she was silent and looking away anyway. Even though he noticed the way her blue eyes would sneak over to his almost compulsively, as though reassuring herself. Well, that was alright, then… and it was good that Joker was at the helm again, that made him feel better…

Chapter 6

Several days passed, the only marker for time she used being when he opened and closed his eyes, when he spoke and when he was silent. When he woke up she always made sure to tell him something, trying to put the snipers mind at ease, and he seemed grateful for each scrap of information before he sank back down into a healing sleep. But for all this back-and-forth, she hadn't yet told him that she was with Cerberus. Indeed, she almost wasn't. The Illusive Man was apparently furious with her self-imposed exile, and Miranda had stalked in several times, each time her eyes darker than the last. Finally Chakwas had come in to demand in a tone that brooked no argument that the Cerberus operative was not allowed in her med-bay unless she was bleeding or dying. Bless that woman.

But time, time was an erratic thing, prone to fits and bursts instead of moving along smoothly like it should've, like she knew it did in some distant part of her, and one day those brilliant eyes stayed open.

Chapter 7

He knew it was finally time… because it felt right. He didn't have the cobwebs cluttering his brain anymore, and even though movement was still agony, he could sense the process of healing, some distant thing that would come eventually. Moreover, though, he was driven by his desire to speak to Shepard, to clear the air. The more aware he had become, the longer he was able to stay awake, the more the thought of that look of shock morphing into something of pain, of anger had come to him, and the less comfortable he felt. But he had to face it, had to face his commanders fury, even though he couldn't imagine where it stemmed from.

To top all this off, his heart was sore, rubbed raw by the events of the recent past. And old scars had been opened by the vague reports of Shepards return to life, scars that he had painstakingly closed again, only to have the woman herself rend them apart once more, several times, in mere moments. Well, she was a capable lady, that much he had always known.

Now, though, was not a time to focus on pain. His commander was alive, spirit flashing through her dark eyes. He was alive, his body wracked with pain that proved it. Together, they would learn what it meant to be alive again, and he felt a desperate anticipation for it, almost wrong in its intensity, almost too much. But such thoughts were not to be his as he looked at the woman who had tended him day and night since the accident, her face drawn and pale but still suffused with her own energy, her own daring. He wanted desperately to reach out to her then, to enfold her in his arms without her resisting, to be physically capable of such a feat, but he knew that none of it would work. So he settled for what he could do – another flaring of his mandibles, an honesty in his expression that he knew he wouldn't be able to get away with were he not under duress.

"Shepard," he croaked out, some part of him shamed by the crack in his voice, not showing that. He tried to only show her the good, the pure in him. It seemed the least he could do for the woman who was so troubled by her own problems, to only show her the jokes, the laughter, the camaraderie he had always refused to let die. Even when she had been at her most distant, her most uncaring of him and everyone, he had forced jokes past a mouth that would've gritted if it could've, injected wordplay into the most onerous of situation. And anytime she had smiled, whether it was a condemning smirk, a true grin, a shocked quirk… whatever shape it might've taken, it had been a victory for him, distinct and rather better than any perfect shot he scored.

"I'm sorry," he said, some of his desperation that they go back leaking into his voice, and he made a face she might not understand. "I thought… thought you were dead." It was partially how hard it was to admit that made the sentence long, but also partially the fact that he couldn't see to get enough air, couldn't take deep enough breaths without a shock of pain. This, with medical science the marvel that it was, this scared him deeply. He wouldn't admit it, though… his pride was too much for that. But he had to wonder what was wrong with him, that a doctor couldn't put it right with a few injections. But something about his honesty hit her, and she looked away, and he felt a blackening of his spirit.

She was silent for a long time, his eyes trained on her, his exhaustion making him unable to hold on to his own depression. Instead he found himself tracing the contours of her face, noting the minor differences from when they had last seen one another, and the remarkable similarities. For one thing, she really hadn't aged – that was disconcerting. Humans always aged. But if anything she looked younger, at least in a physical way, her skin taut and unblemished except for some new, deep scarring along her cheeks. Her hair, always curly, had been cut from its length into something that curled fitfully around ears and down her neck. He found that he preferred it this way – it suited her better.

Her eyes, too, were different, but in a more subtle way, a way he couldn't quite figure out. It wasn't that the color had changed, that dark, piercing blue being the same as ever, fringed with the dark, heavy lashes that humans possessed, shining with the same internal light. But… different, definitely they were different. He found himself more and more unsettled as he registered these things – the subtle differences in her face shape yet the overwhelming familiarity of it, the bridge of her nose straight and sharp as he had never seen it, remembering her with a faint bump from an old break. Her lips were full and, at the moment, pursed, but even they seemed fresher, somehow. That was the basis of everything – she hadn't aged physically, if anything she looked reversed, but the woman who gazed at him looked older than her years, older even than the over-aged woman he had known before.

It was all distinctly unsettling.

"I…" he jerked to hear her speak, and was grateful for a moment that she hadn't been looking at him, his mandibles twitching with the pain of the motion. She didn't want her to stop speaking, though. "I was. Or, they say I was." Here she made a face he knew well, and the familiarity of it brought an inappropriate smile to his face, and once more he found himself grateful that she was staring into the middle distance as she spoke. He still found himself wondering who "they" were, though. "I don't know what happened. I know I…" Here she met his eyes, and his widened of their own accord, surprise showing itself plain on his face at the raw measure of that gaze. She really didn't know, and that chilled him like nothing else had to this point. And what was going on with this, anyway? People don't come back from the grave, no matter what. So what the hell was going on?

She sighed and looked away, and ran a hand fitfully through her shorter hair, making the strands stand in unruly fashion. "I felt dead, Garrus. My air tanks… they ruptured, out there. I suffocated." Her gaze was inward, her blue eyes dulled with the memory of it, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his questionable injuries. No… but she hadn't died. She was here. He wanted to say that, to reassure her, but was scared of breaking whatever fragile thing between them that made her speak. "I felt it. I felt it." She repeated the words, as though to convince herself instead of him, her voice cracking at the end, her eyes flickering closed for a moment as she took even breaths. Then she opened them, and he could see the effort in which she pulled her gaze from herself, and put it back on him, and his heart both thrilled at and dreaded what that might mean. She smiled… or more, her lips twisted upward, but the fear she couldn't quite smother in her gaze made the expression sour. He returned it anyway, mandibles twitching out faintly, counseling himself that he would do best to not add to her burdens, to not lay his horror and relief and opinions at her feet, and instead just accept this for what it was. His commander was back. His Shepard was back.

So as much as he wanted to comfort her, put his arms around her frail, powerful form, to press his face against her own and take and give comfort, he refrained. Just as he always had, just as he always would. Some part of him grew even more bitter and twisted at the thought, but the rest of him was childishly grateful to be in her presence again, pushing considerations of life and death – for the both of them – aside for the moment.

While not the best answer, silence was the only thing he could give her that wouldn't break his promise to herself, but he once more didn't try to hide or shadow his own expression, and something about it got to her. Her breath hitched, and her eyes stayed with his for a long moment, searching him, before breaking away abruptly, confusion and something less identifiable blossoming in those dark blue depths. He wondered what his expression could've said to her, that her reaction would be so visceral, but decided it might be best that he not know. Instead he forced another smile to his face. "Shepard," he said, his voice still rather raw and pathetic, but enough to catch the womans attention, enough that she turned her face to him. "I'm glad you're here." It was a simple statement, one that, for its simplicity, could be taken many ways. Exactly the type of statement he best liked, for it was not lying to her, but not bringing too much to the table, either. And his smile gentled the abrupt words, and she paused before nodding gratefully. She didn't say anything, but he felt fulfilled by the simple motion she had given him in lieu of a response. "Shepard…" He faltered, and saw with no small amount of satisfaction and guilt a flash of concern flash through those dark eyes. He shook his head faintly, trying to dispel her worries without causing himself undue pain. "I just wanted to k-know… what happened? Wha-what's wrong with me?" His voice faltered and caught, the words terrifying to speak, the answer something he didn't want to but had to hear.

Her eyes had always told too much, been too honest. He knew she didn't know it, thought herself impenetrable, but those eyes had always been her most telling feature, and what he saw there made him quail. What? What? But he waited patiently, allowing her to sound the words out, stomach churning at the growing silence between them.

"There was a gunship." His heart sank even further, and it was only through a show of will that she would never know about that he kept his bright and bold eyes from flickering closed in anticipation of the worse yet to come. "You got hit. Point-blank, just about." Get on with it, woman. "You… the damage was pretty bad." Spirits, why was she hesitating so much? Had he lost the ability to walk? A limb? He gently flexed each leg and arm, all but breathing out a sigh of relief as each moved. Well, what was it, then?

"You'll be okay soon enough—" About time you told me that, Shepard – "but you're… well." He was confused when she got up, and scared. Was it so bad that she couldn't tell him, then? He struggled faintly to sit up, determined to demand that she tell him, when his actions were suddenly stilled. She had picked up a mirror. What, then…

But he knew. He knew as she held it up for his inspection, even though it was angled poorly, so that he could only see the lower bit of the scar. Still, it was huge, the plating that made him up mottled by it. There was some revulsion, true, but more a sense of shame. He wasn't a vain individual, and hadn't prided himself on his appearance even before this, but knowing that whenever someone saw him they would first see the scar was discomforting, made him glare at the offending piece of flesh. But a part of him didn't care. A part of him was happy for it, because it meant that he had gotten hurt, and not her. He didn't want to give her any more scars, and his eyes flashed to those new, odd ones that marred her cheek. He noticed now that they also went across her nose faintly, and that there were one or two, mostly healed already, on her forehead, and found himself wondering how she had gotten them.

"Well," he finally said, the words halting. "Turian women always say scars are sexy. Maybe I can go back to Palaven, become a model or something." He was joking even now, even as his discomfort swelled and ebbed, and he saw how grateful she was for it, for the familiarity of it. Another victory for him, then, and damn the cost of it.

He lay back in bed, not hiding his exhaustion from his commanding officer, but shook his head at the hesitant half-step she took towards him. "I'm okay, Shepard. Glad that I only got my pretty mug a bit messed up." He looked at her, the temptation for something sincere too strong to repress, especially under the circumstances. "Glad I got hurt instead of you." He looked away from the faint widening of her eyes, staring idly at the ceiling, feeling relaxed now that he was understanding things. Well, most things. She was obviously still keeping silent about certain things – like who had been pulling the strings up till now for her, and who had provided her with this ship – but those would come in time, and for now he felt able to relax.

"I think… think I should sleep some more, Shepard. But I'm okay, now. Satisfied for the moment with your half-answers." He grinned to see the half-hearted glare she shot him, and she grinned back at him after a moment, making him thrill again. He hummed low in his throat contentedly, everything all right with the world for the moment, now that Shepard was somehow alive and by his side, now that he was alive and knew the extent of his injuries, now that she stood there grinning at him like he was a fool and she was content to throw her lot in with him for the moment. Well, certainly they were both fools, him even more than her.

But he was really tired now, the excitement ebbing away and leaving him satisfied but drained, and his eyes felt heavy. He shot her an apologetic smile that he wasn't sure she could read, so backed it up with some words. "Sorry, Shepard… tired, now. The, ah… excitement has passed, so now… now I feel just as tired as I should." He let out a half-laugh, knowing how nice it would be to stay up, to talk to her more, to use the excuse of him being injured and possibly delirious (at least, she could say that to herself afterwards, if she chose to) to be more honest with her than normal, but the need to sleep, to repair his hurts and soothe his soul was overwhelming. He blinked at her once, twice, smile fading to an expression more of peace, blue eyes straining to focus on her until the last, but then, too soon, she was gone, replaced by a comfortable black shroud…

Chapter 8

She felt her own sense of satisfaction as the turians eyes finally sifted shut, and remained there, content for the moment to sit and consider. Somehow he had eased her fears, her sense of horror regarding all that had happened to her, all that she couldn't remember. It was still there, could still come back at any time, but for the moment she felt more like herself, and flexed her fingers thoughtfully. She still didn't know what had really happened, still had nightmares – waking and sleeping – about those files she had hacked into at the Cerberus base, those files only Jacob knew she had seen. She found herself grateful to the kind-spirited man for keeping silent about that, for not revealing that she knew more about what had apparently happened to her than she should. That she might not be the Shepard who had scratched at her own throat in desperation, the Shepard who had felt what the prolonged absence of air could do to a body, the Shepard who had slammed against that shining red button so that Joker, at least, would survive.

Now she was the Shepard of night-terrors, of waking up with her blankets tangled around her and an inability to breathe, of getting on all fours and coughing until she fell back to her sweat-soaked bedding, of panting, grateful at every gasp for the oxygen that poured into her throat. It was pathetic, this fear, this horror, but she couldn't shake it. She found that she was less useful for it.

Before, she had never held much fear. Fear of death was a small thing, fear of losing somebody she cared about much greater. She was always willing to be the sacrifice, to jump in front of someone to take a bullet, useless a mentality as that was for a commander to have. But now there was hesitance in all her actions, a deep and shaming fear of death, of no longer being able to draw air into her lungs making her less useful. Making her different.

Her integrity of self was not the same it had been.

But for now, for this moment, she could push that aside. Not to say that she still didn't have that terror in the back of her mind, but for once she was able to focus on something else, eyes drawn to the sleeping form of the turian beside her, his own peace maybe rubbing off on her. She realized that she had rarely seen him sleep in all their time together, and never so deeply, and was surprised to learn how peaceful he looked… how delicate. The plating that had always given him a hard, powerful appearance was more lax in sleep, the effect being similar to a dangerous looking animal reclining peaceably. You could still see the power contained, but for now there was peace and that was almost more impressive than the strength that normally showed.

She stayed there for a time more, taking some strength from the peace he emanated, before levering herself up. Now that he was okay – truly, and thoroughly okay – and that some of the bridges that had burned had been built up again, however fitfully, she knew she had to attend to other matters. She found that she hesitated at the door, considering what would happen if she just stayed there, stayed in the room that seemed to give her some peace of spirit, but knew it for worthless considerations. She had to leave, had to go talk to people, had to see the Illusive Man. She was both too proud and too assured she was in the right to apologize to him, but she could at least say that she was going to be back in action. That would have to be enough.

She went first to the Chakwas. "Hey," she said by way of announcing her presence, and the older woman turned to her with a faint smile. "Garrus woke up and talked for a while. I…" here she faltered, looking aside for a moment before making herself continue. "He asked what had happened, so I showed him. He took it well." She shrugged, knowing that he hadn't been quite as blasé as he had appeared, but grateful that he had been calm enough to put on the act anyway. The doctor nodded comfortably, as though Shepard had just reassured her of something she had known already and the Commander left abruptly, feeling too uncomfortable to continue the conversation.

She debated about going to Miranda, since she knew she should, but just couldn't make her steps carry her there. She had grown to loathe the woman, more for her interference when she had been with Garrus then for any character flaw in and of herself, and would deal with her only when her hand was forced. But Jacob she found comfort in, a sense of familiarity and a mutual understanding, and so that was who she went to. She checked the weapons storage, smiling faintly as she found him in it yet again – the man always seemed to be fiddling with some gun or other, and spent a shocking amount of time closed up in this room. She stood by the door frame for a moment, waiting for him to notice her, before realizing that he was too focused. Her smile became a vague grin and she cleared her throat, the grin growing as he startled. Her spirits were better than they had been in days, thanks to the simple and complicated business that had passed with Garrus. And the time she had spent by his bedside had allowed her to… process, a little bit. She still didn't believe she had come back from the dead, but she was accepting other things – the two years she had been missing from the lives of everyone she had known. The fact that she might never get her old squad back together. The awkward fact that she was working, however vaguely, for Cerberus.

If Jacob had startled at her noise, it was nothing compared to the shocked expression as he found that it was her at the doorway. She really had imposed a peculiar kind of exile on herself, and understood that it must be surprising to see her out and about again, even as a part of her felt shamed by the shock in those eyes, a shame that dampened her grin a bit. Too late to fix it now, though – best to move forward.

"Garrus is stable," she said as way of greeting and explanation, moving forward into the room, looking at the weaponry littering the tables and walls as she let Jacob collect himself, wanting to turn and not find that unintentionally accusatory shock in his dark eyes again. "Ah – that's good to hear, commander." As he spoke she turned to face him, willing to meet those eyes again, and nodded, a faint but determined smile tugging her lips up. Just a bit.

"Yes, it is. It also means I've stopped my…" she hesitated on the word choice here, wanting to say something that wouldn't admit to weakness. "My vigil." The word was simple, but she thought it showed more of how a commander would act, instead of a concerned friend. While she may cross the line between commander and friend on rare occasion with the turian now sleeping, she wasn't intending to open herself in such a manner to her other men, Jacob included. She had confided in him, had confessed some of her lesser uncertainties. They had spoken of his father, of Cerberus, of his time with the Alliance. Were she not commanding him, she would've considered them friends, but even with words spoken kindly between them there was a line she wouldn't cross, and she was grateful that he seemed perceptive enough to pick up on that.

He nodded at her, looking relieved but keeping his words of choice to himself. Once more she felt a certain relief that he didn't press her. "So, I imagine the Illusive Man has been a bit frustrated with me?" Her voice was light, her desire to speak of anything of merit being succeeded by her determination to not weaken her position as leader, as commander. So she spoke of things that were important to know, but meant nothing in the grand scheme. Still, there was a certain comfort in just speaking to someone, someone she didn't have to explain herself to.

He grinned at her, and nodded. "Quite. He's been all over Miranda, telling her to drag you out of there if need be. But everyone heard about what Chakwas did, and even the Illusive Man conceded to her authority." The words made Shepard smile – doctors did wield a certain power that was not to be overridden, no matter the circumstances. She was glad the eerie-eyed and chain-smoking man also realized that simple truth.

"Well, I'm glad he listened to her. That woman is scary, if she feels she hasn't been obeyed." Jacobs grin grew, and her own was born.

She stayed and talked further with him, going back and forth, joking now and again. He even made her laugh aloud once, when he made a snide remark against the Alliance that was rather clever, and he blushed in return to her mirth. It felt good, though, to laugh again – it'd been a long time since she last had.

When she left him it was with comfort restored between them, and two smiles in a small room as she lifted her hand in farewell. It felt good – she felt good. There was something satisfying about this, just repairing those things she had let fall to the wayside, re-making connections as she went along, making up lost time. Granted, she didn't have many real connections to make up, not aboard this ship. Miranda and her were at odds, the only common ground being that Shepard was in command, and even that was under the blessing of the Illusive Man. And speaking of the man, she had no warm feelings of any sort towards him, even though she was bitterly grateful – or more, she figured she should be. Not believing that she had been dead, unable to accept that fact, it made the "gift" they gave her more suspicious than anything else.

And while she liked Mordin, she had a feeling the doctor wouldn't have missed her, focused as he was on each moment. Joker, though – perhaps she should see Joker.

Armed with a decision – one that did not involve going to either Miranda or the Illusive Man, a task she was quite consciously postponing – she made her way to the cockpit. She saw him and the projection of EDI, and hesitated at the door, not wanting to interrupt if they were debating anything of import. After only a few moments of eavesdropping, though, she grinned once more, and decided to announce herself. "Flirting with the AI, are you? I feel like this should fall under the heading of 'inappropriate co-worker relations'" His reaction was… well, priceless. He startled, jumping as much as was possible for someone sitting down, and turned to face her with an expression both sheepish and pleased.

"Shepard!" He cried out, surprise clear in his voice as he smiled. "Dammit, Shepard, I wasn't flirting." But the words were joking, and his redness attested to the fact that he was probably realizing now how flirtatious the back and forth had been. Her grin grew. "But, you're back! I thought you'd gotten wedged in a doorway, somewhere. Or maybe an airduct. Or maybe the salarian had dissected you for some human-experimentation." He waggled his fingers at her as he said this last, and she shook her head fondly.

"No, no experimentation. Just a lot of catching up." His joking attitude lessened somewhat, but what replaced it was not unpleasant. "How is he?" His tone held honest concern for her friend, and she was touched by it, knowing that the two hadn't… well, hadn't seen eye-to-eye on quite a few things.

She shrugged. "He's okay. Recovering. He woke up for a while today, and was pretty lucid." He had been acting a bit… strange, though. She swallowed hard as she remembered the raw emotion he had shown her, and how unsettling it had been to see. At her core she was not as strong as she liked to pretend, and one thing that scared her more than anything was the idea of things changing. She trusted him, trusted him to make stupid jokes at inappropriate times, to be awkward with her, to obey her by his own passion and logic, to be her friend. Seeing that had unnerved her. But she didn't let that show.

Showing it would just be taking another step towards changing things, and that was something she was unwilling to do.

She brought herself back to the conversation, shaking off the reverie, and listened as Joker sympathized and joked and made a comment about Garrus beating people with a stick that made her cover her mouth so that she wouldn't laugh aloud. "Joker, your sense of humor is as terrible as ever," she managed between grins and smirks and scoffs. He looked downright pleased by the comment, and she waved herself out, face suffused with enthusiasm and mirth. She really was feeling better, now.

Pretty much ever since she had come back "alive", as they said, she had been distant. Closed-off, focused on the work, drowning herself in the simplicity of action instead of thought. Now it was like she was… not her old self, not quite, but closer to that than she had thought she could be. She was laughing again, and her mouth found its way to grins and smiles and smirks once more.

She found herself dawdling, and sighed, running her fingers habitually through her shorter curls once again. Well, she'd have to face them at some point. Miranda she could avoid for a time longer, since the only reason that she would go to see her team right now was out of a desire to speak with them, but the Illusive Man… she needed to speak to him. Needed to thank him, however grudgingly, for providing the things that could fix up Garrus. Needed to tell him she was back in action.

She sighed again.

She was a commander, and used to being obeyed. She was accustomed to being the one who called the shots, the one who took the responsibility at the end of the day, the one who banded a group together into as cohesive a unit as she was able. But there were certain habits that were ingrained, certain things that the compulsion to follow through on almost shamed her, and one of those was simple – to report. She was used to being in command, yes, but she was also used to always being a skilled and unique commander who was under someone else. In this case, that someone was Cerberus, and more specifically the Illusive Man. Somehow, the fact that it was habit did nothing to lessen her dread, and the creeping, childish guilt she felt at abandoning everyone so thoroughly for so long.

She entered the room, dialed in the instructions, spoke to EDI, watched as the table receded, and moved forward into the space left vacant with nothing but a deep breath to steel her. Suddenly she was a hologram again, a feeling best described as an uncomfortable fuzziness infusing her body as she stood in the room on the Normandy, yet saw a grand vista far away, an unknown location. More pressing than even the great, commanding view, though, was the strong face of the man who sat before her, his unnatural eyes titled to a side, purposefully not considering her. He even had his ever-present cigarette with him, blowing out disconsolate puffs of smoke. She relaxed into the punishment, determined to make him break the silence first – she was stubborn.

But he didn't make her wait long, as though he just wanted to show his frustration with her, but other matters were too pressing to wait. And it seemed like that might well be the case, as he moved immediately into a long description of a colony that had been attacked, her eyes narrowing as he hinted at knowledge she knew he wouldn't divulge, as he brought archaic, fairytale words into the conversation that made her more suspicious of him than concerned for the mission. But all this she kept silent throughout, merely bowing her head stiffly at him at the end of it, and stepping out of the holo-circle. The disorientation such a sharp cut-off of that process dizzied her, and she caught herself against the wall, taking deep but silent breaths as she adjusted to the sudden change of perspective, of orientation.

This would not be a good time for her, she knew that with a sudden, urgent clarity, a certainty that was more unnerving than all the dire premonitions the Illusive Man had dropped during their abrupt meeting.

Chapter 9

Why did healing take so damn long?

"Spirits, this is unfair," he complained to the silent air, grunting as he levered himself upright. He paused there to take several deep, steeling breaths before throwing a leg over the edge of the mattress, wincing at the sudden motion, then followed it with the other leg. He had been doing this for a while now, getting up and walking around the room until either he stumbled one too many times, or Chakwas caught him at it and ordered him back to bed. But he was restless… and, more than that, he was determined. He had to be useful to Shepard, wanted to go back to joking, to biting his lip (proverbially, of course) around her, to slamming a lid on the part of him that was determined to admire her, that was desperate for more than friendship. He wanted even the parts of their relationship he had loathed back then, two long years ago, back and just as strong as ever.

So with another grunt he pushed himself off the bed, wobbling slightly as his still-weak legs took the burden of him, and then sighed. The hardest part was getting up and then getting back down, but this part was relatively straight-forward. While the restlessness and the overwhelming determination were probably the main driving forces behind his pacing of the small room, there was also a desire to escape from himself. He had been committing himself to an honorable death, back on Omega. It wasn't that he was unhappy to be alive, but the change in perspective…

What felt like only hours ago to him, disoriented and missing so much of the middle time as he was, almost everyone he had never known and loved was dead. Shepard he had never gotten over, never accepted her death even as he convinced himself that he had, and that extranet article filled with disorienting rumors about someone who exactly matched her returning, and whispers of "Shepard" polluting the city of Omega. It had felt like a personal torture, that, and he had alternated between begging and rejecting the Spirits as he went through that particular hell, hearing her name on the lips of strangers. Hearing her name spoken with the awe it deserved, the hated that made him sick, and the contempt that infuriated him.

But by that time, he had formed his own band, his own qualities for leadership coming into the open, and they had distracted him. They had given him something to focus on, something for when he had heard her name one too many times in a day and felt like drinking himself to exhaustion. They had saved him, in that time, and he would always be grateful for that – as well as for so, so many other things.

He sighed, and ran his a hand over his crest, frustrated. Even as he was making an effort to not think of all… all the things that had happened, they found a way to sneak past him, to become blown up and big in his mind, until he couldn't think of anything else. He hadn't even realized that he had stopped until this sudden knowledge that he was thinking about them again, and subsequent sigh and crest-rub.

But he began to move again, talons of his right hand dragging against the wall, making a small scraping noise, ready to grab at whatever was nearby lest he fall – not that he had fallen, in all his little trips around the room. As a matter of fact, each time getting up and laying back down seemed easier, and his legs seemed more and more responsive. It was heartening. But the increasing ease reflected in his ability to think of things beyond his next step and bracing himself against the wall, and that was the part of this that he hated so much. He sighed again, having come back to the bed, and sat down heavily on it, pleased that he didn't feel the need to lie down.

He had kept away from mirrors up until now, not wanting to think of what had happened, but now he reached for the mirror Shepard had left by his bed, and held it up to fully inspect the damage. Well, now.

Well.

He reached up to gently trace the pattern of the scarring, following it down his chest until the thin cloth of his undershirt stopped him. He set down the mirror and struggled for a moment with the fabric, the simple motion hampered by his lack of flexibility right now, but he eventually got the damn thing off, and picked up the hand-mirror again, to continue his examination. There were markings that went down his chest, a big area of it on the right side, and tapering down to his stomach. But most of that looked like bruising instead of scarring – he wasn't sure what he'd look like, once the bruising from the blow healed. He couldn't decide whether that was a good or terrible thing to not know, just then.

He set the mirror down carefully, sighing and running a hand over his face, pushing aside any horror he felt. It really wasn't vanity that shook him like this – for all that he had many scars, for all that he knew what a wound looked like and was rarely afraid of it, for all his general experience, he had never earned something so big, so obvious, and the intrinsic difference it wrought in him made him feel queasy. He knew that he'd always look in mirrors and anticipate seeing his face whole and formed, and feel a small bit of shock. So it wasn't about vanity, but it was about becoming unfamiliar to himself. That was unnerving.

/continuing/