Events of the chapter: When Shepard doesn't answer his calls, Garrus pays a visit. Things don't go as expected.

Author's notes: Ohhhhhh my god. I didn't think I'd ever finish writing this chapter! I absolutely needed it to work, and I spent more time than usual perfecting the beats. I 'd love to do an edit of the whole fic tbh, but I hope my efforts still reflect in the writing ❤️

Can I also say: I am THRILLED at all the support I've received along the way so far, including my wonderful writing group who are 100% encouraging and caring. Thank you all

And thanks to all you readers for your patience! This concludes the end of Part II.

PART II
Chapter 17: Branching

"There are a few times in life when you leap up and the past that you'd been standing on falls away behind you, and the future you mean to land on is not yet in place, and for a moment you're suspended, knowing nothing and no one, not even yourself."

- The Dutch House, Ann Patchett

2 years, 4 mo. after the end of the Reaper War
Hierarchy Embassy, The Citadel, Sol System

CALLING: Circe Shepard…

Her name scrolled past in an endless loop.

CALLING: Circe Shepard.

CALLING: Circe Shepard..

CALLING: Circe Shepard…

CALLING: Circe Shepard….

After the sixth try, Garrus canceled the call, and the soft tones of his omnitool stopped. The log on his screen was a solid column of Shepard's name; read out loud, it could be taken for a mantra or an incantation. If he kept calling, would he summon her to appear? Could he find a channel that led straight to her? But this wasn't ancient Palaven. There were no priests or priestesses to act as a conduit, and Shepard wasn't dead. She just wasn't answering calls.

After the sixth try, Garrus canceled the call, and the soft tones of his omnitool stopped. The log on his screen was a solid column of Shepard's name; read out loud, it could be taken for a mantra or an incantation. If he kept calling, could he summon her to appear? Could he find a channel that led straight to her heart? But this wasn't ancient Palaven. There were no priests or priestesses to act as a conduit, and Shepard wasn't dead. She just wasn't answering calls.

"General?" Sergeant Laren called loudly. "General Vakarian?"

"Hmm?"

"I called your name a few times, sir, but you didn't answer."

"Sorry. I was a bit distracted." He flicked off his omnitool and crossed his arms. "Say, Sergeant…do you think you could cover for me for a few hours? We don't have anymore meetings for the day–we should be safe. That is, unless General Pallas decides today is a good day for an inspection."

The sergeant laughed nervously.

Garrus grinned. "Don't worry, he's not even in the system. He's in the Lapus Cluster somewhere."

"Yes, sir," Laren replied with an air of ease. "In that case, I'd be happy to help."

"Thanks. If anything urgent comes up I'll head back straight away." Garrus leaned in. "I owe you." He clapped Laren on the shoulder and jogged in the direction of the shuttle terminal.

Okanagan Valley, British Columbia, Earth

Three days after Shepard discovered the blighted flowers, beads of sap bled and hardened on the branches like honeyed scars. Leaves that had just begun to break bud turned off-color. Some curled at the edges. Jillian guessed that the trees were suffering from a fungal disease based on the recent spate of rain. It was a logical answer: wet conditions and unseasonal temperatures made for a dodgy cocktail in this climate. Her initial scans indicated Monilinia fructicola, but being a grape grower, she couldn't be certain.

It was Dusty, the co-op's longtime guru, who confirmed the diagnosis. Brown rot, he called it. The spores had likely been carried on the wind, or survived as malicious stowaways from a previous season, bedded down in mummified fruit or old leaves, waiting for the right time to spread. And spread it did, sweeping through the canopy like invisible wildfire and devastating the entire stand. Fungicides proved useless when washed away by rain. Worse, it was likely the other crops had been affected too: the cherries, the peaches, and the apples, all possible victims. But Dusty said it was too early to know for certain. The timid cheer in the old man's voice could not hide his doubt, and Shepard nodded along, hopeful that the thin veil of her artifice was not as thin as his.

But she knew: it was a near total loss.

The moment his truck rumbled out of sight, Shepard slouched on the boulder at the end of the driveway and stared blankly at the dirt near her feet. Crop loss. You're a farmer's daughter, you know how it goes, she told herself—they're only trees. No one was hurt, not a hair's worth of suffering. No one could have stopped it. No one could have demanded nature to stand down—not a commander or an admiral, not the orchardist or the farmer or the vigneron. But emotions never stood to reason. She had been given responsibility for the orchard in exchange for escape, however small that might be in the grand scheme of the universe.

With no one to witness her shame, Shepard wandered back into the house and collapsed to the bed, still dressed in her mud-caked pants and filthy boots. All the burning in her bones had been eclipsed by a penumbra of cold numbness: like someone else had died, their body lost to the indifference of space.

It didn't take long before she took her anger out on something. The garden at side of the house had run rampant with sprawling invaders, everyday something new sprouting as she slept. For two days, she strangled their toughened stems, tore them from the earth and clawed out their roots, as if she could quash all the unwanted things, as if she had the power to control the wildness that had been seeded long before she'd arrived.

Greasy strings of hair hung around her face. She was sweating, though it wasn't all that hot out. Sweat migrated to her eyes, and through her half-blurred vision, she came to realize she didn't know which plants were weeds and which were wildflowers. They all looked the same this early in the season. Scowling, she continued her work just the same. Discerning friend from foe made no difference to her now.

He'd been nervous the whole way there. Other than the time after Tokyo, Shepard had never ignored his calls. Rationally, he could infer the reason for her callousness, but the doubtful part of him wondered if he'd said or done something to deserve the cold shoulder, or worse, if something dreadful had happened to her.

The gripping in his heart eased as the lake came into view. Like any sensible turian, Garrus was wary of deep water, but from above, the long, snaking body was familiar and unthreatening. In the winter, its half-frozen surface had resembled jagged shelves of dried-up salt; now it was a shimmering blue, the water calm from end to end. It was easy to lose track of time on the ships and stations of space. One day bled into the next without regard to place or season. Planet-side, however, there was comfort in seeing time pass tangibly—in the sky, and the trees, and the color of the land.

As he descended upon the Alenko property, he thought of what he would say if she were home. Where have you been? Why aren't you answering my calls? I've missed you. Maybe not that. He always missed her—that fact was blue as blood—but he hadn't had time to think about it. Any longing he'd felt had been pressed between the weight of his work and the pathos of his mother's decline. His sister's burden was a dim third.

Hoping to escape notice, he flew the craft down low and landed in a grassy field next to the service road. His long, quick strides through the dropseed were nearly soundless as he stalked parallel to the road, then cut across the shrub dotted knoll leading up to the house. He slowed. Halfway up, he could see Shepard kneeling in the courtyard, in the place she called a garden, though in Garrus' eyes it was little more than a patch of scrub, wild and mangy—not like any garden he'd ever known. At least she was okay. That was a relief. Pivoting to avoid her line of sight, he made a diagonal toward the outbuilding and crept along its black, aluminum roll-up door. He stopped where the building met the short fence of the courtyard.

Between the slats, his girlfriend's back appeared in slashes, its staunch curve exaggerated by the slant of sunlight through the pines. She was bent over something, talking to herself. A blade in her hand gleamed.

"Get…the fuck…out!" she snarled and stabbed the ground with a violent grunt, levering the knife down to crack the soil. Her other hand choked a bundle of stems, and she tossed the offending plants, roots and all, over her shoulder. They landed in a small pile of dirt and greens. Whatever she was doing, she'd probably been at it for a while.

Before he could take another step, Shepard's head jerked over her shoulder. She scanned the courtyard. Still on one knee, she held position like a figure in a sculptural frieze.

"Who's there?" She rose and flicked the knife up.

Sabbatical hadn't done much to dull her senses. Like the old turian saying went: you can take the soldier from the fight, but you can't take the fight from the soldier. Not willing to risk a knife to the throat, Garrus came to his full height.

Shepard's defensive stance fell away. "Garrus?" she said with shaky breath. "My god, what are you doing here? I thought you were a bear!" Knife still in hand, she met him at the fence.

"No, just some other predator stalking you," he said impishly. "Sorry, I realize how that sounded…"He looked down at her from over the fence. "It's my last week on the Citadel. Thought I'd drop by while I was in the neighborhood."

A wave of relief seemed to wash over her face, and the knife fell from her hand, thumping to the ground as she pushed through the gate at the other end of the fence.

"You weren't answering my calls," he said as she approached.

Without saying a word, she gathered her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his chest. Right away, he understood that she didn't want to talk about the whys. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and his other hand came up to cradle her head.

"I thought you might need me today."

She tilted her head up to look at him. Her green eyes glinted, the hard facets of a freshly polished jewel. "I can't believe you remembered…"

"You can't, huh?"

She pressed her cheek to his chest again. "I hate my birthday."

"I know you do," he said quietly and closed his eyes.

The memory was so clear: the day he'd learned Shepard hated her own birthday. The crew had encountered a derelict freighter adrift in the Maroon Sea, not far from the Perseus Veil. They boarded under the assumption that the crew were dead or MIA, but they soon discovered the ship was crawling with husks. The undead had rushed the squad at the initial turn, and Kaidan went down in the first thirty seconds, nearly dying at the entrance. Shepard drew the heat off him just in time by charging headlong into the the fray without a thought. It was a Geth deathtrap, and they'd fallen right in.

That night, safe aboard the Normandy, Shepard appeared at dinner like she always did. She was beyond beat, but it was her policy to join her crew in the mess whenever she could. "We're brothers and sisters in arms," she would say. "We eat together, like family." None of them had known it was her birthday, or at least they weren't supposed to have known, but Liara—of course it was Liara—showed up with a high-cal muffin on a banged-up, Alliance-issue plate. She proudly held the ersatz cake aloft as she breezed through the mess. It was little more than an edible fuel cell with a single candle shoved through, but she was determined to mark the day, explaining that she'd studied human customs regarding birthdays, and that she'd done her best under the circumstances, and she smiled shyly, apologizing for the meager offering, and set the plate down.

The tiny flame quivered under Shepard's stony face. She smiled back, her smile sagging as she held it long past its ripeness. Garrus would later come to understand this close-lipped smile as the one she wore against her own sentiments; it was an expression of politeness.

Shepard blew the candle out and everyone congratulated her on another year. She didn't say much after that. She retreated to her quarters as soon as dinner was over. Kaidan—who Garrus had already suspected was in love with the Commander—followed after her, but he returned as quickly as he'd gone, a disappointed sigh leaving his lips as he took his seat.

Garrus had watched all of this happen and understood the implicit meaning. The pain that lived in her eyes that day. The tension in her shoulders. Even the way she pushed food around her plate as word of her birthday got around the ship. The observant eyes of a C-Sec investigator hadn't missed a thing. She hated her birthday. Of course she did. Her parents had been dead for years. No real home since she was sixteen. Aside from Anderson, the only family she had were the crew aboard the ships she served on. He imagined all her birthdays celebrated amongst a rotation of comrades, some of whom would not survive the next year, or in the case of Akuze, none. Yeah, he would hate his birthday too.

When the next April came around, he made a point of not contacting her. He considered it his way of being thoughtful. Not that he would have received a message back; she had already been dead by then, and no one had thought to inform him. Those were the bad times.

Two years later, she came back from the dead; she came back from the dead and saved him. It was as close to a miracle as Garrus had ever experienced, and he wasn't going to take her birthday for granted ever again, even if she did.

Outside the garden, he opened his eyes again. "What about me? It's alright if I don't hate your birthday, right?"

"I guess," she said, still looking down.

"It's why you're here." He crooked a finger under Shepard's chin and lifted it gently to see her face. "And I'm happy you're here. Well, me and everyone else in the galaxy."

A faint smile crossed her face. "Christ, you're corny. But thank you."

"I promise I won't say anything more about it."

She nodded. "Do you want to come inside?"

The warmth of midday brushed the plates of Garrus' neck, and he turned his face towards the water. "Why don't we go for a walk? It's beautiful out."

"Alright," she said, letting go of his waist. "Give me a sec." She closed the gate, took him by the hand, and led him down the path to the service road.

"Where are we going?" he asked as she tugged his arm.

"The usual spot!"

The usual spot was down the hill and past the vineyard. A beautiful little beach, but the memory of watching Shepard slip beneath the water for what felt like hours still gave him chills. He'd stood at the shore like a helpless fool, too scared to go into the lake past his knees.

Pulling him toward the precipice, Shepard looked back and smiled. "You wouldn't know it, but this is the first dry week we've had in months. They say humans of old used to pray for rain, but I must be the only one who's prayed for the opposite."

When they reached the edge of the Alenkos' property, they were met by scores of grapevines stretching on in perfectly spaced lines; their bare canes poked up like the bristles of a brush from the gently raked hillside. Confused, Garrus stopped to survey the vineyard.

"Did the Admiral's vines die?"

"Nah, that's normal for this time of year."

"Huh." He stepped over a fallen fence post and continued walking. "How is the Admiral?"

"Same. Still spunky as ever. Though she's taken to checking up on me. I try not to let it get to me , but it makes me feel a bit like a child."

"She's a mother, Shepard. That's what they do. The good ones, anyway."

"A mother without a child..." Shepard leapt over a stretch of mud that crossed the path. "But I'm a child without a mother, I suppose, so that's something."

"We all become children without mothers by the end."

It was a reflex, his consequential way of thinking, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted ever thinking them. If Solana had been there she'd have begun to keen, or maybe scolded him for being dark, but Shepard simply squeezed his hand and walked closer to him, pressing her shoulder against his body as if to say "I understand."

The trail ended just past the stand of firs. The beach may have been strewn with rocks, but the trees sheltered the cove, and Shepard liked that it was secluded. Stopping where the vegetation met gravel, she let go of Garrus' hand and approached the water's edge. She plucked a stone from the limpid shallows. Fixing her gaze to the horizon, she pelted the stone and watched as it grazed the surface in a shrinking chain of ripples.

"Fifteen…not bad, Shepard," Garrus said, stepping up from behind. He searched the water and palmed a few candidates, tossing out all but one, and hooked the oblong form between his finger and thumb. The long arc of his arm sprung forward. "Damn!"

"I counted…eight? Come on, I taught you better than that, Vakarian!"

He shook his head and gave it another try. Six skips. She almost felt bad for teasing him, but the competitive streak between them always did run long. That was par for the course for two hotshots.

"Hey, bet ya my last bottle of quarian whiskey you can't beat fifteen," Shepard said, raising her eyebrows.

"You've got yourself a deal."

Garrus took his time choosing the perfect implement. When his back was turned, Shepard rubbed the flat of her hand into the meat of her upper arm. Chucking the rock at full power had been a bad idea; her arm ached down to the bone, as if a beast was gnawing on it where she stood, and it tingled too. Maybe it was wrong to think, but she was relieved that Garrus was preoccupied. He didn't have the wherewithal to see how brittle she felt. She could've won a Cosmos for how well she was pulling of this act.

"Hah! Twelve!" he crowed, throwing his arm up in the air.

"Congratulations, Vakarian! But that doesn't beat fifteen."

"Killjoy."

"The secret..."—Shepard crouched and ran her fingers over the bed of rocks at her feet—"is in picking the right stone. You want one that's thin, with a smooth, flat bottom. Not too heavy though or it won't fly."

She picked one up and held it out for him to see before whipping it into the shallows. "See?"

His mandibles fluttered. He scanned the ground with a methodical zeal. She could see the evaluations running through his mind, running past the windows of his eyes and round again, the same as when he'd fine tune the Mako's cannon programs.

"I heard about your testimony," he said casually, still scanning the ground.

"That's no surprise."

"How did it feel, being in front of the Council again?"

"The same? Almost like I'd never left." She wanted to say she hated it, but that would be inviting more questions she didn't want to answer. "But it felt like I didn't belong there. Kind of strange."

"You do belong there. It's just been a while." He clamped a slim stone between his finger and thumb and held it up to his face for closer inspection. "And what about Liara? How's she holding up?"

"Considering she just ratted out some very powerful matriarchs? As well as can be expected."

"Never thought the old gal had it in her," he said, turning the stone over in his hand.

"I think traveling with Javik has given her some perspective. The conviction to go forward." Shepard furrowed her brow. No, it was more than that. "Grief can change you in ways you don't understand. Not right away, at least."

"I don't know if I could've done the same."

"Me either. I only went because she asked me to. But in the end, she felt their inaction hurt their cause. That they might've saved Thessia if they'd 'fessed up about the beacon earlier."

Garrus huffed lightly. "Liara might be sensitive, but she's not stupid."

Shepard watched as he lined up for another attempt. The triangular stone he'd selected shot out in a perfectly straight line, skipping so fast that she lost count of how many times it kissed the water.

"I'd ask what Primarch Victus thinks about all this, but I have a feeling I know."

"Yeah? Why's that?" he asked, still looking out to where his stone had disappeared.

"Mmm…he and I don't think that differently." Shepard crossed her arms. "If I were him, I'd use this as an opportunity to gather allies. Buttress the Hierarchy's position with an alliance of some kind. The asari suffered losses, but they still have capital, resources. Ilium came out relatively unscathed thanks to all that money, and they've got operational eezo mines to boot, which is a lot more than the rest of us can say." She tilted her head. What could appear to be an act of thought was really an opportunity to relieve the sharp pinch in her neck. "The Hierarchy has a strong relationship with the Protectorate, which helps, but that's a drop in the bucket. There's still so much infrastructure to rebuild, and you don't have enough people to protect what you have."

"You sure you don't want to go into politics?" asked Garrus, a smirk playing about his mouth.

"Ha. Ha." She rashly snatched a stone near her feet. "I'd just as soon become a monk." Cranking her arm back for the launch, she aborted halfway, her perfunctory fling not enough to keep the rock from sinking after two touches.

"Wish I could laugh, but it's too late for me," he retorted. "I was dragged into this clawing and screeching. No, this galaxy—it isn't done with me yet." He sent one last stone blazing across the lake like a ship hurtling through a relay. Shepard gaped, but he didn't seem to think anything of it. "But enough politics. That isn't why I'm here." Dusting his hands off, he stepped closer and held her shoulders gently. "I've missed you, Shepard."

"I've missed you too," she said, placing a hand atop his.

"I'm headed back to Palaven at the end of the week. We've got tentative talks with the salarians, and I need to be there. This is my last chance to see you before I leave the system. I'm afraid it's going to be a while this time. A long while."

"How long do you have? Right now, I mean."

"Mmm…a couple of hours? Maybe three? Most I could grab without getting myself into trouble."

"Hell, what are we doing here, then!"

"What do you—"

Shepard grabbed his wrist and tugged him toward the trailhead.

The sun hung in just the right spot to paint a band of light across the bed like a bold brushstroke. Skin still warm and dewy, Shepard stretched out over the sheets too cool off. She let her breath out through pursed lips, the twine of her taut nerves unwinding from their spools, and in that moment, she felt something akin to relaxation for the first time in months.

"You owe me a bottle of whisky, by the way. Don't think I forgot…" Garrus said, grinning, and trailed a talon over her sternum and down to her stomach.

Clenching her abs, she resisted the the urge to squirm. "You're lucky I'm not ticklish," she said with a stiff smile.

"And the whisky?"

This was the third time he'd reminded her since they'd left the beach. Technically the fourth if she counted his gloating. "You have a one track mind, don't you?"

"And you don't, hmm?" he said, nodding his chin at her half naked body.

"Touche, darling."

Garrus shifted to sit up. "Any plans tonight?"

"I'm not sure yet." Shepard draped an arm over her forehead. "A couple of gals at the co-op invited me to a bar crawl, but I'm thinking of canceling."

"Why cancel? It might be nice to let loose a little. You know—have too many bad drinks, dance on some tables, forget about today."

It sounded like something she might have done as a private; sometimes that was all there was time for when you were on shore leave. But the cure to her ailment lay beyond the nostrum of any drink or act of foolishness. What was the point when it would all be waiting for her in the morning: the gnawing pain, the aimless resentment, the indistinct sense of dread?

Through the skylight above, the ponderosas began to pitch, their spindly columns circling and bending, repelling each other through some unseen force enveloping them like a bubble.

No, she decided, she wasn't doing herself any favors. These fears were nothing compared to what she'd faced before. Name them, be present, be mindful, she reminded herself. Be brave.

Her fingers curled on the clammy sheets as she drew a deep breath. "Hey, G…"

His mouth opened as she looked over, but the abrupt, insistent bleeping of his omnitool startled them both. She recognized the sharp tone as the one he'd set for Primarch Victus.

"Damn, I need to take this."

She acknowledged him with a nod. Her fingers relaxed, and she watched the trees continue their tense dance of keep away.

Shifting to sit at the edge of the bed, Garrus answered the call with his back turned to her. "Sir?"

"General. Word has reached the asari. They're furious. They're demanding an audience with the Council." Victus' voice was harried and clipped. "We're being summoned. I need you to return to the Citadel immediately."

"Understood, sir."

"And Garrus…" he said with more care, "While I have sympathy for your situation, please remember your duty is to the Hierarchy first."

He sat up a little straighter at his superior's words. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice deeper than before.

The call ended, and he sat for a moment, unmoving. Heaviness filled Shepard's gut, as if she'd swallowed each stone they'd skipped at the shore, and the broad bow of his silvery carapace—the definition of durable and protective—was imposing in a way she'd never felt before.

"I should leave soon," he said, glancing over his shoulder.

"Yeah, no, of course." She did her best to sound unruffled. The bravery she'd so quickly gathered slipped away just as quickly.

She sat up to put her shirt on and watched as Garrus began to dress. First his undergarments, then his non-combat uniform, which she had carefully draped over the armchair: a shadow-gray placketless number with white Hierarchy insignia and three silver bars on the upper arm—stamps of allegiance and fidelity. This man—this turian man—with his hard shell and soft insides, was responsible for billions of other souls. With no hope for clear answers, their complex calculations, however ungainly, would continue on for years.

Outside, the gusts began to howl. The pines flailed and crooked at their waists. Shepard imagined their trunks snapping.

"I'm sorry," Garrus said as he pulled the zipper closed below his spur. "Thought I could get away with stealing away for half a day. I guess I was wrong."

Shepard swung her legs to the edge of the bed. Filtered through the shrubs and trees, she could see part of the orchard through the window in front of her. A flurry of white swept up into currents, like someone had shaken a snow globe, but there was no snow. These were the petals of the apricot trees let loose by the wind, spent and withered.

She pressed her palms to the mattress. Her fingers again curled around the clammy sheets, the trunk of her body weighted down with rocks. She would not be moved, could not be moved to mourn.

"I… I don't think I can do this anymore."

The sound of footfall came up from behind, but she did not turn her head.

"Do what?" Garrus was standing directly over her shoulder now. She could feel the gravity of his body working to draw her near.

"This," she said, looking up at him. The dark uniform made him taller, monolithic. "I can't keep up with you."

"What do you mean 'keep up' with me?" He came around the bed to sit next to her. "You don't need to keep up with me. We're far apart, but that doesn't mean I can't make time for you. And we can talk about other arrangements if we need to." He laid a reassuring hand on her thigh.

"That's not what I mean."

"What, then?"

She brushed the backs of her fingers over the emblem on his arm. "You're a general in the Hierarchy. Bringing an entire empire back to its feet...it's a lot. You're in line for the Primacy for god's sake."

Garrus scoffed and laughed in equal measure. "Look, it's just a title. Probably one of the crappiest titles you could have right now. And I'd hardly call the Hierarchy an empire—more like inherited rubble. Whatever you call it, does it matter? It doesn't change anything between us."

"Yes, it does," she said flatly. Humility had always been one of his most attractive traits, but right now it was pissing her off; brushing off the enormity of his duty didn't suit him, even if it was to appease her wounded spirit.

"Shepard—don't take this the wrong way…"—he paused to take a breath—"but it was never easy keeping up with you. The first human Spectre? Charging ahead at every turn? Hell, how many times did I watch you nearly die?" He looked her square in the eyes. "But we got through all of that—together."

She shook her head. "That's not the same. We weren't serious then, not until the end. And we shared everything—work, personal space, down time. We were always in sync. But these days? These days I feel like a dead weight dragging you down. You barely have your head above water."

"That's bullshit, Shepard," Garrus snapped. His browplates sank. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"I don't know." She looked down at her lap, unsure of how to articulate the swirl of worry in her head. "What I do know is that between your work and your home life—I mean, your mother—"

"Why don't you let me handle that?" he said firmly and placed his hand on top of hers on the bed.

Shepard slipped her hand free.

His face stiffened. His eyes—clear and cutting like glass—scanned hers, calculations running past in bright flashes.

"What is this really about, Circe?"

"I told you already."

"No, I don't think you have." The gravel in his voice scraped at her heart.

Her voice was flaccid and cloudy. "There's nothing more to say about it."

For a few moments, neither said or did anything. But the calculations were deepening, and she could hear it in his deep, steady breathing.

"Does…does this have something to do with the medication?" he asked hesitantly.

Her hands pressed into the bed again. The room darkened. She felt hot and dizzy.

"When I was here in the winter, you asked me to get the medigel. It was in the wrong place and…I didn't mean to, they were just there."

Not daring to meet his gaze again, she stared straight ahead through the window. The hapless trees were ready to fall; a cold front was coming, her bones told her. She gripped the sheets for dear life.

"You weren't supposed to see those," she said, the words barely escaping her tightened lips.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sure you want to know what they're for."

"I'll admit I was curious. But I didn't get a good look."

She turned her head toward him, but could only bring herself to look down at his knees. "They're for neuropathic pain. It's a side effect of damage to my biotic system." Perhaps it was best to avoid the details of her experimental treatment. Miranda had given her full warning about the possible side effects and she'd chosen to do it anyway. Garrus would be furious to know the side effects were worse than the initial pain.

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"I was. Eventually."

"Eventually?" he croaked. "How long has it been?"

Shepard hesitated. "More than a year? It might have started before that."

"Spirits." He slid his hands up, then down his thigh. "Why… I don't understand…why wouldn't you just tell me?"

"Because…we have such precious little time together." She met his gaze for a moment. "I don't want to waste it on worrying. It's too much—it's too hard—to hear the same questions over and over. 'Are you alright? How are you feeling? Are you in pain?'. What am I supposed to say? You were the last place where I could be myself—really myself—without feeling like I'd failed."

"Failed? That's crazy, Shepard. What is there for you to fail?"

"We're soldiers. We don't whine. I know you understand that."

"This isn't the same as being at war. There's no one here to judge you."

"I'm judging me," she retorted loudly.

The set backs, the hardships, the years of sacrifice she'd poured into the Alliance—she'd persevered through them all. Crawled her bloody way there. She pulled the trigger on the Reapers. She survived. She'd survived again and again by the skin of her teeth and the stubborn will to live. How the hell she ended up here, she couldn't understand.

"Do you have any idea…" Her voice began to break. "No, how could you."

Garrus leaned into her. "What? What is it?"

Shepard held back the worst of her impulses, but her other thoughts came fast and loud. "It's eating me alive. Watching everyone else get on with it—doing something—and I'm shit useless. I can't even keep a damned tree alive!" She sprung from the bed, breath quickening, and began to pace in front of the window. "I've spent my whole life out there,"—she pointed an angry finger towards the sky—"in space. Since I was sixteen, my choices have been fight or die. Well I didn't die. How many times, huh? I didn't fucking die! I'm still here, still fighting. Oh, I'm fighting. You bet the damned farm I'm fighting! But what for? I've been grounded nearly two years and I have shit all to show for it. Two years!" Shepard could hear herself shouting, but she couldn't stop. "I'm too young to retire, Garrus. So why am I here? I don't belong here! This isn't even my land, it's Kaidan's!"

Garrus reached for her wrist and caught her mid-stride. "Shepard," he said gently. "You're here to get better. That's why you're here."

Well that was a Pollyanna answer if she ever heard one. It was almost funny. "Better? Better?" Shepard spat bitterly. "There are miles—no, a canyon—a solar system—between 'Hero of the Galaxy'"and this. No, there is no 'better'."

"Circe, that's not—"

"Don't." She shook off his grasp.

He tried to grab her wrist again, but she wasn't going to let him have it this time.

"Don't tell me it will be okay!"

"Listen—"

"Just DON'T!"

The room emptied of air.

The silence that followed choked them both; there was only the rise and fall of the wind rushing through the pines.

In an instant, the corset of muscles around her torso laced itself tight. Shepard collapsed into the armchair and buried her face in her hands. How could she look him in the eyes? To let him see how pitifully diminished she'd become?

"I'm sorry," she said in a hushed voice. "It's been a long week. I think I just need some space."

The shuffle of feet grew close. A comforting weight fell on her shoulder. She might have begun to cry had she not shuddered first.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, her shame too big to swallow. She gingerly removed his hand. "Maybe you should leave."

"You want me to leave?" he asked, his subvocals barely vibrating.

She glanced up at his saddened, confused face. "Yes."

"I don't—"

"Go. They're expecting you. You don't want to keep them waiting."

"Circe…"

"Please…" If she had to look into his eyes again she was going to snap, to crash and splinter beyond mending.

Garrus let out a shaky sigh. "Alright, I'll go. But only because I have to." He buckled the collar on his uniform and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. "We're not done here, you know."

Shepard bit the inside of her lip. There was so much more to explain but no time to say it.

"I'll call you when I can." He squeezed her limp hand. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said faintly. "Goodbye, Garrus."

He turned to leave the room, then stopped in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame to take one last quiet look at her. She forced herself to smile, though she was sure it looked bittersweet at best. At last, he disappeared around the corner and down the hall; she could hear him fiddling with his boots in the foyer. The door shut and the autolock beeped.

Torso still in spasms, Shepard stayed glued to the armchair. Why hadn't she at least seen him out the door? If she couldn't tell him how she felt, she at least owed him a send-off. Surely she was capable of doing that much. Or a proper apology, for that matter.

Whatever progress she'd made in therapy had all but abandoned her. The black dog was gnawing, sinking its teeth in deep and dragging her about like a rag doll. She needed to shake him off and run.

She pushed herself from the chair, rushed down the hall, and ran out front door in her bare feet. Frantic, she scanned the area for Garrus, but he was nowhere to be found. She hurried further down the gravel path, hoping she could see him from there, but again, he was gone. As she squinted past the service road, an engine thrummed in the distance. She turned her head toward the sound to see the skycar rising from a grassy field.

"GARRUS!" she shouted. It was useless. There was no way he could see or hear her. The skycar sped away into the blue, leaving Shepard dumbfounded and alone.

The wind whipped across her face. It battered her body and took her breath away with it.

Buckling, she pressed the heel of her hands into her knees. Her shoulders crept up toward her ears. Her feet dug into the earth, the pea-sized stones making marks on her soles, her whole body resisting the pull of space on every atom of her being.

All the pain—the pain she'd coddled and soothed and cradled—rose to the surface like warm, salty water. The stinging warmth spread from her face and into her neck, through her chest and down her arms, through her torso and her legs, until she couldn't stand it anymore. Her head felt like it would burst.

Suddenly, a familiar reverberation flooded her hands. It was more intense and focused than she remembered. It burned. Screaming, she shot up. Her hands flew out in defense. Dark energy cracked through the air, and a pine came crashing down against the outbuilding, splitting in two against the pointed roof.

Shepard gasped, and the pain was gone.

Author's notes: I have so much to say about what I've written. I could go on and on about what is happening, what things means, and how I've crafted different parts of the story. But I won't. I'll spare you all the details and instead I'll be working hard on the opening for Part III, as well as a side story for Joker (remember him?).

Until then, take care friends!

Song: "A Pearl" - Mitski
It's just that I fell in love with a war / Nobody told me it ended / And it left a pearl in my head / And I roll it around every night / Just to watch it glow

Song: "So You Wanna Be a Superhero" - Carissa's Wierd
You were right: I can't do this / I'm going crazy, it's gone by me and you can't see / How much I think I'm empty / I might be leaving soon