XLII

Demon of the Night Winds: The Afterimage

Kima District.

Garrus's stomach twisted as he walked over the roofs and vaulted alleys in the district Archangel—Archangel the squad and not the dropout turian—had called home for about a year and a half. Home. Home sweet home.

How many times had he vaulted these same roofs with Ripper and Sidonis? How many times had he listened to Butler and Sensat try to one-up one another over the radio or given instructions to Erash, Luc, and Weaver down below? Garrus had ruined his first gang in this district—well, second, but first on Omega—with just four other guys. They had taken that gang's base and made it theirs. As others had started to look for them, they had found them here—more men fed up with the sickness of Omega, ready to do their part to fight back, for whatever reasons they had. And Archangel had declared war on Omega. And Archangel had made the monsters and parasites all over the station and beyond bleed.

Until it all went to hell.

Just a few blocks from here, Sidonis had turned the apartment that had been their home into a death trap, and Garrus was willing to bet that the furnaces near here still coughed up smoke with the remnants of his friends in it—men their enemies would have thrown away like garbage.

But there wasn't time for guilt or anger tonight. There wasn't time to sink down and brood in some dark corner, because the sick sense of humor that ran the universe had dictated that if Garrus couldn't keep it together tonight, there was a decent risk Shepard's body might be the next one dumped in a Kima furnace.

I'm probably overreacting. Probably Samara's on Shepard and Morinth just like I am. Not like she hasn't lived for this moment the past few centuries.

. . .

Killing Morinth, sure. Watching Shepard's six?

Shepard volunteered for this mission. She can handle herself. She'll be fine until Samara gets there.

And if she's not?

Garrus vaulted another building, scanned the streets below, and saw them—an asari in a form-fitting black jumpsuit. A human in an equally form-fitting black dress, fair hair shining against darker skin in Omega's neon. Walking away from him toward Comettail Suites, a midrange apartment building, just like the turian back at Afterlife had told him. Morinth had one of Shepard's hands in both of hers, but what might have looked sweet and passionate on another couple on the street looked off here. Morinth looked less like she was clinging to Shepard, excited to be with her, and more like she was leading her, and there was a limp helplessness to Shepard's posture that Garrus hated on sight.

She's not fine.

Garrus scanned Comettail Suites, crossreferencing the probable layout with the profile Samara and Diana had made for Morinth. Nice view of the Promenade, the turian had said of the building. Morinth was a hedonist, an aestheticist. She would be in the apartment for the view. An east-facing apartment then. Maybe even a corner suite.

Shepard and Morinth entered the building, and Garrus slid down a heating exhaust pipe to the street, crossed to the buildings east of Comettail Suites, and found a nice, convenient derelict fire escape. A human was sprawled over the steps, half-conscious and muttering incoherently, his sleeve half rolled up with the track marks all too visible in a flickering streetlight. Garrus stepped over him, making for the top of the building. In the windows of this complex, he passed a family, a couple of people watching vids. An elcor with all four legs folded beneath him—or her—eyes lidded happily while a completely naked asari sprawled beside him—or her—one shapely arm extended to press a hand against the elcor's head.

Garrus ignored them all and pulled himself up to the roof of the building, drawing his rifle as he did so and walking to its western edge. A light went on inside the seventh story—in a corner unit, just like he had guessed. Garrus lay down atop the apartment building roof and trained his visor and his rifle on the window.

Morinth cared more about the view than about building security. Her apartment was floor-to-ceiling glass over the street, and Garrus's view of the interior was for the most part unobstructed. He saw her and Shepard, entering the studio-style apartment on his right. He automatically logged the difficulties of the layout. If they stood behind the support pillar by the door, he wouldn't have a clear shot, and a shot up into the half of the bedroom closer to him would be a challenge as well. South side might have been a better approach—but no, the apartment was split-level, and while the south wall of Morinth's apartment was entirely glass, obstacles in between the bedroom and living areas would have been just as problematic. Still. Better to get her in the living area.

Fortunately, for the time being, that's where Morinth was. She laid her access card down on a shelf and sat on the L-shaped living area sofa with her back directly to him, right up against the window. Her head, shoulders, and upper back were in the scope. She couldn't have given him a better shot if she was trying to. Garrus's finger tightened on the trigger, but he didn't pull it.

Wait. You're backup here, Garrus. If Samara gets there, or if it doesn't look like they need you—

Garrus tuned his radio to Samara's frequency again, listening rather than broadcasting himself. He could hear the justicar breathing, static and muffled voices, the pulse of Afterlife—distant, so she'd left the club. She was on the move, but that was all he could tell with any certainty.

He left the radio live and deliberately relaxed, letting go of Kima, his worry, all of it. Everything but Morinth, down the scope, and Shepard, moving around the apartment past her. Her body language was still weird—less certain than he was used to, restless. Watching her, Garrus was reminded of a bird that had accidentally flown indoors, trapped, trying to find an exit, but confused about where the exit might be. He swallowed. Focused on his breathing, in and out.

Shepard ranged around Morinth's apartment for a while, up the stairs to the bedroom area, out of sight. Garrus waited, but Morinth didn't move, and in a moment, Shepard came back down the stairs and across the apartment to stare at what looked like weapons displayed on Morinth's wall. Just hold on, Shepard. Just hold on. A little bit longer.

But then Shepard sat down on the couch with Morinth. The far end of it, true, as far as she could physically get from Morinth while still sitting on the same piece of furniture, but it was a defeat. Garrus could see her profile through his visor, and it tagged her heart rate slowing, like she'd been drugged.

I would have seen it if Morinth gave her anything, here or at Afterlife. If she injected Shepard with something on the way . . .

But Garrus didn't think that she had. She will be planning to inflict horrors on you. If you are not careful, you will want her to, Samara had told Shepard. Morinth had her mind. Maybe not completely, but enough, and more and more every second.

Shepard was talking with Morinth again. In contrast to Shepard's, Morinth's heart rate was elevated. So was her temperature. But as excited as Garrus's visor told him she was, Morinth still looked absolutely relaxed. As she got up from her place on the couch to sit next to Shepard instead, she kept her movements slow.

The trajectory of the targeting solution his visor was presenting for Morinth changed as she moved. "Crap," Garrus muttered. The asari was between him and Shepard. He still had a clear shot at her, but now, from this position, Shepard was also in the line of fire. If he shot through Morinth—Shepard was too close. Can't risk it.

But Morinth was leaning into Shepard now. He could just see Shepard's face past the asari, turned toward him. Toward Morinth. Her mouth was open slightly. Her eyes looked glazed. Morinth reached out and touched Shepard's bare shoulder with the opposite hand, traced down Shepard's arm and grazed the side of Shepard's chest with the back of her hand.

Shepard said something, replying to something Morinth had said, and the asari slid over into into Shepard's lap—like water, just like Nef had said. She twined her arms around Shepard's neck, and Shepard's hands came up onto Morinth's shoulders, flat, like she wanted to push the asari away. Then they fluttered.

Garrus fired.

Simultaneously, he heard his own shot through the radio.

He heard Shepard's voice then, too, loud and angry, as she sprang up from the couch, shoving Morinth away, toward the shower of broken glass glittering there. "Don't count on it!"

Morinth, bleeding violet from several wounds and gashes on her face and left arm, whirled toward the broken window, looking for him, but Garrus was already moving. If the radio's picking up what's happening in there . . . "What?!"

Another angry, commanding alto sounded over the radio, demanding Morinth's attention. "Morinth!"

Garrus leaped down the fire escape stairs, taking the steps three and four at a time. The addict near the bottom jumped up with a slurred yell at the vibrations, bringing up a flaking, cut-rate pistol. Garrus swung the butt of his rifle, knocked the gun away, and kept running.

"Mother!" Morinth snarled over the radio.

"Do not call me that!"

"I can't choose to stop being your daughter, Mother!" Morinth's voice was higher than her mother's, huskier, and now, sharp and vicious as well.

"You made your choice long ago!"

Garrus heard more shattering glass, a roaring that was powerful biotics in use. Spirits, stay clear, Shepard! "What choice?!" Morinth yelled. "My only crime was to be born with the gifts you gave me!"

Garrus pounded across the street to Comettail Suites. "Hey! What are you doing?!" someone yelled. Garrus ignored him, blew through the door, and took a sharp left down the hall, toward the stairs at the end.

"Enough, Morinth!" Samara snapped, voice strained.

"I am the genetic destiny of the asari, but they are not ready to reveal this," Morinth was saying, voice just as strained as her mother's. "So I must die!"

"You are a disease to be purged, nothing more!"

Garrus was leaping stairs again. He was up the first flight, with six more to go.

"I'm as strong as she is!" Morinth was saying, appealing to Shepard now. She's still there. She's still conscious. "Let me join you!"

"I am already sworn to help you, Shepard! Let us finish this!"

They're stalemated. Samara can't beat Morinth on her own, Garrus thought. His plates were beginning to itch with the dark energy emanating from Morinth's apartment. His teeth ached. He could feel the electricity in the air as he sprinted up the third flight of stairs, onto the fourth.

Then he heard Shepard's voice, hard and clear. "End of the line, Morinth!"

There was a gasp. "And they call me a monster," Morinth said, breathlessly.

There was a sick thud, and then silence. Garrus stopped on the sixth flight of stairs, hearing only ragged breathing over the radio, breathing halfway to a sob. It's over.

Garrus took in a sharp, deep breath of his own. The blind panic of the past minute began to die, to solidify into something harder. Colder. He started walking again, up the last flight of stairs.

At the far end of the hall of the seventh floor of Comettail Suites, Garrus saw a couple of curious children peeking out of their doorways. They drew back and slammed their doors when they saw him. Kids of Omega, already learning the ropes.

Morinth's door was open—blasted open with Samara's biotics. The walls near where she had shoved it open were scarred.

The apartment was a wreck. A broken table was lying by the short stairs up to the bedroom level. Pills were scattered across the floor, which was stained with spilled wine as well. The living area couch was in tatters, torn by flying shards of glass from the pane above it, where Garrus had shot through to break Shepard out of Morinth's influence.

Morinth's body was lying beside the couch, under the second pane by the kitchenette, which had been fractured, like someone had been forced into it hard, but had not actually shattered. Garrus just glimpsed the ruin of the asari's face and chest and looked away. Why didn't Samara just throw her out the window? Then he remembered seeing Samara float down from a balcony with her biotics, back on Illium, and he knew. Violet blood dripped from the cracks in the kitchenette window.

Garrus turned away. Samara had braced herself against a shelf in the middle of the living area. Blood dripped from her hands too. A sheen of sweat covered her face and head, her eyes were closed, and she was still breathing hard, gasping, really. Breaths halfway to sobs.

Seeing Shepard sitting, glassy-eyed, on the steps up to Morinth's bedroom area, unable to look away from Morinth's body, Garrus couldn't find it in himself, somehow, to feel too bad for the justicar.

He folded his arms. "What the hell was that?" he asked Samara. His subvocals cracked, but neither of the women looked at him. "You said you were following them, but Morinth had damn near finished her by the time you got here."

Samara winced. "Please, Garrus . . ."

Garrus shook his head. "No. Remind me why it was so important to kill her here. Why it was so important you take the shot. Tell me. I had a bead on her barely a minute after Shepard stepped into Afterlife. Shepard could have killed her even easier, if you had let her bring a gun. The second she'd said her name, we could have had her."

In the back of his mind, he got that what had happened here had been the single goal behind everything Samara had done and suffered through as a justicar, and that, if he—or Shepard—had killed Morinth for her, it would have invalidated the last several centuries of her life. Paradoxically, she might have also found the killing much harder to accept. It was the reason he'd held back from firing when he had had the chance. But just now, all he could focus on was the way Shepard looked right now. He hadn't known Shepard could go pale, the way Jack and Miranda and some asari did when they were upset. It turned her gray, which wasn't a natural or a healthy color for a human. All he could think about was the way he had seen Morinth taking her mind, despite all her efforts to fight it—and that Samara had suggested sending her in like this, despite her clear discomfort with the idea.

And I let her do it.

Samara was trembling. She shook her head. Opened her mouth. Didn't answer.

Shepard did. "I can speak for myself, Garrus," she snapped. "Leave her alone. Samara just killed her daughter."

"The bravest and smartest of my daughters," Samara whispered. She started to wrap her arms around herself, saw her hands, and stopped, letting them come to rest at her sides instead. "Please. Show mercy on a broken old warrior and let us leave this place."

Shepard pushed to her feet and nodded for Samara to take the lead. "Let's go." She passed him without so much as a glance. Garrus swore under his breath and followed.


Neither of the others said anything as they walked back to the Normandy. Samara was crying and didn't seem to notice. Her face was as calm as ever, but the tears rolled down her cheeks, slowly and steadily, without any acknowledgment from her. Shepard's jaw was tight, her eyes remained glassy, and her movements were robotic.

"Shepard, are you okay?" Garrus asked in a low voice as they left Kima and entered Afterlife's general vicinity again, heading for the docks. "I know you and Samara wanted me out of this, after the start of it, but it didn't feel right, sending you in without a backup plan. I tried to let things play out—"

Shepard cut him off. "If you had tried, you would have stayed on the Normandy." Her voice was cold, expressionless. "But you had to put on that damned white hat of yours and butt in anyway. Did you take a minute to think about what could have happened if the glass didn't shatter just right?"

Garrus was horrified. "Did any hit you? I thought Morinth was positioned to take any shrapnel—"

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. "Never thought I'd be in a Doctor Michel situation," she muttered. Garrus got the reference to the second time they had met, when he had taken a similarly risky shot to free a Citadel doctor from a thug after Tali's information on the geth. Shepard glared at him. "You ruined my 'reckless' lecture then too by being good enough it wasn't."

But the cold, expressionless tone was gone. Garrus jumped on it. "No, I deserved the lecture then, and I probably deserve it now. Probably another one for insubordination too, even if it was only technical, indirect insubordination." Shepard's eyes narrowed. "You never specifically told me not to follow you," Garrus reminded her.

"But I told Samara we would run things her way," Shepard answered him, "and you heard me do it."

Garrus's mandibles tightened, and he glanced up ahead at Samara, but she didn't offer an opinion one way or the other. She just kept walking, either ignoring them or oblivious to everything they were saying here. Now he did feel a little sympathy for her. Whatever Morinth was, she was Samara's daughter, and Samara didn't kill her easily, however necessary it was to do it.

There wasn't a lot he could say to Shepard in his own defense, either. Except . . . "It was too much to risk, Shepard. This whole mission falls apart without you, and if things had gone bad with Morinth?" Shepard didn't answer him. "For a second, it looked like they were going bad," Garrus added, quietly. "Shepard . . ."

He reached out for her shoulder, but she whirled. "Don't touch me!" she snapped. Garrus jumped, and she hissed in a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. "Sorry. But we didn't ask you to follow us, and we would've been fine without your help."

Garrus stepped back. Samara had turned, and now she was watching them. Garrus could see the tear tracks on her face, but her eyes were dry now. "I do feel I must apologize, Garrus, for my assumption that your presence in this hunt would alert Morinth. It seems she completely missed you shadowing her. Indeed, I failed to spot you myself. But Shepard is correct. I was just outside of her apartment when you fired into it. If I had not been there, your intervention could have gone badly for Shepard."

Garrus regarded her. "And if your arrival hadn't taken the fight to close quarters, Shepard would have dodged out of my line of fire, and I'd've taken her out in less than a second. Close-range, melee biotic attacks run a larger risk of causing collateral damage than a bullet."

Samara blinked at him, inclined her head, but didn't say anything. And Shepard started walking away again, back toward the Normandy.

Garrus went hot. He stepped time-and-a-half to catch up with Shepard. "Look, I was out of line. I'm sorry." He glanced at Samara. "To both of you. I have to go—there's some mods a contact recommended I pick up in the markets here, and I want to take care of that before we take off."

Shepard nodded tersely, and Garrus started away from her, back toward the markets.

Except now I don't know if I'm leaving because she asked for the mods and I told Joker I'd get them or if I'm leaving because things back there went really, really wrong.

His gizzard clenched, and he walked a little faster. Then he heard Shepard call after him. "Garrus." He slowed. "Watch your back," she told him. She sounded exhausted. Unhappy. But something more like she usually did. "Don't think Aria has a hit out on you yet, but if it gets around you've been disobeying her . . ."

Garrus slowed. Nodded an acknowledgment of his own. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."


"Hey," Joker called when Garrus got back to the Normandy. Garrus swung a left to the cockpit, carrying the bag he'd picked up in the market for the other items in one hand.

"Joker."

The pilot turned his chair around. "So, did something happen out there or—" he trailed off, looking at Garrus expectantly.

"Or—" Garrus repeated, keeping his voice as flat as he could.

"I don't know," Joker complained. "All I know is I've heard a lot today about some super dangerous, sexy serial killer who's also Samara's daughter, Shepard tries to ground you—which, what?—then you head out minutes before she leaves with Samara, unarmed in that cocktail dress. A couple hours later, they come back, Samara's been crying, and Shepard heads straight to her cabin, takes about fifteen showers, judging by the water exchange, and blasts classical music so loud up there that the entire ship can hear it. And you're just gone. MIA. Want to help me connect the dots here?"

Garrus sighed, trying not to react to the sarcastic, semihostile tone of the pilot's voice. Joker didn't mean anything by it. It had probably initially developed as a defense mechanism, but it was ingrained in everything he said now, so that you actually had to more or less disregard his tone completely and listen only to exactly what he said if you weren't going to misunderstand and accidentally take offense. He only occasionally actually intended to be a dick. Right now, Joker was worried. The finger he was beating on his armrest gave it away—the rapid tempo of it a pretty decent indicator of Moreau's distress. The pilot hadn't known Shepard for as long as Doctor Chakwas had, but everyone who paid any attention knew Joker felt the same kind of loyalty to Shepard that the doctor did, enough loyalty that the two of them had dropped everything at Cerberus's call to be on her crew again, when Cerberus stood for everything they would normally be against.

There weren't a lot of people in the galaxy that really saw and cared about Shepard, underneath the stories and her commander's stripes. Garrus was one. Tali was one. Karin Chakwas was one. And so was Jeff Moreau.

"Samara's plan to use Shepard to draw out her daughter, Morinth, went off more or less without a hitch," he said heavily, "but then things got a little complicated." He gave Joker a basic rundown of what an Ardat-Yakshi was and of the day's events. He didn't go into a lot of detail about his suspicions about what might have been going on in Shepard's head in between Afterlife and Morinth's apartment, but Garrus thought Joker got the basic idea from his description of Nef's logs and Garrus's own decision to intervene.

Joker let out a breath and slouched even more than usual in his seat. "That's just . . ." he trailed off. "I mean, the porno practically writes itself: 'A Night to Die For. Commander Shepard has seen and done it all. She's beautiful, she's deadly, with a kill sheet kilometers long and one enormous gun. But is even she ready for the Ardat-Yakshi, the wicked sex goddess who can kill with a single kiss?'" He blanched then. Shook his head. "Ignore me; I'm an asshole. Shit. Just . . . is she—" he stopped, turned the question he was about to ask into more of a statement. "She's not all right, is she?" Garrus just looked at the pilot. Joker grimaced as if he had actually answered. "That's what I thought. How about you? Are you all right?"

Garrus paced a circle on the spot and tried for a lighter tone. "Don't go all Chambers on me. I'm not the one they used for bait back there, and I wasn't even in the room when they killed Morinth."

"Yeah," Joker agreed, tapping his fingers on the armrest again. "Still . . ."

Garrus looked out the side window, down the airlock and toward the buzzing, glowing mass of Omega. "I'm alive. Shepard's alive. Samara's alive. Morinth's dead. Samara stopped her before anything really happened to Shepard, and she won't be hurting anyone else. I think we just call this one a win and move on, Joker. Maybe someday it'll actually feel like one."

Joker's fingers tapped even faster. "Yeah, if we live that long," he muttered. Then his fingers stopped. He looked up. "Won't be long now, will it? Bet I get the orders to fly us toward that Reaper IFF in a matter of hours."

"We're ready," Garrus said.

"You pick up those mods you were supposed to be looking for?" Joker asked. "I mean, Shepard caught you, so I don't guess it matters, but I think we'll probably need any advantage we can get."

Garrus held up the bag in his hand. "The mods weren't only an excuse. I'll get them over to Jacob in the armory."

"Yeah, have him fit me out with some of those babies." When Garrus looked at him, Joker raised his hands. "Just in case, sheesh. I went through basic training just like anybody."

"You'll have to show me what you can do someday."

Joker snorted. "Yeah. That's likely. I can only think of about a dozen better ways I could look like the biggest tool on the Normandy. Thanks, though. Just . . . just in case, you know?" His fingers stopped drumming on the armrest abruptly. "I saw her spaced over Alchera," he said suddenly. His voice had gone very low. Garrus went still. "She would have made it out, probably, if she wasn't trying to get me out with her. She got me in the last pod. I was looking right at her. Then the next shot landed. I saw it hit. Saw her blown away from the open airlock. Couldn't reach her. I watched her spin away, kicking . . . fuck, I saw the air leave her hose where the shrapnel had got her. And I couldn't do a damn thing."

He hit the armrest then, hard. "Not this time," he said, looking at Garrus, defiant. "Just . . . not this time. She's like my sister. Understand? Except older, cooler, and a lot less annoying than my actual sister."

"I understand."

Joker regarded him for a moment, then pushed off with his feet so his chair rotated back to face the instruments panel. "All right. Then go screw around in the battery or something. Shepard will look for you there as soon as she's got her head together. And I should probably check the systems for takeoff."

Garrus nodded and started down the deck toward the armory.


Despite Joker's confidence, Garrus wasn't sure Shepard would find him whenever she had come down from whatever she had experienced when she was with Morinth, felt when she had helped Samara put the Ardat-Yakshi down.

The way she'd sounded when he'd reached out to her, wrenched away—Don't touch me!

Should've known better, Vakarian. Commander Shepard. Takes out Collector abominations without even flinching and headbutts krogan warlords to prove a point. Only combat that fazes her for a second is combat with a thresher maw. Try and hug her, she still panics. It was supposed to be better after having her mind played with by an asari serial killer rapist?

Trying to comfort her had felt like the right thing to do, but so had shadowing her in the first place, and one thing he knew for sure was that he had been out of order trying that, or at least in doing so without pushing harder to get her to clear it—whether or not Samara agreed—in shadowing her without letting her know he would be.

Garrus screwed around in the battery like Joker had suggested—the main gun had to be ready for any kind of engagement they might get into tomorrow. Perfectly synchronized with the ship's power systems, able to fire without delay, with pinpoint accuracy, for as long as they needed it to. He spent some time chatting with Tali, Daniels, Donnelly, and the ship AI over the com, comparing sims, discussing predictions for likely conditions near the brown dwarf their target was orbiting.

A derelict Reaper, the Illusive Man had said. The thing had been dead for millennia, he promised. But the only way they could be sure of making it out of the Omega-4 Relay intact to hit the Collectors was to pick up the IFF beacon a Cerberus scavenging team had found aboard that Reaper.

Except, if the Reaper was dead, where was the scavenging team? The Illusive Man also said that the team had gone dark. They had been radio silent for days before the Illusive Man had told Shepard about the IFF, and it had been weeks since then. The entire Normandy was going in expecting some kind of trouble. The Illusive Man said the Reaper corpse was still there, but Garrus wanted to be ready for anything up to and including the Reaper corpse not actually being a corpse at all.

Still, as late afternoon on the Normandy's slid away into evening, closer to the time Shepard made her rounds each day, Garrus found it harder and harder to focus on calibrations. He signed off the com, set the programs he had decided on with Ken, Tali, and Gabby to running, and sat down on his cot.

After all, it wasn't like the verbal agreement to attempt sleeping together at some point in the near future had suddenly changed the tone of every protective instinct he had toward Shepard, he thought. He'd taken on more personal responsibility for the commander's physical wellbeing than was strictly usual for any one member of the squad since halfway through the Saren tour, and they'd talked about it more than once. It wasn't anything she'd asked him to do or anything he'd planned. It was just the way things had always been, since long before he ever acknowledged he was feeling anything like sexual attraction to Shepard—or even realized that he could be sexually attracted to her.

But will Shepard realize that? He had no idea. She was Alliance, had been Alliance for ten years. She was still Alliance, even on a ship in Cerberus colors. Garrus was fairly certain shadowing Shepard today had been motivated more by circumstance than by whatever was happening between the two of them, but he had no idea how loudly those Alliance frat regs would be echoing in her head.

It's not like I ever followed orders well in the first place. You don't become a dropout turian vigilante following orders.

But he'd never bucked Shepard's orders so far before—even if her dismissal before going off with Samara earlier had been implicit at best. If I've screwed this up . . .

But the door to the battery opened when it usually did, and Shepard walked inside. Her expression was unreadable, and she didn't say anything at first. She just walked to the railing around the main gun and leaned against it, regarding him in silence.

"Shepard. Need me for something?"

Shepard gestured at the console. "Have you got a minute?"

Garrus took a breath, nodded, and hit the console to close the battery door. "Look. I've been thinking about what we talked about. Blowing off steam . . . easing tension . . ."

Shepard arched her eyebrows, waiting.

Garrus paced away. "This is the first time I've considered cross-species intercourse," he admitted to her. He stopped. Made a face. "And damn, saying it that way doesn't help. Now I feel . . . dirty and clinical." He faced her. "Are we crazy to even be thinking about this?" he asked. "I'm not—look, Shepard, I know you can find something a little closer to home."

Shepard frowned. "Did I do something to make you think I want that?" She sighed. "Look. Back there with Morinth. That was insane. It shook me up, and I took it out on you, when you probably saved my ass. Again."

"I was out of line," Garrus said again.

"You were," Shepard agreed. "But I think it was still probably a good thing you were there. I talked some more with Samara, and Morinth didn't always kill everyone she came into contact with. There was this whole village that—never mind that. Just—she affected me a little more than I thought she would, knowing what she was. I fought it, but I'm not sure how long I could have held out. If you hadn't shattered that window when you did . . ."

"Samara was right there," Garrus offered.

"I know," Shepard said. "And I told Samara we'd play it her way, and next time you make me a liar, we're really going to have to talk. But this one time, I think I owe you a thank-you. And an apology."

She held out her hand to shake, and Garrus took it. "You don't owe me anything. Just—this. Us. You're sure it's what you want?"

There was a lot behind the question he couldn't articulate. After what just happened with Morinth. When you could have just about anyone you wanted, but I've just now realized you haven't. Garrus looked down, frustrated. Being on Shepard's squad, being her friend was the most natural thing in the galaxy. The last thing he wanted was to ruin that.

But then came Shepard's answer, quiet. "Am I sure you've been driving me crazy ever since you rejoined the Normandy? Just about," Garrus looked up again. She was serious. "Hell if I know why, Garrus," she told him. "This is new for me too. But I don't want anyone else right now. Just you. Maybe we are out of our minds. I thought we were good with that."

Her gray eyes searched his.

Yeah.

Definitely.

Garrus swallowed. "No, we are. I am. I'll find some music and do some research to figure out how this thing should work." He cringed at the thought of the files he had found waiting in his inbox when he got around to checking it after his return to the battery. There's just so much I don't know about humans . . . "It'll either be a night to treasure or a horrible interspecies awkwardness thing . . ." he trailed off, embarrassed to have spoken that last thought aloud. He cleared his throat. "In which case, fighting the Collectors will be a welcome distraction, so, you know, a win either way."

But Shepard was frowning again—with legitimate concern this time. "Garrus," she started, hesitant. "If you're not comfortable with this, it's okay. If this isn't something you're sure you want too, I don't want to pressure you, or—"

Great. Now she thinks you're backing out. "Shepard, you're the best friend I've got left in this screwed-up galaxy," he told her. He regarded her, bemused and wondering. "I'm not going to pretend I've got a fetish for humans, but this isn't about that. This is about us. You don't ever have to worry about making me uncomfortable. Nervous, yes, but never uncomfortable." He stopped smiling. Shepard's frown had deepened, and now she had stepped back too. "What did I say?"

Shepard shifted. "I feel like I've made myself very clear here," she said, even more quietly than before. "But I just—I'm gonna need more than 'why the hell not' to move ahead here, okay? If this is too weird for you—I'm not looking for a pity fuck. Maybe it's stupid, but I need to actually hear it." She met his eyes again and squared her shoulders. "Are you attracted to me? It's okay if you're not. I promise—I won't get mad."

For a moment, Garrus could only stare. Shepard waited. A blush started rising on her face. Garrus shook his head at her, incredulous. "You really can't tell?" he managed finally.

Shepard's blush deepened, and her eyes dropped. "Well, in the hold, but I figured—"

After Pragia, she meant. Garrus closed his eyes. "And here's our first interspecies awkwardness," he said. He forced a laugh. For weeks, Shepard's refusal to respond to his indications of availability in any way—either to open up initial overtures or to reject him outright—had been driving him insane. Enough that he'd eventually reverted to form and pushed convention a little—left her that hook she'd called him on.

But no. She missed every signal any ranking turian female would pick up on because she's not a turian female. Courtship conventions are probably completely different in human cultures, and she doesn't have a visor to give her some insight into your biometrics. She still calculates all her targeting solutions the old-fashioned way. But apparently, the only signal of his that Shepard had registered was about the most obvious physical indication of sexual interest either of their species could manifest, and it sounded like she'd halfway talked herself into thinking that had been . . . circumstantial.

He opened his eyes again and tried to smile. "Yeah, I like a good fight as much as the next turian, Shepard. But not that much. Usually." Searching for a way to make her understand, on a wild, dangerous whim, Garrus reached out and caught her hand. Shepard's eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. Heart racing, Garrus brought her hand to his throat, over his cowl, and placed her first two fingers above his larynx. "Here," he said. His voice was crackling at the feel of her gloved hand on the collar of his bodysuit now—at least in this context. For once, he didn't try to hide it. "I've had a bit of an advantage, I think. My visor can track heart rate, increases in body temperature. Magnify pupil dilation."

Shepard's hand twitched on his throat. "God, that's cheating. Damn it, I knew you knew."

"Not as much as you'd think," Garrus returned. He tapped his visor with one of his fingers. "This thing doesn't come with a manual to tell me what the biometric readouts mean. When you fluctuated, at first, I didn't know if you were scared, or lying, or . . . or what," he finished lamely. Her eyes were boring into his. Her hand felt too hot in his, even through the double layer of their gloves, and he released it. She left her fingers against his throat as he explained. "Had to second guess everything, too, because I wanted them to mean what I thought they did. But, with turians—with me—it's all in the voice."

Shepard's gaze sharpened even further. She laid her entire hand flat on his throat, not pressing, but feeling the vibrations up and down the larynx that continued even when he wasn't talking. "So—"

"I'm not about to start qualifying everything I say like an elcor," Garrus said. "For one thing, it takes too damn long. But—it's there, Shepard. Trust me. Probably a good thing I'm the only turian onboard, actually." He paused. Damn it, he was blushing, as hard as she had been, and though Shepard wouldn't be able to see it—you couldn't see a turian blushing in the face like you could on a human—with her hand on his throat like it was, she would be able to feel it. He still didn't move away. "You've probably been hearing it a while—I'm more than interested." His voice dropped again, involuntarily.

Shepard stared at his throat. "Huh. Guess I have. I didn't—" she broke off, stepped back, dropped her hand, and flexed her fingers, staring at him. "Well," she said, awkwardly, "we're good then. Good. So. When do you want to do this thing?"

Garrus thought of the packet of research in his files that he hadn't even had a chance to look at yet. "I'd wait, if you're okay with it. Disrupt the crew as little as possible and take that last chance to find some calm just before the storm." He tried a smile. "You know me, I always like to savor the last shot before popping the heat sink." Too late, he realized what he'd said. "Wait—that metaphor just went somewhere horrible . . ."

But Shepard was already laughing at him, shaking her head. She shoved his shoulder. "God, you're a dork!" she said, sounding both surprised and delighted. The expression on her face was a sort of compound of relief, amusement, and something he'd never seen on a human face before, looking at him. But whatever it was left him about as tongue-tied as he could remember being. "Okay," Shepard finished, nodding to herself, as if deciding something. "Okay." She smiled then. "Looking forward to it. I'll let you get back to work."

Garrus let out a short, incredulous laugh of his own. "Right. 'Cause I'm in a great place to optimize firing algorithms right now."

Shepard winked, grinned in a step up from the smirk he already thought should be outlawed, and tipped him a mock salute before reaching past him and hitting the button to open the door. This time, Garrus knew she absolutely was aware of how close she got to do it and was doing it on purpose. He pivoted with her, stepping back to turn to watch her as she left the battery again—being just a little ostentatious about it. He saw her grin widen before she turned away and walked out of the battery back across the deck.

Shaking his head, Garrus turned back to the battery terminal. He brought up the task list, scanned the running calibration routines for about three seconds, and then left the terminal behind entirely. The programs he'd set to run could run without him for a little while longer. Instead, he crossed to his bunk, sat down, opened his omni-tool viewscreen, and started looking through the files Mordin had sent him.


A/N: WOW, this chapter took me a lot of time and effort. I almost regret writing Garrus into the ending of Samara's loyalty mission. Brought up a WHOLE lot of questions about exactly how wrong he was to mark Shepard and Morinth that I had to wrestle through before I could end this chapter to my satisfaction, and that's not even getting into Shepard and Garrus's insecurities about the way their relationship is changing or Garrus's little chat with Joker.

Review if you've got something to say about any of the above, or anything else either. I'd love to hear from you!

This chapter marks two-thirds of the way through Sometimes Grace. For those of you reading this fic with Disaster Zone: Resurrection or revisiting it as we go along, Chapter Eight of DZ:R, "Dirty," takes place in the period of time Garrus is off the Normandy getting mods for the Locusts.

I am going to take a little bit of a break from SG after this chapter. Hopefully nothing like after I lost three chapters of work that one time, or like after my Illium-arc fatigue. But the next chapter marks another transition in this story—to a large arc devoted to the attack on the Collectors that will by necessity include several chapters that I'm going to have to write almost entirely without the canon crutch. I need a little more time to sketch them out and fill them in. When I've got a lot of meat in between the IFF mission and the crew's abduction (in Chapter 47), I think I'll be ready to start posting again.

Until then, best always,

LMSharp