Garrus felt utterly disoriented, as though the gravity had suddenly changed or the oxygen content of the room had shifted. Certainties he'd held for over a decade now crumbled. He'd told himself, more than once, that his own feelings for her were unrequited. That, to her, their brief liaison had been strictly casual, nothing more than some fun and stress relief with a friend. He shouldn't have been surprised, it was all they'd talked about at the start, after all, and he'd had his share of that kind of relationship among his own people. But... had Shepard really said what he thought he'd heard?
Still.
I still have feelings for you.
Not again, not now, not for the first time. Still.
His reaction stumbled off his tongue, and Shepard blinked. Her brow furrowed, her brown eyes closed briefly, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose. She said, "Oh. I guess... I guess I never really explained myself, when I..."
"You said you wanted to be friends," Garrus blurted, and he grimaced a little at his lack of self-control, but the words just kept slipping out. "And I thought... all we'd talked about was relieving stress, so I assumed you didn't... and then Kaidan was back..." He forced himself to stop there. No good could come of criticizing someone's deceased mate.
"Oh, God." Shepard pressed both her hands to her face, briefly, and then dropped him and met his eyes with a steady gaze. Soldierly. It was reassuring, a little bit. "No, it was never that casual. I always cared for you. What we had was important to me—it always has been."
"Then why?" he burst out. Just as quickly, he shook his head. "No. You don't... you don't have to explain." He pushed himself to his feet and paced his way across the room, too restless to remain sitting any longer.
What she was telling him was what he'd hoped for, once, a long time ago. They'd had such a brief time together before she'd turned herself in, and they'd never really talked about anything more than... stress relief. So he'd gone home, the way they'd talked about, pulled every string in his possession and then some, and suddenly found himself heading a damned task force, of all things. And bit by bit, sitting at his desk, collecting reports, sending memos to every corner of the Hierarchy, he'd allowed himself to hope. He'd hoped that Shepard would be free again; that they'd fight side by side once more; that she'd welcome him back as a partner and lover. Well, he'd gotten two out of three; there were worse outcomes. He could still remember standing in the battery as she looked at him, strained and worn, her dark eyes sad, saying, "Right now I need the friend." Fair enough; he could understand that, and he'd told her so. He hadn't entirely believed her when she said she didn't consider him a distraction, but there had been bigger problems to deal with than his own disappointed hopes, so he'd put them aside. He'd had more than enough other things to worry about, in any case.
He'd thought about it, though, thought it over and analyzed and come to the conclusion that there had never been anything very serious on her side, after all, that she'd never felt about him the way he'd felt about her. There was nothing wrong with that; it happened. But what she was saying now was entirely incompatible with that conclusion. He wanted an explanation, badly; but at the same time he didn't, and dreaded what that explanation might include.
Shepard's eyes followed him as he paced in her living room. She sat straight on the couch, her hands folded in her lap. "No, you deserve an explanation, but I don't know if I have a good one. Everything was... too complicated."
"Complicated... how? Because of the war?" he asked, trying to understand.
"Partly that, but also..." She drew a deep breath. "I loved Kaidan, too. I mean, I was angry at him, after Horizon..."
"I remember. I was there."
"... but I still cared, you know? I didn't see him again until we were leaving Earth, after the... after the attack. We got orders to go to Mars, and we'd been arguing again there. The same old stuff, Cerberus and everything else, but then he nearly died, and... it was terrifying." She shook her head, slowly. "Then, once we got to the Citadel, I heard Palaven was hit. I was worried sick about you, too. Everything was falling apart. I needed to focus on the fight, and... I decided I didn't want to complicate things. I'd figure out the personal stuff later."
Garrus nodded, trying to take things in. That almost made sense. Almost. Except: "But you didn't say that. You said you just needed to be friends, but when Kaidan was on his feet, you were back together again." He'd tried telling himself for a while that she clearly didn't need to be tied down to anyone in the middle of a war, but it was clear when Alenko joined the crew that they were restarting their relationship. They'd both been professional enough, but they'd stolen little glances at each other when they thought no one was looking that told volumes. Plus, Alenko had carried himself like a man who couldn't believe his good fortune. In his darker moments, Garrus couldn't believe in Alenko's good fortune, either. Garrus knew he shouldn't be pushing this now—it was like scratching at a wound he'd thought healed long before—but he couldn't help wanting to investigate, trying to make sense of everything.
Shepard ran her fingers through her hair. "I know. I... listen, it's hard to really remember everything I was thinking and feeling back then. But Kaidan and I talked, and he really wanted to try to make things work. I wasn't sure about it at first, but he was persuasive." Her eyes had softened, her gaze growing distant, and her mouth turned up in a half smile.
Something in Garrus's gut twisted in response. "Persuasive? Shepard, I took you at your word, I gave you what you said you needed. I didn't know I was supposed to persuade you you wanted something else."
Her smile fell and her eyes widened slightly, focusing on him instead of the past. "That's not... I didn't mean it like that. He didn't push me into anything I didn't want—"
"Which you didn't want with me."
"That's not what I'm saying." Shepard rose to her feet, too, moving to intercept his trajectory across the room. "I'm trying to tell you I care for you."
Garrus laughed. It seemed to scrape at his throat. "That's funny, because it sounds like you're telling me I was always your second choice."
"What?" She grabbed for his wrist, her slim fingers closing around it. He tensed immediately but stopped moving, his blood pounding through his veins. Shepard said, "No, that's not it—"
"Isn't it?" He had his argument all prepared. The evidence looked incontrovertible. She had turned to him before when she was angry at Kaidan, when he wasn't around. She was turning to him now that Kaidan was gone.
Shepard kept talking before he could lay it out, though. "No. I'm telling you I loved both of you."
When he met her eyes, they were shining, damp but resolved. The words dried up in his mouth. He searched for a response and found none that could adequately give voice to the whirl of emotions inside him. Shepard smiled again, but her voice seemed sad when she spoke next. "I've really made a mess of things, haven't I? I didn't mean to hurt you, but obviously I did. I'm sorry, Garrus. You deserved better than—" her voice wavered a bit, and she took a deep breath. "Your friendship got me through some really difficult times, and you deserved better from me in return."
Garrus blinked. He hadn't expected an apology. He hadn't expected any of what had just happened, but... he knew Shepard didn't apologize lightly. Her eyes still had an extra sheen. Her teeth pressed slightly into her full, soft lower lip. Now he let himself remember, just for a moment, what those lips and skin felt like. He remembered how she'd kissed him a few weeks ago, smelling of liquor and subtle perfume. And at the park— she'd practically been in his arms, for a few minutes, and then she'd been behaving oddly ever since. It all made a lot more sense now, but it left him... disoriented. She was still looking at him, and he finally found his voice. "Shepard... I don't know what to say. I don't know what to think about any of this. I spent a long time convincing myself that you didn't feel anything like that for me, and I... I need to some time to think about it."
Shepard nodded. "Okay." She let go of his wrist and patted his arm, awkwardly. "I'm sorry. Take all the time you need. I'm not trying to pressure you. I wanted to put things out there, that's all. We can talk about things later. Whenever you're ready."
"Okay," he said. They stood there in the living room looking at each other, a little too close for casual conversation. Or maybe not close enough. He wasn't sure. Not only had she toppled his entire understanding of the situation, the idea that she'd loved him all along, and she'd never even mentioned it, had still married Kaidan as if there was nothing else— that hurt, and he wasn't sure what to do with that information. He moved away, finally, heading toward David's room to collect Lexa. He had to go around Shepard to do it, and there was an awkward moment where they brushed against each other, her shoulder against his arm.
"Sorry," she said. "I thought you were going the other way."
He mumbled an apology as well. Lex bounced out of David's room when he knocked, bright-eyed and chattering about their game. He failed to really register most of what she said. Shepard opened the front door for them, and as they passed through, she said, "Garrus?"
"Yes?"
She smiled, a little tentative. "You know where to find me if you need me."
He smiled back, without really thinking about it. "Yeah. Good night, Shepard. And, ah... thanks for looking after her." He nudged Lexa, who piped up with a thank-you of her own
"No problem," Shepard said. "Good night, both of you."
#
"That's the bell," said David. "Is it your dad?"
Cautiously, Lexa opened the door a crack. She could see her dad and David's mom walk across the living room and sit on the couch. She closed the door again, quiet as could be. "Yeah. They're sitting down, though. Maybe they'll talk for a while and we can play some more."
"Cool," said David, starting a new match. His soldier had beaten hers in the last one, although overall she had a slight edge on him.
They kept playing, but Lexa's concentration was off. She kept expecting Dad to knock (he always knocked) or call her name from outside. David took full advantage of her distraction. She pulled her mandibles in tight as he took the match.
Her sharp hearing caught a noise coming from the living room, but it didn't sound like her name. She frowned, looking toward the door.
In the lull, since their characters weren't shooting at each other any more, David heard it too. Raised voices. That was weird. Usually the grown-ups just talked or laughed together. Lexa's eyes met David's, and, in silent agreement, they moved to the door and listened.
She couldn't make out many words. They weren't loud enough for that. But the tone was strange. Not angry, quite, but intense in a way that she didn't understand. But Dad's subtones were... were... he sounded really upset. Not annoyed like when she skipped her homework or disobeyed; not sad like when they talked about Mom, either; but something else, something that made her plates itch. She listened harder, pressing her head against the door, and started to pick out some of the tones: hurt and disappointment and confusion, at least, and maybe something more, she wasn't sure, his subtones were wobbling around too much to be sure. She'd never heard him sound like that before. There was enough distress that she felt an instinctive desire to comfort, but this was Dad and she didn't know how. She started breathing harder.
David noticed. "What is it?" he whispered.
Lexa shook her head. She couldn't explain this properly. She barely understood what she was hearing herself, and she knew David couldn't hear things the way she could. "Dad seems... I don't know. Upset." The word didn't seem strong enough. "Maybe something went wrong while he was out?"
"Maybe." David frowned, his eyebrows drawing down. His jaw stuck out when he did that. "That's weird. Your dad's always calm."
"I know," she replied. It was true. Dad was always in control. He always knew what to do. If Dad was upset, something was really wrong somewhere, and that made her feel tense and defensive.
They both heard the footsteps coming toward the door. They scrambled away, so that when Dad knocked and called, "Lex, it's time to go," they could pretend they'd just finished the game. He sounded all right, then, maybe just a touch shaky. So Lexa put on her best face and tried to be cheerful. But she watched her dad, carefully. His eyes seemed far away and he was quiet the whole way home.