Garrus
When he arrived for the few hours he was able to spend with his bond mates in each day, he was exhausted. He had been able to sleep, but it was a new type of exhaustion. Not frantic. Cold. The numbers and the unsolvable problems made of people, problems that ceased to exist because there were no more people. It wore him down. Normal exhaustion had the promise of rest, but this was more like having breath pressed from his lungs, the constriction making it impossible to draw air back in. Slow suffocation and torture.
He needed them, they were the only things that could push back how cold and pressed the day made him. They allowed him to breathe again. He looked forward to, could not do without their company.
Thane was expressionless, Jane was tense and wary.
They were finally going to tell him. Whatever it was that had bound Jane up in silence and secrecy. Whatever it was, it was bad. That he knew. Jane kept to her silence and secrets always for good reasons.
Thane had likely guessed or ambushed her, and had kept her silence. There would be a good reason. Thane had abruptly switched from coordinating with Garrus to spending his time constantly with Jane, never leaving her side, joining her even in the simulation pod.
Garrus had not questioned it, had done his job. Thane had set up deep contingency and allocation planning, Garrus knew the arguments and the challenges. He had waited in queasy anticipation, certain that his job needed to be done, certain that nobody else could do it.
They had some success with stealthed craft, had not lost any of them, not something that switched the battlefield to winning, but something that allowed them more maneuverability, better evacuation, getting people up and off planets. Garrus took pride in that work, immersed himself in it.
He told himself they would tell him when they were ready. He had lost much of his curiosity to the numbness of work. All new information was going to contribute to the press and the cold.
Now they were ready. Thane was expressionless but Garrus could tell so much from scent. Thane had the scent of rifit glass in the sun. Something normally not volatile enough to put off scent, but add heat…and it was distinct. It meant sharp caution, which Thane would cover with words like water. Jane was always more reactive and active, and she'd been bearing despair and that particular scent distinct to her of seeking, a tang of cold beach sand and wind.
It had been weeks, she had given him no direction. He briefly mourned that he could not walk to them, pull them to him, paint them with his scent and comfort them. They held a deep burden and they were about to share it with him.
He was exhausted, he could not carry more, he wished to sink to his knees and beg them for one more day. Just one more day of not knowing the end. He knew it was coming, was not surprised it was here.
Just one more day.
His throat choked, tightened and he spent a moment suppressing the subvocal sound of distress that Jane now understood completely, could hear, and that was no longer his own. He wasn't ashamed of the sound, but he suddenly didn't want to be known for knowing. If he couldn't have another day, then just another minute, another hour, without making them rush to inform him because they read the distress in his body and voice.
He had passed from wanting to know, to having seen so many bad things happen, so many atrocities, such a count of slaughter, that he could not see good in the future.
He wanted to see his mates, but now he was going to see Commander Shepard and Thane Krios, not Kerim and Invas'nam.
He clamped down on his throat again, not wanting it to slip out, not wanting to say "Please…not now."
He held his face, held his form, redefined his exhaustion and disappointment, fear…as still alive. I'm still alive. They're here with me. I am grateful. There is still the mission and I am there for that. I am there for them.
Spirits, he wanted to pull them to him for those few minutes, before he knew. They were on the couch, not touching now, but they had been. His arrival had broken them apart, something that did not hurt exactly, but he felt in his gut. They already knew, were now inseparable, yet they had separated to make room for him, out of respect.
Out of respect for them, he stepped to them, pressed his crest to each of their foreheads in turn, counted out a few precious seconds, tried to make a minute of it, just one minute, and then decided he did not have the energy to resist being told, to hold back the future.
He sat down heavily, in a chair facing them, noticed they did not move back together, but they watched him. He said "It's okay. Spit it out."
Odd how often he'd wanted to tell these two to spit it out, had held it back so many times behind clenched teeth, his tongue pressed to a sharp point to focus. Now he had to force himself to say it with practiced nonchalance. It was not okay, he did not want them to spit it out, his muscles braced and throat tight.
They didn't want to say it any more than he wanted to hear it, and that sunk cold in his chest.
Audacious.
Insane.
That's what she had to offer. She'd protected them as long as she could and now…
Jane said quietly "The Crucible is ready."
Garrus had in fact nearly forgotten about the bizarre science project. It was something like the counteragent that Mordin had developed against swarms, or curing the Genophage. Things that seemed so improbable that they would never materialize. He knew about it…but he was not involved. He had too many questions in too many directions. The Crucible needed…he'd forgotten about it because there was a missing piece.
There were too many missing pieces. He had been watching life get blotted out methodically, with the precision of mechanical Gods who preached corruption and gathered mindless death. He could not fathom motive, only knew the horrific and inevitable result of their presence.
He had been on Ilos with Jane, and she'd been able to understand some Prothean warning that blared from a console, something he could hear but not understand. He'd seen in her report that she'd heard "Cannot be stopped…cannot be stopped…" from the Prothean recording through the console before they headed down into the bunker, to the relay. It was possible that was still playing, skipping on that phrase, would for eternity, with enough power to relay a recording but not to sustain life. At the time she had been defiant and purposeful. Now Garrus understood the prophetic finality that matched the tone of voice he had heard, if not the words. He heard that echo in his own head, and realized she'd had it in her head for years.
Sovereign was one Reaper. Now they were uncounted, uncountable. Get one to fall through guile, luck and massive cost of personnel and materiel…and another replaced it. Unending, until they were thick on the ground and in the air, no blind spots remaining, no safe place, everything dead within the wide and accurate circumference of their weapons range.
Even the ones they brought down caused horrific losses and casualties, and ultimately that strategy would lead to the worlds being crushed under Reaper bodies shore to shore.
Instead of asking, he waited, unwilling to derail her.
She said "I think the Citadel is the Catalyst."
She…thought…? He blinked, but waited again.
Get to the crazy part, Commander Shepard. You're killing me.
Commander Shepard said "I believe this is true, but I have no proof. I have no other viable candidates or intel that would lead me to an alternate that would serve as the Catalyst. I have asked David and EDI over the last few weeks to get me into the heart of the Citadel, get me a blueprint and as much intel as they could gather. EDI provided the method of infiltration, David successfully managed to speak Keeper. EDI can access all functions and lockouts that the Council could access. We can open and close the arms. David's foray discovered more. We can shut down the Mass Effect relay that leads to the Citadel. We can keep the Reapers from using the main Relay to enter the system, and we can shut down the internal relay that we used from Ilos. That will buy us time. I need to get the Crucible here. Then we need to attempt to link up in a spot David has identified as viable. And then…"
That was a lot of conjecture, and a lot of work. He was impressed and terrified. Taking the Citadel was audacious, but that would not account for her desperation, her panic. He was unable to make this easier for her, did not speak, waited.
Thane said quietly "And then we do not know what happens."
Garrus's jaw jutted involuntarily, teeth scraping. He stared at her. "Our scientists put this together, and they…in fact…do not know what happens?"
Jane blinked and said "They do not know what happens."
And there it was; the big blazing ball of crazy that made him reject every breath taken in this room to support this conversation. He was furious, and helpless, his day to day tracking of the conventional warfare they'd conducted resulting in incalculable casualty.
The gall of it. Soldiers had fought, had died, had given everything, had…
Had been murdered, converted and turned against their brothers and sisters…
And we do not know what happens.
The rallying cry of the clueless commanders he had contempt for throughout history, squandering opportunities bought by soldiers' lives. "Climb that hill and give them hell…and we'll…try to figure out what happens."
Fury climbed his spine. He swallowed his roar, held himself still, the revulsion of their chosen end dripping from his ribs.
She was telling him that they were going all in on a hunch.
Thane was not interrupting the crazy. Garrus had no better ideas. Fuck, at this point Thane's wall with chains sounded as though they'd do less harm.
Garrus said "So how do we evacuate the Citadel? I can coordinate with C-Sec."
Thane said quietly "Move our forces off the Citadel to rally with the Catalyst and then return as escort. I have worked out how this can be done. No other forces can be moved or warned. It would give Reapers forewarning, and they would move in before we have the opportunity to close the relay."
Searing, choking fury closed Garrus's fists for him before he could stop, talons slicing into his palms.
He stared for a moment at the doll-like faces of Commander Shepard and Thane Krios, hated them for a blindingly bright moment as they condemned everyone he knew on that station to potential death, calling down the storm on purpose, betting on a hunch.
He could not see his bond mates behind those masks or through the haze of hate in his eyes, not now. He smelled despair and now he reeked of fear, of anger, and he had to get out. He would hurt them if he did not get out. Now. Faces and names flashed before him, people he knew from years of service in C-Sec. Children. People he'd known since they were children. Good people.
Blue dripped from his hands and the scent of blood was nauseating, the rage sticking like burning tar to the inside of his hide, and he was a wounded animal about to strike.
Their expressions did not change. All Thane Krios had to say was an urgent injunction "Garrus, you cannot tell anyone."
That drew a snarl and a spit from Garrus's throat "I understand the orders as given."
Pain shattered Commander Shepard's face but faces of soldiers and C-Sec officers, spouses and family, people he'd brought to the Citadel because they would be safer there…pierced through him like hooks into his spine. She would do what she had to do and he would follow. They all knew that well enough.
Right now, frankly, her pain did not matter compared to the potential cost of her hunch, which was in fact everything everyone had to give. They were all dead soon enough.
Another wash of nausea gave him the impetus to lurch to his feet, make it to the door, open it with a smeared streak of blue from his palm.
They let him go without interference, and he had a thought that they were at least smart enough to do that, and then his rage closed in on him, dark and suffocating in the elevator.
He would need to do his caring alone.
Spirits, this ship was hers, he had to get off, wouldn't break anything of hers, wouldn't give security a reason to throw him in the brig or give…them…Shepard and Krios…an opportunity to find him, corner him and gentle him like the panicked animal he was.
He went to the CIC and out the airlock, dripping blue.
He'd already damaged himself, her property, splattered her ship with blood, and he could not imagine at this moment how to keep himself from doing more damage to her property, to her plans, as the urge to break things, break himself, surged through his hands, until his talons were spread wide with force to keep them from forming into fists again.
A path cleared in front of him, around him. He could not get pulled into C-Sec, he could not look across a desk and explain what was wrong, he could not get pulled into someone's office, offered a drink, given a sympathetic ear or thrown into a glorified drunk tank to cool off.
He could not…do what he needed to do in public.
He could not…do what he needed to do at all.
He grabbed the nearest sky car and took it to the top of the Presidium, stared down at the water far below, hung his legs over the side and imagined dropping to the base, clean. A Keeper could get to him before anybody knew. His body would disappear into protein vats or some other horrific shit that was rumored to be true.
Despite his thought of not wanting to be arrested, it was illegal to be up here, and he knew he would likely shoot anybody trying to retrieve or arrest him.
Let them come.
He had achieved solitude, but not safety. What were his options? Anywhere he went he would break things, anywhere with people or objects. Here at least there was nothing to break but himself.
His hand went to his face, he was trembling, the forgotten blood again nauseating. Just to be able to have something to do, a goal to reach, he clamped his ruined palms over the edge and gripped.
Just hold on. Just hold on and do not make it worse.
Do not make it worse.
Faces flashed through his memory, too fast to name, C-Sec, residents, children…troops, people he'd served with, clapped on the back to welcome them to the Citadel in the past weeks, wrangled food and shelter for them.
He'd been so proud of doing something obviously beneficial, seeing people berthed and fed had been the only satisfaction he gained between the viciously cruel numbers of those he could not help.
All poisoned.
Commander Shepard's face as she watched the blood drip from his palms onto the floor.
Spirits, I can't…
I have to…
Thane Krios's face carefully explaining the potential death of everyone on this station, and their own.
And his Kerim's face as he watched him turn away from her light.
Fuck, I can't.
I have to.
His head tipped back and he howled, despair, fear, anger, grief and rage tearing through his throat until it was raw, sore and he could not breathe, until he dragged deep gulping painful gasps into starved lungs.
He held on, panting, trembling with the effort to not tear off his own hide.
He looked down with sudden vertigo, shoved himself back from the edge, face down on the metal like a supplicant before Spirits, like someone wishing to not be seen by fate up here, to be passed over by Keepers and C-Sec and Reapers and Commander Shepard.
He wanted to pray but had nobody left to pray to, no hope, only duty. No plan, only condemnation of the only plan available.
"Please, forgive me."
He had no idea who was talking to.
Chaos slashed through every thought that occurred to him. He lost all narrative, saw dream and nightmare alike shredded by his internal storm. He breathed into the cold metal, the only thing solid for now. It would be gone soon.
He swallowed against his sore throat, closed his eyes, the inside of his head bulging with shattered pain, holes punched through every attempt at thought, at calm.
He would not break anything, not tear anything more, he would wait for the storm to subside, lie here until he could stand. Right now he would shake and fall.
When he could stand…
He had no idea what he would do when he could stand.
He closed his eyes and breathed.
Slowly thoughts strung themselves together, a bridge forming from necessities and truths linked together.
You had a month of command. You had no better idea. You still have no better idea.
Whether or not they are both right, they both agree. They have a whim of a plan based on a hunch and the time and tech bought by the efforts of tens of thousands of people, during a time that cost billions of lives.
You did understand the orders as given. You will follow them.
It was over. Hope and possibility had not given way to probability, only to an infinitesimal chance that the only choice that had occurred to all of them was the right choice.
He pushed himself up to his knees with stinging cold pain on his palms, surveyed the frenzied damage he'd done to his hands and then applied some Medigel.
He looked down at his own blood smears on the metal, wondering how long they would stay there, wondering how long the metal itself would endure. It never rained here. Would the Citadel endure whatever it was they were going to attempt, and would this inaccessible blood streak be the only unseen evidence that a Turian ever lived?
Or would the main evidence be Turian-shaped Reapers?
However long, he was in. Some potential bright light of inspiration had gone out, but there was still a chance. She'd told him she needed Archangel, the man who had not been found, not been seen.
Hadn't he abandoned C-Sec on his own twice?
No, even then it had required her presence or lack of it.
He thought through it, saw where they were, if not right, then committed to a small chance of success, a tiny pinpoint of possibility in the dark. He saw where and why she had suffered the last few weeks with this herself, why they had kept it from him. Not only was he a terrible liar, but his dealing with the faces on the Citadel every day did in fact make this personal for him on a level neither of them had to face.
Time to become a good liar, then.
Time to be what was needed.
With colder personal clarity he remembered this feeling from when Shepard…Jane…had died. His rage and pain had resulted in his abandoning the hard path of stopping Reapers and indulging in revenge fantasy. He'd turned from something huge and cold and unstoppable, because of his sense of feeling futile and ineffectual. Instead he put a face to his misery that was small and petty and exploded satisfyingly in his sights.
The childishness of it brought more nausea and shame.
Now she was his bondmate and the same choice presented itself. Would he fight the correct enemy, Reapers, despair and fear? Or would he succumb, run away again, be lost to his pledged bond mates because what stood before him was too much to ask?
He wasn't going to jump off the Presidium. He wasn't going to take a shuttle off this cursed hunk of metal. He wasn't going to warn anybody with word or deed.
He was afraid.
He was drowning in folly.
He was failing.
"Please. Forgive me."
He spoke to his mother, mind failing, injured, who he had failed to protect. He spoke to his father, who he had disappointed. He spoke to his squad. He spoke to everyone that had died in this war. He spoke to everyone who would die.
He didn't apologize to his Kerim, to his Invas'nam, he would show them. He knew he owed them no apology and they would accept none. They knew he would do what was necessary by their side. Even he knew it. They had given him time to absorb it. They sat patiently, did not suit up and demand he follow. What had Jane said often…enthusiasm is not required? On her ship you could feel anyway you wanted about her orders, as long as you executed them.
He remembered his hands spread over her head, her voice "Oh…I wanted to kill you."
He remembered damage and drama and unavoidable…human and Turian and Drell rebellion against reality.
They understood.
He took the skycar down, a steady cold descending in his head and gut, welcome after the acid fire. He headed to a bar that catered to C-Sec officers, swapped some stories, bought a few rounds, drank with them, assuring himself that the steady cold would keep him from anything but his duty.
These people mattered, he cared, but he knew he could not risk the galaxy for them. The numbers mattered, the plan mattered, but they receded into the cold. He was still going to do something, still going to be a part of the solution instead of being part of the problem.
Right or wrong, his fate had been decided long ago, and it spread out before him, hard and cold and precious for the fact that he'd chosen badly before, had been part of the problem, and he could correct his mistake now.
Having proven to himself that he could and would do his duty, that he had fear but it would not keep him from it, that he had hopes and dreams but would acknowledge their collapse just as he accepted all the casualties, that he would try, and that he would not fail to try.
Above all, it was not a duty.
It was a choice.
Thane was right. They all had choices, they had all chosen.
He considered going back to the docks, getting some work done, but Thane had not yet told him what it was their forces would be doing. He did not want to give himself away simply through a change in habit.
In truth he missed them. The familiar ache in his chest returned, resurgent, remembering the look on her face, the stillness of Thane's body, how they watched him with understanding, how they did not follow, did not send him messages asking for him to return. How they told him the truth, bluntly. How two consummate liars and manipulators had given him truth the way he would want it told, and had given him freedom to experience his reaction to it. They had not forced justification, guilt or intimacy upon him in order to pretend to mitigate the real damage it would do. They made no attempt to defend themselves or attack him, these two people who could both spin his head so dizzy he did not know what he thought.
They had faith. They knew him. He was not in fact a subordinate, he was an equal and had been treated as such. His reaction was not unanticipated, and he was entitled to it.
He returned to the ship, noticed the drips of blood were gone, went to her quarters to find his bondmates entwined, asleep. Then he considered their sleep as a casual form of disinformation. He doubted that Thane would sleep through the sound of the door. Maybe with her hearing now, she was awake also. Perhaps they had not slept at all, whispering and worrying, comforting each other and feeling the ache in their chest that pounded in his.
It made him smile and he said, looking down at them "Are you both pretending to be asleep?" with mock exasperation.
Jane nodded slightly with a light "Mm hm" and Thane smiled.
They were waiting for him to decide what to do, certain of his choice, but not certain of his reaction to it.
He said "You're both being damned beautiful at me again."
They looked up at him, still unwilling to speak, just as he had been as she'd told him the plan that had choked him. He said "If you want to talk about strategy, let's do that tomorrow."
She lifted the blankets, looked down at her body and said "I'm naked, Garrus. We don't talk strategy when I'm naked."
Thane said softly "Yes, you do."
She nudged him and said "New rule."
Garrus thought 'And we'll only have to abide by it for a few days…' but did not say that. He stared at them, ribbons of heat and cold twisting around his spine, his tongue and feet still, his hands leaden.
Jane smiled and said "I see a new problem. Now we need a strategy to get you naked and I may not be able to discuss it because of my new rule."
He was stuck to the floor as Thane moved gracefully from the bed, and before Garrus could move uncooperative extremities or protest, Thane pulled his mouth down to a gentle kiss, a sweep of his lips along plate. Welcome, no venom. Jane rose up on her elbow, and Garrus believed she was trying to see if his hands were injured, so he held them out, minor proof of sanity.
She smiled, and the surreal moment with infinite stakes trembled nearby, crowded in, made him dizzy, hot and cold bands binding, his throat ready to choke again. He clamped down on the sound, realizing that Thane was methodically removing his clothes. When Garrus tried to assist, Thane pushed his hands away gently. His hands were trembling and numb, his legs steady but cold, unmoving.
He couldn't fathom sex, but bond he wanted, he needed. Skin and scent. Warmth. Acceptance.
He was broken and they would know that, would not make him pretend to be fixed or fine.
There was either everything to say or nothing to say. He chose nothing.
When his clothes were set aside she beckoned him into the bed. He didn't turn to her, wouldn't turn away from Thane, so he stayed on his back, fringe over a pillow, legs bent to protect his spurs. Safe. Warm. Welcome.
Trembling.
Jane rested her hand and head on the plate of his chest, her body curled against him, her thigh resting on the plate of his leg. Thane avoided touching his hide, to not induce venom, to not bring on more storm. His hand rested on plate, graceful as prayer. Black and green that belonged to him. Even if he did not belong to himself right now, may never again.
Jane said softly "Garrus, turn off your alarms. Please. Stay. Stay until you sleep, then sleep until you wake."
He complied numbly. If he could not, would not sleep, would they still stay with him? Could he gather another hour, another day from his hesitation?
Then he knew. Yes, at the end of the worlds, they would give him time. An hour or a day, if he asked, they would give. In reality right now he had nothing to do, nothing required of him. They would not ask him to return to the docks. They would have the travel time to the Catalyst and back, and if he begged them to delay it, they would. Then he would remember the people dying in those moments, and he himself would relent.
Their choices were made, their path was clear, and all that remained was to walk it, and they would give him time until he could feel his limbs again.
He could not go back, and that he knew, that they knew. They did not ask him to move forward right now, they would hold him suspended, sure of their choices and their path, but for the moment frozen on it in favor of warm welcome, Rightness and destiny and bond, arms around each other.
