For Continuous_Spectrum. Merry Christmas!
Buratrum - turian version of hell
Soluvermus - armoured turian earthworms from the arctic regions of Palaven.
Tarc - turian equivalent of shit
The bottle rattles against the table's surface, spinning lazily on its bottom ridge when he sets it down crooked and none too gently. He stares at the bottle—both of it—through bleary eyes for long moments before he blinks. His lids react slowly, grinding down over gritty, greasy-feeling eyes. His tears turned to blood months ago. Now, he's fairly sure they're made of engine grease and the sandy grit that covers the entire damned asteroid.
Lifting a hand to press against his brow plate, he struggles to hold back the heavy, burning pressure threatening to blow out the front of his skull. Not drunk enough, yet. He blinks again, letting his eyelids settle closed that time. A trembling hand reachs out, snatching at the bottle a couple of times before making contact. He dumps a couple of fingers' worth straight down his throat, no longer tasting it or even feeling the burn.
When he lowers it, the bottle drops the last couple of centimetres to the table, rattling again when it hits the surface. The sound slices through his headache and whatever oblivion he's managed to build up. It doesn't ring at the exact same frequency as the noise in his memory, but it's far too close for being as sober as he remains.
The spanner rattles its way down through the Mako's suspension, a dull thunk followed by a yelp and a brow plate raising curse.
"For frig's sake, Garrus, give a woman some warning before you drop tools on her head." Shepard's face appears between the axle and the drive shaft.
He winces at the already blue lump on her cheekbone, his gut tying itself in a knot. "Spirits, Shepard … I … tarc, I'm so sorry. I didn't think you were in the line of fire." He scrambles out, grabs her by the ankles, and eliciting another yelp, pulls her float out from under the APC. Crouching next to her, he holds her down, gentle talons inspecting the damage. Dear spirits, doesn't the woman suffer enough injuries on the job? The few moments she shares with him are supposed to be … tarc, they're supposed to be special.
Shepard pushes him off of her and sits up, chuckling when she sees his misery. Reaching out, she presses a warm, calloused palm against his cheek. "I'm fine, no permanent damage."
Months away from that moment, he can still feel the sensation of her hand pressed to his mandible, so warm and gentle, the heart behind it more concerned for his guilt and pain than the throbbing in her face. He'd taken her to Dr. Chakwas, the cheek broken.
"How many turians does it take to hold onto a wrench?" she teases, only one eye visible through the regen emitter.
Garrus rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms beneath his keel. He affects annoyance to cover the piercing sting of regret. Of all the ways he's imagined connecting with Shepard, shattering her face with a wrench has never entered his imagination. He gulps and lifts a brow plate, forcing a reply through an impossibly tight throat. "How many turians does it take to hold a wrench?"
He can't see the smile that goes along with it, but her stare practically crackles with smart ass humour. "Well, at least one more than you."
He snatches the bottle from the table, upending it until brandy stops pouring down his throat.
"Get him strapped in!" Shepard glances over her shoulder just as the enemy cruiser's beams fire again. Searing fire blinds him, but he lunges toward the portal. His vision clears just in time to see a massive fist of flame slam into her, flinging her into space. She grips the Normandy with desperate fingers, her eyes locked on him for the scant second before she's gone.
Staring into the empty bottle, he searches for the promised oblivion at the bottom … the place where memories vanish for a few, precious, horrible seconds. Hearing voices from the other end of the bridge, he drops the bottle onto the table, his muscles reacting like soluvermus tossed onto the ice.
"Shouldn't be drinking, Vakarian. You've still got a hell of a fight on your hands," her voice scolds in his head as he stumbles to his feet. "What have I been telling you for two years?"
"I'm not allowed to follow you, and if I do, you'll kick my assless so hard I'll be sitting on pillows for the rest of my life," he answers, his voice flat, reciting by rote. "What does it matter, Shepard?" He sighs, the sound originating in his boots, the air tasting like it did. He closed his eyes. "Besides, it's Christmas. Don't all humans get drunk at Christmas?"
"What's this?" Garrus eyes the package shoved into his left mandible. The lights glare off the shiny red covering. Pushing it far enough away to actually be able to see it, he glances at the naked woman draped over his legs.
"It's a Christmas present." She shrugs, her hair rippling over her shoulders. He can't decide how many colours he can pick out, and he's tried to count the hints of everything from gold to copper and rich, deep chocolates.
He settles for stroking his talons through it. "A Christmas present? Isn't that a human religious holiday?"
Shepard shrugs again, then crawls up to kiss him, long and sweet, her tongue teasing with a hint of peppermint. "Well, I guess, at least originally. Now, sure, there's a religious aspect, but it's mostly about enjoying the people who are important to us. We give each other presents and look back at the long year stretched behind us as we say … 'Well, hell, we made it!'"
"Except we didn't both make it, did we?" He sinks back into the chair. Let them come. He's existed in buratrum for two cycles. He's breathed the stale air of death throughout those same months. So what if this week the base stinks of his most recent failure? It's just a little more decay and a little less must.
Let them come. The faster he eats that bullet, the faster he can unwrap a new level of hell. Shepard always said a change was as good as a rest. She always said that just before dragging him on some completely insane mission that they ended up laughing through like a couple of lunatics. Spirits, every moment he shared with her had been a gift.
After giving her a dubious look and returning her kiss, he shreds the wrapping, revealing a long rectangle of sloppily knotted—he sniffed it—animal hair. A cocked brow meets Shepard's brilliant smile. "Hm… ah ... thanks?"
She snatches it from his hands, wrapping it around his neck. "It's a scarf, Garrus. And I made it with my very own hands, thank you very much." After tucking in the end, she sits back and nods, apparently approving of the picture he presents. "It might muffle your grousing on cold planets, so really it's a gift for me too." Her laugh brightens the room.
"I don't have anything to give you," he says, filling the silence that rolls between them: warm waves over sand. He holds her stare, seeing in her eyes … just … everything. His entire life spreads out before him in her gaze.
She kisses him again, tongue flicking the edge of the top plate of his mouth. "Oh, you gave me a couple of amazing Christmas presents, Vakarian." She grins. "How many turians does it take to make Shepard scream loud enough the entire CIC blushes when she steps out of the elevator tomorrow?"
He rolls her over, pinning her to the bed, their eyes still locked on one another. "Just one."
"It's Christmas, and I'm sharing it with the people I cared about." He upended the bottle, grumbling when a couple of drops trickle onto his tongue. "Tarc!" He lets the bottle fall to the floor. "The jokes on me, Shepard. It takes two turians to kill off my entire squad. Two!"
"You're not responsible for what Sidonis did, Garrus," that voice insists. Is it even still her voice? Her face blurs and fades more every day. He may be remembering her voice completely wrong.
"Come on, get the Oxy and stims into you. You need to be able to shoot straight, dammit. You aren't dying here today. Not on Christmas."
He shakes his head, as if the movement can drive her voice away or toss it clear of his brain. It hasn't worked for two years, why would it work now? Finally, he manages to get the drugs into his system and stands. Stumbling to the balcony, he sits behind his makeshift blind and lifts his rifle scope to his eye. It takes a few minutes for the meds to kick in enough that the view stops looking like some sort of nightmarish fractal.
"Will I be allowed to rest?" he whispers to the silent, stale air, letting the rifle slump in his hands until it hangs, as impotent to change anything as the rest of him.
"Not until I do, dear friend," the voice whispers, flower petals and caresses replacing the thorns and claws. "Look through your scope."
He does as he's told … obeys her order. He thought that he could stop taking orders when his commanding officer died, and he started his own company. Silly him. He lifts his scope to his eye again. Movement at the barrier. A group of humans jump over the piled refuse. They aren't flying gang colours: more hapless conscripts to soak up his bullets. A flash of familiar chestnut highlights through brunette hair yanks at his attention, focusing it … as much as he can focus.
A familiar lithe, controlled body moves in unfamiliar armour, but then she turns. The first thing he sees is the N7 emblazoned above her breast.
"Not until you do," he repeats. "Merry Christmas, Garrus Vakarian." He takes the first shot, bringing down one of the pawns, the sound drawing her gaze up to the balcony, and for a moment, he swears their stares connect despite his helmet. She grins, the flash of teeth spurring him into action. He takes out all but Shepard and the two with her, then turns toward gunfire in the hall outside.
He holds his breath, his hand trembling as he lifts it to grasp his helmet.
The door opens as he lifts the helmet free, and she's there, real and breathing. For a moment, neither moves, and then, as if by magic, she's in his arms.
"How many turians does it take to make all the horrific shit just disappear?" she whispers into his aural canal.
"Exactly as many Shepards as it takes to do the same damned thing."