The briefing didn't last long; Shepard didn't see the point in drawing it out when Tali's focus was so obviously on the three quarians down in Medbay, and when she herself had to dance around the truth of the mission, skating up to the lie but never over the edge. She felt dirty after five minutes, filthy after ten. Miranda's face grew more pinched with every minute that passed, until Shepard finally put them all out of their misery and sent them to the showers.
Through it all, Garrus' eyes never left her face. Now is not the time to be so obvious, she thought at him, but without any real conviction. It was only a matter of time before her XO figured out that something lay between Shepard and Garrus. Why bother hiding it?
Because I don't want this used against me, she thought as she rode the elevator. I don't want it used against Garrus. Miranda might be on my side — provisionally — but I can't forget who she reports to.
With Sovereign behind her, Shepard thought she might have finally learned how to describe concepts that defied words. She'd stared down something that claimed to be a god; she'd killed its avatar. Why couldn't she put together a single sentence that described the cavern, and what had gone on inside it?
She rubbed her throat. A shower had done nothing to erase the feeling that cold, bone-thin fingers still swept her skin, even after turning up the water as hot as it would go. She had no bruises, and all the dried blood and sweat had been washed down the drain. Other than the violent sunburn, nothing remained to show what had passed on Haestrom. Outwardly, at least — she still had the dull, familiar throb of the headache pulsing deep in her skull, but it faded as she dried off.
When Shepard looked at herself in the mirror, she saw nothing new in her gaze. No new clarity, no truth. No hope. She just looked tired. Sunburned and tired. She brushed her fingers over the white marks on her shoulders one last time before shrugging into her ship uniform.
She had felt hope, even joy on Haestrom, for a few moments, before it slipped through her fingers like water. She hadn't even noticed the loss at first, because she'd been too busy hauling Garrus and Tali out of the howling darkness. By the time she did realize what had happened, all the joy was gone, replaced with weariness, with loneliness. For a handful of seconds, it had been hers, and that joy gave her power. Strong enough to kill whatever the Sarcophagus was, strong enough to break the tie to Akuze.
Not strong enough to hold on, though.
Selfish, she told herself, finally cutting her eyes away from her fogged mirror. What should she have done? Left Garrus and Tali to haul themselves out? For once, what was right and what was best had overlapped, and everyone had gotten home alive. She'd had that joy once, and she could find it again. I should be satisfied with what I managed to do. I saved as many as I could, she thought, before she remembered the two quarian bodies, their masks filled with blood. Her good seemed so little, in the face of so much loss.
Shepard shivered and rubbed her arms. Tali would mourn her team, as soon as the relief over having found some of them alive faded. Would that carry her back to the flotilla, to where some memories and familiar ground might soften the loss?
Selfish, Shepard told herself again, and walked out into her cabin.
Nor hovered next to the bed, eyes turned up to the skylight. "Does it bother you?" she asked, not looking at Shepard. "The stars, the light, so close to where you sleep?"
Shepard swallowed a groan, and gave her bed a longing look before facing Nor. "I wasn't sure when I'd see you again," she hedged. "Thought you might have other visits to make after what went down on Haestrom."
Nor gave a look that Shepard would have called frosty on someone living. "They shall keep, my visits. There is still time." She turned her face back up to the stars. "You felt free, for a little while. No more ice, no more hiding. It was…" Nor tilted her head to one shoulder, then the other, and the little movement woke something in Shepard's head. Not quite a memory, just a faded scrap of a single image: Nor smiling, head cocked to one side, against a dingy, bloodstained wall.
"It was pleasurable," said Nor, bringing Shepard back to herself with a start. "Such things…we do not feel them for ourselves." When she looked back at Shepard, her mouth tipped upward at the corners, the scars on her cheeks bunching. "Thank you for that," she said.
Shepard found herself smiling back, sparing half a thought for the memory of her first reaction to Nor: hostility, confusion, fear. Now, only the confusion remained, edged with frustration. "So," she said, when Nor kept smiling at her without saying a word, "why are you here? Not just to thank me, I hope. I don't even know what I did."
"You let the weight fall off your back," said Nor. "It was enough, for a time. But there are more of them, more of —"
"More of what?" Shepard prompted, ready for the twinge of the needle in her spine. Her body didn't disappoint her; the needle blazed for one sharp, bright second when Nor kept speaking.
"More of the soured ones," said Nor, her voice halting and unsure. Her smile slipped away, and her shoulders sagged. Her scarred face wasn't capable of much emotion, whether through lack of practice or some subtle restriction in her form, but Shepard knew what weariness looked like, no matter the face that wore it. "That was not the only Sarcophagus."
Shepard had expected that. The Reapers had left their poisonous toys all over the galaxy, after all. But the thought of more of those broken, black shapes, waiting under other cities —
"Goddammit." Shepard sighed. "Nothing's ever easy." She ran her fingers through her wet hair, tugging at the strands. "It's too much to ask that you know how many?" she asked, and felt a sharp pang of guilt when Nor shuddered and looked away. "Right. Let me guess, your rules?"
"Do not ask me to break more than I already have," said Nor. "There are structures in place, and they must be respected. Otherwise, all is smoke and ash. All is…sour."
In spite of her exhaustion, Shepard's curiosity leapt at the word sour, and her mind jerked back to Haestrom, to the sensation of fingers on her throat and in her mouth. She fought not to gag, focusing past the memory to the teasing hint of an idea, thin scraps of information spun together. "Is that what you're risking? Becoming like one of those — things? They're not spirits like you, not anymore. They're —"
Revenants.
"— revenants," she finished, testing the word. It felt smooth, like a pebble on her tongue, but Nor's mouth twisted in a flash of disgust. "They've gone sour," Shepard went on. "Something about memory, they want — they want bad ones. It's like they're hungry for it. Or like they're empty."
Nor said nothing. She stared at Shepard, offering no support or denial, her mouth twisted in what might have been pain. And then, without a sound or a flicker, she disappeared, so abruptly Shepard's eyes ached.
Had Nor left because Shepard had somehow offended her? Or had Shepard cut too closely, seen too clearly?
Either way, it's annoying as hell. Shepard groused to herself, barely surprised at Nor's departure — she supposed she was getting used to it. Her tolerance for cryptic half-answers had increased impressively since her resurrection. She glanced at her bed again; trying to sleep tempted her, but she doubted she would manage it. Her mind didn't race; she had trained herself too well for that, but it had new information to worry over, new layers of mystery to peel back.
To start: what, exactly, were the Sarcophagi? And what purpose did they serve for the Reapers?
Time for that later. She had a crew to see to — most especially Tali, and the quarian survivors.
Before she finished turning toward the door, the alert on her private terminal chimed. The elevator had just bypassed the CIC to come to her floor. Shepard had a moment of warm, irrational hope that it was Garrus, before EDI's cool voice intruded.
"Commander, Operative Lawson requests entry."
Ten seconds to prepare for a storm wasn't much, but Shepard smiled her gratitude up toward the ceiling. "Thank you, EDI."
She keyed the lock the moment the elevator stopped, and stepped back as Miranda blazed in, boot heels clicking on the tile.
"Shepard," she said, without preamble and without turning around. "I know we've had our differences, and that the organization for which I work disgusts you, but I dislike purposefully being kept out of the loop. There is information I must know, in order to do my job and to keep this ship running smoothly." Miranda inhaled sharply, and pivoted on one heel to stare at the fish tank, which was still, two months into the mission, quite empty of fish.
Shepard waited while Miranda gathered herself, and leaned against the doorframe with her arms folded. She caught herself just before she bit her lip, but she couldn't help feeling a wash of regret. Miranda had trusted her with her family, the good and the bad, and Shepard was still keeping secrets. A whole soul full of them. Be reasonable, she thought. If Miranda knew half of what happened on Haestrom, I'd be headed for the protein vats, and she'd grow herself a new Shepard. One who didn't think she'd been a ghost. One who didn't see spirits.
One with a control chip. Shepard bit her lip. Even shoved to the back of her mind, that particular confession still stung.
"I understand that your resurrection has been hard on you," Miranda said at last. "Waking up to find yourself right in the middle of a war, one that the Alliance won't help you fight — I'm not unsympathetic, Shepard. But I get the sense you're keeping information from me, information vital to our mission. And with all due respect —."
"Why is it whenever someone says with all due respect, they really mean kiss my ass?" Shepard asked rhetorically, and smiled another hard little smile when Miranda's reflected eyes narrowed at her. What would Ash have thought of Miranda, all polish and precision? "Go on, Miranda."
"According to my omni-tool, you and Officer Vakarian were out of contact for only five minutes." Miranda paused, letting the unspoken question hang like smoke in the air: what happened to you?
Five minutes. The memories of Akuze, the tongue on her neck, and the journey down to the Sarcophagus' black, rotted heart — it had all taken five minutes. Shepard had hardly been able to believe it, when she stumbled out into Haestrom's sick sunlight.
No; she believed it all too easily. She heard how the Sarcophagus screamed as it died. Something that old and powerful, with its ability to play with memory — why shouldn't it be able to twist time in and around itself until five minutes became five hours, with no one outside the wiser?
That's what I'm fighting, Shepard thought, another layer of weariness settling over her. The Reapers play with time and I'm supposed to stop them.
She didn't answer Miranda's unspoken question. How could she? Miranda, the Collectors are nothing more than wind-up toys. Let me tell you what was waiting down in the dark. Let me tell you what I saw when I was dead.
"If I withhold information," she said, holding Miranda's gaze, "there are valid reasons behind my decision to do so."
Miranda scoffed, finally turning around. "What could be so vitally important that you'll risk the mission to keep it secret?"
The barb hit home; Shepard winced inwardly, holding her body still, but her eyes flickered, and she knew Miranda had seen it.
Was this a balance she wanted to strike, forever dancing on the knife's edge of a lie? Could she trust Miranda? She'd never know if she didn't try — and when had Commander Shepard started overthinking things?
Charge, she thought.
"You have me there, Miranda," she said. Her heart began to pound; all or nothing. "Grab a seat. I don't think you're going to like what I'm about to tell you."
Shepard was right: Miranda did not like what Shepard told her, and wasted no time expressing it.
"This is — utter insanity," Miranda said, for the second time, and if a larger tell existed for how badly rattled she was by Shepard's confession, Shepard couldn't imagine it. "Utter insanity," she said one last time, and stared at Shepard, her eyes cold and furious. Every muscle in Miranda's body tensed, poised to spring — not to flee, never to flee — but she seemed incapable of movement, or even deciding how to react beyond those few choked-off words.
Did I just break my XO? Shepard wondered, watching Miranda's expression shift from confusion to anger, and every point in between. What she'd confessed to Miranda sounded more like a story told to scare children than anything resembling the truth She shifted on the couch. "I know how it sounds," she said. "But…there you have it." When Miranda simply stared back at her, wordless and silent, Shepard gave her a sly, exhausted grin. God, she was tired. "Still wondering why I never said anything before?"
"It's ridiculous!" snapped Miranda. "If I hadn't evaluated your mental state myself —" She clenched her fists. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she seemed as upset about missing the symptoms of Shepard's insanity as she did about the illness itself. "You actually expect me to believe that you spent two years as a ghost, and that the sightings in the Sahrabarik system aren't hallucinations, but collective representatives of memory?"
"It would've be nice," said Shepard, glad she had kept the handful of more intimate details of her un-life to herself. The ones she remembered, she thought to herself, rueful.
Miranda made a short, disgusted noise. "Unbelievable. Either this is the clumsiest attempt at misdirection I've ever encountered, or you're completely delusional. I don't know which I find more offensive."
"Not even going to consider that I might be telling the truth?" Shepard asked, and was rewarded with a look hot enough to melt iron. She sighed, and rubbed her temples. "Fine."
There was one option left. The nuclear option, as likely to destroy what was left of her relationship with Miranda as it was to save it. Just thinking of using it made Shepard feel like a cheap magician, pulling trick rabbits out of hats and hoping no one saw the raw edges of her illusions.
Instead of a rabbit from a hat, she was about to pull a spirit out of thin air — and that depended on Nor actually cooperating.
She leaned back against the couch, trying to project a confidence she didn't quite feel, and watched Miranda's face move from disgust to disdain. "Nor," she said. "If you're not too busy, I'd appreciate you putting in an appearance right about now."
It hadn't worked before; Nor was not a tame thing, trained to come when called, but she had always come when she was needed. With the force of a prayer, Shepard hoped that trend held and counted the seconds. I'm asking a lot, she added silently. But it's time to stop keeping secrets, Nor, even if the secret's you. We have to be in this together.
"Commander," Miranda said, icy, superior, and light years away from the woman who had made awkward, stilted puns on the shuttle to Haestrom, "this conversation is over." She stood, wiping her hands on her suit. "Thank you for your time."
Shepard heard the explosion of air before Miranda finished her sentence. She let herself smile, smug as a cat in a patch of sun, as Miranda blinked, her perfect mouth dropping into a slack o of shock.
"What the hell," said Miranda, eloquence lost. She sank back to the couch as Nor edged into Shepard's peripheral vision. Her gaze traveled over Nor's form, taking in the black, scuffed armor, the tangled hair, the burnt-sugar skin. When Miranda's eyes reached Nor's face, Shepard watched her shiver.
"Sorry about the ambush, Miranda," said Shepard.
"Ambush," Miranda said hoarsely. She laughed, unable to look away from Nor. "My God, you weren't — you aren't lying?"
"Not one bit," replied Shepard, as sympathetic as she dared.
"It can't be real." Miranda finally tore her gaze from Nor, and turned a near-pleading gaze on Shepard. "Things like this don't happen."
"They do," said Nor. Her cracked voice made Miranda flinch, but she smiled as sweetly as her ruined, impossible face allowed. Sweetly enough for some of the shock in Miranda's face to disappear, and for her hands to unclench. Shepard could almost hear the meticulous procession of Miranda's thoughts reordering itself around this new development, and smiled to herself. Nice to know there was still some capacity for wonder inside Miranda's perfect brain.
Garrus watched Tali disappear toward the elevator once the briefing ended, and followed her a few moments later. After, of course, one last backward glance at Shepard as she stood at the head of the table, still in her armor.
He debated lingering until everyone else drifted away, but his last glance caught her in profile, unguarded and weary, and he decided he could be patient for a little longer. Long enough to give her time to collect herself, and wash off the remnants of Haestrom.
Had he imagined the bright certainty in her gaze, when she pushed herself off the floor of the cavern? For one moment, Shepard had looked happy, so damn happy all he could think of was her laughter, and the smile that greeted him every morning on Omega. She had been happy then, and so had he.
Whatever he had seen in her eyes then faded, lost to the sharp edge of her will. If Shepard missed it, she didn't say. She folded her arms and stared ahead, and Garrus knew she didn't see the briefing room or any of the people in it. She saw the battlefield.
That was Shepard's genius, he mused, flicking at his still-dead omnitool as he got into the elevator: that ability to see the war, where most only saw the immediate fight. She had seen it with Saren, and clothed a bare skeleton of guesswork and rumor with action, with results. Garrus didn't doubt — hadn't doubted — that what looked like irrational leaps to her squad had been Shepard sensing the edges of information, and fitting the pieces together by intuition alone, driving herself faster, harder, always with the lash of her will on her back. That focus on the war saved millions of lives.
But at what cost? he thought.
What worried Garrus — no, what hurt him — was that this Shepard, for all that she was warm and alive, and for all that she still went through the motions of visiting her crew, had forgotten how to be happy. In the cavern, there had been a quick, fugitive glimmer of happiness, of hope, but by the time they reached the light, it had disappeared. Exhaustion replaced it, and that keen-edged will that never broke or faltered.
In his heart, Garrus wanted very little. A chance to prove himself, a cause to serve, and a solid circle of trust. A steady rifle and a good sniper's perch. He'd had all of that on Omega, and more: he'd had his squad, and what he had felt for them went beyond trust. They had been family. They were still family, even if they were gone.
And Shepard, always Shepard, always within reach even if he couldn't see her, pale-eyed and watchful. She hadn't been soft, even in her sweetest moments, but her sharp edges hadn't been wielded quite so easily, or fiercely. The woman who had come for him three months ago was not the woman who shared two secret years with him; she was brittle and cold, and bleak, so bleak. He almost didn't recognize her, not even when the wry turns of her personality showed through.
This Shepard, Garrus realized, cold in spite of the heat still soaked through his armor, saw nothing but the battlefield.
Except for Ilium. She had seen him well enough then. She had seen them, as they had been: happy.
The elevator doors whisked open, and he walked into an empty mess hall. He took one look at the doors to the battery, and turned away with a shake of his head. Instead, he pulled a ration pack and a water bottle from the stores and sat down to eat. Remember to stay hydrated, he told himself, mock-stern, and that reminded him of Therum: heat and stone and Tali's devilish, delighted laugh as she taught Shepard a particularly vicious hack to use against the geth.
Tali.
Waiting in the mess was a better use of his time than running the numbers again; Tali would have someone waiting for her when she came out of Medbay. She would need a familiar face, on this Cerberus ship.
The rations curdled in his mouth, and he shoved the rest of the pack away. Cerberus. Oh, everyone was kind, on the surface, polite and respectful too, but Garrus never left the battery without feeling like he had a target on his back. He remembered Cerberus. He remembered all of it, and even if those were rogue factions, like Miranda claimed, he wouldn't trust the organization that birthed them.
As if thoughts of Cerberus summoned her, the doors to Miranda's office opened and spat out the woman herself. She didn't spare Garrus a look as she strode toward the elevator, but the single glimpse he caught of her face made him appreciate his functional invisibility. He'd heard of faces looking stormy before, and chalked it up to human hyperbole, but Miranda's expression defined thunderous. Whoever had managed to make themselves the focus of that fury deserved to be pitied, unless that person was Shepard, and then Garrus pitied Miranda. He'd seen Shepard handle tempers before, with varying degrees of patience — and didn't doubt she'd have any trouble handling Miranda's.
The thought of Miranda coming up against the solid wall of Shepard's sarcasm made him chuckle, the sound low and pleased in the dim mess, and he leaned back in his chair. He should shower soon, maybe try for a few hours' of sleep, and check in with Tali in the morning.
And then, maybe, he'd try to talk to Shepard. Really talk, no more running around what they had shared. Seeing her flat on her back, fingers peeling open her mouth, and then with blood spattered down her face and chest, had crystallized the one thing he hadn't let himself admit: he wanted her, so badly his throat ached, and if that meant nudging the game along, then he'd nudge.
Who knew how much time they would have, with the Collectors to fight, and all the new horrors they had uncovered on Haestrom? Garrus knew it couldn't be long.
Amazing what near-death experiences will do to good intentions, he thought, squeezing the bottle in his fist. The sound of crinkling plastic nearly covered the Medbay door hissing open.
"Garrus? You're here?"
He looked up to see Tali standing on the other side of the table, shoulders slumped and rounded with exhaustion. He offered her a smile.
"Figured you'd want to see a friendly face when you got out of there." He nodded at the medbay, where the dull steel privacy curtains blocked the view inside. "Any word?"
Tali sighed, and fell heavily into a chair on the other side of the table. "Karsha is fine, just a concussion, Kal and Mikkit need to get back to the flotilla as soon as possible. Dr. Chakwas is doing everything she can, but they need fleet doctors to deal with their infections."
"Shepard will get them there," said Garrus on reflex, surprising himself with how easily the old confidence came through in his subvocals. "I'm sorry about the rest of your team," he added, letting the confidence warm and soften into sympathy. No one on this ship's knows more about what she's going through, he thought to himself, and the names of his squad crowded into his mouth. Butler-Erash-Vortash-Monteague-Ripper-Mierin-Melanis-Grundan-Krul-Sensat-Weaver-no-Anna.
"They knew the risks when they volunteered," said Tali, not looking at him. She laughed tonelessly. "Do I sound like I believe that yet?"
No, Garrus thought, but didn't say. He knew better. "It wasn't your fault," he told her, because he meant it, because it was true.
Tali laughed again. "Thanks for trying, Garrus, but that doesn't help. They were my responsibility. My team." Her voice trembled. "They weren't fighters, but they tried — they got me to the observatory. I should have been with them." Tali's hands tightened on the edge of the table, and Garrus' knuckles ached in sympathy. "I don't even know if what we got was worth it."
Garrus heard himself speaking, and felt his jaw moving, but the words didn't seem to come from his mouth. "Don't second-guess yourself," said his voice. "You did your best. Put the blame where it deserves, with the geth." And with whatever else was on Haestrom with them.
Tali swore under her breath, too long for his translator to catch. "I should have been there," she whispered. "Keelah, I should have —it's all so mixed up in my head. I don't know what we saw down there, but I should have been with my team, not hiding."
"Don't go there, Tali." Garrus reached across the table and squeezed her shoulder. Just a brief touch, cold comfort, but Garrus knew that road, knew that grief, and if he could spare Tali any of it, he would. "You saved as many as you could."
"It wasn't enough," Tali hissed, her voice thick with tears.
No, thought Garrus. It never is.
He squeezed her shoulder again, at a loss for anything else to say, but thankfully Tali seemed content with the touch, and his silence.
"You know," she said, hesitantly, when the first storm of grief passed. "When I heard you and Shepard over the comms, I — I said to myself, If anyone can get us out of this, it's Shepard. Just like I did when we were chasing Saren. It was like nothing had changed. Shepard coming in to save everyone. Do you think she ever gets sick of it?"
"For the sake of the galaxy, I hope not," Garrus said, surprised when Tali snorted a watery laugh, but not too surprised to join in.
He made tea when their laughter faded, and watched with well-worn fascination as Tali went about the business of filtering the tea through her suit. Her suit was new, its colors bright compared to the patched, faded fabric he remembered from the SR-1, but she still swore just as much as she adjusted settings on her omni-tool.
"Don't," she said in warning.
Garrus stifled his chuckle and tried to look innocent. "I wasn't going to say anything," he protested.
"No, but you were going to laugh, Garrus. I haven't forgotten all your commentary from the Normandy." She paused, and cocked her head. "The first Normandy," she added darkly.
"It's not that different." Garrus kept his voice light; now was not the time to dive into the subject of Cerberus, not when Tali needed a distraction from anger and misery. "The food is still awful."
"Careful, Garrus," said Shepard's voice. Tali and Garrus sat up straight, just in time to see Shepard step around the corner. She didn't smile, but her eyes gleamed to match the tease in her voice. "I could pick up some turian military rations the next time we hit the Citadel, if you think what we've got now is bad."
"Always ready to help me keep perspective, Shepard," he tossed back, warmed unexpectedly by her appearance.
"You're welcome," she said, with a flash of a grin, and turned her gaze to Tali. "I was just coming down to check on you," she said, eyes kind, and Garrus' chest tightened. He knew that look, he knew what Shepard reserved it for, and he couldn't watch. As he stood, he heard Shepard murmuring an apology to Tali, something about Miranda keeping her away. When Tali's voice rose, sharp and aching, he didn't turn around, just listened for the rustle of fabric as Shepard moved in to comfort Tali through the second storm.
Garrus never bothered locking the door to the main battery; only two people ever came in, besides him, and Chambers stopped visiting when she realized she would get nothing out of Garrus, no matter how sympathetic she was.
And Shepard — Shepard only came once, leaving him to himself after that first visit. So when the door opened and let in a burst of cool air, he almost didn't believe Shepard came with it, even after he turned around and found her standing in the doorway.
"Tali's back in Medbay," she said, stepping into the battery as if she came to visit every day, one easy step in front of the other. "The other quarians are stable, so maybe she'll actually get some sleep."
"Maybe." Garrus didn't say he knew from experience how hard Tali would have to fight for any kind of rest, but the sidelong look Shepard gave him made it clear he didn't have to. Shepard and Vakarian. He'd missed this, the silent communications, the feeling of shared purpose.
He'd missed everything.
Shepard leaned against a crate and folded her arms. "I know it sounds selfish, but I'm glad Tali's here. Even if she goes back to the flotilla, it feels right to have her here." She hummed, caught herself, and flashed Garrus a wry smile. "Now we just have to rescue Wrex and Liara from near-death and we'll have the squad back together. As together as it'll be."
No Kaidan, then. Garrus ignored the sting — if he had come back for Shepard, why couldn't Kaidan — and finally met Shepard's gaze. She kept smiling, though her eyes were faraway and exhausted.
"You look wrecked, Shepard," he said, not wanting her to leave, but hating the weary, grim set to her mouth. "You should get some sleep."
"Too wired," she said, picking at her trousers. "I'd lie down and twenty different things would jump out at me as soon as I closed my eyes. Might as well keep you company, if you're planning on staying awake." She looked at him through dark, heavy lashes. "We should talk," she said, her voice low.
Oh, they needed to talk, about so many things — but where to start? With Haestrom, or with Nor, or maybe even farther back, with Omega. When Garrus tried to find the words, any words, to keep the new-forged path between them clear, he couldn't find a syllable. He just wanted to stare at Shepard, and enjoy the quiet. He'd take her lead, if she wanted to talk, but he would be happy to watch, as long as she would let him.
"But first," Shepard said, pushed to her feet, and tucked her hair behind her ears. She looked shy, and tired, but hopeful, almost too subtly to see.
Garrus saw. He'd spent two years learning her face, her body, her mind, and if the Shepard standing in front of him wasn't the same Shepard he had fallen in love with, maybe it wasn't as great a loss as he'd feared. She remembered some of it, enough to trust him with what little she had left, and now she had brought him her hope. Her trust and hope were heady things, rarely glimpsed, and he had to pull his focus back to hear the rest of what she said.
"I wanted to thank you for staying. I know that Cerberus isn't an ally you'd ever choose, and you know how I feel about them, but it means a lot that you stayed." She took his hand and fit her fingers around his, brushing his wrist with her thumb. Familiar, familiar touch. "Wouldn't want to do this without you."
His neck flushed hot. Of course I stayed, he thought, holding her gaze, aching, wanting, and so tired of distance. Who else would I trust to have your six?
Shepard smiled at him. Not quite their smile, and her hand was warmer than he remembered, even through layers of fabric and armor, but they undid him. So much for the game, he thought, even as he bent down, slowly enough to see Shepard's eyes go wide as she realized what he was doing.
When Garrus let himself think about the good of Omega, he remembered the kissing most often. Not the sex, but the quiet moments before and after, how Shepard moved from gentle to greedy in the space of a heartbeat, and how warm her mouth was, the last part of her that felt alive. Her mouth was still warm, still soft, but now he felt her gasp as he pressed his mouth to hers, and smiled to himself. He'd managed to surprise her, and that was almost as sweet as the kiss itself.
He pulled away, and smirked down at Shepard as she blinked, her cheeks pink under her sunburn.
"That…" She licked her lips. "That was, uh, compatible."
"Compatible?" he said, amusement climbing through his subvocals. "Oh, Shepard. You have no idea."
Shepard's mouth dropped open, and then she started to laugh, the implications forgotten for the moment, and tipped her face back up to his.
"One more," she said, and Garrus couldn't think of a single reason to say no.