Val knew that visiting John Shepard's room every day was just scratching away at a scab. She hardly even needed to think about it any more. Even as she thought about how her legs were getting stronger, and how her mother was worried over Ivan, whose recovery was slower (and far away), her feet found their way toward the appropriate corridor. She had just turned the last corner when she heard a commotion behind her: a flurry of footsteps, some light, some heavy, and a cacophony of raised voices, several people talking over each other. Shepard tensed, flattening her hand against the wall; she found her mind rapidly running over the layout and options (no weapons ready to hand, people behind her, corridor ahead, John Shepard's room not far ahead on her right). She shook her head, irritated with herself; there was no likely threat here. As she turned toward the noise, keeping her back to the wall, an irritated, higher-pitched voice pierced through of the din.
"I don't care what his condition is, you can't keep me from seeing him!"
The voice was so familiar that Val's breath caught. Her chest tightened, and her stomach lurched with a sudden queasiness. Her head snapped around so fast her neck ached. "Liara?" she murmured under her breath.
Time seemed to slow, as it sometimes did in combat. A knot of people swarmed down the hall toward her: medics in scrubs and white coats, people in Alliance uniform, the bulkier forms of people in armor. Out of the knot, brushing off a white-coated man who was attempting to speak to her, strode Liara T'soni, her lips pressed in a tight line. Liara stood out, almost too vivid and sharp; the people around her blurred in Shepard's eyes. Liara's white coat looked like the lightly armored one Val remembered her favoring throughout the war, but it was streaked with dirt and scorch marks. Liara's left arm, bandaged, hung in a sling. Her face was drawn, her cheekbones more prominent than Shepard remembered, and some recent wound had left an angry violet streak across her forehead. Liara ignored the medics and strode past Val without seeming to see her. With a wave of her right hand, the door to John Shepard's room flew open and crashed into the wall. Val flinched.
The two guards at the door reached for their weapons — a little slowly, but Val couldn't really blame them for being caught off guard. Liara's fingers curled, a mere flicker of movement, and both of them sailed away, landing in a heap at the end of the corridor, under a drooping potted plant. Liara didn't even glance in their direction. She halted on the threshold, her hand going briefly to her lips as she stared into the room. Her blue eyes widened, glistening with tears. "Oh," she said softly. "Shepard." Then she stepped in, oblivious to the crowd in the corridor behind, or the two guards groaning at the end of the hall. The door slammed shut after her.
"He's in no condition for visitors," the man in white protested to the air. He must be the highest-ranking doctor on hand. Val, remembering to breathe, didn't envy him.
"I don't recommend trying to remove her. Unless you'd like your hospital to have large holes in it."
The second voice made Val spin around again, tearing her eyes from the closed door. Liara's furious momentum had caught all her attention before, but now the armored figures that she'd vaguely registered as traveling in Liara's wake resolved themselves into deeply familiar figures.
"Garrus," she whispered, transfixed.
"She can't just stay in there indefinitely," the doctor said. He ran a hand over his balding head and scowled in the direction of the door.
Garrus shrugged, his heavy armor creaking. "Give her some time. She'll probably calm down."
"If you're lucky," James Vega muttered. Garrus glanced in his direction and flicked a mandible at him.
Garrus. Garrus was here. She couldn't help but stare, drinking in the sight of him. He was here. He was alive. She hadn't been sure. He could have been anywhere, doing anything. She could have made him up altogether. What information she'd been able to get her hands on hadn't even told her for certain whether he'd ever been part of John Shepard's crew. But he looked well enough. Like she'd remembered, or imagined. Sound and healthy. Even the pattern of scars on the right side of his face looked the same, she thought. She ought to know; she'd traced them enough times with her fingertips. The set of his mandibles and the slightly discolored skin around his eyes suggested he was weary, but he didn't appear injured. He moved down the corridor with a familiar, confident stride, arms loose at his sides. Weapons in easy reach, but not especially tense or alert. His armor appeared intact, if scuffed and singed. It was a sharp contrast to what her memory told her was the last time she'd seen him. Then, he'd been limping and battered, with Tali gamely supporting his weight in spite of her slighter build, his armor sparking in a way that promised worse damage beneath the surface. She'd touched his face, for what she knew — thought — feared — might be the last time, and then she'd turned and run. She'd seen him reach for her as she turned, but she'd ignored his outstretched hand. She didn't dare linger; it might get them all killed, and there was no point in having broken protocol and called for an evac if she didn't get to the damned beam and end the damned war.
But he looked fine, here and now, whole and solid and real. Involuntarily, her hand rose from her side, and she had to restrain herself from reaching out to him. She closed her fingers into a fist and dropped it back to her side.
The movement drew his attention nonetheless. Garrus tilted his head toward her, blue eyes focusing on her with a familiar sharp, inquisitive look. "Do I know you?"
She felt, abruptly, nauseous and light-headed. She took a step backward. Her shoulder blade bumped against the wall behind her. She swallowed hard and crossed her arms over her chest. "I doubt it." Her voice sounded thin and hoarse, even inside her own head.
Down the hall, the two guards had scrambled to their feet and started back down the hallway. "Easy there," James called out to them, raising a hand. "Relax."
"The asari —" began one of them.
James shook his head. "She ain't gonna hurt him."
Ignoring the exchange, Garrus kept his attention on Val. He turned his head slightly. Focusing his visor on her, she realized. The idea made her keenly conscious of her elevated pulse and trembling knees. Garrus said, "Didn't you say my name a moment ago?"
"I just... recognized you. By reputation." It was a weak lie. Mama was right; she was a bad liar. There was no conviction in her voice. His gaze sharpened, crystal blue eyes intent, and she wondered, with a brief surge of panic, what his visor was telling him about her biometrics. Heart rate, up. Body temperature, low. She dug her fingers into her ribs to keep them from shaking.
James chortled and elbowed Garrus in the side. "What have I been telling you, Scars? Most recognizable turian in the galaxy. All those vids, man, everyone knows you and Shepard were buddies."
His mandibles drew in. "All that Arena fighting was a waste of time."
"Tell that to Shepard," James said. "C'mon, you gotta enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame while it lasts."
Garrus shook his head, returning his attention to Val. "So we haven't met?"
Not in this life. In this life, she was no one to Garrus Vakarian. "I don't think so," she said, hugging herself more tightly. "I'm just here recovering. Val Shepard. Systems Alliance, Lieutenant Commander. Uh, no relation."
"Oh, right," said James. "You're that other Shepard. I heard about you."
She glared at him. He added hastily, "Ma'am."
James looked fine, too, she saw on a quick once-over. As tall and broad as ever, seeming to fill up most of the width of the corridor. No visible injuries, though he was wearing bulky black armor with plenty of scuffs and scorch marks. Behind him, the medics had drawn into a muttering cluster, conferring with each other and occasionally glancing balefully at the closed door.
"Other Shepard?" asked Garrus.
"Heard what?" she asked.
"Same name, same rank as our Shepard. Some kinda biotic whiz, I guess. Pretty loco, no? This one's definitely the prettier Shepard, though." James gave her a grin, one of his flirtatious ones.
This again? And while she was wearing bland, scratchy scrubs that didn't fit right, yet. She supposed it must be a reflex with James, flirting with everyone who crossed his path. Her stomach twisted. Her mouth tightened while she searched for another subject. "So... I see the Normandy crew is back, then." She glanced down the hallway for other familiar faces. There was a corporal lingering awkwardly behind Garrus and James whose face seemed familiar, but none of the ground team or other senior crew. She didn't see Dr. Chakwas consulting with the hospital staff, who were starting to disperse.
James's smile dropped. "Yeah. What's left of us."
Val straightened. "What?" The word came out sharply, in commander voice, completely unintentionally. The mistake made her twitch.
James's shoulders squared, and his expression turned serious. "Had a rough landing. Lost our pilot, lost some crew..."
"Your pilot," she said slowly, stupidly, her heart pounding. Joker. No. Not stubborn, mouthy, loyal Joker.
"Yeah." James shook his head. "Damned shame."
"Might not have landed at all without him," Garrus said, looking down. "We could have lost more."
"Yeah, but hotshot Moreau wouldn't leave it to the A — uh, autopilot. Too much damage to the cockpit. Doc couldn't save him." James shook his head.
"That's... terrible," she said faintly. She knew that cockpit so well; it was too easy to imagine the scene. "And... other crew, you said?"
"Yeah." She was hoping that James would elaborate, but he merely looked grim and rubbed the back of his neck.
"We've all lost too many people in this damned war," Garrus cut in. He was looking at his omni-tool with a tight expression. "Excuse me... Commander, was it? Vega. I need to report to turian command." He started to turn back the way they'd come.
"Want me to stay here for the Doc?" James asked.
Garrus shrugged. "Your call. Aren't you supposed to report to your commanders? Liara can probably find her own way around. Send me a ping if you need me." With a brief nod to Val, he strode back down the corridor. The medical staff had mostly departed while they were talking, although a pair of medics were still halfway down the corridor, having a conversation that involved much gesticulating. The two guards, still looking ruffled and frustrated, had resumed their former positions on either side of John Shepard's door.
James sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "So, what brings you here, Commander?" He gave Val a speculative look.
He wasn't quite flirting. Still, her return glance was wary. The thought of having to go through the teasing and the Lolas all over again just made her tired, especially when she was still feeling shaky, and a little queasy. She shrugged in response. "Got evac'ed after the Hammer ground assault, been here ever since. I'm just stretching my legs. Should be fit for duty again before long."
"I'll say."
Val gritted her teeth. She was not in the mood for this now. Before, Vega's bravado had completely fallen apart once she'd called him on it. But then, she'd been the Commander Shepard... and involved with someone else. Neither of those things was true now, and suddenly she couldn't get away fast enough. She pushed herself off the wall and walked away down the hall, faster than her usual pace around the hospital. To avoid being too rude, she called back over her shoulder, "See you around, Lieutenant."
"You can just call me James," he called after her.
Her throat tightened. She kept walking, determined not to look back. Or ahead, to see if she could spot a turian in blue armor somewhere in the distance. She turned one corner blindly, and then another. Once she had enough space between her and the scene at John Shepard's door that her back at stopped itching, she halted to settle her breathing. Resting one hand flat against the wall to support herself, Val closed her eyes. Joker, dead. Joker, who'd been there since the start. Before the start. Joker, with his chip on his shoulder and his cocky pride that would have been a hell of a lot more annoying if he hadn't had the skills to back it up. Joker, who'd literally pulled her ass out of the fire on Therum, as he insisted on reminding her constantly. Joker, with the unfailing loyalty and the guilt that he always skirted around. Joker, one of the first friendly faces she'd seen after Cerberus dragged her back. She could hardly imagine the Normandy without Joker at the controls. She could hardly imagine a ground mission without his sarcasm in her ear.
What about EDI? How would she cope with losing her pilot, her closest human connection? How did an AI grieve?
And other crew, lost. Which other crew? Ship's crew? The team that had risen to an occasion they'd never expected, kept Normandy running throughout the war, by dint of long hours and dogged determination. Not — God, surely not Dr. Chakwas. Or did James mean the ground crew? Liara and Garrus and James were alive; what about the rest? Which of the people she'd fought and struggled beside and laughed with were gone?
Her eyelids prickled, hot and itchy. She took a deep breath to keep back the tears.
Everybody say Normandy!
She remembered that party, though it was blurred by a bit of drink and several months' elapsed time. Her people, her friends and crew, teasing and amiably bickering, filling up Anderson's sleek, cavernous apartment with life and energy. She'd known then — they'd all known — that they might not all survive the coming battles. They'd been prepared to face that. But to know that some of them — any of them — were gone because of command decisions that weren't hers — that was something else again. A stinging pressure was building up behind her eyes and in the back of her throat, and she wasn't sure whether it tasted like grief or rage.
And Garrus didn't know her. Of course he didn't. Why should he? She shouldn't have expected anything else, should she? He'd been at that Commander Shepard's side, it seemed. Buddies, James said. Lieutenant Commander Val Shepard was no one to him, no one and nothing. They'd been friends, comrades-in-arms, lovers, partners. He was her most trusted confidant, her best tactician. They'd worked together like right and left hands for years... but not here. Not now. Here, he was someone else's right hand. She hoped John Shepard had goddamned well appreciated him.
That life had been real. It felt real. She remembered moments of their life together with crystal clarity: the poise and swagger he'd had back in Dr. Michel's clinic, the second time she'd ever seen him; the shock of recognition that had rocked her to the core when she'd seen him take off his helmet on Omega. She remembered the sickening terror she'd suppressed when he fell, and the metallic stench of turian blood. She remembered his grip on her wrist as they fled the Collector base, hard and unyielding, and the certainty that he would not let her fall. She remembered the taste of his skin and the feel of his mouth, and the blurred warmth of countless nights spent sharing a bed. She knew his body, his voice, his expressions as intimately as she knew anyone's.
And Garrus was real. He was here. He didn't know her, but he was real. She hadn't simply invented him.
She knew things. She knew that Samantha Traynor was allergic to curry, that Liara T'soni could plink out a melody on the piano, that Kaidan Alenko had a surprisingly bad poker face, that James Vega learned how to make eggs from his abuela. She knew that Joker cared more about everyone than he'd ever admit out loud. How could she have such vivid memories of people she'd never met? She couldn't have made it all up. She couldn't have manufactured such a delusion for herself. No. Somehow, somewhere, something had taken all of them from her, for what purpose she couldn't guess. Given her her family, in some kind of grotesque trade.
Maybe she was still on the Citadel, trapped in some delusion or hallucination as her body failed. Maybe something was toying with her out of sheer capricious malice. Maybe this was some kind of hell, some punishment for the lives she'd taken.
So what if it was hell, though. She'd fought her way through hell before. She would find a way to deal with this, and whatever it was, she was damned well not going to cry about it. She pressed her hands against her eyes and swallowed, hard. She almost choked on the lump in her throat, and it burned like acid all the way down.