Shepard stared at the faint streaks of light shooting past her skylight, one of the few sources of light at this hour in her cabin. The fish tank, as always, glowed its light blue, and her alarm clock reflected the light back across the room, as well as emitting its own gentle glow. Usually she shuttered the fish tank and dimmed her clock to sleep, but, well, she wasn't getting any sleeping done.

Yes. She did need him for something.

He'd made her tea; made himself something that she thought smelled sort of like baked bread. He'd sat across from her, drank while she did, watched her, waited.

She'd danced around the issue for a bit, then just sat in silence. He'd reached across the table and held her hand, tracing her fingers with his talons.

She hadn't really said anything, and he knew it. But he'd stayed. And when they'd both finished their drinks, he'd taken her cup and his, washed them, and put them away, then returned and offered her his hand. She'd taken it, and they'd gone up to her cabin.

He had touched her in that way that asked silently if she wanted to make love, running his hands along her shoulders, nuzzling the side of her head gently, slipping his arm around her waist as they left the elevator. She'd reciprocated the affection, tracing his mandibles, resting her head on his chest, turning the one-armed hold into a full hug… and then she'd smiled wanly and shook her head gently. He'd leaned forward, and she'd raised herself on her tiptoes to meet his forehead with her own.

They'd slipped into bed, and he'd wrapped his arms around her, holding her gently against him. She was comforted by his warmth, and she was fairly certain she'd slept for a while before waking to stare at the universe passing by outside her window.

He was still there, warm and solid and fast asleep. They were both wrapped in thin blankets, his body heat more than enough to keep the both of them warm on most nights. It wasn't like space ever got above absolute zero, anyway. She smiled at her own terrible spacer-kid joke.

He shifted slightly in his sleep, his arm nestling close against her waist. Shepard closed her eyes, not wanting morning to come. She knew that at some point, she would have to confront this head-on. She had no idea who to talk to, or even what to think. She'd talk to her mother eventually, but this confusion over motivations and needs and wants … She couldn't decide whether she was being ridiculously paranoid, or completely reasonable. In her line of work in the past few years, paranoia wasn't necessarily unreasonable … but who would understand? Who would know?

She sighed softly, opening her eyes, and Garrus shifted again, rubbing his mandible against her shoulder.

She decided that she could ignore this whole thing for a couple more hours, and turned in towards her mate, slipping in even closer to him, watching his oddly serene avian face as he slept.

Shepard closed her eyes again, listened to the lack of synchronicity in their breathing, and fell into a shallow sleep.

Water. He could hear water. What?

He blinked slowly, opening his eyes to a still-dimmed cabin and smudged streaks of light flying past the skylight over his head. He blinked again, slightly disoriented before he realized he was in Shepard's cabin, and she was in the shower.

He still hadn't gotten used to that damn skylight. Turian ships didn't have skylights. He didn't know any ships that did. Humans. … Cerberus.

He stretched; sat up, twisted at the waist one way then the other, rolled his head around the edge of his carapace, rolled his shoulders. Snap, crackle, pop.

Flowing water. It had always struck him as a bit out-of-place on a ship. Turians tended to conserve water on their short-haul ships, and used a sonic shower instead. Long-haul ships had had both, but most active turians had preferred the sonic shower: it was shorter, meant you didn't have to dry off, and arguably did a better job of scrubbing all the dirt off from a mission.

Garrus hadn't really cared for showers before meeting Shepard. He was fine with them – the Normandy didn't have a sonic shower: human hair was seriously messed up by current sonic-abrasion technology, not to mention the delicacy that would be needed with their ridiculously-soft skin, so humans basically stuck with showering and dealt with the extra water reserves needed on their ships – but he hadn't really thought twice about taking a water shower rather than a sonic shower.

Until Shepard.

He smiled, reliving a handful of his favourite shower memories, and he considered joining her. He got out of bed, stretched his arms over his head to work out a couple last kinks, and decided against it. She'd been pretty firm last night, and he knew when she wasn't in the mood. That was alright.

He made the bed while he waited for her to finish. Creases as sharp as his talons, just the way she liked it. He knew that if it wasn't absolutely perfect, she'd probably do it again herself. Garrus chuckled to himself, wondering if there were any other perfectly-made king-size beds in the Alliance military. He doubted it. He wondered if this was Shepard's way of 'apologizing' for having such a comfortable bed. He'd slept in Alliance standard beds. They weren't comfy.

Bed made, he sat on the couch and gazed at her fish.

A child?

He'd thought about this near constantly for the past week. Of course he wanted a child. Part of him still heard his father's admonitions about finding him a good match within the Hierarchy – half-joking, granted, as no turian necessarily had to marry … but there was a certain expectation that, as a good turian, you did your part to continue your family line.

He rubbed his mandible, stretching it out. Spirits. The women his father had suggested … well, they ranged from "hell no" to "well, you're a wonderful woman, but …" and it had never gotten much better. Given that Garrus had never understood what he'd wanted in a relationship, he supposed it wasn't really fair to knock his dad so hard for not getting it right either, but still. Some of his father's attempts had been laughable.

Garrus had more or less come to terms with the slim chances of his ever being a father about the time he'd opened the last crate of thermal clips while holed up during that last stand on Omega. Before that, he'd held out some hope: working at C-Sec, you never knew when you might come across some gorgeous young turian with a particularly-lovely supportive waist; after saving the galaxy with Shepard, he'd gone back to the Citadel with a spring in his step and some extra confidence while he flirted at the bar …

And then Shepard had died, and he'd spent the following two months completely numb, realizing for the first time that she had, quite obviously, been the right one all along. How he'd hated himself in those days. He'd gone to Omega to forget. Or to dream. Or something. He didn't think he'd fully processed Omega yet. He knew he would someday.

If there was one thing he'd learned from Shepard, it was …

Well, actually, it was that everyone in the galaxy was likely a sane and rational person who was incredibly scared of something, and that fear was what was actually causing their behaviour.

But the other thing he'd learned from Shepard was that not everything makes sense the first go round.

He'd figure out Omega later.

That night, in his makeshift fortress, on the eve of destruction, he'd given up his dreams of children. Given up the promise of tiny blue eyes and gentle curved mandibles. The daydream of teaching his child to shoot; holding their small hands in his long fingers, showing them the art of the sniper rifle. Telling his children about his days with the great Commander Shepard, the saviour of the galaxy. He'd put a dream into each shot; cursed whatever powers there were with each merc felled for each distant hope that shattered along with their skulls.

And then she'd walked back into his life, he'd spent several weeks entirely numb again – no thanks to the painkillers – and they'd started this incredible whirlwind of danger and action and love. And then she'd blown up a mass relay. Or, well, been unable to stop the blowing-up of a mass relay. And she'd been torn from him for six months – six months in which he'd been ridiculously busy.

Of course, then the war happened. Or culminated.

And now …

Now they could have a child.

It would not be turian. It would not be human. There would be no tiny mandibles and talons; no soft curls or plump wrists. It would be asari: blue, eternal … alien.

Something in Garrus' heart clenched, and he dropped his head to his chest. He just didn't know. This would have been a hard enough decision if the offer hadn't come from Liara. But the archaeologist was both their friend, and had as much as admitted she had loved Shepard. How could he, in good conscience, being a fiercely protective mate who adored his partner and wanted all the best for her …

How did that sentence finish?

What was the best for Shepard? To say yes, and let there be a child of their love, a child they could raise, a child they could impart wisdom and knowledge to? To say no, and hold out hope for another solution – a potentially futile dream?

To let a third person come between them? Would that affect their relationship – or their friendship with Liara? What about with the rest of the crew? What did Liara want?

Garrus groaned gently. He didn't know. He so badly wanted to talk with Shepard. There were so many angles to this conversation that needed to be covered: the logistics, the practicality, the politics, the intimacy, the friendships, the crew dynamics, the pros, the cons, their personal desires, their dreams, their needs, their wants …

Their future.

The water stopped.

Silence.

Shepard stepped out, towel wrapped around her, using another smaller towel to rub at her chin-length hair. She walked across the room, down the stairs, handed him a brush, pulled the towel from her hair, and sat on his knees.

He began to run the brush through her hair, using his talons to detangle any particularly stubborn knots. He loved doing this.

She began to talk.