Title: Cracked Faith (Part 2 of ?)
Author: skybound2
Rating: M
Characters: F!Shep, Garrus, and assorted squad and crew (Miranda, Joker, and Zaeed are in this part)
Word Count: ~4900 (this part; ~9200 so far)
Warnings: This piece references NON-CON events in the past, and as such may be triggering for some. Please bear that in mind.
Summary: Not all wounds are easily healed, and some will always leave scars.
Spoilers: Just for Garrus' loyalty mission really.
Author's Note: I'm blocked. Like a seriously, blocked...thing. And it's resulted in my scraping this chapter a half-dozen times over, before settling on this version. Here's hoping that it works.

Chapter 2

When the quiet hum of the main battery becomes a constant pounding in his ears, and the heat of the cramped space turns uncomfortable, Garrus finds refuge in the bowels of the ship, where the training modules and simulators are set up.

The ship, being a Cerberus vessel, has a well-stocked work-out facility...for humans. There is a sizable section of the lowermost hold set aside for that use; with all manner of machines filling the space. The purpose of many of them Garrus can only guess at (one machine resembles automated stairs, leading to nowhere; humans are a strange bunch). Despite the presence of the equipment, there is a disappointing lack of sparring mats, or hand-to-hand combat sims. It's a feature that the first Normandy lacked as well, and while Garrus is use to it at this point, he still finds it frustrating.

This ship trumps the first by leaps and bounds, however, in that it possesses an indoor shooting range. Humans consider it a luxury, but Garrus thinks of it as a necessity. Not only for testing out new weapons, or keeping skills sharp, but for stress relief as well. Something he is in desperate need of, a mere two days after he...after Shepard...

He shakes his head, trying to clear it of the dark thoughts infesting his brain. With a nudge of his shoulder, he adjusts the Incisor rifle so that it is nestled more comfortably in the hollow of his arm, and takes aim at the holographic projection at the far end of the range. He's still trying to get use to the new weapon, and its odd triple-round firing mechanism. Something about it doesn't feel quite natural to him, and he knows that only time logged firing it will help to relieve that sensation.

It doesn't help that his hands are shaking minutely as he grasps the gun. Finger fluttering over the trigger like he's some wet behind the fringe cadet. He pauses, releasing a breath as he focuses on the center of the target, only to flinch when instead he sees a curtain of dark hair obscuring Sidonis' dead-eyed gaze through the scope. His shots miss their mark by several centimeters, and when he looks up, the ghosts are gone.

He growls low in his throat, and realigns the rifle, settling back down into position, and waiting until his mind is clear enough to take a shot.

But a clear mind is something he left back on the Citadel - maybe even back before Omega - and the longer he focuses on the holographic target, the more blurry it becomes. It's been a day and a half since the ship vacated the Serpent Nebula, and approximately ten hours since it has been trolling the Minos Wasteland for resources, and he's been doing his damnedest to keep a low profile while he sorts out the charred remains of his mind, but nothing seems to help.

It's fitting, he thinks, that the Normandy has gone static in a resource hunt so close to Invictus. He wonders if it's a hint from Shepard to get the hell off her ship. Take his leave for a planet populated by dextro-amino life, and rife with criminal activity. It'd be a fitting drop-off point for him, he thinks. No better than Omega at the core of it, though they pretty it up nicely for the Primarchs. It's more than what he deserves, really, but, as yet, they haven't left the Fortis System. So he waits; trying his best to hit the minuscule target, and not think about the cavernous hole his need for vengeance, and what it ultimately lead to, has left in his soul.

His finger flexes, and another series of three shots rings out in the empty space, missing more wildly this time than previous. The string of curses that subsequently thread through the air would make Jack proud. His language is certainly more colorful now that it was before he ever joined the hunt for Saren. Back before a Spectre with a 'get-the-job-done-at-any-cost' attitude came into his life, and turned it on its head.

Back before she died, and he was left floating with no sense of direction, grasping at whatever solid surface he could find - only to find out that there was no such thing. Back before ten good men littered the floor of a dirty apartment with nothing to show for it but gallons of merc blood, more than a few broken families, and a whole lot of misplaced trust in the wrong turian.

The fact that he has no idea anymore if that turian was Sidonis, or himself doesn't surprise him. Though, he's leaning more towards the latter these days.

He lowers his head, and takes a few deep breaths. After a moment, he snaps his eyes back to the target, and lines up the next shot; doing his damnedest to ignore the slight tremor in his grip.

~~~\/~~~

Strip mining planet after planet is not exactly Shepard's idea of a good time, but it does serve the function of numbing her to her surroundings, and that's something that she can't put a high enough value on right now. The system is slow, archaic, but that has its benefits. Namely, the crew tend to leave her alone when she is at work guiding the scanners, and launching probes. Because they know that if they bother her, the task will fall on them. At some point she needs to consider upgrading the scanners, as efficiency is more important than peace and quiet, but it's low on the list of priorities, with the Thannix Cannon upgrade trumping all else at the moment.

The reminder of the cannon brings thoughts of Garrus skidding to the surface of her mind: his mandibles held tightly in check as he looks up at her, half-clothed from his place sprawled on the couch in the back room of the bar. She can still smell the cloying scent of the asari's perfume mixed with the odor of alcohol suffusing the room. Shepard blinks her eyes once to clear the thoughts; taking a moment to steady her breathing before continuing with her work.

She shifts in her seat, the squelching noise of leather breaking the steady electronic hum of the CIC. The seats are quite comfortable, Joker wasn't wrong about that. And they help to distract from the uncomfortable sensations still present between her thighs - in places that medi-gel simply can't reach; at least, not without visiting Chakwas. And Shepard'll be damned if she'll do that.

She initiates one more scan of Vir, hoping to eek out a little more platinum from the planet's core, and is rewarded for her efforts by the audible feedback from the sensor array. Her command to launch a probe is immediately met with a 'thunking' sound, and EDI's ever-patient voice follows shortly thereafter. "The planet's resources have been depleted, Commander."

There is a slow throb growing in strength behind her eyes and following the path of her limbs all the way through her body; demanding her attention, and so this seems as good a time as any to deal with. She reluctantly vacates the chair, stretching her arms over head, and popping her shoulder in place (an old rotator cuff injury from basic that never quite healed). Feeling unsteady on her feet, she braces herself against the back of the chair as she stumbles. A glance from Crewman Matthews to her right lets her know that the move didn't go unnoticed, but the man averts his eyes quickly enough, allowing her to save some face.

A droplet of sweat rolls down the back of her neck, and meets up with the chill running up her spine. She needs coffee. Something to help relieve the headache, and make her feel human again. "Joker - set a course for Aequitas, and begin scans. I'm going to go shake down Gardner for whatever hidden caffeine stockpile he has on this boat."

"Certainly, Commander. Wouldn't want to do anything as sacrosanct as leaving a deposit of iridium untapped."

"Laugh it up, Joker, and maybe I won't upgrade the shields around the cockpit."

"Now that's just mean spirited. Besides, you need me. Who else can provide you with witty and insightful one-liners, while still being spry enough to outmaneuver every other ship in the Terminus Systems? I'm a two for one deal! You should count yourself lucky."

She reaches up to rub at her temple. "Every day, Joker. Now, get us moving."

"Yeah, yeah. Course locked in. Endless supplies of iridium, here we come!"

A small smile creases her face despite herself. "Thanks." She pushes off the back of the chair and makes her way to the elevator, and down to the mess hall - grateful that it's not mealtime. The thought of having to deal with...anyone, is less than appetizing.

Her gratitude is short-lived, however, when she is flagged down the moment the elevator doors nods at her XO, and tries to walk past the other woman, but instead the brunette falls into step with the Commander. Genetic perfection apparently doesn't include the ability to discern when her presence is wanted or not. Or, maybe it does, and she just doesn't give a damn. Either way, Shepard really needs to stop going to the mess hall, everyone is always looking to talk.

"Shepard, I wanted to inform you that the timetable for our retrieval mission has changed." The pitch of Miranda's voice makes the short hairs on Shepard's neck bristle, but she does her best to ignore it. "I took the liberty of speaking with Mr. Moreau, and have given him the coordinates for to the Melile satellite, we're en-route now. I was hoping that you would have a few minutes for a debriefing session. This mission is...delicate, and I want to make sure that we are all on the same page prior to engaging."

Shepard steps off the elevator, and stretches her neck to the left, delighting in the popping sensation that results from the movement. If only all of her aches and pains were so easily rectified. "So I recall you mentioning while we were docked. Several times." It isn't an exaggeration. Shepard had been pacing through the ship, trying to decide what to do about Garrus: whether to go after him, or to leave him be, when Miranda had cornered her. She wonders how things may have turned out if she had only allowed herself to be sidetracked...

She shakes her head once, feeling like her brain is loose inside her skull, and being battered against the bone as she does so, only to find Miranda still standing there, arms crossed in front of her chest in a stereotypically defensive posture. Shepard would put money on it being more for show than anything. "I realize that you had more...immediate concerns on you mind when I was detailing the requirements of this mission-"

Shepard arches a brow, flinching a tad at the reminder of the sore flesh surrounding the area. The bruising has gone down somewhat, but the tenderness still remains. "Cerberus scientist, specializing in heavy weapons research, theorized to be highly effective against synthetic lifeforms. Tech that might be useful against the Reapers. Managed to get herself kidnapped by batarians. Illusive Man wants her back, and has worked out some sort of deal with the raiders. Now we get to go play middleman. That about right?"

"I- correct, Commander. I'm impressed."

Shepard wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead, wondering if the fluctuations in temperature she is experiencing are a result of some problem with the ship's climate control, or are, in fact, internal. The ever posed woman in front of her makes Shepard think that it must be the latter, but it's a bit had to tell. "Believe it or not, Miranda, I take my job very seriously. Even when I'm being bombarded with information from my XO while trying to get the hell off the ship." Shepard can't help the slight pull in her lips at the chagrined expression on said XO's face, somewhat glad that Miranda is so focused on the kidnapped scientist, that she isn't calling Shepard out on her current state of appearance.

Miranda's arms drop to her side. "I wasn't implying that you don't, merely that you'd been distracted-"

"Stop worrying, Miranda. I get it. And you're right. We need to go over the specs for the mission before we reach orbit - EDI, what's our ETA?"

"We are approximately six hours from our destination, Commander."

"Thanks, EDI."

"You're welcome, Commander."

The pounding behind Shepard's eyes reaches a crescendo, and she looks towards the mess hall, and Gardner's empty work station, with longing. Choosing instead to forgo the coffee in favor of laying down in her quarters. She shifts her steps, and moves backwards towards the elevator. "Miranda - you know the details better than me at this point. So organize a meeting in...say...five hours? We can go over all the ins and outs then, prior to shuttling down to the moon, sound good? But for now, I've got a monster of a headache that needs to be dealt with."

"Understood, Shepard." A smile plays at Miranda's mouth, excitement lacing her voice. Apparently all Shepard had to do to make her happy was give her complete control of organizing a mission. Go figure.

The elevator doors open once again, and Shepard climbs on board, absurdly grateful that of the two women she has encountered in the mess, that Jack has turned out to be the more perceptive of the two. Shepard doubts that she could handle an interrogation from Miranda with as much calm as she did Jack's.

The metal doors sweep closed between them, and Shepard's shoulders sag. The effort of maintaining an upright posture for the length of one conversation has wiped out the last of her reserves, an she wants nothing more than to crawl into her bed, and never get out. She slumps against the cool metal, and waits for the lengthy ride to her cabin to end, pressing her hand into her head to try and relieve the pressure. She's got her work cut out for her, if she is going to be ready for another mission so soon.

~~~\/~~~

Dinner time has come and gone, and Shepard's headache has mutated into something all-consuming, and rather frightening. Her skin feels clammy to the touch, and she can't seem to get the climate control in her cabin working right, despite her best efforts. She's burning up one minute, and fighting off chills the next. And completely unable to sleep. She's sick. There's no getting around it, and her increasing level of fatigue is not helping the healing process.

It's annoying, she thinks, that she can plummet through an atmosphere, ending up dead. Nothing but 'meat and tubes' for Cerberus to rebuild her body from, complete with upgrades, but she's still susceptible to a damn cold. She guesses there's no preventing some things.

She huffs out a bitter laugh, and drops her head onto the papers littering her desk. She's spent most of the afternoon poring over reports (something she has managed to neglect since day one), in an effort to distract herself, but it's been a futile effort. Everything she does, or tries to do, leads her thoughts back to the same thing.

She'd wanted him. God damn it, how she had wanted him. Willingly pressed her body into his, enjoying the sensations that he was provoking at first. She'd been shocked when he'd torn her shirt from her, leaving it a tattered mess, but it hadn't dimmed the lust that was thrumming through her veins. Not yet at least. But then…then her skin had been next, and there was pain and she tried to get him to back off a bit but he hadn't – he hadn't. Instead he'd gotten more aggressive, and then…

She tries desperately to suppress the full body shudder at the memory, and fails. The memory of her fists knocking uselessly against his armored plates (she should have been able to beat him back, she should have...); of her calling for him to calm down, to wait a minute, to back the hell off, to stop – it swims in her brain. But he hadn't seemed to notice; hadn't seemed to care. And he didn't stop.

Not until her head was ringing and her body was aching and her mind was completely disconnected and he was done. And it had taken more self-control than she knew she had to not kill him when she had the chance.

How did it all get so twisted?

Her personal terminal beeps, alerting her to the time, and jarring her out of her memories. Shit. She swipes a hand across her face, and moves to stand, swaying in place for a minute. With deliberate steps, she crosses her cabin to her side-table, where a surplus of med supplies she pilfered from the med-bay the previous morning reside.

The stimulants, once injected, course through her system with devilish speed, bringing with them a level of clarity that sets her somewhat on edge. It's a worthwhile price to pay, if it means that she can get through the next half-dozen hours in a fully functional state.

She slides a few spare packs into her armor, tucking them up against the medi-gel dispensers, and then dons the equipment before heading down to the comm room. With any luck, Miranda will have everything all set, and the mission will go off without a hitch,

And maybe she'll see Mordin about some sleeping meds when they're done.

~~~\/~~~

"My suggestion is that we station snipers here and here." Miranda's white-gloved hands tap out two locations on the digital terrain map illuminated in the center of the comm room table. The positioning makes sense, since it will allow both snipers an unhindered vantage point to cover Shepard as she makes the exchange. And will allow for cover five for the scientist, should it come to that. Very deliberately not looking up, Shepard nods her agreement to her XO.

"Alright. Thane, Zaeed, you're with me. Miranda, I want you to stay on comm with me for this one. If this scientist is as important as the Illusive Man says she is, I'm going to want your input if things turn south."

There is a brief hesitation from her XO, and it causes Shepard to lift her head from the map to glance at the other woman. The team Miranda has assembled for the meeting was streamlined, and only included the snipers, Jacob, and Tali. And of those whose eyes she can see, there is a distinct ripple of surprise.

Shepard knows what they are all thinking, but damn it, she has no intention of explaining herself. It's taken every ounce of willpower she has already to make it through this meeting, jaw clenched, and eyes directed forward and down with a modicum of self-control. And she'll be damned if she loses it now. So instead, she raises her eyebrows, still leaning on the table, both hands gripping the edge with more force than strictly necessary. "Is there a problem, Miranda?"

The hesitation that the XO exhibited previously is gone now with Shepard's permission to speak freely given. "This mission calls for absolute precision and timing. The Illusive Man has indicated that Dr. Linus' safety is of the utmost import. I would think that a slightly different squad make up would be preferable." The genetically perfected woman doesn't stutter, but her confusion is obvious as her gaze flickers momentarily to the corner of the room where Garrus is situated.

Shepard hasn't actually looked directly at him since the meeting began. Something made infinitely easier by the fact that he hasn't spoken, or drawn attention to himself in anyway. But that barely matters, because she can feel him back there, her skin prickling uncomfortably from his proximity. She keeps her eyes focused on the blue-eyed gaze of her second in command. "I'm aware of that, Miranda. Are you saying that you don't believe that Mr. Massani or Mr. Krios are capable of both precision, and timing?"

"No, Commander."

"Good." Shepard's eyes drift involuntarily towards the turian in the corner; his mandibles held tight to his jaw and his expression unreadable. She'd thought he'd been easy to read at one point in time, but now she wonders if it hadn't all been in her head. She doesn't trust herself enough to hold his gaze for more than a moment, and quickly averts her gaze.

"Massani, Krios, suit up."

~~~\/~~~

After the shuttle leaves, Garrus sequesters himself away in the back corner of the battery, and hacks into the squads comm devices. EDI gives him little resistance, and he finds himself absurdly thankful for that. Stuffed away back here, no one can hear him listening into the team's chatter on his omni-tool, and that serves him just fine.

It's obsessive and more than a little pathetic, but he doesn't really care. Not when the mission calls for a snipe team to back up Shepard – and he isn't on it.

When Miranda had told him to be at the briefing, he'd known there was little point in his attendance. Regardless of the mission parameters, there was no way that he was going to end up on the ground team. He'd even given some consideration to skipping out on the meeting, had half-convinced himself that it would be better for all involved if he didn't show his face. But he knew that would lead to questions. Questions he doubted the Commander would want to deal with. And ultimately, someone - likely Jacob, or Tali - coming down to the main battery to cart his ass to the comm room.

And the only thing that he could think of that would be worse than already being in the room when Shepard arrived, was walking in after she was already there. At least this way, he was able to make himself as scarce as possible in the brightly light location. Tucked far from the door, and gaze focused somewhere (anywhere) else. He feels like a coward, avoiding her the way that he is, but he knows that anything she says or does to him would be justified, and he isn't quite ready to face that.

And despite the fact that they didn't so much as exchange greetings, the entire situation in the meeting had been…tense, and painful. He'd done his best to keep his eyes trained away from her, not wanting to catch her off guard if she did chose to look up, only to have his gaze constantly pulled back to her.

He didn't know much about humans in general, that was true, but he did know plenty about this human, and he could tell that she wasn't well. Her skin was paler than normal, and there was a slight discoloration beneath her eyes that he knows from experience is due to a lack of sleep in her species. Of course, that was augmented by the fact that the bruise near her one eye was still visible, albeit faded. The idea - no, the near-to-certain realization - that he, that what he did, was the cause for her looking so worn down, made his stomach turn.

The meeting had seemed to drone on and on, but it couldn't have lasted more than half an hour. Learning that the mission parameters required a sniper had piqued his interest, but as he'd assumed she would, she'd tapped Thane and Zaeed for the job instead. And the look that she had shot to Miranda when the XO tried to argue – actually in favor of – Garrus' inclusion on the mission, had been like being doused in ice water.

Miranda may have been baffled by that look, but the brief flicker in his direction – the one that Shepard hadn't quite caught in time – had said it all.

There was no way in hell that she was trusting him at her six. And he didn't blame her. He didn't feel like he could trust himself anymore either. And if his experience in target practice that morning was any indication, he would be of little help regardless.

He could have argued it – pressed the matter. Tali and him were the only members of the squad known to get away with such things in the past. And maybe she would have given in, just to avoid the public confrontation. Or maybe she would have found a use for the perpetually empty brig down in the bowels of the ship. Just because he knows that he has no right to be on the ground team, doesn't mean that he is any less concerned about what'll happen when he's not. He has no concerns about Thane or Zaeed's capabilities, but he does have concerns about Shepard's, given the state he himself his in if nothing else. So, he locked himself away, back in the relative obscurity of the batteries, and settled down to listen in to the mission play-by-play.

Garrus doesn't need to be on the ground to know when the mission has gone to shit after all.

As he listens to the rifle fire, and heated commands being barked over the air, he digs his talons into the bar that makes up the brace for his cot; the cool metal bowing slightly under the pressure. Frustration and worry mix together to fire up his blood, and he jumps up, feeling the cot crack under the force. The battery doesn't offer much room for movement, but he manages to pace in a small circle. Feeling like one of the caged animals he'd seen in Palaven traveling exhibits as a child.

When the words 'wounded' and 'neck trauma' filter through the static-filled comm in Thane's ever even voice, Garrus doesn't stop to think. He just rushes through the doors of the battery, and speeds full course down the gangway towards the med-bay, pacing back and forth while he waits for her to be brought in, scattering various crew members hanging about the mess hall out of his way.

He only backs away when Shepard is brought up from the cargo hold, her left arm slung over Massani's shoulders as he half-carries her. Her head is lolling forward as she presses her right hand against the field-bandaged wound on her neck, but she still manages to bark out garbled orders that sound like 'Lay off!'

"Oh quit your shit, Shepard. You're bleeding like a stuck pig. What'dya gonna do, crawl through your own blood to get to the Doc?" The merc manages to sound both annoyed, and like he is having an excellent time all at once, as he carts her through the med-bay doors. Her mangled voice still harping at him - to low for Garrus to make out the words - but the merc's response trails audibly behind him. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hear ya - Did I ever tell you about the time I was shot in the head?"

Garrus watches through the glass panel as Massani deposits Shepard none too gently on one of the cots. The fight seeming to go out of her as soon as her body touches the pad. Dr. Chakwas and Mordin are at her side in moments, dancing around her in well-choreographed steps. The merc doesn't hover, vacating the premises as soon as the Commander is out of his arms. He crosses through the mess hall, grumbling beneath his breath, and swiping at the blood that's coating his armor. The still wet liquid shining a vivid red under the overhead lights.

Garrus' mind flashes briefly to the stains on his talons, and the torn flesh of Shepard's hip, and neck. That same awful color. Coming back to the here and now, he slouches down against the mess hall counter, eyes locked on the window to the med-bay, and waits.

~TBC