Normandy Deck 1, 1500 Hours

Commander Kathryn Shepard stood immediately inside the door after she entered the stateroom, frozen in place as she looked ahead with glassy eyes. Her eyes blinked unconsciously as the wall on the far side of the room fell in and out of focus with her breathing, her heart pounding in her chest. Her mind felt like it was racing down and endless road, moving its mental gears as quickly as she could but still going nowhere. Everything was numb as her chest burned and adrenaline pulled the pit of her stomach to her feet.

Menae. We're going to Menae. Palaven's moon. Nobody's heard from the Turians since the attack, goodness knows how far to shit it's gone. And him…

At this she blinked hard, shaking her head to the right while she inhaled deeply, clenching her fists together tightly as she walked stiffly to the bed, removing her boots and placing them precisely centered at the foot of the bed. She could still smell the sterile cleanliness of the hospital room mixed with the iron sting of Ashley's blood, running down her face and neck after moving her had reopened some of her wounds, the face of death reflecting in the red rivulets as she ran behind the medics. Soon antiseptic yielded to cherry blossoms, a smell which had become associated with disappointment since her selection for spectre, the sceptic sweetness filling her nostrils as empty words did her ears. And yet, all she could focus on was the sound of the Turian Councilor as he told her about Menae, about the summit.

She breathed in again, deeply through her nose, releasing the air slowly, if not calming herself than at the very least steeling herself. She stood up, walking with sharp and precise steps to the terminal, her heels hitting as if she were still wearing boots, bruising her feet, but the pain was not unwelcome, grounding almost. The chair turned under her hand with savage speed as she threw herself into it, quickly bringing up her terminal and beginning to read the multitude of reports, a deluge of information sent by Alliance Control, calls for help by any means from the helpless souls on the ground, the reinstatement message placing her in command of The Normandy from Anderson. As she read she could feel her blood pressure rise, her lips pursing and her eyes narrowing, tension becoming the defining factor across her body.

A beep from her terminal broke her from her thoughts.

Inhaling sharply through her nose, she turned towards it, pressing the answer icon with direct, deliberate movements.

"Shepard."

"Commander, course laid in for Palaven, waiting your word."

With unusual military bearing Joker sounded out across the room, his voice echoing against the empty metal bulkheads. Shepard gently closed her eyes as she heard his statement, no sound made but the planet name biting nonetheless.

"Lieutenant, I'm giving the word. Engage."

"Aye aye Commander"

With that Kathryn put her hands on her legs and pushed herself up, the chair scooting backwards until it impacted the wall behind her. She walked, marched rather, to the small coffee machine on the table, watching with a blank face as the hot black liquid began to pour into the too white cup. A starship captain should never have a coffee cup that clean.

When the machine was finished she took a sip almost immediately, welcoming the burn from the heat and bitterness from the coffee, both helping to ward off the numbness she had developed when meeting with the councilors that had only gotten worse with the reports she read. She paced, gently, around the stateroom, tracing the same path over and over while staring at the deck plating four feet in front of her. Again her mind raced but went nowhere. Again she felt numb, but for the searing relief of the steaming cup. Again she finished by standing still and taking a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth.

Setting her mug down she walked over to her bed, sitting down and replacing her boots, fitting the tuck in her pants. Though she hadn't been out of them for longer than half an hour, replacing them on her feet gave her exit from the stateroom a feeling of new-beginnings, as though putting on her boots initiated her task, setting her feet literally and figuratively on the way. She stood up, finishing her coffee as she passed the table, stepping forwards before stopping next to the head, backtracking two steps and walking in.

The mirror was a typical starship mirror, polished metal rather than any actual glass or synthetic glass-like compound used in residential bathrooms. While she had never received a full explanation, there were numerous rumors about it, everything from the glass too risky in case of rapid depressurization to the metal cheaper to buy in bulk, to a folksy story about a misunderstood order from an Admiral. Whatever the cause, directly beneath the mirror was her toiletries kit, a stamp of "Normandy, RUSH" on the top. She smiled internally, though her face remained placid and blank, wondering for how long Anderson had intended to pull her onto The Normandy. Bastard would probably be willing to knock me down to Ensign and make me gunnery officer if it made the rest of the Admiralty agree.

Kathryn opened the bag, pulling out a red, blank lipstick, sporting a hand-written label on the barrel that read "Blood Red". Physically smiling to herself, she uncapped it and applied it to her lips, checking them in the mirror as she crisply replaced the lid, placing the lipstick back in her kit. A memory bubbled to the surface, her mother in the old Alliance Working uniform, plain blue and black, standing in front of a similar mirror with an identical tube of lipstick. As she had applied it, Kathryn had pulled at her legs, asking why she wore makeup when they were on a ship. Her mother had checked her lips in the mirror before turning and squatting down in front of her daughter, explaining matter of factly: "Sweetie, you know how mommy wears armor when the badguys shoot at her?" Shepard had nodded. "And the armor stops the bullets from hurting mommy and helps mommy to defeat them?" Shepard had nodded again. This time her mother had pulled up the lipstick, holding it in front of both of their faces. "Well, this is mommy's armor when the bad guys aren't shooting at her. It helps to protect her off of the battlefield." At the time, Shepard had simply nodded, smiled, and returned to playing in the stateroom. But when her mother presented her with the stick labelled "blood red" at her commissioning ceremony, when Shepard began to use it, she learned exactly what her mother meant.

After she was done, Shepard walked over to the door, taking a third deep breath before opening it and stepping out. The past 54 hours had been nonstop, but through it there had been one question in the back of her mind since she left Earth. Commander Shepard was a woman of impeccable composure, the epitome of cool professionalism to all but a few. She was assertive, commanding, proficient, creative, effective, every inch an Alliance Officer and every millimeter an N7 Operative. But beneath the veneer, beneath the rank, was a woman who was watching the world fall apart around her and was missing the one thing, one person, that could help her most during it.

Dammit, Garrus, Loathe as I am to admit it, I need you.

With that, she stepped outside, her boots making crisp sounds in the enclosed landing outside her stateroom door.

Normandy Deck 1, 2500 Hours (37 Hours Later)

Shepard sat working at her desk, struggling to keep her mind focused on the mission report in front of her, wiggling her toes, as she heard her stateroom door open, the sound of two armored feet making their way inside.

"Shepard, need me for something?"

Suppressing a smile – The galaxy is burning, now is not the time for smiling – she turned around, greeted by one Garrus Vakarian. His armor had changed, all silver and blue now rather than the black and blue that he seemed to favor after so many years in Csec, The new look was good, shiny, clean, and given the instant recognition of even the ground soldiers on Menae and the out-of-place gold collar, she wondered if it wasn't a uniform. Of course Garrus would wear his armor uniform around the ship.

Shepard gestured with her hand while she spoke, waving Garrus over as she turned to show him the terminal.

"Yeah, Garrus, I was wondering if you would be willing to give me your input on my after action report."

Garrus raised an eyebrow, or at least a plate, before walking over, placing one hand on the desk and one hand on the back of her chair as he leaned over, eyes scanning the report. She looked up to see the scarred side of his face, the tissue having healed, if not prettily than at the very least completely, leaving the right side of his face still pockmarked and wrinkled, but healed nonetheless. His mandibles fluttered slightly as he read, though the rest of his jaw remained immobile, his eyes moving back and forth across the screen and a low rumbling coming from his chest. He stood up, nodding and taking two steps back, crossing his arms and leaning against the head wall.

"Looks fine to me, Shepard, though I think you missed out the part where I saved you from all the Brutes."

Shepard raised an eyebrow, smiling thinly as she rolled her eyes, shooting back a retort quickly.

"Oh, yes. Obviously I had nothing to do with the two who I shot dead. By the way, is that what we're calling them now?"

"It's the name our boys on the ground came up with. Seems appropriate to me."

"Yeah."

With that, silence fell on the room heavily, awkwardly, smoothing any conversation or thought therein as both occupants eyes' darted back and forth throughout the scene in front of them, anywhwere but the other. Garrus was the first to talk, clenching one fist in front of him as he turned towards the door.

"Well, Shepard, if that's all you needed I'll…"

"Wait."

Shepard's words were soft, but not pleading, very definitely a command. She held up a hand as she stood up, Garrus turning around and cocking one hip out, and amused smile making its way to his mandibles as he crossed his arms, fixing Shepard with a stare. Silently, she gestured towards the couches, bowing her head while she did so but still maintaining eye contact, letting Garrus lead as he sat down on the side facing her closet, she on the side that backed up to her desk. She leaned back, resting the coffee cup she had taken with her in her left hand in her lap, crossing her legs comfortably and looking at Garrus, the outwards epitome of composure. Garrus struck a similar pose, though in lacking the coffee cup he spread both arms on the top of the couch, an action Kathryn thought no small feat given his shoulder armor, but which he still managed. Inside, however, both were feeling nerves turn their stomachs like a fighter in a firefight and the adrenaline make their heart beat the most audible sound in the room. Shepard started, her voice level if not slightly jocular, Garrus' replies the same.

"Garrus, I'm not certain if I was entirely clear in the main battery."

"Oh? I found you to be perfectly understandable?"

"You did?"

"Yes, I now know the precise protocol on human reunions. Seems a little personal for me, and don't expect me to use it with The Primarch or Wrex any time soon, but your explanation was… effective."

Shepard laughed, slightly, nervously, her eyebrows lowering as she glared at Garrus slightly.

"Yes, yes. But you know what I mean, Garrus. I'm not certain I made my intentions… known."

"Intentions, Commander?"

"Intentions, Advisor." At this point, the awkwardness and nervousness and unsteadiness Kathryn was feeling bubbled into her voice, it's steady joviality giving way to slight unassuredness, entirely devoid of both the confidence she had begun the conversation with, and certainly of the forward confidence she had displayed at their earlier reunion in the forward battery. This was the Kathryn Shepard that the crew would never see, that all of three people had ever seen, one of whom was dead on Virmire, one of whom was running a desperate resistance movement on Earth, and one of whom was sitting in front of her. This was the vulnerable Kathryn, the emotional one; this wasn't the Commander that killed Reapers and defeated Collectors, yelled down Rogue Spectres and survived Prothean Beacons, this was the woman behind all of that, on whom all of that was built. The same strength was present, the same resilient determination and hard resolve that made her so successful, but the utter confidence in her abilities, the cool commanding bearing she maintained at all times, were missing.

"At least, intentions might be the word for it? Alright, Garrus, I'm going to be entirely honest, I'm not a wordsmith. What we had before I was taken off of active duty was wonderful, I enjoyed it thoroughly and have never really felt happier in my life. And I want that again. You're here, and I don't think I could let this go, so here I am. If you don't want to, pick up where we left off, I'll respect that. But I do, so I'm telling you that."

Garrus, whose eyes had never left hers and whose mandibles remained unmoving nodded, looking down slightly, thoughtfully peering past the table. Shepard's heart beat harder, she could feel it palpitating inside her chest, threatening to burst her ribs. Time slowed down and she watched each individual twitch of Garrus' neck muscles, counted each moment in the infinite stream that divides one time from the next as she waited for an answer, frozen.

Eventually, Garrus spoke.

"I'm with you, Kathryn, every step of the way."

Kathryn stopped breathing as Garrus brought his eyes back up to meet her gaze, raising his eyebrows slightly and flaring his mandibles, a small Turian smile. Kathryn's reaction was not so tame.

Her face erupted into a dangerously big smile and Garrus found himself quickly knocked down by the force of the Galaxy's most feared soldier impacting him at whatever speed was possible in the meter between them, hugging, almost clinging, to his neck. He chuckled, embracing her back as he eventually peeled her off.

"And what would your crew do if they saw you like that, Kat?"

Kathryn smiled at the use of his old nickname for her, nodding her head slightly and chuckling to herself, genuinely chuckling, with no reservation about the state of the galaxy or the scope of their mission. When she spoke, however, her voice had become precise, almost severe, the dictation of Commander Shepard rather than the conversation of Kathryn Shepard.

"They won't. Garrus, you know how I like to act for my crew. We have to stay utterly professional when we're not alone."

"I think I can do that."

Shepard smiled again, patting his thigh as she stood up, walking over to the closet to switch out her duty shirt and shoulder pads for her well-worn N7 hoodie.

"I'd be disappointed otherwise. Want to stay for dinner, it's a deluxe course of protein bars and galactic panic?"

"Sounds appetizing."

"Certainly better than Gardner's cooking."

"That's not hard. I never thought I would find myself wishing for old Turian military rations."

"No kidding. And yet…"

Their conversation continued as the two relaxed, lasting no longer than half an hour but still feeling like ages, a short respite after the hectic destruction which had consumed their last couple of days. As Kathryn talked she smiled internally at how at home Garrus was able to make her feel, not gushing affection or calling pet names like some girls she had heard, she was not that kind of woman. She was, however, certainly the kind of woman whom the right man could make feel utterly at home, for whom the right smile and the right laugh and the right voice could make all the terrible tragedy of a universe burning evaporate for even a moment. She smiled at his jokes, and laughed at the not-bad ones, telling stories herself that got occasionally raucous and loud, but what she enjoyed the most was the comfortability of this one Turian. The smell he brought, of gun oil and hot machinery with an undertone of some Turian cologne she had no hope of guessing; the witticisms and dry, if not macabre, sense of sarcasm that helped the pressure of all the galaxy feel slightly more manageable; the history between them, shared experiences from the center of the galaxy to the rogue spectre; all of it put her at ease. Shepard was still ready to take on the universe, calmly look the Reapers in the eye as she crushed them beneath the heel of her steel-toed boot; but Kathryn found herself quite at home.

Author's Notes

So, I've been batting around the idea of writing a FemShep/Garrus story for quite a while, and finally decided to just do a little sketch, just to try and get the character on paper. There are some aspects of Kathryn I didn't quite get to feature here, and I'm not certain I got her command presence/personality quite right in the descriptions – I'm going to need to put her in front of her crew to do that. But here she is, at least a fair portion of her. For any of you who are wondering about the name, Kathryn is named after one of my favorite Star Fleet captains (If you don't know who that is by now, do yourself a favor and go find out), one of the women after whom she is modelled. She's really intended to be a no BS kind of commander, not quite Renegade, but certainly a woman who knows what she wants and will head directly to get it, employing tact and social grace when necessary but not incredibly beholden to social norms. She is a bit of a softy around people she trusts and cares about, like Garrus, but around the rest of the crew and the galaxy she is the utmost of professional, learning early on that the best way to avoid any kind of criticism was to leave it no room.

Anyways, just felt like doing a short little thing on her, try and explore the character, see how well she comes to life. I like to think it went well and that she's a valid character, and I'm quite fond of the idea of her, but please, by all means: let me know what you think. I am CRAVING feedback here. Seriously.

Anyways, enjoy!

SotS