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It’s quiet on the Normandy.
There’s a part of her that still finds it unsettling, even months later. A warship like the Normandy should always be busy, and it takes her a minute to realize that she’s listening for the quiet murmurs of the late shift, the movements of the off duty crew. There’s nothing, of course. The Normandy is running on a skeleton crew, days from turning themselves in to the Alliance for what happened in the Viper Nebula. Other than Joker at the helm, Chakwas in medbay, and a handful of other people, the ship is empty.
She knows it’s just temporary, but it’s a little too close to the Collector’s attack on the ship. Her boots sound too loud on the floor plating, her breaths too loud in her ears. Feels unnatural. Shepard shakes her head and continues through the mess to the elevator.
Miranda was the last of her squad to leave. Shepard understands her reluctance. The Normandy wasn’t Miranda’s, not in the way that it was always hers, but she was instrumental in bringing Shepard back to her helm, to making their mission come together. The two of them steered this mission to its conclusion, and Shepard could not have done it without her. She was sad to see her go, but the Alliance doesn’t share Shepard’s knack for forgiveness, even if it would be practical.
The lift hums as she rides up to her quarters. In about twenty four hours, she will be in Alliance custody. Her lips tighten, and she stares at her reflection in the elevator door. It’s the right thing to do, like it was the right thing to do, to destroy the Viper Nebula relay. The only thing, really. Not for the first time, Shepard resents the questioning she’ll have to endure. The condemnation she’s already received. As though any of them could have done better. She rubs a hand over her face, scrubs her knuckles into her eyes. She’s saved the galaxy twice in less than a year and still they complain. She came back from the dead, and she’s still not enough.
At least she’ll have plenty of time to think on what she’s done. The lift door slides open, and Shepard steps out. She never participated in Alliance detention duty, but she gets the feeling that it will be a long, long time before she sees another friendly face. She keys her quarters door open and looks up.
Like this one.
Garrus is sitting at her desk, the pieces of a spare rifle spread across its surface. The sight of him lifts something off her shoulders. “You should have left when we stopped at the Citadel,” she says again. An old argument.
“Why?” Garrus says, and he twists his head to look at her. He’s left his armour in his quarters, and she steps forward and presses her face to one plated shoulder. His civvies are soft under her cheek, and she inhales, the iron and metal smell of him soothing her. “What can the Alliance do to a turian? Be sternly disappointed? I seem to remember your lot surrendered to us in the last war.” His talons are shiny with grease, and he wipes one hastily on a cloth in his lap so he can curl his hand around the back of her head. “I didn’t want you to do this alone.”
He cuts to the core of her, without even trying. She closes her eyes against his shirt. This thing between them stretches new and fragile, and she’s not fool enough to think that it’s just blowing off steam, not anymore. He anchors her, an easy, comfortable feeling of home when she thinks of him. She doesn’t know that she’s ever felt like that, not on Earth, in the slums with the Reds; not in the Alliance, her purpose found in service, in helping. It’s thrilling, and it’s terrifying, too. And in a day, it’ll be gone again.
She sighs and straightens just enough to throw her arms around his chest, leaning her weight against him. “I won’t be alone,” she says. She nudges one of the pieces of the gun further back onto the table, so it won’t fall onto the floor. “I have Joker.” And EDI, of course, though what will happen to her is a bit murkier. At least now that she’s unshackled, she can lie, hide herself. Shepard’s gotta hope that’s enough.
“And you’ve got me.” Garrus’ voice is firm, his subvocals warm and determined. “As always.” His clean talons curl around her wrist, holding her close as he tidies away the pieces for later. Her chest surges with something hot and unnameable. Always is a heavy word, but she doesn’t doubt him. She never has, not since the days they chased Saren together, when he was angrier and more hot-headed. She can’t now, not after he followed her into hell, no questions asked. She taps her fingers against his carapace, thinking about the way he’d told his story of Omega, hesitantly, in pieces, like she wouldn’t read between the lines: she died, and he lost his way.
“Are you gonna defend me to the Alliance?” she laughs. “I could probably use a lawyer.”
He finishes putting away the rifle and he stands, cleaning the last of the gun oil off his hands. “Maybe we should get married,” he says, and her eyes widen for a second before she sees the pleased, teasing flare of his mandibles. “Isn’t that what you humans do? If you’re married, you can’t testify against each other.”
She laughs and shakes her head, lets him take her hand and lead her to the bed. “Because marrying a vigilante will help my case,” she says dryly. She follows his lead, watching him stretch out in her bed (and doesn’t he look good there?) before she kicks off her boots, strips down to her skivvies, and crawls in after him, tucking herself in against him. A turian isn’t the most comfortable person to share a bed with, but they’ve figured out how to make it work. They’re both career military, they know how to sleep anywhere. A turian pillow and sheets strong enough to hold up against his talons also help.
“Would it hurt?” he asks, curling his arm around her. “Ah, hmm, on second thought, I’m fairly certain my father would kill me for marrying a human.”
She snorts. “Well, I guess it’d hurt you, then.” She tips her chin up to look at him, and he’s watching her steadily. “Not even the hero of the Citadel is good enough for his little boy, huh?”
“You’ve got it all wrong,” Garrus rumbles, amused. His carapace is warming now, with the two of them squeezed together like this. “I don’t think I’d be good enough for you.”
It’s just like him, to hide a truth in a joke. She’s been fixating on the future, on what will happen when the Alliance locks her up and spends time on bureaucracy when they should be preparing for the return of the Reapers, and she’s forgotten the smaller picture. The little anxieties, the nagging worries. “Don’t be stupid,” she tells him, and his mandibles flick doubtfully. “If Nyx Shepard is good enough for Archangel, then Garrus Vakarian is good enough for the hero of the Citadel.”
“Hmm,” he says. “That’s a nice thought, isn’t it?” He tucks his face in against her dark hair. “Maybe we can revisit it, when we’re done saving the galaxy. Again.”
She doesn’t like to look into the stars in the window overhead, but somehow with him next to her, it’s just a little bit easier. “You asking me to marry you, Vakarian?” she teases. She watches the sky move past them, as EDI steers them back to Earth.
“That’s skipping a few too many steps for me,” he admits. She can feel the flick of his mandibles against her head. “But maybe, when the Alliance pulls their heads out of their asses and lets you go - maybe we can think about you and me.”
“I’d like that,” she says.
“And in the meantime, I’ll write.” She likes how his voice sounds like this, when she’s close enough that she almost feels his subvocals. “And send you care packages, if the Alliance lets them through.” He hums. “I suppose I do count as a ‘shady contact’ now.”
She wraps her hands around his talons. “You’re going to send me some of those terrible turian action movies you love, aren’t you?” she accuses. There’s no heat in it. She’s surprised by how sleepy she sounds, her words softened as she yawns and pulls herself in closer.
“If I told you that, it would ruin the surprise.”
If this were still - just physical, just blowing off steam, they’d be making the most of their last night together. There’s a part of her that wonders if this isn’t a waste of their time, if they shouldn’t be touching everywhere they can, before they can’t. But then Garrus nudges his mandibles against her head and sighs, and everything in her unknots and unfolds to him. “Get some sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow, you can face down the firing squad.”
“They won’t fire me,” she says, and she wonders if the joke will make it through the translator. He laughs anyway.
“Okay, hero,” he says. “Sleep anyway. I’m right here.”
She closes her eyes, listens to the steady in-out of his breath.
He always is.