November 11th, 2183
The 25th anniversary of Armistice Day brought a change about to the galaxy now that a human Spectre and a turian had successfully collaborated together to bring The Citadel's most wanted criminal to justice. Or so went the preface to Garrus' invitation to Palaven's new diplomatic in-orbit station, creatively named Cipritine Station. It would seem his people figured out most races couldn't tolerate Palaven's blistering levels of radiation without their skins melting off, and opted for a space station instead. Keeping himself from rolling his eyes at the unnecessary opulence was proving to be exhausting and so he pushed past the crowd of overdressed turians and humans toward the bar, where Anderson nursed on a glass of levo brandy.
"I hate these things," he grumbled into his drink.
"Human formal wear? Or compulsory political events?" Garrus replied, leaning his back against the bar top.
"Can't have one without the other." He all but inhaled the drink, slamming the glass down.
Ceremonies and more ceremonies. A whole room froze in silence just to watch Primarch Fedorian and Admiral Hackett pin badges of courage on Anderson and Garrus, touting their bravery in the face of danger, a vapid performance to prove the galaxy that humans and turians could work together, an empty show to convince the public of the lie that the galaxy was now safe. Lieutenant Vakarian had a different feel to it than Detective, and despite the promotion, he felt as if he had gone down in the world; instead of freedom, he'd be noosed with ropes of endless red tape until they left him hanging and thrashing about.
The change wasn't all too unpleasant, however, as many a turian woman approached him afterward. Some would flutter their mandibles and tilt their heads, exposing that small patch of alluring, sensitive flesh between their necks and cowls. Others would let their hands linger at his arm for a microsecond too long to be considered as simply being friendly. And he'd chuckle as he did whenever he felt flustered, flick out a smirk baring both his teeth and his intentions. Another would leave contact information in his hand, or lean in a little too close to pretend he didn't scent her pheromones. He was conversing with a particularly beautiful turian woman, with a reddish tint to her hide and ivory plates that caught the warm glints of light from the chandeliers. Her subvocals purred with all kinds of dirty promises. And oh, the things she'd do to him... The things she'd let him to her. He'd be crazy not to go home with her.
"Excuse me, Lieutenant," Chellick said, melting the confident smile off his potential date's face as he smacked him on the shoulder. "I'll just steal him away for a few minutes. I'll bring him back. Promise."
His feet dragged beneath him and he waved back at the jilted woman's shrinking form as Chellick pulled him away.
"You have some bad timing."
"Yeah, yeah. Keep it in your plates. She'll tend to it later." A playful slap on the shoulder shoved him forward. "So, did she tell you yet?"
"Tell me what? Who?" His mind was still with the woman at the bar. "Aw, look, she's leaving!"
"Shepard," Chellick replied, his firm grip on his shoulder grounding him back into the conversation he didn't want to have. "She hasn't told you anything yet, then!"
Garrus watched her leave with a click of his tongue and a groan before turning back to him.
"What are you talking about?"
The commissioner parted his mouth to speak but by the distant look draping over him, something or someone had caught his eye, prompting Garrus to crane his neck to investigate. For a moment he wondered how he could see anything past the mass of people congregated in the middle of the room. But then he saw it.
He saw her.
He blamed the delay in recognition due to the fact that she looked drastically different in contrast to her day-to-day appearance: Long dark hair swept over one of her shoulders, frizzy curls now smooth and polished, dressed in a black gown with long sleeves and silver cuffs. There was a suggestion of collarbone beneath the high neckline, and the creamy curvature of her outer thigh peeked demurely through the slit of the skirt—the very collarbones and thighs he'd seen a million times before, tending wounds after a battle, during downtime, while they changed for a mission and never before had they made his mouth feel so damned dry as they did in this moment.
"Don't tell me you've got a thing for the Commander."
He had to rip himself away from her to shoot Chellick a reprimanding look.
"Of course not. She's... She's a human."
"And? I'm guessing you've never tried human before."
"Someone's obsessed with my love life."
"Look," he said, leaning in. "All I'm saying is, it's not as weird as you're making it out to be. Turians and humans get together all the time now. So, if you're interested, you should let her know."
The lights dimmed, music flooded every corner of the ballroom. The dancing began and Shepard was lost in a sea of swaying bodies. His eyes searched every corner, every gap between dancers, every table. The sight of her was life-giving water and his eyes thirsted for her. Finally, he spotted her by the sidelines with Captain—rather, Admiral—Anderson and a human woman with yellow hair and bronze skin. Shepard held a flask, which she proceeded to take a swig from, earning herself a laugh from Garrus himself. He saw the woman paint something sticky and glossy onto Shepard's lips: some kind of human cosmetic, he figured. By the deep grimace wrinkling the bridge of her nose, Shepard was not a fan.
"No... No, I'm not into humans," he said to Chellick, but he was already gone.
When he looked again, she, too, had vanished from her spot. Where had she gone? Garrus scanned the crowd again for her until coming upon two parallel lines of humans clapping their hands to a basic rhythm. From what he could see, a pair—one from each line—would take turns dancing their way down the line. Or, at least, the human equivalent of dancing. Shepard and Anderson took their turns: Anderson, doing an embarrassed two-step, fists raised almost in a defensive stance, while Shepard jerked her entire body around as she allowed the music to seize her and make her balter to the catchy bass riff. Shepard, what in the hell are you doing with your arms? Garrus snorted and shook his head.
"So your friend's gone, huh?" mused the flanging voice of a woman, tearing him away from his ex-superior. The one from the bar! Right. He'd been talking to her before Chellick waltzed in and...
"Uh... Hmm. Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. Business. Uh... Citadel... business."
Junia Quirinius, turian ambassador to the Salarian Union, whose neon violet and gold markings suggested she hailed from Edessa. Intelligent, powerful, beautiful. What more could a man want? The belt around her waist told of the way her body narrowed and then tapered to her wider set hips and sloped down her long legs. Was she flexible? Oh, Spirits, he hoped so and he sure intended to find out. She seemed pleasant enough. And judging from the way she sought him out after they'd been so rudely interrupted, she was still interested, too. And so after fetching her another drink, he continued the conversation they'd been having. The Union had set up a brand new embassy on Sur'Kesh after years of pestering Dalatrass Linron for decent dextro accommodations. They shared a joke over the difference between turian beds and those of other species.
Yes, Aenea was lovely... But he couldn't help having his mind wander to something else, his line of sight meandering to someone else. Kaidan approached an idle Shepard with a refill to her flask. It appeared as if he'd figured out how uncomfortable she was at these functions, and that she needed a shot of something, anything, to make it through this hellish night without falling apart. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear. Whatever it was made him witness the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing he'd seen all night. Her tresses bounced over her shoulder as she tossed her head back in a full-bellied laugh, her smooth neck bathed in the milky glow of the disco lights.
"What do you think?" asked Aenea.
Crap. What was she talking about? He had to think of something quick.
"Sorry. I, uh, got distracted. One of the humans was..." His brain short-circuited and so he mimicked it. "Waving their hands around. They looked like a piece of seaweed."
Did she buy it?
The woman looked over her shoulder at the dancing crowd, obviously humoring him. Her subvocals were soft, low, but uneven. Great. The first chance at a decent date and he screwed it up by not paying attention.
"They do move rather oddly, don't they?"
"Uh... Yeah. Yeah, they do." Great. He was bombing. Every fiber of his being was on high alert, screaming "ABORT" as he looked back into Aenea's turquoise eyes, now glazed over with annoyance. "Look, I'm sorry. I'm not good at this sort of thing. And the loud music makes it worse. Can I start over?"
The vexation melted away from her face and subvocals almost instantly.
"Of course," she said. "I understand. I have to say I much rather prefer salarian parties. They're quieter. Less music and more getting to the point."
Garrus shook his head with a laugh.
"Yeah, that's a bit more my style."
Her delicate mandibles fluttered in a soft smile.
"Good. Then, in line with getting to the point..." The woman approached him, let her hand wander down the line of his arm until they placed a card in his hand. "Come see me later when you feel like clearing your head." With that, she turned and left, hips swaying with each step. A key card to her hotel room. Good to know, he noted with a smirk. He'd be rude to not follow her, right?
Just as he took those first steps, though, he caught a glimpse of Kaidan's hand against Shepard's bare upper back and that, he hadn't expected; from the waist up, her back was exposed save for a few thin goldtone metal chains that pooled at the curve of her spine. His other hand cradled hers. It was oddly intimate, though perhaps it was because of the heavy-lidded, gentle way he regarded her as if she were this precious gem, the rarest and most deadly of flowers—if flowers could singlehandedly kill an entire platoon in a matter of seconds. Okay, maybe not a flower. But something just as beautiful and lethal...
Had he just thought of Shepard as beautiful? No, there was something definitely wrong with him if he referred to a human as such. He wasn't so sure about human beauty standards. But there was something to them, the same way there was something to anything in nature: flowers and plants and animals and stars... It didn't mean he wanted to sleep with any of them. Spirits, was he defending his own thoughts to himself?
When he glanced at them again, Shepard was retreating and shaking her head, eyes wide like those of a frightened salarian, and Kaidan was still on the dance floor, his thick brows furrowed in perplexity. The human male tossed his hands up in a near-universal sign of frustration and retreated to a table, his hands rubbing the back of his neck.
"Welp. I wasn't expecting that," he heard Shepard grumble beside him. Her hand grasped an imaginary glass which she tipped toward her mouth, a gesture requesting a drink from the bartender.
"What happened?" he asked, leaning over, both elbows on the counter.
"He said he had feelings for me," she stated, before shooting back the fresh glass of liquor. It hadn't made its way down her throat before she gestured for another.
A blindfolded keeper could have seen that months ago. The lingering stares, the obsequious nature of his speech, the way he sought out her approval on and off the battlefield, the awkward smiles and laughs. But not Shepard, apparently.
"Is it that bad?" he laughed. "From what I hear, the Lieutenant is a catch among humans."
"It complicates things," she muttered, staring at her newly emptied glass. When had she finished that drink? "I... I'm not good with those things. I don't get them." Shepard's silken lips released a morose sigh. "I just... I want things to be simple. Y'know?"
Garrus nodded.
"I dunno. And Kaidan is a kind person. He tries, y'know? But..." She stared off at the frost-like lip print around the glass.
Before he could stop himself, the words were already pouring out of his mouth.
"But if you like him, you can give him a chance. To understand you, that is."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes when she turned to face him. The sight of her squeezed at his heart until it ached.
"How's that fair for him?" Shepard shook her head. "Like I said, I'm not good with that stuff. I don't get it."
A few dozen heartbeats passed between the silence, drowned out by the electronic music. He wasn't going to push her into Kaidan's arms if she wasn't already inclined to go. The dance floor slowed down along with the music, an energetic rave replaced with an easy ballad. This one he actually knew. He recalled for a moment the way she'd laughed with Kaidan, so carefree and genuine, the way she'd been with Anderson while they'd been dancing. And before long, the desire to ask her to dance was like an overwhelming itch.
"Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "We can be losers together."
Her gaze hesitated between his hand and his eyes for a moment, and his heart sank. Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Maybe she thought he felt sorry for her, or that he was taking advantage of her.
But then he felt the heated touch of her palm and his worries and the crowd around them vanished. He closed the distance between them, body close to his, eyes like amber cabochons piercing into his. Had they always had those green flecks around the pupils? His hand vacillated on where to rest: her shoulder? Or her waist, as Kaidan had done? It settled on her upper back before his fingertips felt the lack of fabric between them. Touching her naked skin felt wrong. Not that he found her repulsive... No, the opposite was true. He was altogether bewitched with her, and the solid feel of her shoulder blades, the slight notches of her spine... It was all too intimate, robbing his mouth of moisture, his lungs of oxygen, and his mind of sanity. All this, without her knowing the effect she was having... It would be wrong. It would ruin what they already had: a beautiful friendship. Therefore, Garrus chose to move his hand to the clothed dip of her waist, trying his damnedest to ignore the sensual flare of her hips.
"What?" she asked, mouth curled into a smile, head tilted curiously.
"Huh?" His neck felt a flare of heat.
"You're staring."
Excuses caught in his throat, piling up until all he could utter were nonsensical sounds.
Her laughter sent puffs of warm air against his cowl.
"You're short," he said, watching her roll her eyes. Even with those stilted human shoes, she barely reached the top of his keel.
As she parted her lips speak, he felt a jolt of pain stab at his foot while Shepard stumbled in his arms.
"Sorry," she groaned, hobbling back. "My feet are killing me in these shoes."
"The pain is mutual," he grunted. "Now let's get out of here before you maim someone else."
Slipping her shoes off, she carried them in one hand as they headed out to the lobby area, where it was empty and silent by comparison. He spotted a cushioned chair and began to call for her. But she'd already moved on, entranced by the emerald and amethyst veil of Trebia's aurora against the glass windows. Her mouth fell open as she placed her hand against the glass, the flecks in her eyes greener than ever. For a moment, he thought her a goddess.
"It looks a lot more vivid on Palaven. You didn't have solar storms on Mindoir?"
"Not this vivid... This is—I've always wanted to see the aurora. It was at the top of my bucket list."
Garrus frowned.
"What's a bucket list?"
"A list of things you wanna do before you die," she murmured, looking back at him with an expression he couldn't quite name: Wistfulness added its somber azure hue to it, with something like joy dialing up the warmth in her face.
"Well... What now?"
The top of her shoulder poked through the neckline of her dress as she shrugged, turning back to the natural phenomenon before her.
"I dunno... It's so beautiful, I can't think right now."
"I know what you mean," he replied, forcing himself to watch the aurora instead. He felt a dark blue flush creeping up his neck. "You, uh... You look good, Shepard."
He could see her turn to him from below, saw the apples of her cheeks rise with a dawning smile. And then their eyes locked together, the world around him fading away again. And then he knew for certain he was in trouble. The way she looked at him pulled him in like a magnet and he was the helpless satellite caught in her force of her orbit. He lifted a hand to let it tuck away a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She didn't pull away. No, in fact, she seemed even closer than before, staring at his mouth.
"Shepard," he whispered. "I..."
The sound of his name, coming from a male turian, shattered the illusion of their own little world. He sighed, fists balling up until his knuckles cracked. Two turians approached. One he recognized immediately, the familiar blue markings identifying him as Castis Vakarian, his father. The other took a while before he could register him as Primarch Fedorian. Castis ricocheted a look between both Garrus and Shepard but said nothing. Not a greeting, not a reprimand, nothing.
"Lieutenant Vakarian, congratulations," Fedorian said.
"Thank you, sir."
As the Primarch sang his praises, Castis' stare bore holes into his hide. Shepard, on the other hand, pulled away and began to excuse herself.
"I've been assigned on a tour of the Terminus Systems for the next three months, starting tomorrow. So, y'know... I gotta get going. Booze is wearing off and all."
He wanted to ask so many things. When had she planned to tell him she was leaving? Had this moment been uncomfortable for her? Could they talk later, maybe?
"Good night," she bade them. "And, Garrus..." She put on a mysterious smirk. "Congratulations."
The three of them politely sent her off: The Primarch and he with a wave, Castis with a nod.
"So it looks like she told you," Castis finally said.
Garrus searched for her by the entrance. Shepard was gone. So many things left unsaid, so many feelings he couldn't yet identify... And for what? I'll tell her tomorrow, he thought.
"No, she didn't. What's going on?"
The Primarch and Castis exchanged a glance, but the politician spoke first.
"Shepard has nominated you to undergo Spectre training."
November 23rd, 2183
Worry had consumed him for two whole days. He would have loved to blame Spectre training on it; but after the hell he'd gone through with Shepard, Spectre training was easy and he'd known it would be. No, the very cause of this turmoil was Shepard herself. Her smile was etched onto the back of his eyelids, her scent embedded in his nostrils, to the point that she haunted his dreams.
Garrus shifted in the uncomfortable human chair and winced at the loud groan of its legs scraping against the floor of the empty office. Instead of obsessing on the mystery of why he was here, he scrolled through his omnitool. "NO NEW MESSAGES," it read. Shepard hadn't replied to his message since the night of the party. Maybe he'd come on too strong, or something; the possibility made his stomach twist into a knot. Then again, Shepard was terrible with replying to her personal terminal. He let out a sigh and rubbed a palm against his forehead. Why did she make him feel like some teenage fledgling with his first crush at boot camp? It almost made him feel bad about judging Kaidan so harshly.
When the doors hissed open, he turned to see Admiral Anderson and Tali. Anderson's deep ochre complexion was ashen and hollow, dark circles beneath his eyes; this was the look of a man carrying the weight of the universe, a man who had slept even less than he, a look that alerted every nerve in his body that something was wrong. For a moment, Garrus was thankful humans lacked subvocals, because he doubted he'd be able to process so much information at once.
Tali, on the other hand, wouldn't look him in the eye; her shoulders slumped as if she were bearing some of the weight in Anderson's somber presence.
"Lieutenant Vakarian... I figured it was best to speak to you in person," began the human, and the quarian began to cry behind him.
He felt every vein in his body freeze, the unbearable wintry chill he'd experienced on Noveria, flooding every inch of his body.
"What's going on?" he demanded, standing from his chair. Tali wouldn't say anything. She just stood there, hand over her respirator, shaking her head as her body convulsing with each sob.
Anderson opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated, and he could hear his words halt in his throat. His eyes looked glazed, his throat visibly working to swallow.
"Shepard... is dead."
The words didn't register. Garrus snorted, crossing his arms.
"What is this, a joke? Where's Shepard?"
"She was killed in action. The Normandy... There was an attack. The ship crashed planetside and... she's..." The man's lips trembled, betraying the otherwise stone-faced mask he sported. "She's gone."
"I'm so sorry," Tali whispered.
Why were these two so upset? Shepard wasn't dead. She was kicking ass in the Terminus Systems. She was probably assembling those little model ships she loved so much, ignoring the crewmembers, or beating the crap out of that punching bag, or... No. She wasn't dead. That was ridiculous.
"HQ wants to get the facts before making this known to the public, but I figured you should know," Anderson stated. And he said nothing else for a while.
His knees felt like rubber, his lower legs numb. His mandibles fluttered with unspoken words and he stumbled backward into the chair. This was so confusing. This had to be some kind of joke. It was a really stupid, unfunny joke. Shepard couldn't be dead. He'd just seen her a while ago. Then... She'd never received the message; she'd never read it at all. And all because she was... She was...
He'd been so caught up in his thoughts, he didn't notice Anderson setting a box down on the desk before him. It was labeled with human writing, but his translator read it clearly: "Shepard, Jennifer M."
"H—How? When?" he finally managed to ask.
"We picked up one of the emergency shuttles four days ago. Joker was... He said she was trying to get him aboard a shuttle. An explosion separated them." Anderson gulped again. "He, uh... He saw her get spaced. He's, uh... He's not taking this very well."
Garrus was no longer making eye contact; in fact, he wasn't looking at anything in particular. The silence was ringing in his ear, the atmosphere choking him, the box with Shepard's name an austere reminder that all that was left of this supernova could fit in that tiny crate. She'd been spaced. Did she... Had she suffered? Had it been quick? She'd died alone, probably screaming into the black void of space, with no one to hear her, with no one to comfort her.
"Did... everyone else make it, at least?"
Anderson shook his head.
"Half the crew is still missing. Pressly died during the initial attack. And Williams... She didn't make it."
The ride back home was nondescript; he didn't remember much except for Anderson telling him to take care of himself. He set the box down on the kitchen table, stared at it for several minutes as if opening it were akin to peeling the sheets back from a corpse to identify it. Part of him laughed at the fear of seeing Shepard's lifeless face in the box. They hadn't even retrieved her body yet. And if she'd broken through the atmosphere, they wouldn't find much of her. She'd be scattered like the most beautiful of meteor showers.
Feinting hands reached for the lid until he decided to rip off the bandage and open it.
Yellowed, dog-eared papers scrawled with colorful crayons, signed with the name Melissa; an unopened model ship kit of a turian vessel marked "Kara"—and he had to laugh at the cruel irony; a few of her personal toiletries. He figured this was all they recovered from her apartment. Jennifer Shepard in a box.
She was dead. Shepard was dead. Shepard was dead and there was nothing he could do to fix it. He could no longer tell her she was the best partner he'd worked with. He could no longer thank her for not making fun of his visceral reaction to insects. He could no longer spar with her or laugh with her or tell her that she'd been the only true friend he'd had in years, the only friend who'd never judged him for being a shitty turian.
Reality sank him deep into its icy, dark depths and robbed him of his ability to breathe. And for the first time since losing his mother, Garrus allowed himself to keen and wail as his heart shattered.
Shepard was dead.
And there was nothing he could do.