FRATERNITY

Garrus tiptoed into his sister's room, stepping over the floorboard just beside the door he knew creaked at the least little bit of pressure. A faint glow from the light she couldn't sleep without cast long shadows across the floor. Solana lay sprawled across her little bed, one hand clutching the sheet and the other flung over her head. At the sound of her soft little snores, he almost changed his mind and left her to sleep.

Then he shook his head, finished crossing the room and whispered, "Sol, wake up."

She sniffled and curled into herself, but didn't wake. Garrus reached out and gently shook her shoulder. "Solana. Come on."

This, finally, was enough to make her open her eyes, but her amber gaze was sleepy. "Gawwus," she mumbled. Then she blinked, waking a little more, pushing herself up on one elbow. "Garrus."

She sounded so proud of catching the mistake and correcting it, he couldn't help smiling. "I have a surprise for you."

"'M sleepy."

"It's worth it. But you have to be quiet."

She scowled, pulling her blanket close. "Don' wanna get in trouble."

"Baby."

"'M not a baby."

"Come on then," he said, poking her in the ticklish spot right between the plates on her side. She giggled and rolled away, and when she popped up again a moment later he knew he'd won her over. The sleepiness was gone, and her eyes shone. Extricating herself from her blankets, she jumped off the side of her bed and grinned at him.

"Quiet," he reminded her. "Or else you have to stay here."

"Shh," she replied, exaggerated and way too loud. "Quiet."

She put up a token protest as he bundled her into three extra layers of clothing, but he ignored her. Glaring balefully out from under the hood he insisted on, she muttered, "Too hot."

He grinned and tapped her lightly on the nose before scooping her up in his arms. She was heavier than she used to be, growing into the height her limbs already promised. It seemed strange, imagining his little sister one day as tall as their mom, maybe. She squirmed and he settled her on one hip. "I can walk."

"You'll make the floor squeak."

She seemed to accept this, nestling closer, her breath warm against his right mandible. He retraced his steps carefully, avoiding the creaky spots and pausing when he thought he heard his mother moving in her room. The ensuing silence was broken only by his heartbeat and the sound of Solana's breathing in his ear. "Shh," she repeated.

When they were outside, Garrus lowered his sister to her own feet, but reached out and grabbed her hand before she could get any stupid ideas about running off. He led her out behind the house, past the rocks where his attempt at learning to shoot had been aborted. At the stony outcropping, he pulled out the blanket and snacks he'd hidden earlier. Solana was starting to droop again, cold and quiet and exhaustion evidently catching up with her. "Look up," Garrus said, tugging her down to sit next to him on the blanket.

"I saw stars before," she complained, huddling close. He dropped an arm around her cowl.

"Not like this. Look."

He felt her tip her chin up, but he didn't follow her example. Instead, he watched the change come over her face. Her mandibles flared wide in surprise. Her whole body seemed alive with wonder, and Garrus smiled.

"Wow," she said. "There's so many. And they're dancing."

Garrus knew they were meteors burning up and not stars dancing, but he didn't say so. He only said, "When I was your age, Dad woke me up in the middle of the night—"

"Like you," she interrupted.

"Like me. And he made me wear too many clothes—"

"Like you!"

"Like me. And he said this only happens once every five years, and sometimes it's cloudy so you miss it. Menae's already set and Nanus is new and—"

"And the stars are dancing!"

"Yeah," he said, instead of launching into the lesson on comets and meteors he'd prepared. He could tell her later, anyway. Right now dancing was okay. Right now dancing was the best.

"Maybe someday if we have a brother or a sister I can show them."

"Maybe," Garrus said.

"But I don't know if I'll like them as much as I like you."

He couldn't help the little swell of pride that warmed his belly. Magnanimously, he said, "Sure you will."

She gave him a skeptical look, but only for a second. Then she raised her face to the stars again, and this time he joined her. He wouldn't ever have thought of them as dancing, but with his sister's word in his head and her small, warm body curled next to his, it seemed the only way to describe them.

#

Years of military training and C-Sec shiftwork had trained him to take rest where he could, but with Virmire behind them and the Normandy en route to the Citadel, Garrus couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the commander make that call. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the explosion lighting up the whole damned planet. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Shepard's face afterward. She could've looked away, but she didn't. So he didn't, either.

Maybe he and the chief hadn't been friends, but losing her still felt wrong. Caught him off-guard.

Kept him from sleeping.

After an hour of trying and failing to rest, he rose and rolled his shoulders to loose imaginary knots. If he couldn't sleep, he'd work. He wanted to recalibrate the Mako's main gun—maybe reprogram her firing algorithms, get her shooting faster. He had no idea what they'd face on Ilos, but he didn't want to take his chances. Better safe than sorry. Shepard liked that one. He wouldn't admit it, but it was an idiom he could get behind. Especially now. Too much at stake.

In the hold, the lights seemed dimmer than usual. He blinked and had to look twice when he saw a shadow move by Williams' workstation, but it was Wrex cleaning the guns this time, the soft whisk of cloth against metal too loud.

"She really was going to shoot me," Wrex said without looking up from his work. "Takes a quad to point a gun at an angry krogan."

"Takes a quad to do everything she did down there."

Wrex nodded. He set aside the pistol he'd finished cleaning and picked up a rifle, breaking it down in a rapid, faultless motion. "She's not fine," he said. "Says she is, but she isn't. Has to say it, I guess."

"She'll get it done, Wrex."

The rumble was almost a laugh, but darker. Not at all happy. "She's got a quad, too. Humans. Who knew."

"You want some hel—"

"Don't go getting emotional on me, turian. I got this. Get something of your own."

Garrus nodded, though Wrex wasn't looking at him.

When he crossed around to the other side of the hold, he found the Mako's hatch already cracked open. Shepard sat within, dressed in a uniform instead of armor, legs crossed in a way that looked both impossible and uncomfortable, bent over her lap, writing. By hand, not on her omni-tool.

"Commander," he said, taking a step backward, ready to retreat and leave her to her solitude. "Sorry, I can—"

She looked a little pale, but he put it down to the light. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. Tired, he thought. "Couldn't sleep?" she asked. "Me either."

"I, uh, I can do this later."

"Don't leave on my account," she said, patting the small space next to her. "I just thought—it's quiet down here. Quieter. You're welcome to share."

He didn't ask if she was fine. He did sit next to her on the Mako's floor, their knees almost touching.

"Letter to her family," Shepard said, gesturing with the pad of paper. "This is the first one of these I've had to write, as a commanding officer. Kept trying to type it and the words wouldn't come."

"Paper's better?"

She flipped it over. He couldn't read the lines, but he got the point—most of the small, curved shapes had heavy lines crossed through them. "No. Not really. Her family's military. Military families always know a letter like this might come. But no one's ever prepared. And she was… damn, Garrus. She was too young."

"She was damned brave. You could tell them that."

Shepard nodded, but her shoulders were still rounded and her knuckles white around the pen she held. "Do you think she meant it? Saying she had no regrets?"

"Sure," Garrus lied, because he knew it was what she needed to hear.

"Yeah," Shepard said. "That's what I thought." She set the paper aside, laying the pen square in the middle of the pad. "Garrus? Do me a favor."

"Commander?"

"Talk to me about something that isn't this."

He shrugged and held his hands wide. "Firing algorithms?"

The laugh was short and sharp and a little bitter, but it was a laugh. "Yeah, that'll do. Talk firing algorithms, big guy."

So he did. And after a while, she picked up her paper and her pen and she began writing again, but this time she didn't cross out any of the words. And he kept on talking, because she needed him to.