Michael: the archangel most often associated with the military. Michael is referenced multiple times in the Bible as fighting spiritual foes to assist the people of God, and in the Book of Revelation as a commander that leads the angel armies against Satan. In John Milton's Paradise Lost, Michael appears in this role. In Roman Catholic traditions, Michael is the angel of death—not the being responsible for the death of the firstborn in the Passover, but rather the being that appears at death to escort souls to heaven. Michael is also the patron saint of police officers.
Gabriel: the archangel most often identified as the "herald angel." Gabriel, more than any other angel in Judeo-Christian Scripture and tradition, is the messenger of God. In the book of Daniel, Gabriel interprets the visions of the titular character. In the Bible's New Testament, Gabriel announces the births of both Jesus and John the Baptist, and he is commonly identified with the trumpeter that announces the resurrection of the dead in the end times in the Book of Revelation.
XXXIX
Michael and Gabriel
After leaving the Rosetta Nebula, Shepard set a course back to Omega. Garrus knew this was it. Of course, the Reaper IFF they would need to navigate the relay was located in the Hawking Eta cluster, but after going there, there would be no guarantee they would have a chance to check the ship over before the relay. They might have to move fast. It made sense to dock one last time before the jump.
Garrus's nerves were tight bundles underneath his breast bone and in his gut. He checked his guns seven times each and ran the Thanix through his most stringent simulations. He had a headache by the time Shepard came by on her rounds, about forty-eight hours out from Omega.
He smiled to see her. "Shepard. Need me for something?"
She leaned against the door frame. "Not as such. How you doing?"
Garrus nodded at the gun. "Checking over a few things. I want to make sure we're ready for what's ahead. Whatever happens with the Collectors or the Reapers or whoever else comes after us, I know we'll get the job done, but keeping the gun in top condition can't hurt things."
Shepard walked into the battery. The door shut behind her. She seemed amused. "Hold it. You think we'll find something worse than Collectors or Reapers out here? I mean, I know we're at war with all the major merc organizations in the Terminus, but we seem to be doing all right."
Garrus shrugged. "I like to expect the worst. There's a small chance I'll be pleasantly surprised."
Shepard sat down on an ammo crate by the workbench he cleaned his guns at. Garrus looked down at the console to hide his smile. Shepard on the ammo crate. Somehow, it seemed their mere proximity ought to cause a massive explosion. They think the most dangerous thing in here is the Thanix.
Shepard looked thoughtful. "I couldn't do this without you, Garrus," she said. Her voice was quiet.
Garrus shifted. He'd heard Shepard talk like this once before, right before he left the Normandy SR-1. He hadn't wanted to hear it then, and he didn't want to hear it now. Back then, the Commander Shepard mythos was just starting to wear off.
The truth was, Commander Shepard had an impossible job. She had to save the galaxy from monsters most of them didn't even believe in. To do it, she had to be perfect. Invincible. Infallible. That was what the Council, citizens all over the galaxy, and almost everyone in her crew needed her to be.
The C-Sec kid Garrus had been once, hungry to bring down a Spectre he knew was dirty, had wanted Commander Shepard to be perfect too. He had looked at her and looked for that Spectre ideal—someone that could stand where Saren couldn't, free to pursue justice no matter what, outside of the red tape and bureaucracy that held C-Sec down, and so incorruptible the lack of restrictions wouldn't matter, no matter what his father said.
Garrus had looked, and he'd seen another person. The bravest person he'd ever known or heard of, sure. Strong. Brilliant. Dangerous. But she was capable of failure. She lost her temper and missed things and made mistakes.
But if she was going to be what the rest of the galaxy needed her to be, someone had to hold her up, watch her back, catch her when she fell, and believe in her, hard enough that everyone else did too, no matter what. Garrus had stepped into the job on instinct, before he really knew what he was doing, or that by doing so, he would have to give up that comfortable belief in Commander Shepard, the paragon, and take his chances believing in the flesh-and-blood, breakable reality.
He had just started to understand what had happened when he left the SR-1. There had been no going back once he had, and even knowing what he knew now, he didn't want to go back. It was an enormous honor and privilege that Shepard let him be there for her.
It was also almost as impossible as being Commander Shepard. And sometimes, the weight of her faith—and the fear of letting her down—hit him like the weight of a starship without the mass effect. "I should get a raise," he joked.
There was a light in Shepard's eyes that said she understood exactly what she asked of him, without ever saying a thing. "I'll mention it at the next board meeting," she told him.
Garrus felt a rush of affection for Shepard, his commander, his friend. Spirits, there was so much he wanted to say to her. He couldn't. But there was just no time. "It's strange going into a suicide mission on a human ship," he observed idly. "Your people don't prepare for high-risk operations the way turians do."
Shepard tilted her head. "Would've thought you'd be an old hand at high-risk operations on human ships. I mean, think about tracking Saren to Ilos!"
Garrus acknowledged the point. "Sure, but that was quick. We raced out, landed, blew up some geth, and saved the galaxy. This time we've got Miranda, and Cerberus, and that AI all telling us what we're up against. I think I preferred blind optimism." And I hate being blind.
Shepard's mouth quirked. "Says the pessimist. Well, how about determined optimism? How does that sound? I told you: we're going to get through this."
Somewhere in the last few days, Garrus had started to believe her. He didn't know if it was cowardice—if his brain had just shut down, unprepared to really die, or if he just had that much confidence in her belief. But is it really so bad to believe we won't have to die for the cause, against all odds? If I could get back to Palaven . . .
"Well," Garrus said. "The Collectors killed you once, and all it did was piss you off." He looked back at the gun, considering. Maybe it wouldn't be a suicide mission, but he knew that whatever happened, they were in for a hell of a fight. "But we have to be prepared. We're going into an unmapped area against Reaper husks that don't feel pain or fear—and they have more advanced technology than we do. We're going to lose people. No way around that."
Shepard looked at him, and he saw her agreement with him in her face. He inclined his head. "Not a happy analysis, I know," he murmured. "Don't worry. I won't spread it around. And I'm with you, regardless."
"I know," Shepard said. "Garrus, you ever regret leaving C-Sec or the turian military?"
Do you regret me? she meant. Looking at her, Garrus saw a darkness like a mirror behind her eyes, the reflection of every doubt he'd ever had about command.
I'm not sure I can do this. Why do these people think I can do this? If you die, it's on me.
There was no real way to ease the responsibility a commander felt for her people. But he could tell her it was his choice to be here. "Not for a minute," he promised. "I may be a useless dropout as far as the Hierarchy's concerned—but I'd rather take a stand when I hear a bad order. Say what needs to be said when it needs to be said. Do what needs to be done. There's no point in staying quiet and polite when the galaxy is at stake."
That made her laugh. "Too bullheaded," she teased him. "And too restless." She leaned back against the wall with one shoulder, relaxing. "So how do turian crews get ready for high-risk missions?"
Leaning against the bulkhead like that, Shepard clearly meant to stay a while. Just like old times. Except back then, that last day was the only time he'd seen Shepard this open, and she'd been half drunk. She had given him his commendations to C-Sec and the Council, asked him to be her partner, and said goodbye, and looking back now, Garrus was almost certain she had only managed it because she'd been half drunk.
Things had changed since the SR-1. Shepard was sober now. Garrus watched her out of his peripherals. "With violence, usually," he said. He managed to keep the tone she would understand casual, but he could hear his subvocals slipping. "Turian ships have more operational discipline than your Alliance, but fewer personal restrictions. Our commanders run us tight, and they know we need to blow off steam. But then I figure you know that. Last week was hardly Alliance protocol."
It was a gamble, mentioning the looser personal restrictions in the fleet, bringing up their sparring session in the shuttle bay last week. But Shepard just shrugged. "I did some research when you joined the crew to help us take down Saren. I wanted you to feel at home on the Normandy. Of course, back then, I figured I'd be supervising your fight with Ash or Pressly or one of the others, not fighting you myself. I was a little surprised by some of the stuff I turned up back then. It's strange to think of crewmen fighting each other before a mission."
"We're careful, and there's usually a referee," Garrus pointed out. "Nobody is going to risk an injury that interferes with the mission. And it's a good way to settle grudges amicably." He thought Shepard understood that part of it, at least, considering how she had challenged him, and who she had originally thought he might be fighting on the SR-1—the more xenophobic members of her former crew. But she still didn't understand the rest of it.
A little more, maybe? Garrus paced away and back, nerves getting the best of him, even coming at it sideways like this. "I remember right before one mission we were about to hit a batarian pirate squad. Very risky. This recon scout and I had been at each other's throats. Nerves, mostly. She suggested we settle it in the ring."
Shepard smirked. "I assume you took her down gently?" There was no doubt there; she was absolutely certain he had won the fight. It made him smile.
"Actually, she and I were the top-ranked hand-to-hand specialists on the ship," he admitted. He was better now than he had been then, but at eighteen, it had been one of the hardest fights he had ever fought up to that point. "I had reach, but she had flexibility. It was brutal. After nine rounds, the judge called it a draw. There were a lot of unhappy betters in the training room." Garrus's eyes flicked to Shepard. "We, ah, ended up holding a tiebreaker in her quarters. I had reach, but she had flexibility. More than one way to work off stress, I guess."
For a long, long moment, Shepard didn't respond. She didn't blink. She didn't blush. She didn't laugh or display any sign of jealousy.
Wait. What does human jealousy even look like?
But something had gotten through to her. Finally. She sat very still, as if digesting the story, and eventually, her lips curved up, and she sat up and stood.
Shepard stretched, long and languid, reaching for the ceiling, and Garrus tried not to look at the length of her torso. "You need to work off stress, Garrus? I guess we could go another half dozen rounds in the hold if you didn't get enough the other day. Who knows? Maybe I'll break a sweat this time."
Her tone was light, teasing. Garrus's heart sank. It was either the kindest rejection he'd ever experienced, or she still didn't get it.
And if you can't tell the difference, you probably shouldn't be doing this dance anyway. He tried to smile. "I've got a feeling that if you did, we'd just end up adding my name to the list of people you've knocked on their asses, Shepard."
Shepard tilted her head, expression sharp. "As I recall, you gave about as good as you got."
Garrus turned away from her. It felt like the only thing left for him to do was come right out and proposition her, and that wasn't his place.
It's just as well. She's human. It wouldn't have worked anyway, probably. Be glad she was too dense or too smart—don't know which; doesn't matter—to let you screw up the best relationship of your life. Cut your losses, and get over it. "Thanks, but no thanks, Shepard," he said. He knew his voice was flat. He looked at the numbers on the battery console, willing the tasks to move toward completion faster, willing Shepard out of the battery.
Her gloved hand gently landed along the top of the console, forcing his attention up the long, lean, and muscled arm encased in its science uniform and back to her face. And she was wearing an expression he had never seen on her face before—looking up at him from beneath her lashes, then letting her eyes go wide and innocent.
"You don't want to spar?" she asked, and her tone matched that face. Garrus tensed. Suddenly, he felt like a mark in a kill zone, with his back to a perfectly positioned sniper. "Then how are we to get rid of your stress?" Her eyebrows rose, and she brought her hand to her forehead in an exaggerated manner, as if she were castigating herself for her stupidity. "Oh, I'm an idiot," she murmured. "You didn't tell me about the relaxed personal restrictions on turian ships because you wanted to spar. Or take that story about the recon scout all the way to its . . ." she paused exquisitely, ". . . completion."
Spirits, she's flirting with me. Sure, she flirted with him all the time. But this was different. There was intention behind this, keen and focused. When you tweak a tarlasz's tail . . .
Shepard cocked her eyebrows at him. "Some reason you wanted me to know?" she asked, in the same sweet, too-innocent tone. Garrus swallowed.
All at once, the coy, predatory expression and posture melted away into a much more familiar wry, self-assured amusement. "I spent a lot of time on the streets, Vakarian," Shepard told him in her normal voice. "I know a hook when I see one."
It was a clear rebuke, if a teasing one. He'd gone too far. Garrus stepped back, flooded with instant regret and panic. "Ah . . . Shepard, I didn't mean—"
Shepard held up a hand, stopping him cold. "I didn't say you were fishing in the Presidium reservoir," she said quietly.
That caught him off guard for a moment. He hadn't expected her to come right out and say it. He let out a careful, shaking breath. "Oh. So you do have a weakness for men with scars. I did wonder . . ."
Shepard interrupted again, shaking her head. "I don't know about that, but for whatever reason, I seem to be into you." That was even more direct, dismissing his attempt at levity, making her interest explicit with no room for misinterpretation.
Garrus stared. After months of uncertainty, Shepard's blunt admission was almost too much to process. She is the bravest person I've ever known or heard of.
Gun-metal gray eyes held his. "So how about it? You and me, working off some stress together? I promise you: I got plenty flexibility."
Garrus remembered her stretching, moments ago. His mouth went dry. "I don't doubt it," he managed. His subvocals were all over the place. He couldn't have controlled them if he tried. It was all he could do to stand up straight, shaking off the haze of shock to answer her. "There's nobody in this galaxy I respect more than you, and, I mean, if we can figure out a way to make it work, then why the hell not, right? So yeah . . . definitely."
A mask of bravado he hadn't realized she had been wearing gave way to relief, and Garrus blinked as Shepard sagged and laughed. "I thought I was going insane," she admitted. "Hell, maybe I still am. Why the games, Garrus? Why didn't you just say something?"
She looked up at him, waiting for his answer. Garrus tapped his talons on the console. As if the ten fingers; long, pointed nose; flat voice; and mounds of shining hair weren't reminder enough she was alien. They were going to have some translation issues here, he could tell. Without stepping out of line and making an outright advance on his CO, he had no idea how he could have been more obvious the past couple months. And it looked like Shepard had missed or doubted almost all of it. "I thought I just did," he said.
In fairness, you did just wonder what human jealousy looks like. It had taken him a few seconds to realize she was flirting with him like she meant it. He sighed. And I thought turian women were hard to figure out. Nothing's ever easy. "I thought I was going insane too, Shepard," he confessed. "If I was wrong—well, no one wants to be the xenophiliac ass to ruin everything by hitting on an uninterested alien friend. Saw that sometimes in C-Sec. It wasn't pretty."
Shepard scowled at him. "You were fine letting me be the xenophiliac ass to ruin everything," she complained. She shoved at his breastplate, pushing him away. "God, you are wrong. We both are. We're a dozen kinds of wrong for even considering this!"
Garrus froze. His gut twisted. He took a step back, but Shepard caught his eye, holding him. She smiled ruefully. "Don't want to take it back, though."
Garrus watched her, assessing. Then he let out a nervous, shuddering sigh of relief. She meant it. "Good. Me neither. So I'll see you?"
"Oh, you'll see me," Shepard said, and something of the flirtatious tone she'd adopted to tease him earlier had returned to her voice. But this time, she wasn't teasing him. There was a pointed promise to the innuendo that dug and blazed beneath his hide, even without subvocals.
The feeling Garrus had now was closer to what he'd felt after taking Sovereign out than it was to what it had been like when Kyra Kilkairos had agreed to go get restouk and go to the vid store with him after school. When Kyra Kilkairos had agreed to go out with him, as soon as she had left, he had whooped and run around the block three times, then proceeded to tell his mother and every boy he knew. In fact, her acceptance had been much better than the actual date, when he had realized that Kyra Kilkairos, the prettiest girl in the class ahead of his when he was eleven years old, was actually intolerably shallow and stupid—interested more in gossip and art than gun design and the plots of his favorite serial vids.
Now, Garrus's stomach was swooping. His head was spinning, and his mind was racing. He still felt like cheering, sure, but he also felt a simultaneous need to sit down. He was suddenly so exhausted he thought he could probably sleep for a week.
Shepard was watching him with those gray eyes, and he could swear she knew. She smirked. Spirits, the woman had him.
She turned on her heel and strode out of the battery without a backward glance. Garrus watched her go. As the door closed behind her, he fell back against the battery console.
Damn.
It hadn't all been in his head. Shepard genuinely was attracted to him, and furthermore, contrary to everything he could have expected from former Alliance, she was willing to act on it.
Then the reality that was the culmination of everything that had just happened hit him: he was going to have sex with a human.
As if he didn't have enough to be self-conscious about.
It occurred to Garrus that he couldn't remember a single thing about human anatomy from xenostudies that wasn't related to how to take them down in combat. He did know that as a species, humans were sexually more similar to turians than they were to oviparous salarians or krogan or to the pansexual, parthenogenetic asari, for example. Certainly than they were to species that weren't even bipedal or land-dwelling. But he had no specific idea of what sex meant to their species, biologically or culturally. When it came down to it, would Shepard think he was just too strange?
Will I think she is?
That was an even more disturbing thought: that his attraction to Shepard might be purely spiritual after all, and in the end, his body just wouldn't respond to hers.
More scope for awkwardness and humiliation here than in any stupid thing you've done yet, Vakarian. Garrus shook his head and laughed aloud.
At least he wasn't worried about the Collectors anymore.
A/N: For those of you following both this story and the Disaster Zone series, this chapter is concurrent with the seventh chapter in Disaster Zone: Resurrection, "Dozen Kinds of Wrong."
Short chapter, but there's a lot here. Leave a review if you've got something to say,
LMSharp
