Author's Note: Up to this point, I've been using italics to indicate a memory/flashback. But in this chapter I found myself with a memory-within-a-memory scenario and very limited formatting options. So! Anything in italics is memory, and anything
{both italicized and center-justified}
is a memory of a memory. Because I complicate things. It's a curse.
Thump-thump-thump-thump. The metronome of boots in unison. As soothing as a mother's heartbeat. The squad let Shepard set the pace, and pride made her set a hard one. She never thought of herself as getting older, but if these Marines were young then she definitely wasn't that, anymore. Along paths, over gentle slopes, through trees and grassy places, the seven of them double-timed it through some kind of not-quite-public park. It was a common area, but only seemed to be used by Alliance personnel. A green island in the middle of a city that sprawled so seamlessly that it was hard to tell where the civilian space ended and the Alliance military complex began. The squad grew bored with the steady pace and started practicing formation drills with her as the centerpoint, switching positions on the move as Vega barked out signals.
They were literally running circles around her. Brats.
Shepard let them have their fun. If soldiers weren't giving you shit, they didn't think you were worth their time. This simple acceptance started knitting something back together inside her that she had given up for permanently torn. The reconstruction of Shepard was far more complicated than simply bringing her body back to life. For a human-centric organization, Cerberus had been stunningly neglectful of the humanity aspect of her resurrection.
Thump-thump-thump-thump. Fourteen boots pounding pavement didn't sound much like two boots echoing on bulkheads, but the memory rose up all the same. She let herself sink into the rhythm of the run and the vivid echo behind her eyes.
Thump-thump-thump-thump. Steady tread of booted feet echoing through the Normandy's passageways. Skeleton crew of the night cycle kept out of her way, marking her passage with tired smiles and the occasional murmured "Commander". Her crew. She had barrelled into hell to snatch them all back from the Collectors, and left nothing but scorched rubble behind her. A lesson to all those who would try to steal her people. For now, until she had to hand them all back to Cerberus, this crew was hers. They seemed content with that.
Shepard should have been sleeping. The victory party had been long and raucous, and wound down hours prior. There was a bed full of warm, sleeping assassin in her cabin that should have beckoned her. But even after hours of celebrating with her squad, and then a marvelous private celebration with Thane (followed by a quick shower; the only one of Mordin's medical predictions about sex with a Drell to come true was the mild rash issue, easily solved by prompt bathing) Shepard had found herself wide awake. Restless. Full to brimming with a nervous hum that seemed to radiate from her bones out. She had tried to distract herself with reports and rosters, tallying the dead and compiling the evidence of a pending Reaper incursion, but sitting still was simply out of the question. After the third time that her pacing back and forth had caused Thane to stir in his sleep, she decided it was time to leave the cabin.
A quick search of her gear had found only one garment specified for shipboard PT: a slim-fitting one piece suit made of some ultralight synthetic material. It covered her completely from neck to knees, and hid absolutely nothing. Faced with the options of wearing that, or wearing a full uniform, the choice was disgruntlingly clear. She looked about as naked as she felt; the material was so light and breathable that it might as well have been nonexistent. Apparently the skintight design of Miranda's uniform was actually Cerberus standard. Oh well. At least it was black.
And so she jogged the halls of the Normandy, bow to stern, every floor. EDI helpfully suggested more efficient routes for her to take, even going so far as to provide red blinking guidance lights on the floorboards. Shepard thanked the AI, but completely ignored the lights. Skipping the elevator, she found service hatches and passages between decks that she'd never known existed. Every square foot of hull that passed her gaze, each newly discovered nook and hold, chipped away at the hard knot of tension that had been sitting in the center of her chest since she had first returned to find the Normandy empty of everyone but Joker. The Normandy had been violated by the Collectors, and it had felt like a violation of her own self. Shepard found herself reaching out from time to time as she ran, brushing fingers across a bulkhead as she turned a tight corner, jumping up mid-stride to smack a palm against an overhead beam. Bonding with her ship. Reclaiming her.
Sweating and tired in body if not in mind, she ended her run in the mess hall at the center of the crew deck. The chairs were empty, the big windows of the med bay were dark, and all was quiet but for the ever-present hum of FTL drives. Shepard helped herself to a bottle of water from the mess and set about pacing the length of the hallway to the forward battery, cooling down.
Reaching the end of the hall, she pondered the door. When Garrus had first arrived, she had periodically checked on him, her wounded friend. Once he had healed, she just never stopped checking in, and the visits evolved into a consistent after-mission ritual. They would both go to quarters, get cleaned up, then meet in the forward battery to talk. Review the mission, swap bull over old war stories, whatever. Mordin, ever observant, had dubbed those meetings the "mission post-mortem, conducted by Doctors Shepard and Vakarian". Sometimes, other squad members would join them. Tali was a regular, with her playful wit and genius. Dr. Chakwas would saunter over from med bay if she suspected they might be dodging her for wound care. Even Joker would join them if the Normandy was docked. Thane never did, though, politely claiming a need for dry air and meditation. Nobody managed to stay for the duration of the bull session; it ran too late for most folks, since turians needed less sleep than any other species but the Salarians, and part of Shepard's fancy new cybernetics was a circadian modulator that trimmed her rest cycles down to four hours a night. In the end it had always been Shepard and Vakarian shutting the crew deck down.
This mission had been different, though. The last mission. In all the chaos of the escape from the exploding Collector base and the ensuing celebration, Shepard and Garrus had both missed the chance for their post-mortem. The next stop was the Terminus systems, and dropping off any crew who didn't want to return to the Alliance. There were no more missions. Standing at the door now, she felt a pang of something in her chest. She tapped the door, not actually expecting Garrus to be inside. Not at this hour.
The doors slid open and there he was, bottle in hand and surprise all over his face.
They stared at each other for a long moment. The forward battery was darkened, weapons powered down for the first time in ages, which left Garrus awash in the glow from the hallway behind her, half-sitting on the central console. He was still wearing parts of his armor, greaves and boots, but his chestpiece and gauntlets were strewn on the floor. Something about the scene seemed familiar, but before she could puzzle that out she was distracted by the man himself.
In all the time that she had known Garrus, she had never seen him out of armor. It was turian tradition to remain battle-ready at all times during war, and they had never known each other in peacetime. Upper body covered in a snug underarmor material, he was both more and less physically imposing. Less, because he seemed smaller without that broad shell of a chestpiece. More, because now she could see that he was made entirely of solid bone and muscle. Not an ounce of spare flesh. The forward jut of his breastbone swept gracefully up to the cowl of bone and plating that protectively encircled his neck. Shoulders shifted and bunched powerfully, slabs of muscle moved under rigid plates across his angled chest and tapered down to a narrow, corded waist. She felt her eyebrows climb; if this was common for turian male physiques, human females were in serious trouble.
Garrus was getting an eyeful of her, too, steel-blue eyes wide and staring, ever-present visor gone for once. Belatedly, she realized how she must look, silhouetted by the hallway light in the ridiculous skintight Cerberus outfit.
"Lights," she muttered, and the battery's service lights flicked on. She blinked in the new brightness, but Garrus just kept staring. turian eyes were naturally attuned to brighter illumination, and adjusted to changes in light exponentially faster than human eyes. No blinking for him. No closing his mouth, either.
"Mandibles in, Vakarian," she drawled, propping one hand on a hip and swigging from her water bottle with the other. "This is just Cerberus's stupid idea of what PT gear should look like."
Now he blinked, snapped his mandibles shut. "Shepard! I just thought …" there was a tone to his subchords that she had never heard before, which was odd. She was sure she'd heard it all from him by now. He hefted a bottle, and she could tell by the glassy slosh that he'd already drunk half of it, "... it doesn't matter what I thought. Want?" He held the bottle out to her. "It's crap, but it's booze. Best I could get on a vigilante's salary. Safe for both of us."
His words echoed oddly in her ears, like she was hearing him say them twice. She covered her confusion by taking the bottle and tipping it back, chugging a mouthful of the worst wine she'd ever tasted. She could feel Garrus's eyes on her, probably waiting to see her choke on the stuff.
It was a near thing, but she didn't choke. Coughing was not the same thing as choking. Garrus chuckled and took his bottle back. "Shouldn't you be sleeping like all the other good little humans?"
She shook her head, both to clear the lingering word-echoes and answer him. Tapped a finger against her temple. "Tick-tock, remember? Couldn't sleep if I wanted to, anyway. Didn't seem right to lay my head down without putting the Normandy to bed, first." She winced, stepping over to sit on the crate that was her usual perch, sprawling tired legs with a sigh, "I don't think that even makes sense."
Chin ducked downward, flaring the fringe of his headplates over his collar, Garrus made an agreeable rumble, "Sure it does. You're the commanding officer of this ship, and while you were away somebody hurt her. Broke into her and stole her crew. Got to reassure her - and yourself - that it won't happen again." His head turned slightly, sliding a glance in her direction as his voice dropped to a foreboding thrum, "... Even though it probably will."
She leaned back on her hands and quirked a brow at him, "That's what I like about you, Garrus. Always such a ray of sunshine."
He gave a dry chuckle, "I'm not the one you come to for sunshine, Shepard." Again, that strange note in the flanging of his voice. "I'm more of a truth and wisecracks guy. And the truth is: the price of being as good as you are is that enemies who can't hurt you directly will hurt any part of you that they can reach. And the Normandy is a part of you."
Hearing her private ruminations spoken aloud in that resonant voice made her heart thump. She had never told anyone about the kinship she had found with her ship while wandering Alchera, and it was … something … to think that he somehow knew. Her tone was guarded when she asked, "What do you mean?"
Twitch of a mandible said Garrus caught the tone, heft of a sigh said he was choosing his next words carefully. Arms folded under his breastbone, tensing some muscles and relaxing others, stretching the underarmor fabric across the bony ridge of his spine. "Shepard …"
{"Shepard …" an echo of the word a half-second behind. A different voice. Still Garrus, but so tired.}
"... Why do you think I keep the weapons so fine-tuned?"
"Because you like really big guns?" Shepard blinked hard, covering her disorientation with smartassery.
"Yes. Because I like really big guns," he snarked back, eyes narrowed. "But also because I'm … well, I'm not a very good turian." She looked a question at him. He pushed away from the console to prowl the small space, "A good turian would build a small altar in his quarters, honoring the spirit of his military unit. But I haven't built one since I left my father's house. Praying to the spirit of C-Sec always seemed vaguely sacrilegious, and then on Omega I was just working too hard at keeping us all alive to take the time. Maybe if I had …" he shook his head, derailing that train of thought, "Anyway. When I came here, I didn't need to build an altar to the spirit of this unit. Because I was looking at it every day."
His gaze met hers from across the small room, and there was an unfamiliar weight to it. She shifted, leaning forward to brace elbows on knees, leaning into that weight. "Garrus," her voice was quiet, careful, "I'm not a spirit."
"No. You're not. You're flesh and bone and a whole mess of cybernetics," A mandible twitched, "in a very practical outfit." She lifted a lazy middle finger. He snorted, humor fading as quickly as it had come, "But everything fell apart when the Normandy went down. When you died ..."
{"... were dead." the other-Garrus gasped, voice flanging with fatigue and shock.}
"... And it didn't start coming back together until Cerberus brought you back to life. Both of you."
One long-fingered hand reached out to rest against the bulkhead, and Shepard knew he was talking about herself and the Normandy. Her head was starting to reel, from the bizarre echoing Garrus voices, from shock of realizing that his insight saw into the connection that had been her own private musing, from the draught of bad wine in her belly. She ducked her head, gaze resting on her hands while she tried to focus.
"I know you don't like all the hero-worship crap." His subchords were amused in a tired sort of way, "But Shepard, this is me talking. I don't worship your legend, I just know you. The soldier, the stubborn ass, the terrible dancer, the friend." That last word was spoken softly, and drew her gaze back up to meet his. Something warm stirred in her chest, rose into her throat at the sight of the quiet honesty in those normally cynical blue eyes. His voice went on, still soft and harmonic, "When Cerberus rebuilt you and the Normandy, they tied you together with invisible, unbreakable threads. If this unit has a spirit, it looks like the Normandy … but its name is Commander Shepard."
What could she possibly say to that? She could barely swallow past whatever emotion was crowding her throat, let alone speak. Garrus broke eye contact first, turning to step to the console and lean down, bracing his hands against it. He spoke without looking at her. "turians honor our military spirits by taking care of them. Praying to them. I can't pray to you; it's too weird. And I can't take care of you," again, those strange subchord tones that she'd heard when she first walked in. He cleared his throat to dispel them, went on with a growl, "But I can take care of the Normandy. Calibrate the hell out of her cannons, make her teeth as sharp as I can get them. This forward battery is my altar."
There was an ache in his voice that pulled at her. Her tall turian friend, proud spine bent over the console, over the altar that he would be losing all over again once they returned to Council space. Some impulse drove her to her feet, pushed her to close the distance between them and lay her hand on top of his. Her five fingers naturally shifted to align with his three, and for a moment they both just looked at their hands resting together on the console.
"You do take care of me, Garrus," she said quietly, simply. "There's no way I could've survived this long without you." He shook his head slightly, not looking at her. She jostled his arm for emphasis, not willing to let him deny it, pressing down on his hand till she could feel the slender tendons under her fingers, through his glove. "I am so grateful, so proud, to know that once I get home you'll be out there somewhere. Watching my six."
A huff of breath that was almost a chuckle trailed into a rumbling hum. "Dunno if my scope can sight across half the galaxy. I mean, I'm good, but I'm not break-the-laws-of-physics good." He lifted his head, met her gaze from closer than they had ever physically been without huddling together in cover while bullets flew by. Something about the look in his eyes made her feel like there were bullets pinging in the quiet room. Bullets that she couldn't see. "Shepard, I …"
{"Shepard … I thought you were dead." the fatigue in his voice matched the slow weight of his movement, as though his bones ached. The shock in his subchords matched the surprise that dropped her jaw, threw her arms wide.
"Garrus! What are you doing here?" She could have hugged the big turian, she was so damn glad to see him. Finally, someone she knew could be trusted completely. Someone who wasn't on the Cerberus payroll. But the presence of Jacob and Miranda at her back kept her in check. As intended.
"Just keeping my skills sharp," there was a breathless quality to his voice, banter covering the way his eyes pored hungrily over every inch of her face, then flickered to the Cerberus operatives behind her as he shifted the rifle across his knees. "A little target practice."
A tiny shake of her head answered his implied question, turned down his silent offer to take Miranda and Jacob out right then and there. Words continued, to cover the real conversation, "You okay?"
One shoulder hitched up: message received, no killing the nice operatives, "Been better," he would stay vigilant, though, watch her back, "But it sure is good to see a friendly face."
His face. Tatters of flesh and glistening bone, blue blood gushing, splattering the floor, bubbling in his throat. Pain rolled his eyes, wide and wild and unfocused until she forced him to look at her. With her voice, she shouted for Miranda to call for evac. With her eyes, she ordered him to stay with her. Begged him. It was too soon to lose him, too cruel to take away the only soul in the galaxy she could trust. He tried to speak, jaw too shattered for words, but only subchords came out. Strange and sad, pained.
Spotlight in her peripheral vision, and she tore her eyes away from Garrus with a snarl. If it was another gunship, there would be fiery hell to pay. But no, it was the evac shuttle. Medics were rushing in their direction, rushing out of the light.
Jacob's voice, "Commander, they're here. You need to let him go so they can treat him. Commander!"}
"Commander?" A gentle voice, softly accented. Bright light shined in her eyes. "Shepard, can you hear me?"
"Why isn't she responding?" Garrus, demanding words laced with the jarring subchords of anxiety.
Gentle voice again, calmly, "Garrus, for the last time. Muzzle it, or I will personally kick your arse out of my med bay." Dr. Chakwas, then.
"Concern for Shepard commendable." A rapidfire, nasal voice. Not unkind. Mordin. "But interruptions unhelpful. Best to let us work."
Work? Cool weight at her temples, chest, the bend of her arm. Sensors adhered to her skin, beeping softly. She blinked against the light in her eyes, earning her an approving sound from Dr. Chakwas. "Looks like we're coming back 'round. Commander Shepard, can you hear me?"
The light moved, and she was able to focus. On the ceiling. She was lying on her back while people moved around her. Instinct snapped her upright, swung her legs over the side of the exam table, spike of panic clearing the last of the vagueness from her thoughts: it was too much like waking up in the Project Lazarus lab. The sensors on her chest shrilled a brief alarm, then fell silent as she found familiar faces around her and her heart rate calmed. Mordin and Dr. Chakwas nearby. Garrus behind them, whole and alive, not bleeding out under her hands.
"What the hell happened?" she growled. For some reason, that made everyone in the room smile slightly.
"If you're feeling well enough to grumble, then I'd say you're well on your way to right again." Dr. Chakwas said, poking at her omni-tool and making the sensors beep.
Mordin answered her, in his prompt way, "Brief drop in blood pressure resulted in loss of consciousness. Likely due to combination of stress and exertion." He sniffed, "And cheap alcohol."
"You fainted," Garrus drawled, folding his arms and leaning back against the other exam table.
She scowled at him. "I did not."
He lifted a single browplate, mimicking an expression he had seen all too often on her face. "Did so. Collapsed right there in the battery. I had to carry you in here, like some kind of swooning damsel in distress." The fact that he was teasing her about it said just how relieved he was, and maybe how badly she had scared him.
"What Officer Vakarian claims is factually accurate, if somewhat hyperbolic," EDI's smooth voice spoke from the AI interface that popped up at Garrus's elbow. "When I detected the unsafe drop in your vital signs, I contacted Doctor Chakwas and Professor Solus and directed them to this med bay. Officer Vakarian carried you here from the forward battery."
She turned her scowl on the faceless orb of the AI. "You were monitoring my vitals?"
"I monitor the vital signs of every person aboard the Normandy at all times, Commander."
Oh. "Fine, okay, I fainted. No big deal. Anybody would've, after the day I've had."
Dr. Chakwas snorted, "You're hardly 'anybody', Shepard."
"That is accurate," EDI confirmed. Chatty little AI. "Your vitals frequently reflect stress levels that would hospitalize an average human. I have had to create a new standard scale by which to judge your condition in order to prevent you from skewing my comprehensive data for the crew."
"Nice going, Shepard," Garrus scolded, teeth flashing in a grin, "You broke the data."
Grumbling, she picked at the sensors on her arms, "Let's just get these things off of me so everyone can go back to bed."
"A moment, Commander," Mordin stepped in front of her, wide eyes dancing between the sensors at her temples, one tapered finger tapping his chin thoughtfully. "While physical signs were consistent with loss of consciousness, neurological signs were not. Very active. More like patterns of rapid-eye-movement dream activity than expected dormancy."
"Your eyes were wide open the whole time, Shepard," Garrus spoke with his slow cadence of thoughts in motion, "And moving. Like you were watching something only you could see."
Her mouth went dry. What they were describing sounded familiar. Her voice was thinner than she would have liked when she asked Garrus, "Did I … did I say anything? While I was … out."
"No." His gaze sharpened at the wariness in her tone. "Why?"
Mordin folded his arms, shaking his broken-crested head in reproach. "Did warn of potential hallucinatory effects of oral contact, Shepard."
Damn all quick-witted Salarians. For no reason that she could name, she desperately wanted to not be talking about this. Not with Garrus in the room. Maybe she could keep things vague ..."Yeah, but I've had ... oral contact ... several times, with no ill effect. This is the first time I've been hit with something like this."
Garrus looked back and forth between the two of them. "Oral contact with what?"
Bless him, Mordin ignored the question. "What was nature of hallucination? Visual? Auditory? Ah! Perhaps gustatory!"
"It was a … memory," she glanced at Garrus, who was scowling, trying to puzzle out what was going on. His face was scarred, but whole. Not shattered. "A full-sensory flashback, crystal clear. A little too real." Her hands were not covered in hot blue blood. She had to look down to be sure.
Mordin made an intrigued, excited sound, his words a tumbling staccato, "Hmm! Will need sample. Run tests. Theorize interaction with cybernetics, possible re-route of hallucinogenic compounds to memory centers of brain. Effects could be long-term! Improved clarity of recall hardly undesirable. Loss of consciousness problematic. Hmm. Would advise against further oral contact until testing completed."
"Hallucinogenic?" Garrus asked, dubious, "That wine was cheap, not psychadelic. I can get the bottle if you need a sample, though."
"No, no," Mordin wave a dismissive hand. "Not wine. Need salivary sample. From Thane."
So much for vague. The sudden heat in her cheeks was not a blush. Commander Shepard did not blush, especially when she had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Garrus let out a dry chuckle, tipping his chin down and scratching at the underside of his fringe; the turian version of blushing, which he also certainly was not doing.
"A-a-a-a-and that's my cue to leave," his words were just a bit too bright, his subchords jangling, "I'll just go roust Thane out of Life Support and send him over, then go find something that needs calibrating."
In for a penny …"He's not in Life Support," Shepard admitted.
Garrus lifted that browplate again, "Then where ..?"
EDI piped up, ever helpful, "At present, Thane Krios is asleep in Commander Shepard's cabin."
Garrus looked at the ceiling, his mandibles pulled in tight in the expression she had come to recognize as his poker face. Whatever he was thinking, he was trying not to show it. Shepard wanted to crawl in a hole or shoot something. Or both. It hadn't been that long ago that Garrus had been regaling her with tales of reach and flexibility on board a turian vessel, and that had been funny. Why was this so weird?
Merciless as any computer, EDI went on, "I can wake Thane and inform him that his presence is requested in the med bay, if it will help to avoid any undue awkwardness."
"I do believe that ship has flown, EDI," Dr. Chakwas stepped in crisply, saving them all. "But thank you for your consideration. Please do invite Thane to join us."
Garrus was slipping out the door when Shepard's voice stopped him, "Vakarian! Good work, today. And thanks. For … everything." It was lame, too little and, if the odd ache in her chest was any indication, maybe too late.
He half-turned, looking back at her over the curve of his cowl. Simple words were made complicated by those strange subchords again, more familiar this time. "Any time, Shepard."
Thump-thump-thump-thump. The run went on, had gone one for who knew how long, and the steady machine of her body was starting to feel the strain. Damned if she would be the first to call for a rest, though.
James and the other beefcake Marine had moved to the back of the group, their stamina not quite up to the unflagging ridiculousness of their slimmer squadmates. Shepard would smirk if she wasn't suffering, herself. She wondered what EDI would think of her superhuman vitals now.
And just like that, with a pang like a cramp in her soul, she missed her ship.
"Hey, LT," she called over her shoulder.
"Ma'am?" James did an admirable job of not sounding winded.
"Any chance we can swing by the airfield?" She tried for nonchalant, but it was hard to sound casual when she was huffing.
"No can do, Commander. You're cleared for outdoor PT in the Commons only. Vice-Admiral Williams barely allowed that." He paused for breath. She caught the eye of the tall male Marine next to her; they shared a smirk at Vega's expense. "Dunno what you did to piss him off."
Got his family killed. A Williams in a command position who had a hate for the name of Shepard was probably related to Ash. Not everyone understood about what had happened on Virmire. Tough calls were tough for a reason. But these kids didn't need to hear about that. "Just let me know if that changes, Vega. I promise I won't commandeer her. Just want to say hi."
"Yes ma'am."
After a moment, the other giant Marine keeping pace with James behind her tried to ask a question in a quiet voice, but a man that size simply can't get his voice to drop below a certain volume. She could hear him clearly. "LT, who's she talkin' about?"
"Her ship, pendejo. The Normandy." There was a reverence in his rough voice when he said the name of her ship that made her like him better, and sent a spear of longing through her gut.
Her mind filled with useless worry. About her ship, being busily retrofitted by perfectly competent Alliance techs. About her crew, scattered across the stars and perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. She wished more than anything to be back aboard, standing behind the helmsman, feeling the subtle vertigo of a mass relay's pull. The Normandy (and everything she represented) was so close, docked at the nearby airfield, but might as well be lightyears away for all that she could reach it. With the rush of frustrated longing came a loss of focus, and she could hear her breath start to wheeze in her throat like the labored rattle of a dying animal.
Or a wounded turian.
Context was everything. Craving something she needed, but couldn't touch. Something that made her feel whole and alive and in command of her own existence, but she couldn't have it because she had let it go, entrusted it to the care of another. Wishing. Longing. And knowing she could only wait and hope. Unable to speak of it, but sound came out of her anyway. A sound like strange subchords from a familiar turian.
She had heard them for the first time when he had taken that rocket to the face, looked up at her and tried to talk through a mangled jaw. Those pained tones. She had not heard them again until that last night, strange out of the context of bloodshed and loss, now obvious in the clarity of recall. Once, when he had first seen her in the battery doorway, a practically nude shadow ...
"Shepard! I just thought ... it doesn't matter what I thought."
And again, when he referred to their friendship ...
"I'm not the one you come to for sunshine, Shepard."
"And I can't take care of you. … But I can take care of the Normandy."
… or what their friendship was not.
The realization hit her like a punch in the face. Shocked her out of cadence entirely. She stumbled, upper body pitching forward while her legs tried to remember which one was supposed to move next.
It was the only thing that saved her from the sniper.