V·A·K·A·R·I·A·N

Shepard sat hunched over her desk, elbows doing their best to grind divots into the metal surface while her hand cradled her head. Three datapads flickered on the surface of the table, and one tossed haphazardly on the floor sparked from recent structural damage.

"Sanctuary?" Garrus asked, carefully announcing his presence to avoid becoming target practice for the next data pad frisbee.

"Yeah." She sank a little lower into her hands before pressing them both firmly on the table and leaning back in her chair, face turned to the ceiling. "It's not enough that two-thirds of the Council want to just sit on their asses and wait for the Reapers to come to them, no. Some of the brightest scientists the galaxy has to offer funded by the deepest pockets this side of the Traverse have banded together to do the Reaper's work for them." She slammed the flat of her hand against the armrest of her chair. "We could have finished the crucible and fired it by now if everyone wasn't so damned focused on holding onto their trade secrets. For what? Bragging rights?"

She quieted, letting her head hang limply back, draping one forearm over her eyes. Garrus approached and set one hand lightly on the edge of her chair.

"Well, look on the bright side. It's only half the Council if you count the seat Udina left vacant."

Her head snapped to the side, and her brows folded sharply over her eyes with her lips pressed together enough to make the rose color disappear.

"Oh... Too soon?"

"God," she brought her hands to her face and dragged her fingers down, divoting the soft flesh. "When we were chasing Saren, I never would have guessed Sparatus was the only reasonable person on the Council. Most punchable face, maybe."

"Only you would look at turian faceplates and think 'I should slam my delicate fingers into that as hard as I can.' Must come from the same lack of self-preservation that lets you stare down a Reaper." He smiled down at her, watching for the tells that she wanted closeness or space.

Her muscles relaxed, leaving only residual lines of strain and worry behind, and she stared through him. "You ever think about just leaving them to it?"

His mind wandered to another place—a reality where they both had died and come back as ghosts. Rather than shoulder the weight of the world, they just disappeared into the uncharted together. No responsibility. No constant danger. Turn their backs on everyone who refused to be saved and make the choice to be happy.

"Little hard to leave when your home is on fire, Shepard." His voice was more raw and strained than he expected, and the words felt like they'd been pulled out of him against his will.

"Wouldn't be the first time I left a home burning."

He noticed Shepard hadn't returned from that long-distant stare. She was letting the grip of old ghosts pull her in—wherever hers came from.

"If only we could just make more of us. Every system gets a Shepard and Vakarian to solve all their problems, and we go off somewhere with a beach-side bar and take a vacation."

"You know, I think that's only the second most awkward mating proposal I've received."

He felt heat rise to his face, and his chest tightened. "I didn't mean—that wasn't—wait... Second?"

Shepard laughed and broke the distant stare, coming back into the absurdity of the moment. "I wish I still had a copy! Probably got wiped when they repainted the Normandy." Her eyes were wet from laughter, catching the light of the overheads. "Krogan find my lack of self-preservation very appealing."

"Well, you gave them all enough children to throw off the ecosystem. Consider that obligation fulfilled."

"Hey," she took hold of his wrist, gently pulling him close. "If I have to be forced into the worst-timed shore leave ever, how about we take a night to pretend the world isn't ending?"

"I would try to forget about the end of the world. If only the end of the world would forget about us. Seems like whenever we get too comfortable, some sentient starship comes out of the woodwork to tell us how doomed we are." He gently tugged Shepard out of her chair so he could rest his hands on her hips. "But I'll never say no to a night with you." He lowered his forehead to hers but felt her duck her head and tuck into his cowl instead. He rumbled something quiet and comforting and ran his hands in firm circles on her back.

"Not sure I remember how to be me."

He stiffened, his hands freezing for a moment. Another memory floated to the surface from years ago on the Citadel. Shepard talking down a human woman on the docks— the disgruntled subject in barely coherent hysterics waving a pistol around. Shepard threw the rulebook out the window and wrapped her arms around the girl, trying to bring her back from her trauma.

She doesn't want to remember anymore.

"Then let's not be us. Just one terribly dashing turian and a human with unparalleled charisma drawn inexplicably toward each other."

"You watch too many romance vids with Tali."

"I watch them for the character analysis. Good detective training."

She shook against him with quiet laughter and wrapped her fingers in the divot of his broken cowl. "As long as you aren't you, we might have a shot at that romantic evening."

"And you might have a shot at dancing."

She groaned but didn't let go. He felt her shift to press her cheek against the base of his neck, and he lifted his head to make room. He had to smooth her hair to keep it from catching on his mandibles and set them wide enough to the side that one flicked gently against her forehead.

The silence settled over them. Thick. Suffocating. Drawing his mind to the places he kept tucked out of sight, always to deal with after. After this mission. After this meeting. After the war.

The memorial wall kept getting longer. The casualty numbers grew so large he was numb to the meaning. He could measure one life. Weigh the cost of ten. But millions? How many more would they have to sacrifice to win? How many ships? How many systems? How many races?

Shepard sometimes whispered in her sleep. Dreams of Bahak and the choice she'd had to make about the Alpha Relay. He'd read the reports, but it was always worse to hear the Reaper's words from her lips.

Know this as you die in vain: your time will come.

"Garrus?"

He pulled back to reality with some effort. His head ached from the force of refocusing thoughts. Long-term sleep deprivation. He'd have to put in a request for an extra cycle so he could be his best, and remember not to lie awake staring at the ceiling for it—

"Garrus?" He caught the rise in volume and pitch—the panic setting in, and he wasn't sure how long she'd been calling his name.

"Sorry, I thought we were pretending to be other people. I was going to go with the Rogue Spectre Regalius, Pirate in the Terminus after he fled the Hierarchy to pursue a forbidden love with—"

"Other than the Spectre part, it sounds like you already did that." She pulled away from him slowly, her eyes rimmed in red. The ribbing on his shirt had imprinted on her face, lining it with bright red bands. She looked absolutely ridiculous.

"Hmm. Guess I need more practice. How about I be Lucius, from accounting? Despite the citadel getting overrun with Cerberus, he still has a report to file by Monday."

"Oh Lucy," she walked her fingers up his cowl to the back of his head, mocking him with the intimate gesture. "Woo me with your quarterly statements." Her voice purred in a way that made his spine tingle. Even with her eyes red with purple rings underneath, even with the red marks striping one cheek, even while calling him Lucy, she made his heart rate spike and his stomach drop.

"How—" he gulped, absolutely incredulous. "How are you doing that?"

"I'm a great actress." She slid her body up against him and nibbled on one mandible. "Haven't you seen my latest performances?"

They chased away the silence together with laughter and meaningless banter. Anything inane enough to keep the weight of the war at bay. With enough talk and enough of Shepard's impressive performance, he could ignore the whispers of guilt that tugged at his conscience.