Three

Garrus leaned against the closed door. Though he'd exhibited equanimity in returning to his quarters, he knew it for a lie. For a brief, astonishing moment, he'd forgotten she was his commander, forgotten she was human. He'd lost track of everything but her touch; he could still feel the questing tease of her fingertips, learning his contours. In turians, such contact counted as foreplay, but she couldn't have known, or intended it so. No more than he could control his instinctive reaction.

And that was all it was.

He didn't even find human females attractive. They lacked a proper fringe; instead they had all that slithery hair, and their bodies seemed impossibly fragile. Yet as he lay down on his bunk, he couldn't help but remember the breathtaking tactile contrast, the feel of her flesh giving beneath his talons. It would be possible—quite easily—to mark a human partner, laying claim in a profound way, and that idea roused his dominant aspect, the feral hunter he kept leashed. Garrus rolled over with a growl of reluctant desire. But it wasn't Shepard he wanted; she just happened to push his buttons. He needed to find a willing turian—an asari would do—and burn off some energy. That would be the quickest way to clear his head.

Still, it was a long time before he slept because he couldn't get Shepard's expression out of his mind. When he'd suggested bed, she'd looked at hers, as if she thought he meant to join her there. Crazy. Out of the question. Their relationship could never spin that way. Neither of them wanted it. He was just glad to have her back; that was all. For the first time in years, he felt sure of his place in the universe—beside her, holding a rifle. Somewhat comforted by the permanence of that picture, he drifted off.

The next morning, nothing was like he'd expected, and the ship was quiet, ominously so. A few crewmen stared at him as he passed by. Well, they'd get used to his face, sooner or later, even if they hated turians… because he wasn't going anywhere.

Eventually, he found Miranda in her office, scrolling through messages, probably an evil Cerberus to-do list. She glanced up with a supercilious air. "Can I help you?"

"Where's Shepard?"

"She took the shuttle—along with Jacob and Zaeed—to Omega about two hours ago. I believe they intend to try and rescue Dr. Solus." She shrugged. "I thought we ought to go after him first, myself. He's the more valuable commodity."

If Shepard had done that, he might well be dead by now. By her small smile, Miranda knew it, too.

"Lucky for me she's in charge, not you."

She inclined her head. "We'd do a number of things differently, if the Illusive Man had given command to me."

"Maybe that's why he didn't."

Anger didn't begin to cover the emotion sizzling through him. He had stood with Shepard on the surface of a world so hot that the ground boiled, where removing their suits would've meant instant death—and it hadn't been as hot as he felt. Garrus slammed out of Miranda's office and across to the battery, ignoring the cook's attempt at a friendly greeting. He was in no mood to explain what food he could safely eat. If necessary, he'd just use the dispenser.

The ship was top-notch, no doubt, everything shiny and new, and paid for by xenophobic bastards. For long hours, he pretended to examine the new Normandy's guns, while waiting for her return. He struggled with the incredible strength of his reaction, attempted to analyze the reasons behind it, but he couldn't lock it down. He only knew it was damn-it-all-to-hell-fucking-wrong for her to leave him behind.

That was when it hit him. This wasn't fury, at least not entirely. It was a crunchy-anger shell surrounding a hidden core of fear. The last time she'd left him, she died. And he couldn't live through that again. Not without hope. Not again. The galaxy needed her. Conversely, it could go on just fine without a scratch-and-dent-sale turian, and maybe if he stuck close, he could take the kill shot for her. He couldn't do that from the ship. With some effort, he stilled hands he hadn't realized were shaking. Strange. He could peer down the scope and end a life with complete aplomb, but not knowing where she was or what was happening to her made him crazy.

It just hasn't been long enough. That's all. I think humans call this separation anxiety.

By the time the shore party returned, he'd ruthlessly stomped his emotions into a semblance of order, and he really was working on the weaponry when Shepard ambled in. The smell of smoke clung to her in teasing wisps, giving hints of alkali and distant fires. She smelled like sunset on Palaven. The unexpected mental link between Shepard and home gave him pause.

She still wore her armor, that strange white suit with slashes of red paint; it made her look androgynous. This afternoon, she carried her helmet beneath one arm, which meant she'd come straight to him, no stopping to change. Her smile said the mission had been a success, and he stared at the curve of her mouth. So strange: her teeth were dull and flat, like those of a herbivore. But he imagined that the bits of skin that framed them would be soft. Like her fingers. Like her palm. His own hand tingled with remembered contact, the way she'd traced him as if she wanted to memorize his lines. Stop that.

He let the silence grow. Not making this easy for her.

And then he said coolly, "Need something, Shepard?"

"Got a minute to talk?" she asked.

For a few seconds, he considered saying snidely, I'm calibrating the weapons—can it wait? Instead he turned to face her and nodded. He locked his arms behind him in a military stance, feet braced wide apart.

Typical of her, she cut right through the bullshit. She didn't pretend not to understand his expression. "Are you mad?"

"I was at first."

She propped herself against the console where they'd installed EDI's interface. "You know why I didn't take you?"

"I would surmise it's because you didn't want to put me at risk."

"It seemed best to take a human team." When he didn't speak, she went on, "Mordin thinks the disease was designed by the Collectors."

He canted his head, drawn despite himself. "What could they hope to gain?"

"That's what we have to find out."

"We?" The hard-spoken, dubious word slipped out before he could stop it.

At that, she pushed to her feet and took a step toward him, brow wrinkled in way he knew meant nothing good. "You think I wanted to leave you behind? For God's sake, Garrus, I went into that hellhole with a Cerberus drone, and a merc who doesn't give a fuck whether I live or die as long as he gets paid—while bodies burned all around me, and I got shot at by vorcha, Blue Suns, and hell knows who else. And everywhere I looked, I saw turian corpses. I'll be damned if I let anything happen to you. Of course I wanted you with me, but it wasn't the smart thing, and I try not to be idiot if I can help it. This time, I could."

Her anger sparked his to life like embers in the wind, and he closed the distance, using his height to convey subtle aggression. "I get no say in it, then? You give the orders, and I follow. And here I thought we were a little past that point. Glad you made it clear. Commander."

"Garrus…" Her breath went in a gust that sounded like the winter songs in the basalt highlands of his homeworld, hot breezes pushed through tonal stone. "No. It's not like that. Don't call me that. I want you here because you choose to be. But if you could make one easy decision that would keep me safe, wouldn't you?"

Shepard, he thought, I would die for you. It was just that simple. And with that, his rage died a natural death. In its stead, he gained a dawning sense of awe that she cared enough to protect him. Over the past two years, he'd forgotten what it felt like, this reciprocal…respect. He'd been the one who was supposed to watch out for his team, and he'd done a dismal job of it. Having suffered the agony of abject failure himself, he didn't want that for her. She'd paid enough, been hurt enough. Even years after the massacre on Akuze, he still sometimes caught the glimmer of it in the downturn of her face or the shadow in her eyes, eyes that were a touch darker blue than his own. Like the sky over Virmire, he thought, but that, too, had carried a cost for her.

People were always doing that to her, telling her: this is a matter of life and death, get it done—but not giving a fuck how much it added to her burdens. Honestly he didn't see how she hadn't cracked, and he shouldn't be piling on. If he was going to be her right hand, he needed to lighten the load, not be the weight she couldn't take.

"I apologize," he said at last. "I overreacted. I just don't like missing the action."

"So we're good?"

Garrus leaned down, so she wouldn't mistake his sincerity. Her breath fanned the relatively tender skin of his throat, distracting him as it teased without a true touch, skimming to his collar ridge. This time, he reached out: simple gesture, irresistible. He brushed the hair away from her cheek with one talon, tucking it behind her ear as she preferred. To his surprise, its texture didn't repel him. No, it wasn't a fringe, but it roused his…curiosity, making him wonder how it would be to drag all his fingers through it and let it brush his palm where he could feel it properly. The pulse leapt in her throat, drawing his gaze, and he wondered if humans liked teeth. Sharp teeth.

He needed to visit Afterlife. Find a turian. Or an asari. Clearly he'd been playing vigilante too long, if Shepard could get to him, and she wasn't even trying. With some effort, he collected himself, remembered what he'd been about to say. But he didn't fall back. He kept crowding her, and even he didn't wholly understand his reasons for doing so.

"As long as you don't make a habit of leaving me where I can't watch your six."

Shepard never backed down, never gave a centimeter, and she responded with wit where she didn't have height. "Are you kidding? I need your scope to compensate for my shitty aim."

His mandible flared in a reluctant smile. It was true; he was the better marksman, but honestly, her ability with a pistol was better than average. Plus, her biotics and tech skills made up for any perceived deficiency. More than once, she'd blown up a mech that was about to split him up from throat to thigh.

"Then we're good."

"I need to go shower and change. I smell like barbecued vorcha."

She didn't, actually. He liked the way she smelled fresh from a fight, darkly invigorating. As she spun away from him, he wanted to bring her back and put his face to her neck and breathe her in. The scent of ozone lingered on her, as if she carried lightning in her skin. She was leashed violence, wrapped in deceptive softness, and every fiber of him responded to it. Turians were kindled by strength—and hers had to be crossing his circuits, because he'd never known anyone stronger than Shepard. So that—and abstinence. His talons curled at his sides and with some effort, he forced himself to go back to work as the doors closed. He refused to watch her go.

"Afterlife," he said aloud, pulling up the weapons grid. "And soon."