2191.
With the local sun burning so hot, Shepard was never as appreciative of the controlled ship atmosphere as she was right now. Sweat beaded across her forehead, hair stuck to her skin from the moisture, and beneath the thick fabric of her Alliance Dress Blues, her body wasn't fairing much better. She longed for the thermo-regulation unit of her armor, designed to maintain a comfortable temperature whether in extreme hot or cold environments; it wouldn't have been perfect, but it would have made it bearable. It wasn't a hardsuit type of day, however, even though a pair of marines stood at her side, guns held as casually as possible across their arms—for her protection, of course, though trying not to particularly alert the colonists gathered nearby.
It was a small planet with few actual settlements, the kind of place that had been mostly overlooked by the Reapers' initial assault. They hadn't been untouched, though, and in the distance, Shepard could catch the image of a rusting, abandoned hull of what used to be a fearsome creature, a synthetic drawn to the planet to wipe out the meager amount of life, mostly human, that had found home there. What the Reaper—a small one, tiny compared to the likes of Harbinger or Sovereign—hadn't known was that across the galaxy on Earth, as it touched down to this remote planet, Shepard was running towards that beam and putting an end to the threat once and for all. The colonists had regarded it as nothing short of a miracle to see a ship so large arrive, red eye of light blazing, and not a half hour later to watch it fall before it could claim all their lives with it.
The remoteness had saved them just as much as Shepard had, but it was also why after the war had gone dead five years ago, the ominous shell of a Reaper still lingered in the colonist's backyard: there were just more important things to do. But not anymore, Shepard had announced, breathing slow and steady through the humidity and sun searing her skin, as she spoke to the crowd from the platform they'd erected prior to her arrival, today the Alliance will finally begin to clear out the synthetic abomination and return your lives to peace. There had been cheering, the crowd rallying together with smiles and expressions of hope, and though Shepard had come to hate the fact that as of her recovery, she'd become little more than an Alliance mouthpiece and someone who spent her time observing rather than doing, it was a good day.
She waved to the crowd once more, unsteady on her feet, a sickness spreading in her gut, an ache at her back. Heat exhaustion, she told herself, and before the crowd finished cheering, Shepard smiled and waved one last time and stepped off the stage, back under the protection of her armed guard. Men and women, children and grandparents, they reached for her, shouts of thanks and praise for the god-like status she'd achieved in this tiny corner of the universe, and Shepard hurried by, trying not to get caught in the uproar. Garrus was there not a few steps into the mad-rush forward, arm curled around her protectively—a relatively new gesture with new meaning as of the last few weeks—as they worked back towards where the Normandy sat at the informally constructed docking bay.
"Christ, it's hot," she groaned into him, and even the usually cool metal of his armor was radiating heat, offering no solace.
"Reminds me of Palaven," he said whimsically. Years on the citadel, Omega, and the Normandy had left him adjusted to the cooler atmospheres, but there was always a pleasantness to feeling air so hot. The humidity, though, that could go take itself right to hell. Shepard's footing stumbled slightly, but he had her, kept her moving along the way. "You okay?"
He'd watched her speak from the sidelines, that had become his job as of late too, to wait for her patiently and offer comfort when she needed it. Not every stopover was as pleasant as this one. These people hadn't been hit hard, lost very few, and their bitter anger hadn't had a chance to find fuel. They thrived while the rest of the galaxy suffered, growing crops, raising children. Sure, it wasn't as good as it had once been, with a lack of medical supplies filtering in steadily, but there had been an increase in the need for the food supplies they harvested, and would continue to be for the foreseeable future. Elsewhere, the marine guard was sometimes needed, people angry at the loss of children and spouses, their grief overtaking their happiness at being alive at all. It was tough business being one of the few that survived in a world so torn. It was an easy day today, even if the temperature didn't cooperate.
Up close though, that sheen of perspiration on her face gave way to a pallor where he'd expected sunkissed pink, and Garrus knew her unsteadiness was from more than just the warmth.
"I'll be happy to get this uniform off," she mumbled, doing her best in fighting him to maintain her own illusion of strength where she felt none of it. At the top of the docking platform, Shepard turned, waved a final bid of farewell, and allowed Garrus to guide her inward, the airlock sealing behind them as the filtered, cool air flowed in and the decontamination process began.
Shepard wiped her face with the cuff of her uniform, sighed, body feeling the weight a hundred bricks on her shoulders and wrapped around her middle, weighing her down.
"Did you eat today?" Garrus asked with concern, voice soft as the crewman acting as guard waited nearby. In the background, EDI's programming counted down the timer till the decontamination protocol came to an end.
"Yeah," and she shifted a glance to the soldiers, then back to him, her voice taking on that similar whisper, "what I kept down."
His hand came to her cheek, and Shepard leaned into his touch, eyes shutting instantly in a moment of desperately sought relief. It wasn't much, but it was something of a distraction.
"Thirsty," she added, hand rising blindly to pull at the buttons of her uniform, loosening the military jacket to expose the tanktop beneath. "Where were you to remind me to keep hydrated?"
A low chuckle rose in the back of his throat. Leave it to Shepard to remember every little thing someone had said, even a decade earlier. He kissed her scalp despite its dampness just as the airlock doors finally opened, and when he pulled back her eyes were open, arm curling around his small waist in both a show of affection and a desire to hide the strength she needed from him. Garrus kept his own arm tightly about her, and guided her towards the elevator.
By time they reached the cabin, Shepard had her jacket off, carelessly tossing it to her desk where it fell to the floor, pulling an unfortunately placed datapad with it. She couldn't care less as she moved, freeing the hem of her tanktop from her trousers, stained as it was with her own sweat. Garrus disappeared to the bathroom, returning with a cup of cold water as she sat barely balanced on the edge of her bed, trying to force her boots off with minimal effort. Shepard accepted the cup and drank from it, long sips, the other hand rubbing at the persistent pain at the small of her back while her partner kneeled before her, unlacing the problematic shoes.
She groaned and by time she was done with the glass, her shoes and socks were off, feeling free finally. Garrus took the glass and set it behind him on the coffee table.
"Tell me what I can do," he asked, pleading almost as his hands rested on her thighs. "The colonists sent a few crates of what they grow here to the mess, so we'd have something fresh to eat. Do you want me to see what they can make you?" All of them, especially Shepard, had gotten used to the military rations kept frozen, canned, and freeze-dried, but with her stomach as unpredictable as it was, Garrus didn't blame her for hardly eating her share. Maybe something fresh, something the proper flavor and texture it should be, would entice her.
"I just…" Shepard sighed, slouching forward, body bending towards him until she was able to rest her head at his shoulder. It was an odd angle, Shepard nearly folded in half, but it was a comfort away from the general aches and pains and nausea. "Want to stay like this, forever. If I don't move," she laughed, "nothing hurts."
Garrus caressed her hair, but stopped abruptly, just long enough to pull his gloves off; he wanted to feel her. The motion returned a second later, his fingers brushing away the growing strands and down her back, feeling her chest expand and contract with each breath. "I didn't know it would be this bad."
"It comes and goes," she mumbled, sitting back up even though it brought those dulled pains back to life. Her hand instinctively went to her abdomen, pressing flush against the muscles of her stomach. "I'll be okay."
"You don't look it," he protested, eyes reading over her face, the slight darkness around her eyes that reminded him of years long ago when neither of them truly slept, their work more urgent than their well-being. Now though, they both knew there was little of more importance than her taking care of herself.
Shepard shook her head and touched a clammy set of finger tips to his mandible, leaning in and kissing the other for half a breath. "Get me something good," she encouraged, mostly as a means to get him to give her some space and stop worrying, "see if there's any fruit." His worrisome nature made her smile usually, but any reprieve she could give him from another minute of his life spent buried in concern would be well worth it.
Standing, he gave a shallow nod and a kiss to the top of her head before he left for the elevator, and presumably, the crew's floor.
Alone with the silence of the room, Shepard allowed herself to flop backwards, arm spread wide to create more surface area for the cool air to seep in. It worked, but soon a chill took over her, running down the center of her to her very core, the sudden sensation having the effect of making her aware of some sort of disruption to her homeostasis. Something was off, and it wasn't the heat from before, nor the hunger that had begun to rumble in her belly.
Fatigue ran through her as it had been for the last few days and weeks, a kind so heavy it was hard to get up in the morning without a steady pressure behind her eyes. That morning had been especially bad, her limbs like jelly and a new ache in the lower reaches of her spine. She'd pushed through it, though, as there was no delaying, not for a bout of particularly severe morning sickness—something she shouldn't have been having, at least not by the Alliance's requirements of her, which preferred their active duty officers undeniably not with child—and she prayed it didn't rear it's ugly head again, especially not as a new, dull burning radiated from her back around to her front.
Shepard lay there, body shivering under another chill, and she raised the back of her hand to her forehead, feeling at the heat there. It was no use, her hands were clammy enough as it was, but she gave in to sitting up. With it, came a quick roll of nausea, gradually rising in her throat and head. Don't do this, she spoke to herself internally, you'll be fine. Mind over body, wasn't that how it could work? Somehow, she didn't think her body would spend the next seven months heeding that level of advice, especially not as the sensation became so extreme that Shepard was on her feet, tracing familiar steps to her private bathroom.
She dropped to her knees before the chrome toilet, pushing up the seat just in time for her stomach and abdominal muscles to clench, stomach evacuating itself of the water she'd had earlier as well as yellowing bile and a few specks of a snack that hadn't yet been digested. A bullet to the gut, she could take. A concussion, no problem. Even that roaring stab of pain in her knee from the damage she'd taken after the Citadel had exploded killing the reapers. Vomiting, however, was something else, and Shepard cursed between each bout of seizing sickness. There wasn't even any alcohol to blame for this, as had been the case in the past, just the child in her stomach.
Her body calmed eventually, though every muscle in her ached like it had taken a round, armorless, with a Krogan. She reached for a handful of toilet paper, wiping her mouth and tossing it into the water as she flushed, the sound of Garrus returning to the quarters as the vomit and water rinsed out. Garrus didn't have to look far for her, and when he opened the bathroom door, he found her in what was now becoming a familiar position, her face pressed up to the cool wall to find an inch of relief.
"Guess you aren't hungry…" His words trailed off and he laughed, but had already begun filling another cup of water, offering it to her. Shepard thanked him with a nod of her head, rinsing her mouth and spitting the remains into the toilet bowl.
"Just let me die here," she said weakly, although she wore a smile at the corner of her mouth.
"Only if you sign something that says in the event of your death, I become the CO of the Normandy." Garrus offered a hand as he teased, and Shepard accepted, allowing him to pull her up.
"You've got it—now get out. I've got to pee."
He did as obeyed, leaving her alone, and Shepard stood at the sink for a moment, turning it on to splash warm water on her face in an attempt to wash away the residual ickiness that lingered behind. Looking into the mirror, Shepard hardly recognized herself, worn and tired and unwell. There would be good days and bad days, she repeated to herself. Good days and bad days in these first few months. Today would be a bad day, and tomorrow… tomorrow would be better.
Her stomach cramped, and Shepard took it as a sign to use the toilet as she'd intended, sitting down where she'd previously emptied her stomach, careful to make sure no vomit remained. She shut her eyes immediately, pushing pants and underwear past her knees, and when she was finished, Shepard reached for more toilet paper out of habit, taking a folded wad. Everything about it was lazy, from the elbow on her thigh as she slouched forward without energy, but when Shepard opened her eyes and reached between her thighs to wipe herself—it wasn't what she expected.
Barely visible on the dark fabric of her underwear, she could see a discolored stain, a thin smear of gathered fluid. Her stomach dropped out from under her, and Shepard quickly pulled back her hand to get a look at the paper along with it, and much more visibly seen now was the brightness of fresh, red blood, so much of it that it soaked the paper through to her fingers. It was as if she didn't believe what she saw, depositing the paper quickly in the toilet bowl and reaching for more and more, hastily running it between her legs again. Her movements were jerky, without finesse or control as she drew her hand back and was faced once more with the same redness that had been there before. There was no denying it.
That pain in her back, that chill, even the dullness in her abdomen, it all faded away to be replaced by a sudden feeling like her ribs were pulling in, crushing her lungs and heart in her chest. She dropped the paper, letting it fall beside her bare feet, and covered her mouth as she lost control, a short, tight, and unrestrained sob interrupting the otherwise quiet room. Tears wet her eyes and ran down her cheeks, even as she tried to hold herself back.
"Shepard," Garrus said from outside the bathroom, "Joker was talking about making dinner for the crew tonight—do you think you feel well enough to eat with them, or did you want to eat up here by ourselves?" His knuckles rapped on the door.
Shepard heard none of it, and though her hand acted as a way to muffle and stifle herself, another piercing cry followed the first.
Garrus called to her a second time, this time with her given name, but didn't wait, just hit the open button on the bathroom door even as Shepard hoped to every God and Spirit and Goddess that it would malfunction, that something on the ship wouldn't work. She didn't look up to him when the door opened, just stayed as she was, body leaned forward as it had been earlier on the bed, though this time she was, without question, more vulnerable and exposed. Just the knowledge that he was there, not even the image of him, set her off, and those somewhat controlled cries broke out into agonizing sobs.
Garrus took in the sight and sounds before him. The blood on her clothes, the paper, her hand. The tears wept down her cheek. Maybe a year and a half ago, he wouldn't have immediately known what it all added up to and meant, maybe it would have taken him a handful of seconds to understand. But the sad truth was that this wasn't new or unknown, it wasn't a scene he'd never seen, never been a part of. He'd heard those very cries before, and though he'd seen Shepard shed tears on a few other occasions, these were unique. They were a sound he'd hoped to never hear again, and inside him, did Garrus feel blasphemous, cursing his Spirits for wronging Shepard once more.
Without another thought, he crouched beside her, taking one of her hands in his, his other moving to her cheek to draw her head up and to his shoulder. Shepard gave in willingly, the sounds of her pain louder once they made contact, her finger nails—usually so blunt and weak—digging into his palm. Garrus wished for tears like hers and though he, too, tried to hold himself back, he couldn't the longer he listened to her. The more she broke, so did he. He keened, flanging vocals filling the room along with her own.
He hated the galaxy, the universe, the frailties and peculiarities of biology. He hated himself, not because he thought he caused it, but because he knew he didn't, and wished for the answer to be something so simple. He hated the hours Shepard had spent sick already, a milestone she hadn't reached with the last two, how they'd interpreted it as a good sign and how only a few nights before she had asked him about names. It was still early, still weeks before her second trimester, but they'd both found hope and promise in this one. Names? Shepard had whispered, and then asked him if he wanted a son or a daughter. There were things they could have done, people sought out to help pick the gender of their child, but they'd agreed with so much else needing to be planned, they'd leave it up to chance.
They stayed like that for awhile, bodies hooked into one another as Shepard cried into him and he keened into her, commiserating in their mutual grief. It was she who pulled back even as her tears continued to fall, this time without most of the sound. Auto-pilot, that's what it was, a long cultivated instinct to preserve and take care of herself even at the worst of times, even emotional stress. She reached for more paper, wiping herself clean of the worst of it, and beside her, Garrus—seemingly following her unspoken orders to carry on—stood and went to the shelf, searching out the absorbent padding she would require. A band-aid for a gaping wound.
"In the back," she choked, but Garrus already knew where they were. Shepard had pushed them to the farthest reaches of the small closet after the last time, forbidding a tangible remain of her second miscarriage from remaining easily visible. Regardless, though, Garrus had sometimes caught her taking a glance in the compartment's direction with heavy eyes, as though she could sense them there behind the walls of towels and other products carefully placed to hide them away. Finding what she needed, he offered the folded packet to Shepard, and as if every piece of him didn't already hurt, he caught the shame her body carried as she acted to clean herself up in front of him. Her shoulders hunched, angling ever so slightly away from him, and worst of all, she refused to lift her head in his direction, pulling in on to herself in every way.
Shepard rose, underwear pulled back on but kicking her trousers carelessly aside, quickly rinsing her hands before she left the bathroom and Garrus behind. She was stiffer than she had been a minute ago, and Garrus could sense she needed a breath to be alone, so he stayed behind, because frankly, so did he. He picked up the blood-soiled toilet paper from the floor, a color that had once been so foreign and innocent to him compared to his blue. During his work with her and other humans, he'd gotten used to the sight as he patched up Shepard's wounds, but now it didn't just signify a nicked weakpoint of a hardsuit, or even a more serious puncture of her skin. Now, as he stared absently at the sodden paper, he saw the loss of another child, of the future they'd planned for. He tossed it into the toilet with the rest of the red-tinged water and paper, shut his eyes, and said a prayer to his Spirits as he flushed their hopes away.
Shepard had pulled on a new t-shirt and a pair of the pants she often wore to sleep in by time he joined her outside the bathroom, and though her eyes were red, and he even saw the drying track marks of tears down her cheeks, she moved with renewed energy. Cleaning, was she cleaning? Datapads were stacked, dirty clothing being forced into the small hamper with far more force than any items of clothing ever needed.
"Shepard," he started, and caught her arm, preventing her from moving. She didn't look at him. "You've got to lie down." Garrus touched his hand to her head, though it wasn't much use, his body already burned hotter than hers. "I can't even… I'm not sure, but you feel warm."
She cleared her throat, and pulled away from him, using the notion of stepping aside to gather the datapad from an end table as an excuse to get away. "I'm fine."
Pleadingly, he called her first name, and that caused her to hesitate for a second, but she proceeded anyway, even pushed past him to head up to the office portion of the cabin. He followed.
"You're not fine, Shepard. You need to go see Chakwas—"
"God damn it, Garrus!" She shouted, and pressed the datapad down—hard—into the desk. Both were sure they heard the screen crack. For the first time since he'd left her to grab a bite to eat—food that was still sitting on the other side of her desk—Shepard made eye contact with him.
There was fury there, anger that burned just as hot as he'd seen after Kai-Leng and Thessia, but also the kind of pain she had once been so good at keeping to herself. She was still an expert at it, of course, but not when it came to him. Regardless, she stared him down… and he returned it right back.
"If you won't go," he said, and laid his hand over hers in a show of solidarity, "then I'm going to bring her up here."
Shepard's brow furrowed, facial features crinkling as she stared back. "Please," she asked, nearly begging as she slid her hand out from under his and placed it atop, gripping at his fingers, "I can't."
His resolve faltered, but Garrus touched her face. "You're not well, and I can't just let you stay up here when we don't know what's going on. Please. For me, let me get her."
"We know!" She yelled suddenly, and pulled away, moving around him back towards the bedroom. It was all she could do from crying again, and that was to retreat into that anger. "We fucking know what's happening. This is the thanks we get for everything we've done, a couple years of trying and failing, of getting our hopes up. Three reminders that for all the good I did, I still have blood on my hands and I don't deserve—"
Garrus lost his temper at that, and gave in to the temptation of anger—all of which stemmed from their burden and had been falsely misdirected—shouting back at her. "Stop it! Fuck, stop it, Shepard. This is a loss for both of us, and I won't sit here while you're running a fever, while you look like you could pass out where you stand, and not do something. I'm going to get Chakwas."
He turned to leave, had reached the loft doors, before Shepard was brave enough to speak.
"If you go," she gave her ultimatum, "I'm having EDI lock the doors."
"And you think I can't hack the system if I have to? You think that EDI wouldn't override your orders for your well-being? She's here right now! She's seen it all, and she's not going to keep Chakwas out. In fact… EDI?"
"Yes?"
"Page—"
"Disregard, EDI!" Shepard said in protest, her voice a hair louder than Garrus'.
"Shepard, so help me—" If that was how she was going to play it, then he'd do it her way. He stepped through the doorway towards the elevator, but before he'd gotten far, he heard Shepard once again, this time not the stern Commander she had been, but the pained, grieving woman he loved.
"Garrus—" Her word trembled. "Please… stay."
And then she was upon him, arms wrapping around him from behind, and he felt her body shudder with the sensation of crying.
"Please, I'm sorry," she repeated over and over into him, moving around to his front. Her hands locked behind his neck, pressing her face up into his throat to bring herself as close to him as possible. "I'm sorry. Stay."
Garrus curled his arms around her in response, holding her swaying body. She felt light on her feet.
"I can't… I need to be alone with this right now," she whispered amidst her tears, "Chakwas makes it clinical, makes it real. I can't have her look at me like the last times, like she pities me, like she can't tell me the truth. I need to just… I want to pretend for a little while that it isn't true."
"She could help," he suggested, "maybe it's not…"
Shepard sighed. "I know it is. I just know, I can feel it now, Garrus. It feels like all the rest. It's too late."
Although he didn't want to admit it aloud, he knew it too. It wasn't scientific, but there was a feeling in his gut, that emptiness that hadn't been there that morning when he'd laid beside her, stroking her abdomen where he knew it would start to swell given more time. Now it wouldn't, now maybe never. Three wasn't a coincidence.
"What can I do?"
"Lay with me," she answered, "just lay with me."
So he did what she asked, pulling her body up onto his arms and carried her back to the bed even in its pristine condition, made earlier that morning when things had been different. He pulled the sheet back and laid her down in it, and Shepard curled on her side, watching him as he disrobed from his hardsuit. Garrus followed her into the bed, spooning up behind her, and it was Shepard who took one of his hands and slipped his palm beneath her shirt, forced his open hand to the skin below her navel. They'd grown accustomed to sleeping like that lately.
The feel of him against her back was reassuring, and for a second Shepard allowed herself not to think about the last fifteen minutes, half hour. She thought of the last few mornings, sleeping in late while the Normandy took the scenic route from one destination to the next. Garrus always stayed, even if she knew he preferred to be awake and moving, and waking up to his talons gently stroking her abdomen had become the most pleasant wake up call she could imagine. She'd often tried to imagine how she would look a few months down the line, if he'd still find her beautiful, if he'd enjoy the sensation of feeling his son or daughter kick inside her. Most of all, she prayed to every deity that their child would be okay, and that when Garrus looked at his child, he didn't see it as someone else's. Just theirs.
But now, she was overwhelmed with the fear that he wouldn't ever hold a child in his arms and that would be her cross to bear. That thought alone made her ill, and in the blink of an eye, she made a decision.
"I want to call Miranda, tell her I want to try things her way," she said, voice scratching.
Garrus stiffened behind her. "Shepard… now's not the time to be making a decision like that."
"Unless you don't want this anymore…" Her hand ran over his at her stomach. "I'm asking her for help."
It would never be that. Of course he wanted it, would always want it. He'd want anything with her, any child of any species, just so long as it was theirs. Maybe they could fight the systems in place, make a case for why things since the end of the war were wrong, why keeping war orphans within their own species wasn't right, not for anyone. Hell, Wrex would be on their side, wouldn't he? Their numbers were still small, but maybe they could raise Krogan if it came to it, however far down the line. Letting her go through this all again… the months of preparation, the initial failures that never became anything, and then of course the very real threat of losing what had taken hold—Garrus didn't think he could see her through another day like this. Commander Shepard, savior of the galaxy, bloody and broken and wailing from the emotional agony of losing a third possibility of a child. He didn't know if she would survive a fourth with herself intact.
"Please," Shepard whispered, turning her head back towards him as best she could.
Garrus leaned in, nuzzled her cheek.
"Please, Garrus. I need you with me."
He shut his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair. Would they have her hair? Would it be as thick as Shepard's, as unruly when grown long? Would it smell the same after it was washed, like rain and soap and that distinct smell he could only identify now as home? Desperation was bred in his chest. He wanted to know.
"Alright." Just once more.