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English
Series:
Part 2 of carried in your chest
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Published:
2026-01-30
Words:
652
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
10
Kudos:
9
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1
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53

still, breathe

Summary:

it’s too warm, she thinks, the wet seeping through her gloves;
too warm, too fast, too much
her tempo rising, heart pounding, too warm too much too much;
her hands press tighter to face, neck, mandible as
she reminds herself: still, breathe.

(Shepard, trying to rescue a fallen Archangel.)

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

it’s too warm, she thinks, the wet seeping through her gloves;
too warm, too fast, too much
her tempo rising, heart pounding, too warm too much too much;
her hands press tighter to face, neck, mandible as
she reminds herself: still, breathe.

it’s not enough, she thinks, just holding him together:
too little, too gone, too messy
shattered pieces; her old friend bore up, had weathered,
striking when she needed something, someone, it was like
her lungs, once crushed, expanded.

his breath is short, she thinks, a desperate gasp, choking thing.
“call Joker,” she says—she shouts; there's blood pounding
in her ears, drowning everything until it’s all blue, blue,
blue on the ground, her hands, down his face running.
her throat burns: empathy, no, protest.

it’s too slow, she thinks, as the transport seems to idle
too slow, too cold, too late
her grip on him tightens as they reach their point apsidal,
her fingers skidding slick ceramic, skin, broken carapace,
counting gasps through blocked airway.

it’s not enough, she thinks, as Miranda takes lead
he’s too cold, too bloody, too hurt
medigel stymieing every bone, break and cut—
but it’s Garrus, she reminds herself; Garrus must,
she’ll breathe again once blood flows through shunt.

 

 

it’s ironic, she thinks, Archangel, had only she’d known
the moniker concealing him, she’d have hurried;
maybe pulled him, another pilot another bridge,
but she already saw the bodies, unburied,
and the oxygen tube, nicked.

so tired, she thinks, did he look in his smouldering base,
promising her he’d tell it all—yeah, “the whole thing.”
blood trails beneath his nose, to be smeared by her hand,
in close she says, “still waiting on you to sing,”
hoping for his one ragged huff.

has to be enough, she thinks, as the ship lock unseals
and one by one by one, grunts paw at, peel him away.
her mouth opens in protest, as her heart keels a fit—
a hand on her shoulder, Chakwas promising “we'll fix this”;
as if simple words could be enough.

hold it together, she thinks, because she has to
walk past crew, past the A.I., its cameras.
just hold it, her mouth somehow tasting still Akuze sand,
but all she hears is his gasping, coughing, choking,
while her lungs just contract.

he's not dead, she thinks, until her shower runs cold,
but she can still feel it, blue stains in all the creases.
her skin glows crimson, rubbed raw; her lips bitten;
the mirror fogs as she tries to find some release,
coughing up loose shards of chitin.

 

 

right away, she thinks, through his scope he’d seen
through all the smoke and the mirrors
across that damn bridge and those barricades—
not a question in his mind—his dead commander,
and her respiring chest.

fairy tales, she thinks, while wiping the glass clean,
eyes sliding over a face she still can’t quite believe:
the cracks, meat and tubes; cybernetic, unreal
when she still remembers what it felt like
back then, to asphyxiate.

too close, she thinks, he had been too close to sharing;
too close, too soon, too lucky
her tempo rising, heart pounding, too close too soon too much;
her hands press tighter to face, neck, clavicle as
she reminds herself: still, breathe.

no more, she thinks, as she returns to the lower decks,
do her duty: show her face, debrief, take all reports,
keeping it together, review all the specs.
“Commander,” Jacob beckons, and Shepard nods,
throat tied up in knots.

“what we could,” he says, but she hears just one refrain:
not enough, not enough, not enough
he almost says it, just about, it’s a tip of a tongue,
but before he can, the doors slide open,
and breath rushes from her lungs.

“didn’t think he’d be up yet.”
“nobody would give me a mirror. how bad is it?”

this time she doesn’t think; no reminder.
just breathes.

Notes:

funny how i started writing these poems to avoid becoming redundant, and yet, here i am, back at my favorite subject.

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