Sexual content warning for this chapter.
13. CODEX
Clanging, stomping, drilling. Grinding discs screamed against the layers of metal and ceramic overhead. Electrical arcs crackled outside the windows.
Joker glowered at her, hands over his ears.
"Okay," Shepard yelled at him, waving her arms. "I get it. You're on shore leave. Everyone's on shore leave. Get outta here."
"Thank god," he mouthed back, and staggered out of the cockpit.
"EDI, deliver the good news. Retrofits should be complete tomorrow morning, so I want everyone back here by... let's say 0900 tomorrow."
"Acknowledged." Little blue avatars popped up on every console stretching back to the elevator. The whoops of the crewmen were only barely audible over the din.
Shepard turned on her heel. First things first. She had a promise to keep.
The noise wasn't quite so bad on the second level. Medbay stood dark and empty. She knocked on the office doors across the galley. "Miranda, you in? It's me."
The mechanism chimed and slid open. Miranda's face was still a little discolored, but otherwise... "Wow. You weren't kidding about healing fast."
"Well, I can't smile yet. It hurts too much." Miranda tapped a datapad briskly on her desk. "But somehow I suspect the crew won't notice the difference."
Miranda Lawson, telling a joke at her own expense. Shepard felt her eyebrows lift almost to the ceiling.
"Did you need something, Shepard?"
"Oh, right. I was gonna go out for drinks with Garrus again. If you're feeling up to it, do you want to come hang out with us? Unwind a bit? Shore leave includes you, too."
Miranda's face froze. "Oh. Well. Thank you, but I think I'll abstain this time. I have some reports to file."
"I... okay." Shepard frowned at her, feeling oddly stung. "If you're sure."
"I do appreciate the offer. Will you be going off-radar again?"
"Yeah, if that's all right. I'll send a message before we do."
"That will be acceptable," Miranda said, and turned to face her terminal.
"All right. Uh. See you later." Shepard backed out of the room.
What the hell was that?
She slunk into the battery, brow furrowed.
"What's wrong," Garrus said, without turning around.
"How—?"
"Your walk changed." He glanced over his shoulder. "And you're being quiet."
"Oh. I dunno. It's not really a big deal, just... I invited Miranda to come along with us, and she—"
"You what?" He pivoted and stared at her.
"I told her I would, remember?"
"Well— sure. But I thought you were just inviting her out with you, not with us."
"Oh." Shepard shrugged. "I didn't really make the distinction. Is it a problem?"
Garrus's expression was indecipherable. "I guess not."
"She turned me down, so it doesn't matter anyway. She just seemed so— I don't know." Shepard sighed. "I'd thought that we were actually kind of starting to be friends."
He tilted his head to one side. "...You're really bothered about this."
She shrugged again, and laughed a little. "Yeah. I am. Uncool of me, isn't it?"
"Extremely." Garrus contemplated her for another moment, then stepped in close and draped an arm over her shoulders. "C'mon. I'll take you somewhere nice."
Shepard lit up. "Really? Where?"
"Surprise." The battery doors slid shut behind them.
She cackled, delighted. "Look at you, all suave and mysterious. What's happening? What is this?"
"Surprise," he said again, escorting her through the empty mess hall.
"It better be good."
"Don't worry." He flicked a mandible at her. Punched the elevator button. "It's good."
Her excitement was somewhat squashed by the time they confronted the queue for security. She'd spotted Joker far up the line, leaning against a tolerant-looking Hadley, but then they cleared the gate and vanished.
"No Bailey to save us this time," Garrus said, looking around.
"We're going to go see him anyway. I could just— do the thing. Assert myself."
"Nah. You hate doing that. And we're not in a rush."
Eventually, they made it through. Bailey looked up from his terminal in surprise. "You could have called me."
Shepard waved the suggestion away. "I don't want to abuse my privileges. Especially not when I'm about to ask you for a favor."
His expression went impressively flat. "What is it this time."
"A clean omni-tool. And clothes."
Garrus spoke up from behind her. "Civvies, if you've got 'em."
"You know we do. C'mon." Bailey sighed and heaved himself up from the desk. "This may come as a surprise to you, Shepard, since you've been out of the loop for a while, but there are in fact a wide variety of boutiques just outside this very office."
She patted him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Bailey. I owe you one."
He unlocked the supply room and gestured them in. "Yes, you do."
Garrus immediately grabbed a utilitarian-looking suit and boot set in gray and blue, and started unsnapping the catches of his armor. Shepard wandered among the shelves, contemplating her options. C-Sec's undercover operations department catered to a surprising range of sizes, species, and occasions.
Footsteps approached her from behind. Garrus balanced a large box on his hip, and tugged at a collar that wasn't sitting quite right. "You're still standing here? Just pick something."
"But I don't know where we're going. What's the dress code?"
"There isn't one."
"Fine, then." Shepard spotted something at the bottom of a pile and fished it out. A slinky, wine-red cocktail dress. She held it up against herself. "Here. Perfect. Does it look like it'll fit?"
"Hard to tell with the armor on," Garrus said, deadpan.
Challenge accepted. She began shucking the pieces and tossing them into his box.
The dress fit pretty well, actually. Long skirt, short sleeves, high neck, open back. Matching gloves. Classy. She swished back and forth, experimentally. It'd been almost a decade since she'd worn an actual dress.
"Hurry up."
"Let me have my fun." She swished past him once more just for spite, then unsnapped her bra from behind her back, pried the strap down around her arm, and shimmied it out through the other sleeve.
Garrus's eyes widened. "Wait, what? How—?"
"Human magic. Don't worry about it." She peeled out of her underwear and put it in with the rest of the pile, then stepped up close and tapped his visor. "This too."
He looked down at her underwear, then back at her. "Really?"
"Yeah, really. C'mon. Visor. Off."
He sighed and dropped it in. "How many dinners does this add up to? Four? Nine?"
"Zero. I never signed anything."
She picked out more-or-less matching waist belts for them both, and clipped her SMG to her back. Garrus did the same with his sidearm.
She tapped her wrist. "Miranda, EDI, we're going offline. I'll be back in touch in—" She glanced up at Garrus. "Five hours? That'll put us right around sunset." A nod. "Five hours or less. I'm taking a C-Sec omni-tool with me. If anything comes up, you can call them and they'll call me. Shepard out."
She unclipped her own personal omni-tool and chucked it into his box along with the rest of their gear. "All set?"
"This is heavy, you know," Garrus said, in tones of martyred patience.
She laughed and held the door for him. "C'mon."
On their way out, he grabbed a grungy turian-sized jacket and a drab hooded cloak, and draped them both over his arm.
Shepard raised her eyebrows. Garrus ignored her, and strode over to the rapid transit terminal.
The deck of the train hummed under their feet. Skyscrapers flashed past the windows. A smooth asari voice rattled off sector and station names she didn't recognize. Garrus stared up at their little dot bleeping its way across the transit line map.
She nudged him. "How long till—"
"Soon." He handed her the cloak. "Put this on."
She gave him a look, but tugged it over her head.
He led her out the doors at the next stop. She scanned their perimeter, noting the position of the Presidium ring, now hazy with distance; the flat white light of the artificial sun; the well-dressed pedestrians bustling around them; the sleek, brand-new buildings packed densely into the landscape.
Garrus gestured to her. She raised the hood of her cloak, and fell in at his side.
He set a leisurely pace, taking them down a long, zigzagging path between clean and shiny condos, then through a collection of well-kept older apartment towers, then past some towers that were less well-kept. They crossed a wide, sparsely landscaped plaza. The pedestrian population had thinned and scattered. Garrus angled towards a cluster of ugly, shadowy, high-density tenements. Rust stains bled through the cracking concrete.
Shepard glanced up at him. "This is your idea of a surprise?"
"Just wait."
A kilometer or so past the tenements, the landscape changed again. This area was even more run-down than the one before, but the underlying architecture was different: these buildings had been beautiful, once. The carved moulding was crumbling off, the ancient tiling cracked and falling away, but the bones underneath were graceful. Elegant.
Hundreds of years and layers of grime ago, once upon a time, this neighborhood must have been pretty damn ritzy.
It was early afternoon, but the streets were quiet. The few locals she saw looked listless and unhealthy. Mostly salarians. A smattering of asari and turians, an odd batarian or krogan here and there. No humans at all. Shepard started to get why Garrus had her pull on the cloak.
"What's going on here?" she said quietly.
"Pick one," he murmured. "Unemployment. Ghettoization. Bottom rung of the caste system. Illness. Drug addiction."
"Huh." Shepard frowned. "So where are the gangs?" She gestured at the lackluster graffiti splashed over the buildings around them. Nothing was in her language, but tags looked like tags no matter where you went.
"Officially it's Olor Six turf, but there's barely any money here. Even the street dealers spend most of their time ringward."
"Wow," Shepard said softly. "That's when you know things are bad."
"Yeah," he said, and turned abruptly into a shadowed alley. "Through here."
She followed him through a heavy steel door and down basement stairs, through murky, damp-smelling hallways, then up again, past signs too old and weathered for her borrowed omni-tool to translate.
They stepped outside into a tiny four-meter square of a courtyard, penned in on all sides by ancient, looming towers. A shaft of artificial sunlight sliced down through the narrow gap, and fell on a little yellow flower poking up through the concrete. Shepard only had a moment to wonder at it before Garrus led her back into the maze.
He pushed through a series of doors plastered with starkly lettered signs bearing the old logo of the Citadel Housing Authority. She didn't need her omni-tool to tell her they read DO NOT ENTER.
They clambered up half-collapsed staircases, hopped over shattered columns. She paused when they came to a cave-in of broken plaster, concrete, and rebar that had choked out most of the hallway ahead of them.
Garrus turned to look back at her. "Problem?"
Shepard hiked up her long skirt in one red-gloved fist. "Nope."
"All right then." He picked out handholds, and scrambled over.
She contemplated her options for a moment, then snapped out a side kick at the center of the pile. The resulting explosion of plaster and dust wasn't all that pleasant, but at least she got through it without tearing her dress.
He paused when they came to an open elevator shaft. "Hm. It's sunk since last time."
"What has," she said. He reached out into the empty darkness and took hold of the chain, then braced a knee against the wall and yanked, hard. A horrible shrieking erupted above them. Flakes of rust rained down over his gloves.
He grinned back at her appalled expression, adjusted his grip, and yanked again. Slowly, slowly, the top of an ancient service elevator shuddered up into view.
Garrus pressed on the elevator with one foot to test his weight, then, apparently satisfied, stepped out and walked across to the open gap on the other side.
Shepard stared out at him through the haze of rust particles. "Seriously?"
"What. You need me to hold your hand?"
She scowled and stepped out, still holding up her skirt. The chains rattled as the elevator lurched and swayed underneath her. "This better be worth it."
"We're almost there." He waited for her to make her way across, then turned and led the way up a staircase. This one was in better shape than the others; dusty, but solid, with delicate patterning carved into the steps. The banister was polished wood.
"I give up," she called out, following his footsteps up through the increasing gloom. "Where are we? What is this?"
His smug, disembodied voice floated back down to her. "You'll see."
She felt a little light-headed. The elevation gain must have put them near the upper limit of breathable atmosphere. She forgot to listen for his footsteps stopping, and nearly collided with him at the top of the stairs.
"Sorry. Doorknob's stuck." Rattling noises. "Ah—" A click. And then she had to squint against the light.
The first thing she noticed was the soft breeze tugging at her clothing. The air was cool and fresh, with none of the sweaty, overripe quality of the streets below, or the mold and decay thick inside the disused passageways. Her eyes adjusted, and the space slowly took shape around her.
Deep, narrow skylights cut at intervals into the ceiling filtered and softened the Citadel's artificial sun. Light shone in soft square pools onto the dusty wooden floor, sparkled against cut crystal chandeliers, glinted off of polished tables.
Shepard glanced around at the decor, trying to gather clues. Elegant, curving sofas. Armchairs in unfamiliar shapes and sizes. Faded rugs and moth-eaten tapestries. A hotel? A restaurant? Whatever it was, this place had clearly been high-end, once upon a time. She didn't even want to think what that wood panelling would cost in today's money.
Something caught her eye. Movement in the darkness shrouding the far wall. She tensed, reaching for her sidearm— oh. She wiggled her hand. It was her own reflection.
The whole wall was mirrored, actually. But there was something big right in front of it. A long counter, and shelves, stacked with—
She whirled and stared up at Garrus. "Is this a bar?"
He flared a mandible at her. "I told you it'd be good."
"Jesus. You weren't kidding." She stepped forward to examine a table lamp. The bulb was blown glass, in a shape and style she'd never seen before. "How old is this place?"
"Not sure exactly. Four, five hundred years? Some of the design looks asari, so it could be a lot older. They build things to last." He shrugged out of his borrowed coat. "Could have tried harder to find out, but I didn't exactly want to shout my discovery from the rooftops."
"You found this on your own?" Shepard paused halfway out of her cloak to gape at him. "How?"
"Got in trouble for mouthing off at work. Busted down to a shitty beat patrol for three months." He reached up and carefully hung his coat over the top of the door. Shepard dumped hers onto a dusty table, earning a look. "But, as you saw, not much actually goes on around here. So I had time to explore."
He was trying to play it cool, but she could see the deep pleasure he took in impressing her. It was written all over him, the proud line of his shoulders, the angle of his chin. He was eating this up.
Well, she was happy to oblige. "It's fantastic in here, Garrus. The only thing that could possibly make it better is actual, drinkable booze."
"As it happens." He gestured towards the back.
"You're shitting me."
He couldn't keep the satisfaction from his voice any longer. "Shall we?"
A delighted laugh rippled out of her. "Let's."
He disappeared behind the counter to rummage. Rattles, clinks. The occasional sneeze. She leaned back against the rich, warm wood, half watching him, half drinking in the details of their secret lair.
"This'd be a lot easier if I had my visor." His voice was muffled.
"Sorry," she said, unrepentant. "Need help? I can fire up my flashlight."
"No, I think— Got it. Here." Two squarish, elegantly cut glasses thunked onto the counter.
Shepard hefted one in her hand. "Wow. This isn't actually glass, is it?"
"No. Some kind of purified transparent ceramic." He crouched behind the counter again. "Thessian. Ancient. Patented to the edge of the galaxy and back, as you might expect."
Shepard shook her head, smiling down at him. "What's next? Brandy distilled from the tears of a krogan? The martini shaker of the goddess Athame?"
"Close." He rose to his feet, squinting at a simple, cylindrical bottle with a faded label and pale blue fluid sloshing inside. "This is it."
"What?"
"Krogan tear brandy," he said, blowing dust from the glasses. He uncapped the bottle and held it out for her to smell.
"Oh." She pushed her hair back and leaned in closer, putting her face directly over the opening. "Oh. Oh wow."
"Good. That means you'll like it." He poured a thin, steady stream into one of the glasses.
The liquid flowed freely inside the bottle, but as it splashed into the glass, it changed, thickening, folding over on itself like molten metal. "What the—? What is this?"
"It's from Palaven," he said. "The old capital, before the government moved to Cipritine. One of the last bottles. The distillery hasn't existed for about six hundred years."
She wrenched her head up to stare at him. "Garrus. I can't possibly drink this."
"My family was from there, originally." The stream of liquid twisted and shimmered in the low light. "I spent a lot of summers in the old house. And I mean old. We had to bring camping gear because it was so run-down. Half the roof was missing, and each year the storms would rip off a little bit more. Trees started growing up between the floor tiles."
"Garrus, I'm serious. Stop pouring."
"All of the family moved away when the capital did, and then everyone was too busy to maintain the place. It always bothered me that no one was taking care of it. When I was little, I thought that maybe when I finished my service, I'd save up some money, and come back and live there for good. Fix it up again. Make it like how it was."
"Garrus—"
He raised the bottle, gently, gently. The stream thinned and vanished.
He paused for a moment, then lifted his eyes to hers. "...But, well. The galaxy's a pretty distracting place. And now I'm here." He nudged the glass over to her. "With you."
Shepard leaned over the bar. "Garrus!"
"What?"
"I can't drink this. It's too important."
"So?" He shrugged, and tipped out another slow, precise stream into the second glass. "I want you to."
"But—" She looked down at the pool of liquid in her cup. It was changing again, shimmering, melting. "...How does it do that?"
"Turian magic. Don't worry about it."
She smiled. "C'mon."
"I'm only half kidding. It's a non-Newtonian fluid. Distilled from mella, but that's all I know. No one's ever been able to reverse-engineer the recipe."
He squinted at the level in his glass, then straightened, and capped the bottle.
"Anyway." Garrus leaned a hip against the back counter, and swirled the glass in his hand. "There wasn't any real point to that story. Mainly I just wanted to stall you long enough to let me pour you the damn drink."
Shepard laughed, and dropped her face into her hands. "Okay. Fine. You win. Well played."
He made a low, satisfied humming sound. "Have to admit, it feels pretty good to hear those words coming from Commander Shepard."
"Well, then." She raised her glass to his. "To your victory."
"Cheers."
As the liquid approached her lips, she had to stop for a moment, and just breathe again. Let it wash over her.
Garrus had paused to watch her. She flushed and took a sip.
The fluid pooled and spread slowly on her tongue. It tasted just like it smelled. It tasted like glacier melt. It tasted like ancient well water from miles deep below the earth. It tasted like rainfall on Ontarom. Clear and cold and familiar and strange and a thousand different things at once. An entire world in a drop.
A smile cracked across her face, and slowly turned into a laugh.
"What," Garrus said, amused.
"I don't even know." Shepard took another sip, still smiling. "This is so goddamned good."
"Are you glad I didn't listen to you?"
"Of course. I was an idiot who didn't know any better." She leaned forward. Rested her elbows on the bar. "I can't believe you brought me here. This place is amazing."
"You're welcome," he said, looking deeply gratified.
"And this— whatever this is— is so good I don't know how to deal with it. I've never tasted anything like this." She took a long, slow pull from her glass, and rolled it around in her mouth. "It's making me homesick for a home I never had."
Garrus stilled, then shook his head, and came over to stand on her side of the bar.
She bumped him with her hip. "Hi."
He looked down at her. "Sometimes, Shepard, you say the most incredible things. And I don't think you actually have any idea what you're doing."
"What? Was I incredible just now?"
"I'm not sure I can explain it to you. But yeah."
She clinked her glass against his. Or, more accurately, she clinked her transparent ceramic antique of inestimable value against his. "Some sort of turian cultural thing?"
"Half turian thing, half me thing. Trust me when I say it was masterful."
She grinned up at him. "Cool."
He regarded her with what looked like real fondness for a moment. She hadn't seen it on his face before, and wasn't sure if she was reading it right. But it warmed up her whole body just the same.
"So," he said, after a moment. "We're out from under the spycams. Anything you want to talk about, while we have the chance? Or is today a pleasure cruise?"
She straightened up. "The Collector ship."
"I thought so." He leaned back on one elbow, watching her. "What happened? You were acting— different."
Shepard took a deep breath. How to frame this? What would get the most information across to him, without screwing her cover story?
She rolled her glass around in her hands, watching the liquid slip and fold into itself.
"I don't know what the Illusive Man's game was, sending us into that thing," she began, cautiously. "But most of the futures I saw down there ended up with all of us dead."
A pause, as he took that in. "But we're not. Thanks to you."
"Basically." She glanced up at him.
Sszhepard, you're a rotten liar.
"Garrus, I— it was really bad down there. I saw horrible things happen to you. To Miranda."
He made a soft humming sound. "Well, it seems like she's doing fine now. And I'm standing right here."
Your replacement is. Shepard fought down the surge of shame that roiled up inside her at the thought. Took a drink, hiding her face behind her glass.
No. She was moving on from this. She had failed him before; she might fail him again. But she wouldn't ever, ever take him— any of him— for granted. Not like before.
"Shepard?"
"Yeah. You're right." She tried to smile up at him, but felt it twist into something different, something distorted. Shit. She turned her face away again. "You're right."
He hummed again, set down his glass, and reached out to her. His fingers wrapped around her hand. She blinked down at it.
He pulled, gently. She stepped forward, bewildered, and found herself enfolded in a lean, one-armed embrace.
"What's this," she mumbled into his shoulder.
"It's called a hug." His bandage rustled against her hair when he spoke. "You looked like you could use one."
She laughed a little, and wrapped her arms around his back. "That obvious, huh."
"Yeah." His voice rumbled through her body. "It must have been awful, to get to you like this."
"...Yeah." She pressed her face into the hollow between his shoulder and cowl, trying to blot out the images. "It was."
And it was all her fault.
His arm around her tightened. "I'm sorry."
She pressed into him harder, in response.
They stayed like that for a long moment. She listened to the hollow, windy note of his breathing, the strange rhythm of his heart. Soaked up the warmth of his spare, solid body.
If only she'd been faster.
If only she hadn't second guessed herself. Hadn't let that asshole Collector get under her skin.
If only she could let down her guard for one fucking second, with him, her last and strangest and dearest friend—
"I need to tell you something else," she said.
His shoulders tensed. He drew back, watching her face. "What is it?"
"Harbinger."
His expression went blank. "What?"
"The strong Collector, the glowing one. It has a name." She shifted her feet. "When we're fighting them, it talks to me. Maybe it's just in my head. I'm not actually sure."
Garrus let out a long breath. "Okay. Since when?"
"Since always. Since Horizon."
"Do you talk back?"
"I— sometimes? It's not really a conversation. Mostly it just taunts me. Tries to demoralize me. At some point I figured out I was the only one that could hear it."
"All right," he said, and raised a finger. "First things first. Let's accept for the sake of argument that you're not insane."
Shepard gave him a flat look. "Thanks."
He glanced out into the distant murk of the room, brow furrowed. "The Collectors used to be Protheans. Maybe your contact with the beacon lets you understand them."
"Yeah, that's what you s— that's what I was wondering." She bit back a wince.
Garrus's posture was unchanged. Maybe he hadn't noticed her slip.
He drummed his fingers against the surface of the bar. "Could the Collectors' minds really have survived the Reapers' grooming process, though? Language, head games. That's pretty high-level stuff."
Shit. Shepard's eyes widened. Mordin had already mentioned something to that effect, last night, but— she'd been distracted. Hadn't considered the ramifications. A formless dread began unspooling in her gut.
"Judging from what we've seen— the husks, the Scions, the Keepers— Reapers like their pets mindless and obedient," Garrus continued, folding his arms. "And except for that glowing one, the way the Collectors fight doesn't suggest a lot of individual intelligence. They're more like a swarm."
Oh, fuck.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. Oh fuck her! He was right. There was no way she was talking to a Collector. Not with what she knew about them. Not with that name. Not with that voice. Not with that attitude of ancient, genocidal superiority. Why hadn't she recognized it?
"Shepard?"
She held stock-still, every muscle locked, as a tidal wave of panic swept through her.
"Shepard. What's wrong?"
She could control her body, but not her voice. She sounded thin and desperate. "It's— you're right. You're right. It's not a Collector. There's no way it could be. Harbinger— this thing, this voice, that's been in my head this whole time— is a motherfucking Reaper."
Garrus froze. "You're sure."
"I'm sure. I've never been more sure of anything."
His good mandible flexed rapidly. He put a hand up to his temple. "I don't know what to say."
Shepard could barely hear him speaking. The Reaper was inside her fucking head.
Everything she'd ever done was suspect. Every action she'd ever taken, every word that had ever parted her lips. She replayed all her memories, frantically, trying to see when it had gotten in. When it had begun to corrupt her. Influence her. Indoctrinate her. Or worse.
Had it made her— what she was?
Nightmare static swelled up and strangled her thoughts. Drowned out all her senses.
She wobbled and sank down to the dusty floor. Her borrowed skirt spilled out over her knees.
"Hey. Stay with me."
She felt movement in the air. A blurry shape crouched in front of her. A hand gripped her arm.
"When do you hear it? Just during fights? When you're by yourself?"
"Just during fights," she echoed numbly.
"Just when that glowing Collector shows up?"
"Yeah."
"What about when we're fighting mercs?"
"No."
"Never at any other times? When you're tired, or stressed? When you're falling asleep?"
"No."
"You're sure."
"I... I don't know. Pretty sure."
"Shepard, I think you're in the clear."
She blinked. Refocused, slowly, on his face. "What? How can you say that?"
"It's not in your head. It's in theirs. Whenever that glowing Collector shows up, the rest of them suddenly start fighting a lot smarter. I think the Reaper must be using it as a puppet. Eyes and ears on the ground."
She stared up at him, hardly daring to hope.
"I don't know why only you can hear it." His eyes were locked on hers. "Maybe because it's using a former Prothean as a shell, it can only use a Prothean's voice. I'm not sure about that part. But I'm sure it's not coming from inside you."
She kept staring at him for a long moment. A strange, hiccuping laugh burst out of her. "Aha. Ha. Oh my god." She pressed her hands to her face.
Garrus let out his breath. "You had me terrified for a moment, there."
"Me too. I was so— Fuck. Why didn't I think of that? Thank god. If they'd gotten into me somehow—"
She was unstoppable. Unkillable. It was too horrifying to even contemplate.
Godlike as they were, even Reapers weren't immortal.
Garrus shifted his legs to one side, and sat down on the floor next to her. A rumble came from his throat. "...A lot is going on for you right now, isn't it?"
He had no fucking idea. Everything he knew about her hinged upon a lie.
Shepard just nodded, mutely. The abrupt adrenaline surge and crash had left her feeling hollowed out.
He put his arm around her shoulders. Squeezed, gently. "I don't think I realized just how much."
She had no good way to respond to that.
He pulled her in close. Rested his chin against her head, and hummed a low, comforting note.
It didn't really work. But at least she was still too numb to feel any guilt.
He led her over to an ancient sofa, and pressed her glass into her gloved hands. Shepard took a sip. Then another. The strange, cold liquid puddled and melted over her tongue.
Once her brain came back online, and her eyes agreed to start focusing on things again, she lifted her head to look at him.
"Feeling better?"
"Yeah." She sighed. "Sorry. You always end up babysitting me on these dates of ours."
"I'd call Tuchanka an even trade. And last time on the Citadel, I'm pretty sure you were the one babysitting me." He reached out and patted her head. "So, you're paid up in full. Might as well take advantage."
She offered up a wan smile. "You're the best."
His good mandible tipped out in response. "I know."
He sat down beside her and settled himself against the backrest. She leaned her shoulder against him. Gazed out into their elegant, empty room. The light beams lancing down through the ceiling were angled, now, and golden in color. Dust motes glittered and faded as they passed through.
She could just tell him.
He'd invited her to. He already knew part of it.
And she was so, so tired of being alone.
The shadows around them had deepened since their arrival. The far walls faded into darkness.
"...Is this real?" she murmured.
Garrus stiffened beside her. "Shepard?"
She stretched a red-gloved hand out into the empty gloom.
"I see such awful futures ahead of us sometimes, Garrus," she said quietly. "But then I change them. So I remember all these things that never happened."
He watched her silently.
"When it comes to the mission, I know what we need to do. I know we're going to beat the Collectors. I don't see it, but I feel it. We're going to find them and stop them. For good." She looked down at her lap. Watched the alien liquid curling inside her glass. "But— lately, all I can think about are these nightmare memories. All these versions of us that aren't even real." She let out a small, rusty chuckle. "...And as a bonus, I've got a Reaper calling me names inside my head."
Silence. She could feel his eyes on her.
"I wish I could just go back to being normal. But if I were normal, we'd all be dead right now."
Silence. She tipped the last of her drink back.
What if this was already too much for him? What if he thought she wasn't fit to lead anymore? She hadn't even gotten to the bad part yet. What if—
Shepard turned to him. "—Garrus, say something. I'm cracking up."
"I know." He shifted forward, elbows resting on his knees. Contemplated her outstretched hand. "I'm trying to find the words that will fix everything forever."
She smiled, and patted his arm. "Thanks, buddy."
"In the futures you've seen, am I ever gone? Not dead, but just— not there?"
"I can't see very far ahead. But no. You're always there."
He nodded and straightened up. "Good. Then you can ask me."
"What?"
"If you don't know what's real, ask me. I only remember the one set of memories." He looked at her. "Shepard, I know I can't do much to help with what you're going through. But I'm real, and I'm here. I'll always be at your side."
He was wrong, but— he made it sound so simple. So straightforward. So unconditional.
The look on his face, the confident line of his shoulders.
"...You know, Garrus," she said finally, once she was sure her voice wouldn't crack. "Sometimes you say some pretty incredible things, too."
His good mandible flared out in a smile. "Hold tight. I'll get you a refill."
Halfway deep into her second glass, she slid down to sit on the floor, her head resting back against the couch seat. Her red skirt was streaked with dust. "I really thought Miranda was coming around to me. I actually like her, you know? As a person. Even if she's too brainwashed to realize how goddamn brainwashed she is."
Behind her, Garrus stretched out his legs, and made a thoughtful humming noise. "It sounded like you made a pretty good connection with her that night we were on Tuchanka."
Shepard glanced back up at him, surprised. "Yeah. How did you—?"
"You're not the only one who's allowed to chat up Lawson, you know."
She grumbled, and rested her drink on his knee. "Showoff."
His jaw clicked. "You told me to make friends with her."
"Yeah, I know." She sighed. "Thanks."
"Turned out to be more pleasant than I was expecting," he said. "Lawson likes people who can stand up to her. And she's good conversation. Surprisingly well-versed in turian history. She's read all the classics of the Unification Wars, even the revisionist account that came out from Apparitus last year." He paused. "Actually, maybe it's not all that surprising."
"Know thy enemy," she quoted, and reached back to clink her glass against his.
"I'll drink to that." He took a long sip.
"I went to talk with her in medbay, after she got out of surgery. I was still pissed off and shaken up after— everything. Maybe I should have waited. Maybe it didn't go as well as I thought it did." Shepard swirled her drink in her hand. "But it felt like there was something, there, at least for a little bit."
"Well... Lawson's got a lot going on for her, too. You did openly accuse her boss of attempted homicide."
"True." Shepard tipped her head back and gave Garrus a wry smile. "I also told her that I hate him and everything he stands for. And that I'd kill him if I ever got the chance."
Garrus outright laughed. "I'd forgotten about that. One of your finer moments."
"You heard about that too?"
"Yeah. We were talking about you after—" He gestured. "Illium."
"Oh." Shepard felt her face stiffen.
They'd worked it out. She understood the position he had been in. She even understood his logic, sort of. If she seriously thought Garrus was going to kill himself, she'd team up with anyone short of the Reapers to stop him.
It still didn't feel good.
"Lawson's in a tough spot, you know," he said. "You're a hard person to resist."
"Yeah." Shepard's brow wrinkled. "That's what she told me."
She sighed again, long and deep, then put her glass down and pushed herself away from the couch. She fell back flat onto the floor, arms stretched wide. Dust clouds bloomed around her like explosions in miniature.
"Bailey's not going to appreciate the cleaning bill," Garrus said, looking down at her.
"The Illusive Man is going to kill us," she said.
Garrus slid down off the couch and stretched out on the floor beside her, propping himself up on one arm. "Well, yes. But that's not news."
"After that stunt he pulled, I don't trust him to wait long enough for us to finish the mission anymore. He's a treacherous shit. We have to be ready to make a clean break before we head to the relay. The squad, the crew, Miranda, EDI— I've got to get everyone behind us, one hundred percent, if we're going to survive." Shepard stared up at the murky ceiling. "How the fuck do I do that?"
"Just be yourself," Garrus said, looking at her like she was an idiot.
"Garrus, I'm serious."
"So am I. You're already most of the way there. Do you realize how much everyone looks up to you? Do you realize how far out of your way you go for absolutely everyone who asks?"
She tipped her head back to frown at him. "You never ask me for anything."
"Everyone takes," he said. "I figured I should be the one to give."
Shepard stared up at him for a long moment, her mouth parted.
Garrus met her eyes. His sharp edges were blurred and softened in the darkness.
"You know, sometimes I can't believe my luck," she whispered. "I found you twice."
He reached a hand out to her. She thought he was going to pat her on the head again, but instead his fingers, feather-light, brushed against her cheek.
She watched, spellbound, as he traced a slow, careful path down the spiderweb of surgical scars that mapped her face.
His voice was very low, and very soft. "I know the feeling."
Her breath stopped. She had to swallow against the ache in her throat.
She sat up. Peeled off her glove, and reached out, slowly, tentatively, holding his gaze with hers.
She touched her bare fingertips to his scarred cheek.
"...Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore," he murmured. His eyes were locked on hers.
She stroked her fingers along the underside of his silvery brow. Traced slowly, gently, down the contour of his bandage, testing the torn edges of his plates, the glassy, ropelike scar tissue.
He brushed his fingers through her dusty hair. Grazed his thumb over the delicate skin of her eyelid. Trailed down along the outer shell of her ear, down the curve of her jaw, then along the rim of the dress collar winding around her throat.
She shifted closer. Mapped out the peaks and valleys of his cheekbone, mouth, mandible, chin. She traced over the stripe across his nose. Laid her palm against the open, un-plated length of his neck. The skin there was smooth, pliant. And so, so warm. It surprised her every time.
He brushed the corner of her mouth. His eyes were heavy-lidded. Dark.
She pressed her cheek into his hand. Looked up at him through her eyelashes. His gloved thumb dragged over her bottom lip.
Her body felt hot, languid. Like she was moving in a dream. She leaned into him. Laced her fingers back through the points of his fringe.
...When had this started?
When had he become so important to her? When had the space he took up in her heart begun to eclipse all the rest?
Maybe when he'd cussed her out for frightening him, back on Horizon. Maybe when he'd told her that he knew she was still herself, despite all the wires and circuitry.
Maybe when he'd asked her not to die.
Or maybe it went even further back than that. Maybe it had started when she'd found him again, against all odds, and then nearly lost him forever in the same instant.
The memory still burned. If only she'd known, back then—
'If only' a lot of things.
"You know I couldn't survive this without you," she said quietly.
His eyes were still on hers, her face still cradled in his hand. "You'll never have to."
She glanced down at his gloves. "Take these off."
He gave her an indecipherable look. Bit down delicately on the cloth, and pulled.
Christ. Her thighs clenched together. Her fingers tightened in his fringe.
His eyes grew dark with intent. He cupped her chin in his palm and drew her in, until she was practically in his lap, their faces scant centimeters apart.
She slipped her fingers underneath his mandible. Stroked the delicate, suede-like skin of his jaw.
He flicked her fingers with his long, flexible, blue-black tongue. She jumped, but then, emboldened, stroked a finger over that too. It was smooth. Slippery. Firmer than hers, and hotter. It rippled under her touch.
She drew back, and kept her eyes on his as she licked the taste of him off her hand.
A deep rumble rose up within his throat. "Not worried I'll put you out of commission?"
"Not allergic anymore," she replied. "Perks of undying. So give it your best shot, Vakarian."
Garrus chuckled, and slid the rough pad of his bare thumb over her lips. The edge of his claw pressed into her skin.
She parted her mouth for him. Let him test the wet heat inside. His rumble deepened into a growl.
She closed her teeth around his thumb and gave him a long, hard stroke with her tongue.
His eyes narrowed. He pulled out, smearing her own wetness over her lips. Licked up a stray drop from his glistening hand.
She gave him an evaluating look. "And what about you?"
"Who knows?" he drawled, looming over her. "Give it your best shot, Shepard."
She grabbed him by the cowl, wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, and pulled his mouth down to meet hers.
Oh. It was different. But it worked. Licking, biting, grabbing, pulling. Skin and hide, lips and teeth. Legs and arms tangled together. Ink-dark pupils and rising body heat. He'd been warm before, but now he was smoldering. She felt feverish. Dizzy. His tongue was wet and hot and hard against hers.
How long had it been since she'd been touched like this? Since she'd touched another? Her whole body trembled.
Shepard stilled, poised over him. One hand was fisted in his fringe, her other stroking the soft skin under his unfastened collar. "What are we doing," she whispered.
He licked a rough line up her throat. "No idea."
His palm slid up her skirt. His talons dragged against her bare thigh. She shivered. She wore nothing at all underneath her borrowed dress.
Damn him. Mordin had been right.
"I want to see you," Garrus murmured. His fingers brushed back through her hair. He reached behind her neck for the zipper.
She swallowed against the stab of heat that pulsed through her. "You first."
He squinted at her, then leaned forward and bumped his forehead against hers. "How old are you, again, in turian years? Five?"
"Shut up," she said, laughing, and then gasped as a line of cold air shot down her back.
His voice was darkly amused as he peeled the wine-red dress from her shoulders. "Sorry, Commander. You've been outflanked."
"The hell I have," she bit out, and slid her hands down his pants.
He stiffened underneath her. Made a low, jagged sound. "Shepard—"
"Hush." She crouched over him, taking in the textured skin that shifted from pebbly to silken, the hard plane of his abdomen, the sinuous curves of his hipbones. Exploring everywhere but the place at his center that radiated heat and need.
She stilled as two large, heavy hands snaked up along her thighs and cupped her ass. He squeezed, experimentally. Adjusted his grip. His fingers curled over her, wrapped almost all the way back around to— God. She froze. Two centimeters and he'd practically be inside her.
One fingertip grazed against her wetness. She jumped. He tilted his head to one side, regarding her. Pulled his hand back, and gave it a slow, considering lick.
She had to bite her lip to keep from moaning.
How dare he do this to her?
He fixed his ice-blue stare onto hers. Stroked a long, thick finger up through her dripping folds. Skimmed over the sweet spot at the top.
She jolted. The moan ripped out of her.
His good mandible flared out in a wicked smile, and he made a sound she'd never heard before. Dark and deep and liquid with satisfaction.
He grabbed hard onto her hip, kept her pinned in place. Flicked over her clit lightly, then roughly, at irregular intervals. She shook. Pressed her face into his shoulder. Clutched hard at his hips. Panted for air. How— fuck. Had he done research?
Slowly, she scraped together her determination, and began to move, inch by inch, halting with each fresh shock he sent through her. She shifted her hips back against his talented hand. Sat up, and spread open the front of his trousers like a book. His cock pulsed in time with his alien heartbeat, long and glistening and violently blue.
Her lips parted at the sight. There was a startlingly deep groove carved along the top, and his proportions were a little different, but... yeah. This worked for her. This worked really, really well.
She wrapped a hand around him and squeezed, gently, watching his face for a reaction. His skin was hot, slippery, oil-slick. She glided up his length. Brushed over his head. Traced down the line along the top. The liquid sound in his throat turned rough and ragged.
She stroked him, twisting her fingers, flicking her thumb over his tip, varying her rhythm to keep him off-balance. He arched up into her grip. The long muscles in his legs tensed and trembled beneath her.
She paused to give him a slow smile. Licked the taste of him off her palm. Musky. Tannic. Earthy. She liked it.
He growled. Grabbed her wrists and pulled her in close. Pushed her skirt up around her hips. Poised her entrance directly over him. She could feel the heat radiating up from him. Her body pulsed in answer.
"Do you want me," he bit out, panting. His tip grazed against her. They both shuddered.
"I want you," she whispered, and felt the truth of it well up and flood over her.
She was half-dead from wanting him. She'd wanted him forever. The professor hadn't told her anything she didn't already know, somewhere, deep inside of her; he was funny and sharp and handsome as hell, even with half his face scarred over, even with his claws and teeth and clicking jaw. He made her feel safe and cared for and whole and sane. He was her partner in all things. The lightning rod of her life. And he didn't even know—
Fuck. Fuck! She pulled away from him. "—Wait. Wait. Time out."
Garrus made a discordant noise. "What? Why? What's wrong?"
Shepard climbed off his lap. Sank down onto her knees. "I— we can't. Not yet. It wouldn't be right."
"Shepard?" He pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking confused and frustrated and still heavy-lidded with desire.
Her hands clenched in her rumpled skirts, then let go.
"There's one last thing I have to tell you."