Chapter Title Inspiration: "She tries to speak and stops with half-spoken words." Vergil, Aeneid.
Apparently the titling function on doesn't like hyphens. My apologies to those of you (like me) the discrepancy bothers.
Chapter Note: This scene takes place soon after Horizon, probably later the same day/night, and probably preceeding chapter 3 of Parts Answering Parts, the chronological ordering of this chapter and the next being largely an accident of luck. Slight Edit 8-5-10
Shepard grinned at him, the expression raw, pained but honest. "Thanks for telling Kaidan he was being an ass."
Garrus grinned back. "Hey, you know I call 'em like I see 'em...even when I should keep my mouth shut...probably."
"The galaxy would be a hell of a lot better place if everyone called problems—called 'em and took their shots," Shepard said simply. "But damned if even the good ones—the best—will so much as step out of the sights. It's enough to make my blood boil—or give me a pounding headache."
"Alenko always did give nearly as many migranes as he got," Garrus couldn't help saying.
"Did he?" Under other circumstances, her intrigued expression would have made him laugh. "How did you manage to avoid going stark raving mad?"
"It wasn't easy..." Garrus said with a half-shake of his head, his own rueful chuckle.
Shepard shook her head in sympathetic response, light flickering across that odd, limp down humans had in place of fringe. Strange stuff, really—even after years of observing it a countless plethora of variations, Garrus still hadn't been able to divine what—if any—discernible purpose it could possibly serve.
And yet humans—and not just women; he'd caught Alenko adjusting his according to his reflection in some shiny hullplate or machinery-face more than once—seemed strangely obsessed with the stuff. Shepard perhaps less than some—Williams, for example, had apparently been stockpiling it.
"It's never easy, is it, Garrus? And yet, we keep on doing it."
"Being the good guys, you mean?" Garrus responded, surprised. "I suppose we do, at that. You'd think we'd learn."
"Nah. The likes of us are too damn pig-headed for that—actually," Shepard said, suddenly pensive, "I suppose that's how we ended up here—alone. Everyone else in the galaxy—everyone else—"
Garrus knew her voice had gone hard and bitter because of Alenko, but the tone matched his own feelings in the days and weeks after she'd died, his rage, his disappointment, his disbelief, his disgust, his sense of abandonment as he'd realized no one wanted the truth...
No one appreciated her help, no one respected what she'd accomplished, no one was willing to honor her sacrifice by continuing to fight...and even her memory was lost...
"—accepts injustice...they accept uncertainty...they accept insecurity...they accept ignorance and embrace powerlessness like terms of surrender for battles they've already lost...But we're too...what...brave?.. stupid?..to go down without a fight. Everyone looks at us as though we've failed—failed ourselves, failed them—and, maybe in the end they'll be right...but, hell, at least we've tried—and, ultimately, they're the ones who failed us. I mean—" Shepard trailed off, blood rushing to her cheeks, staining them an even deeper shade of red than usual.
It took Garrus several heartbeats to recognize her unfamiliar expression—Shepard was embarrassed.
He watched her, surprised by the urge to reach out and touch her in some way, as she'd touched him with her voice, with her words. He wanted to touch her, but he was uncertain, unsure.
Her eyes reflected that, too. "I...uh," she mumbled awkwardly. "I didn't mean to put words in your mouth."
"I suppose you did," Garrus said, surprised he hadn't noticed.
Shepard's flush deepened again at the words. Garrus felt an immediate twinge of guilt he couldn't quite explain. After all, he'd only been confirming something she'd pointed out, something he often did. "But they were my words, Shepard. We've always spoken the same the language."