An uneasy silence fell, broken only by the ragged, shallow sound of her breath in the dark.

"On a scale of one to ten, how flattered should I be? Baby's first word. Think they'll make me a godparent?" She tried for humor, but somehow the darkness only amplified the strain beneath. The look Garrus shot her was caught somewhere between pity and worry—neither of which she was particularly fond of seeing directed at her by anyone, let alone him—but apart from the expression, he drew no other attention to his misgivings. She found herself oddly grateful, like they were coconspirators. Perhaps they were. Shepard and Vakarian against the world. Shepard and Vakarian against the inevitable. They'd done it before.

He began fastening himself back into his armor. In light of a ship gaining sentience enough to speak her name, she supposed nap-time had been put on indefinite hold. And didn't they make a hell of a pair. Busted up. Exhausted. Still fighting. He had to let his omni-tool interface fade, so it was too dark to see properly, but she'd watched him dress for battle enough times to know the precise order in which he was arming himself. They had races, sometimes. He usually let her win and then griped about her cheating. She ran her fingertips over her own hardsuit but left the pieces where they lay. Too late for that.

When she closed her eyes, she saw the Presidium in the sunlight, gleaming. The wind cooled her cheeks and pushed fingers through her hair. She heard Garrus laugh as she missed her shot. (On purpose, of course. No matter what he chose to crow about, arms spread wide.) She joined him, and it felt like the first time she'd laughed in months. Years. So much suffering. So many losses. And that single moment of perfection like a bright star. Bright enough to navigate by. Just for an instant, she hurt with the perfection of it, and wished—just a little—for the eidetic memory of a drell. Even if it meant having to relive Earth, Thessia, Horizon… Here I am, exactly where I want to be. Maybe she couldn't remember all of it with flawless clarity, but she remembered the look on his face when she'd said she loved him, like she'd handed him a gift he treasured, but that he was so, so terrified of breaking. Or losing.

And look at them now.

Garrus' voice pulled her back, rooted her in reality. She didn't know if she loved or hated him for it. "You ever think they're carrying a hell of a personal grudge for beings that claim they're just here doing their job?"

She exhaled a derisive snort. Pushing back different images. A different time on the Citadel. One not quite so bright. One not quite so perfect. The Citadel Tower burning. A rain of ashes. Clawing her way out of the rubble. A victory with a heavy cost.

All her victories came with such heavy costs.

"Yeah. You take out one little Reaper vanguard…"

"And it's all engraved invitations to battle? Complete with personalized taunting?"

"It even breathes 'this hurts you' and I swear I'm blowing this entire ship out of the sky."

She heard the last of the seals locking his armor into place, and he brought up his omni-tool interface for light again. He flared his mandibles, but it wasn't a real grin—not with such deep sadness in his eyes. Dryly, he said, "I know you feel this."

"Oh, don't you start." You cannot escape your destiny, Shepard. "He—it?—always said it like I didn't know what pain was. Sovereign was grim, but Harbinger is an insufferable bastard."

If she knew anything, she knew pain.

What do you believe in, Shepard?

Her breath caught. They weren't her words. They weren't Garrus' either. They belonged to a woman lost before her time. One of the many, many losses. Death closes all.

Something out of a dream. The mako. A girl in a white dress, golden cross glinting at her throat.

But something ere the end.

Something out of a poem.

"Shepard? You okay?"

"Fine," Shepard said. "Status?"

She saw him tense before he spoke, and she found herself holding her own breath to prepare for what he might say. "They'll come soon."

She tried to smile like she believed him, but whatever he saw on her face made him look away. Suddenly the application he'd pulled up on his omni-tool absorbed every bit of his attention, and yet she was sure he wasn't seeing a single word.

"Even if they don't," Shepard said, too lightly, aiming for comfort and failing miserably, "you can always ask Miranda to go through her notes. It'll probably be easier the second time around."

He flinched. "That's not funny, Shepard."

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

"Shepard," the ship droned.

"Status," she repeated, ignoring it.

"It's going to take a while for systems to come back online," Garrus said, voice deceptively calm, deceptively even. His distress couldn't have been louder. Definitely not funny, she thought. "And even if the ship is somehow… alive, it doesn't have hands. It doesn't have anything to do the heavy lifting for it. The Valiant's still been through hell, and there's no one alive to fix it up. I… baby's first word might not be far off. I don't know how much control it has. I suspect not much. It might know you're here, but I don't think it knows where."

"You picking up anything from that third Cerberus team?"

"Radio silence. The kind of radio silence that usually means there aren't any more radios."

"Maybe their arrival's what woke up the ship. Adding new consciousness, or whatever it is the Reapers do to build their abominations." Garrus grimaced. Shepard tried not to think too hard about the grotesque science of it. "And the shuttle?"

"Nothing. Yet."

"We have to consider the possibility it might have left."

"I know," he snapped, too sudden, too sharp. "We have to consider all sorts of possibilities, don't we?"

"Garrus…"

He clenched his fist, and for a moment she expected him to punch something. He didn't. "You're Commander Shepard. They'll come for you. They need you."

"Maybe. If they know we're here. We also have to consider—"

"I know!"

"Garrus."

"No! Listen, you've done everything they've ever asked of you. They've sent you from one end of the galaxy to the other on errands. They've ignored you or dismissed you when you said things they didn't want to hear. They've chewed you out for doing your damned job, for doing every damned ugly thing they didn't want to dirty their own hands doing. They owe you, Shepard. They'll come for you. They have to."

His face was close to hers, close enough she could reach out and press her hands to his cheeks. His mandibles fluttered in agitation beneath her palms, but he didn't attempt to pull away. She forced him to meet her gaze. She forced herself to be unflinching. "And if they don't?"

"Shepard…"

"Come on, Garrus," she said, trying to smile even as her eyes prickled with tears she refused to shed, "the ruthless calculus of war, right? You're a realist."

He bent his head without breaking her hold, pressing his forehead to hers. She could hear the subtle catch in his breathing. "Not when it comes to you."

"Oh, Garrus Vakarian. My riddle wrapped in a mystery. A top-ranked hand-to-hand specialist who excels with long-range sniper rifles. A vigilante cop. A bad turian." She brushed her hands over his face gently; he shuddered beneath the touch. "An idealistic realist." She closed her eyes, pretending not to feel the slide of moisture down her cheeks. "A second-in-command who should have been a leader. And you could have been such a leader." Here he did try to pull back, but she only shook her head, forehead still pressed to his. "You might still have to be. And you can be. I know it. So do you."

"No." He reached up and took her hands, folding his fingers around hers. "That's enough."

Words trembled on the tip of her tongue, words like hope and death and I believe in you, Garrus. Words she wanted to speak, but that she knew he didn't want to hear. Finally, words left unspoken, she nodded. "Okay. You're right. That's enough. So find that shuttle."

He said nothing else, tapping at his omni-tool with furious intent. She couldn't tell if he was angry or upset or just hurt, and thought it was probably some horrible blend of all three. Like a gift, she thought, she remembered, like a gift he treasured, but that he was so, so terrified of breaking. Of losing.

She knew the moment he got bad news. He put one hand to his head and his face twisted—as much as a turian expression could twist—into pain. And this time he didn't stop himself from punching. He slammed his closed fist into his armored thigh and spat a stream of turian invective she knew the meaning of even without a translation.

"They're gone?"

"The… I heard them. They shot at the side of the ship, the morons. A damned shuttle taking on a dreadnought? What the hell? What the hell did they think they could do? It was a damned suicide."

"Shepard," said the ship. "Shepard."

"I know," she muttered. "This hurts me."

"We can still hold out," Garrus insisted. "They'll—"

"You know what you have to do, don't you?" Ashley asked.

Shepard jumped, ribs aching, and said, "What are you—?" before she realized she couldn't actually be talking to Ashley. Ashley was dead. Ashley had been dead for years. She knew it. She knew it. Still, when Shepard looked to her left, she saw the gunnery chief dressed in her little-girl Sunday best, arms wrapped around her knees, dark eyes both earnest and sad. "Hey, Commander. I'd say it's good to see you, but I think we both know that's not true."

Something out of a dream.

Not real. Too real.

"What am I what?" Garrus asked. The light from his omni-tool cast strange shadows across his plates. Turian faces didn't have the same tells as human ones for weariness or fear or heartbreak, but Shepard knew him well enough to see echoes of all three. She'd pushed him too far. She saw that now. Too far and not far enough. "There's got to be something—"

"Tennyson," Ashley said, gazing up at the ceiling. "It's always Tennyson."

Death closes all: but something ere the end—

"Some work of noble note, may yet be done," said Ashley.

"Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods." Shepard nodded. Swallowed. Understood. "You're right, Ash. There is a kind of peace. When you know it's going to matter."

"Shepard? Did you just—?"

"I do know what I have to do," she said, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders. "Some work of noble note. I know exactly what I have to do."

"Quote poetry?" She heard his unsaid, Talk to the dead?

She shook her head. "Blow this entire ship out of the sky."