It's not even a thought process any more. Eject clip, lean out of cover, scope, fire. Repeat. You feel a mild thrill as a rocket whizzes over your head just as you drop back behind the wall, but that's the tenth such time that's happened. Adrenaline can only pump so fast.
You glance over at Garrus as you feel a wave of fatigue wash through you, knowing you have a thousand more enemies to kill and a hundred treaties to broker and a quadrillion people to save before you can sleep. That one ancient Robert Frost poem seems especially fitting in the moment, and though you're a simple person with simple goals, for a moment you wish that you weren't so strong. So stubborn. That you'd died on Akuze, and some other marine had survived.
That the galaxy wasn't depending on you.
You lean out of cover, fire, and watch dispassionately as another rocket flies by. You eject your thermal clip and lean out of cover once more. Garrus shouts "Nice shot!" as a head explodes in your scope, but you're too busy ejecting and leaning to acknowledge him.
You're always too busy.
Even getting downtime on the Citadel feels like a chore, because everyone wants something. A cultural item from their homeworld or more supplies or a place to go. You've taken to delegating most tasks to Kaidan or Traynor, and taking your "shore leave" in the port observation deck.
You curl up in the corner and watch the stars, watch the ships float by in silence. Watch the galaxy spin, in its blueness and its vibrance.
Sure, it's worth saving. But every time a distress signal is routed to the Normandy, every time you watch a thermal clip chunk out of your rifle, you feel your soul get a little heavier. And you're worried. That it won't be enough. Even though it has to be, because this war can't be lost.
(What if we lose?)
(What if we all die?)
(What if you fail?)
There's a bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy waiting on Chakwas' desk for you to come back. Maybe you'll drink it, maybe you won't.
But you'll make sure she does.
(part two i guess?)
Sometimes space is described as black, but it's not. It's blue. A deep, navy blue that seems black until you spend days, months, years, staring out at the galaxy from an observation deck on a frigate — and then you realize. The universe is blue.
You cross your arms and turn off your brain for a moment, forgetting the crushing weight of the world that rests upon your shoulders. No more humans back on Earth needing your help. No more turians dying, no more Garrus worrying about his family.
No more Mordin sacrificing himself because someone else might get it wrong. No more making promises that you fear you can't keep.
Just the blue of galaxy.
You can tell Garrus worries about how much time you spend on the observation deck. You can't bring yourself to admit to him the bonecrushing, airsucking, paralyzing fear that chills your blood each time you even glance at your N7 helmet or the vidcomm to Hackett. But it's too much. It's too much to share with anyone, even the one being in the galaxy who you possibly think could handle it.
It's unfair.
It's unfair that this weight is on you, and you alone, but you must bear it; not only for your sake, but for the sake of protecting not just Garrus but Mordin's sacrifice and Wrex and Eve's progress and Joker and EDI and Kaidan and Liara and Ashley's memory and —
This is the reason you can't sleep. You open your eyes and take in the galaxy.
It's something worth saving.
You just hope you've got it in you.