2.

As the Normandy pops out of the Widow relay into Citadel space, Garrus keys a final sequence into the battery console, logging himself out. He can't help but feel a pang of regret; he's going to miss the massive gun, despite the endless calibrations it required.

While the ship settles into a Citadel docking cradle, he packs his duffel. Not that he has much in the way of belongings, beyond his battered armor and rifle, some weapons' mods, and a single set of civvies.

He's always been a little amused by Shepard's model ships and the overpriced fish in her aquarium, but the only souvenirs he's picked up following her seem to be scars. Scars, and a vivid memory to go with each.

He flicks a mandible; he doesn't regret a single one.

He closes the bag, then brings up the display on his omni-tool, sifting through the messages until he finds the one marked with his father's extranet address.

Garrus –

I've read through the reports you forwarded regarding the destruction of the Collectors and subsequent return through the Omega 4 relay.

Your concerns seem to be based in fact, however, I feel it best we discuss this matter in person. With the increase in unrest along Palaven's trade routes, I have taken the liberty of securing passage for you on the Reliant, rather than a standard passenger vessel; find the itinerary attached.

It is my sincere hope you accept this invitation in the spirit in which it is intended.

-CV

Add: Despite our past disagreements, I say with honesty I felt no small amount of pride reading Commander Shepard's notations regarding your contributions to mission success.

Garrus tells himself he opened the message to access the file with his ticket information, but he's never been good at lying to anyone, let alone himself. The final sentence makes him feel... well, he's not really sure. He doubts he'll ever be friends with his father, but this seems like some sort of progress.

Another thing he can thank Shepard for, he thinks, stepping through the battery doors one last time.

He heads for the elevator, duffel slung over one shoulder, battered rifle case in the other hand. He thinks it's for the best that he goes now and avoids the inevitably uncomfortable, awkward goodbyes. The turian frigate is scheduled to depart for Palaven in two days, but right now there's a drink or ten waiting for him station-side.

It isn't like anything he can do would actually help Shepard, and drinking himself stupid might dull the feeling of uselessness eating at him.

The Illusive Man is pissed over too many things to count and gunning for Shepard, the batarians are screaming for blood after what she'd done in the Bahak system, and the Alliance seems likely to sweep everything under the rug. Instead of giving Shepard a hero's homecoming, chances are the brass are going to try her as a war criminal.

He's been around the galaxy long enough to recognize stacked odds when he sees them. Bad odds aren't the problem, knowing there's nothing he can do about them is. At this point, getting off the Normandy and losing himself in the bottom of a glass seems as good a plan as any other.

The mess hall's empty, Gardner missing from his place behind the counter, and a quick glance in the med bay shows that Chakwas is gone, too. Garrus knows without asking EDI that the remaining crew-members are gathered in the briefing room to hear Shepard's last speech.

He isn't planning on stopping by to listen.

He and Shepard said what passed for goodbyes the night before, over neon-colored drinks and Skyllian Five. He really doesn't want to stick around for her speech or mingle with the rest of the crew because he's sure it will have the feel of a funeral.

If there's one thing Garrus Vakarian has had enough of in his life, it's funerals.

Besides, he thinks, what little time Shepard has left before she's escorted back to Earth, she'll want to spend with Krios. It's not like what the two of them have going on is some sort of secret, and Garrus isn't interested in intruding or being a third wheel.

His plan to slip away unnoticed falls apart when he reaches the elevator. The doors part, and Shepard's standing there, hand on her hip with her eyebrows arched. A smile tugs at one corner of her mouth.

"I'm almost offended, Garrus," she says. She probably doesn't know how much her voice gives away - most humans have no clue - and that he can hear how uneven her tone is. "My speeches aren't that bad, are they? I've been working on this one."

The other thing he notices is she's holding a hard-shelled gun case. A soldier's reflex makes him automatically catalog the Normandy's inventory for its possible contents. Right size for a compact sub, he thinks. Probably that Tempest that Mordin kept complaining about going through sinks too fast; Shepard must be taking it to the armory on her way to the briefing room.

He hesitates, shifting his duffel. The handle of the rifle case digs into his hand as he squeezes too hard, the plastic creaking in protest. He goes for humor, nodding at the case she holds. "You going to shoot me over missing a speech?"

She shakes her head, same small smile trying to form, same uneven notes in her voice. "Just get in the damn elevator, Garrus. I don't expect you to stick around, but at least let me walk my best friend to the airlock."

"Kind of pushy for a best friend," he tells her, swallowing around the sudden tightness in his throat. This is what he was trying to avoid, this unwelcome, uncomfortable-as-hell situation that makes him want to shoot something. He finally nods, though, and steps through the doors, turning to face them again as he stands beside her.

He presses the control for the next deck, and as they wait in silence for the elevator to reach the CIC, he's glad for the quiet.

His visor is feeding him stats, and while the information is normally a comfortable background hum, now... he realizes the information he's reading is on Shepard. From what he's seeing, her pulse has climbed to a rate he'd normally associate with a krogan charging her position.

Fact is, he knows she's as bad at this as he is. Feeling like he's intruding on her somehow, he slides the duffel strap down his arm and sets it on the floor, then taps the visor.

He changes his mind about the silence in the elevator; without the data stream to distract him, the quiet is borderline oppressive.

"So," she says, clearing her throat, lifting the gun case she holds. "I wanted to give you something."

Humor seems like a sound tactic, especially when the unwelcome ache is back in his throat. He glances sideways at her, then back at the doors. "That overheating Tempest? Even if it wasn't a piece of shit, it's too small for me. My style is... hm. Bigger."

Shepard doesn't miss a beat. "I thought it was all in how you used it?"

"So some people say." He grins, playing along, relieved she's allowing him the distraction. "Usually the ones without enough firepower. I'd take my rifle over that little gun any day."

"Well, you're in luck." She balances the case in one hand as she thumbs the latch with the other. "It's not the Tempest. Mordin loves that thing. I'd never let someone else have it."

She lifts the lid, and Garrus finally turns toward her. The plates over his eyes raise as he takes in the contents. "Damn. Your Locust? I can't take that, Shepard."

"Kassa Fabrications Model-12 Locust," she says, the words sounding like she's reading a brochure. "If you believe Kasumi, this one killed two presidents, but it's always been sort of lucky for me. I know it's not quite your style, but I want you to have it."

She rests her palm on the grip of the little SMG, and the affection in the gesture makes Garrus' mandibles twitch in a smile.

"Shepard, you had that on you when we took out the proto-Reaper. Are you sure you -"

"Yes, very sure. And you weren't paying attention. It fired the final shot that brought the bastard down."

He laughs despite himself. "Only because you went through too much heavy ammo to fire off the Cain again. Tell me you don't love that gun."

She grins at him, and snaps the case shut, holding it out toward him. "You're not getting the Cain. Have to settle for something that means more to me. Just remember it doesn't have the same punch against biotics and barriers as it does -"

"Armor. I know." He takes the case carefully, and tucks it under his arm before picking up his duffel again. He really wishes he could figure out what the hell he was supposed to say now. "Thanks. I mean it."

She gives him a stiff nod, and then the elevator doors open, saving them both from more words. The command deck is empty except for the flickering holographic shape of the Normandy, the only sounds are muted chimes from controls and the rush of air from the vents.

As they walk through the empty room, toward the first set of airlock doors, he sees even Joker's seat is empty.

It doesn't escape him that he and Shepard have said goodbye like this before. Docked in a Citadel cradle, the quiet hum of the Normandy around them. He'd gone back to C-Sec and...

And then she'd died.

Crap. Not where he wants his mind going. Not now.

"I'm not one for long, drawn-out goodbyes," he says as they stop inside the airlock before the final set of doors, "but, I want you to know, there's nobody in this galaxy I respect more than you."

She presses the control, stepping to one side as it hisses open, then gives him a curt nod.

"The honor's been mine, but if you make me cry, I will shoot you," she says with a smile he knows is meant to be teasing. He'll never be an expert on human emotion, but he thinks the way she bites the inside of her cheek means she's upset.

"If you weren't such a terrible shot, I might be worried." He steps into the docking arm, but before he walks away, he turns his head enough to tell her, "Shepard. You ever need me again, just let me know when and where. I'll be there."

He hears the door start to close and doesn't look back when she calls after him, "Take care of yourself, Garrus."