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The Normandy's outer hull is covered in a thin layer of dust.
Shepard leans on the railing in front of her, silent and watching. Dust accumulates faster on objects just out of space. Faster yet on places like the Citadel — large enough to have its own gravitational pull but not nearly large enough to forgo the use of artificial gravity altogether.
The Normandy's been through a lot. She was destroyed and rebuilt almost the same but still different, not quite that ship the Alliance gave to Shepard when she first became a Spectre. And then she was forced to fight in so many fights, spearheading a war that really ought to be led by something more than just a small frigate with an overpowered drive core and too many battles behind her back. Never once asked if she was tired or needed to make port unless ordered. Never allowed to rest for longer than hours at a time.
Shepard finds herself looking down when a salarian technician walks past. She doesn't want anyone to find her here. A part of her knows she can't escape what's to come, but she seeks out the comfort of loneliness all the same. Or— Well, she tells herself she's here to check on the ship. Why she would do that herself instead of someone more qualified to assess the damage or do repairs if so needed, she's not able to rationalise. All she can come up with is it's her ship. She can't have anyone else do this for her.
The Normandy looks battle ready, but she's got some scars: there are scrapes on the hull, a few too many hits taken, a few too many close calls.
But she's got one last battle in her. Just one more and then it's all over, one way or the other.
Shepard takes a deep breath.
She can handle one more fight. No matter how tired, damaged, and worn-down — she can rally one last time.
Shepard closes her eyes, breathing in the depth of the vehicle bay. The air here is thick and heavy with grease and metal burn. Not a pleasant environment to be in, probably, but it's what she's most familiar with: the smell of war and impending battle.
The catwalk creaks a little under the weight of another person — Shepard doesn't bother opening her eyes to check who's coming: she instantly recognises the measured paces, weighed down by guns and armor, the pattern she's walked to for years.
Garrus leans on the railing beside her, mirroring her stance like only he knows to. Shepard acknowledges his presence by gently nudging his elbow with hers, but neither of them speaks a word.
When she opens her eyes, he's looking straight ahead. Visor flickering through some data and brow plates twitching in thought: inspecting the ship just like she was earlier.
"Hey," she gently eases sound into the silence between them. One of the few things she knows to do gently.
"Hey." His eyes flick towards her: a flash of blue, like seeing clear skies among heavy storm clouds for a fraction of a second.
He looks tired. A mirror image to her, she's willing to bet.
"Are you making sure the Normandy's in one piece? We have people for that, you know. You should rest up. We need you at your best."
There's a voice in the back of her head calling her a hypocrite for turning those words in his direction.
"Hm." Garrus even pretends to think about that for a moment, already shaking his head. "No, I'm… much too wound up for that. Don't think I'd be able to sleep a moment."
"So instead you're here tending to the ship, then?"
"Maybe. Maybe to the captain."
Shepard barks out a short and utterly mirthless laugh.
"I'm fine, Garrus."
Not even she could possibly think that sounded convincing.
"Just… Let me worry about you?" The instant he steps closer, breaching the shores of her personal space, she can feel the heat radiating off his body, the warm presence of another person stark against the cool air of the docking bay. "Otherwise, I'll just worry about our chances. About what might happen tomorrow, if we live that long…"
He leaves off on a purposefully lingering note, making his finished statement sound too much like something more is to come. Making her think of what might have followed.
Damn it.
"Alright," she relents, reluctantly. "I don't… mind you staying, anyway."
And that's a fucking understatement if she ever heard one.
Armor clatters loudly against the metal catwalk when he sits down. His legs dangle over the depth of the vehicle bay in a way that looks — at least to Shepard — oddly unnatural. She doesn't get to look down at Garrus very often, and it just paints a very sad picture: him sitting there like that, so small against the huge empty space he's perched above.
"Can we just..." His words float in the air between them quite uselessly for a while, before he eventually finds the strength to speak again. "Just pretend like it's alright?"
"Garrus—" Shepard's features soften and she can instantly tell he knows what she's about to do: he knows this is the way she broaches bad news. Tries to soften the blow by showing how sympathetic she is to the pain he's feeling. By letting him know that while she might not agree, she understands where he's coming from and maybe is even feeling sorrow that she can't see things in the same way he does.
"I know that it's stupid," he murmurs, the dual tones of his voice overlaying in a tone that is surprisingly pleasant, considering the circumstances. "But it's just one night. If we only have one night, I want to remember it."
"Mmm-hmm." She tilts her head at him in that way she often does, not fully convinced but willing to see a new perspective. "And what did you have in mind? For a night worth remembering?"
"I don't know." Garrus, once again, comes up empty. Something else is starting to shine through his words — a deeper desperation, one he's trying to suppress but that is clearly driving him. "I just want to be with you."
"Okay." Shepard gives him only a single nod of her head. She does not argue any further.
She simply sits beside him, silently settling into the soft space outside the discordant anticipation she's been consumed by until now. The war, the inevitable end looming over them, it's all... muted here, somehow. As though Garrus insisting that they ignore it has somehow actually pushed it all away for a moment.
He's still in full armor — probably came looking for her before he got any chance to relax. It's a bit uncomfortable when he rests his head on her shoulder, the sharp metal edges digging into her flesh as he nuzzles in even closer. She doesn't say anything. Having him put most of his body weight on her like that feels… good. Almost as though she's a real person in a real body sitting with her real boyfriend, and not just an idea loosely wrapped in cloned flesh and cybernetics. She wishes she could touch him, skin against plates, ask him to wrap around her completely so she knows where her body ends and where it begins…
Instead, she just sits there. Coming apart everywhere he's not touching. He's heavy against her; she closes her eyes and breathes slowly, focuses on that.
She offers him a weak smile when one of his thighs nudges hers; their feet swinging over the docking bay fathoms below like they're marine creatures surfacing for the first time, in tandem as always.
It's Garrus who moves first: he stands up before she has a chance to protest and show her hand more than she's prepared to right now.
His request is a simple one.
"Walk with me?"
"Of course."
He offers to help her up and for just the briefest moment, she finds herself torn on whether to accept. She doesn't need help. She never needs help.
Her fingers wrap around his wrist as he pulls her up to her feet and he feels solid, real. Steady. In some weird way she doesn't fully understand, she's glad that she took his hand. And she tells herself that that's all it is, just taking his hand so he can help her get up off the metal catwalk.
The Normandy's engines are off as the ship is docked, but Shepard could swear she can hear them softly humming nonetheless, as anxious as her, preparing for the fight ahead. She places a hand on the cold metal of the hull.
It's still underneath her fingers. No hum to be found here. A thick layer of dust sticks to her palm and she instinctively wipes it off on her uniform.
She turns around quickly. Garrus stands beside her silently, hands joined behind his back and his eyes firmly set on her: he doesn't even attempt to look away when their eyes meet. For a second, Shepard feels a little bit like she's drowning: she can't seem to draw in her next breath, all the air that should be in her lungs instead trapped in the ocean of blue that only disappears when he blinks.
She quickly looks away and the air returns to its rightful place in her lungs.
"Shepard, I…" Garrus takes half a step in her direction, but ends it as prematurely as the sentence. There's a moment of indecision in which he floats in the space between, but eventually he just moves back to where he started from. "We don't have to do this."
"I know." She acknowledges his concern with just a short, simple nod. "I want to."
"So do I. Might be the last time I ever…" His hands fruitlessly search for harbour on his armor, the railing, her shoulder — before they eventually just fall down his sides, unmoored. "In any case, that's… not important."
All the air she's been struggling to keep in her lungs now seems to get stuck halfway down her throat.
"Yeah," she manages to force out a single syllable, a tiny droplet quickly dispersing in the ocean of silence around them. It makes a few ripples but ultimately has no lasting effect. Just a small and insignificant disturbance in something so huge and overwhelming, just a useless fight put up against something that cannot be defeated…
Shepard bites on the inside of her cheek until the warm taste of blood floods her mouth.
Garrus wants to pretend like it's alright. She's not sure how long she'll be able to play along, but there's a sinking feeling in her gut now, one that tells her it might be even shorter than she hopes.
One last night. She can handle that overwhelming sadness behind his eyes for one night. She can push hers somewhere to the back too.
"Where do you want to go?" she whispers.
Garrus walks beside her. Two fingers interlocked with four, his warmth spreads across her where their hands touch — it's almost enough to make her smile. Their footsteps, perfectly in sync despite the height difference between them, echo all too loudly in the unnatural silence.
The Presidium feels like a graveyard. They're far from the only people around, but even so the station's numerous streets and hallways are emptier than usual — just enough to feel unsettling.
Shepard can feel eyes on her wherever they go, even if she can never actually catch anyone staring. Garrus keeps his hand in hers, almost as if the back of his neck is itching the same way hers is. Which she wouldn't be surprised by; they're probably staring at him too.
"Quiet today," he says. The inflection he starts out with suggests this might have been intended as a joke, but it falls off near the end, and his words just disperse in the silence around them.
Shepard looks down at their joined hands, swaying back and forth with each step they take.
Someone scurries out of view, slipping into one of the shop fronts.
Garrus doesn't say another word after that particularly morbid failure. He continues to hold her hand, continues to walk beside her, and eventually leads her to Citadel Tower. Shepard doesn't comment on that direction in any way. They ride the elevator in silence. The tinny, cheery music plays on, unaware of its own tonal discordance. Neither of them comments on it. Neither of them makes a joke about how long the elevator ride takes.
She hesitantly lets go of his hand when they reach the top floor. The Council chambers offer a marginally busier environment than the Presidium streets did, but even so this is little more than a shadow of how alive this place used to feel.
The trees Shepard still can't help but liken to cherry trees from Earth are damaged, probably after the Cerberus attack, but much to her surprise a few are not only still standing but actually appear to be thriving. A heavy weight settles in her stomach at the sight; this feels profoundly wrong, even if in the moment she can't fully explain why. The delicate pink flowers continue to bloom despite the deep discomfort their presence is causing her, despite the tense hush of grief around them, despite the world slowly coming to an end.
It's in an incredible feat of strength that Shepard gets herself to look away, to instead slowly walk up the stairs towards the fountain.
It's off.
She doesn't think she's ever seen it off. She didn't even think it was possible. It's not the same as she remembers; something here has been changed irreparably — an echo of something deep within her, pulsing in her blood with each second.
Garrus is standing right beside her. Looking at the dry fountain bed with an expression Shepard doesn't think she's ever seen on him before. There's pain in there, but also fondness, sadness, comfort…
"This is where we first met," she whispers. The words pour out of her lips almost without her volition, as if this truth can't possibly be skirted around any longer.
Garrus just looks at her. There is something glistening in his eyes again — bright against the blue, like a setting sun reflecting on the ocean — but she still can't quite place it.
"Yeah." He takes her hand again. She lets him: fingers outstretched in anticipation of meeting his even before he reaches out. "It's stupid, looking back. I was so sure your testimony would be enough to take Saren down…"
"No one ever listened to me," Shepard says quietly. It's a conscious effort to keep all the venom from her voice, to let the anger seep through as little as possible. "You might have just been the only one who did."
"Maybe." He pronounces it with great care, and even though she isn't hearing his actual words, the purposefulness shines through even in the translation. "Never regretted it, though."
Shepard looks down at their joined hands. A small sliver of certainty among the ocean of uncertainty all around them. She feels… comfortable, actually. Being with Garrus is easy. Might just be the last easy thing left in her life.
"Garrus, why are we here?"
"Would it be so hard to believe I can be sentimental?"
"Is that what this is," Shepard more mumbles than asks; it falls apart on her lips much like the tide against the shore. She doesn't want an answer. She doesn't care.
Her hands fight with the buttons of her uniform jacket — only a simple tank top underneath, but she lets the jacket fall to her hips, where she ties it around her waist.
"So much for keeping up appearances," Garrus murmurs. She can't tell what he's actually feeling: a part of her senses a joke, but there's also an undeniable longing sadness washing up on his every word. Like a wave crashing against the same ship over and over, it spills onboard a little more with each time; Shepard can't help some underlying concern for when that wave inevitably takes him over.
She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't have any more platitudes in her: she's already given him every single one and they did exactly what it said on the tin.
All she does is just place her hand on his forearm, warm and real. Not reassuring, not comforting, just acknowledging the pain and grief he can't express out loud.
"Want to… hit the range?" she suggests even though her heart is very audibly not in it. "Some last-minute target practice couldn't hurt."
Garrus doesn't answer — not with his words, at least. His eyes glisten as though he is about to defy biology and let the tidal wave from before spill over through tear ducts he doesn't have. And when he opens his mouth, no words come out to accompany the singular high-pitched note he stifles as soon as it rings out in the air between them. Mandibles flutter when he looks away quickly but not quickly enough for Shepard to miss the deep blue veins striking the corners of his eyes.
So this is where they're at now. Nothing left to say that won't break the illusion.
He can't bear to shoot targets with her without pulling in a painful dose of reality, and he can't bear to say no out loud because he wanted to pretend everything is alright, and that means he wouldn't have said no. If everything was alright, Garrus would have immediately been right there with her, punching in his favourite Armax scenario, readying his rifle, shooting her wolfish grins from across a simulated battlefield of fake enemies, exclaiming and checking in with her.
But it's not alright. It's reality, and he's just standing there silently, arms uselessly hanging down his sides and not even attempting to reach for a gun.
He's looking at her. He's trying his hardest to avoid bringing her any more pain, but she can tell that he doesn't have all that much pretending left in him either. They're both coming apart at the seams, the tide threatening to burst their dams open at any minute. Shepard's not sure how much longer they can keep this up.
"How about we head back." She throws the suggestion out into the air without even bothering to make it a question.
"Shepard—"
"Garrus, I…" A sigh pushes past her lips. "I appreciate what you're doing. Thank you for this." When she takes his hand, he doesn't stop her. His eyes travel from their intertwined fingers up her body until they meet her own gaze. "I mean it. I just… don't think I can keep pretending anymore."
All Garrus gives her in terms of an answer is a small, shaky nod and a gentle squeeze around her hand; just a short pulse of support and understanding sent her way. They don't speak another word as they return to the Normandy — down in the improperly cheery elevator, through those deserted streets and hallways, and eventually through the docking bay. Shepard's eyes are firmly set on the floor as they stand in the decontamination sequence of the Normandy's airlock. For the first time in her life, she notices tiny scratches and dents in the metal floor. For the first time in her life, they seem like something worth noticing.
She continues to hold Garrus — still fully kitted up: probably should be headed towards the armory first instead — by the hand as she walks towards the elevator. The ship is far from empty, but no one even attempts to talk to them. No one meets her eye. Any conversations are hushed and morose. Traynor almost says something, but at the last moment averts her gaze and walks away, and the general stillness remains unbroken.
Once they're safely tucked away from the rest of the world, separated from the war by the heavy metal door of her cabin, she just looks up at him. Garrus needs no elaboration; without saying a word, he helps her undress until she's completely bare and vulnerable before him. His armor follows suit: metal and ceramics land on the padded carpet with a soft thud as she reveals him to herself piece by piece, until he's wearing nothing but his undersuit.
He only kisses her once: barely more than a brush of mouth plates against her lips, he doesn't linger any longer than is necessary to convey all that his words would fail to.
Silence, again. The same heavy kind from before, the one that says everything they're trying to keep unsaid.
"I should… probably get going." He's awkwardly pointing at the door behind him, the fuzzy green light still somewhere in her peripheral despite his face being the only object not out of focus.
When he gets up to leave, it's Shepard's fingers that choose to close around his wrist on their own accord. It's her lips that choose to whisper "don't" while she sits there silent and watches it unfold.
Garrus looks at her. His eyes glisten with the faint reflected light coming from the fish tank in the wall. The luminous jellyfish swimming inside move from one end to the other almost lazily, disappearing behind the solid black of his silhouette on one side and emerging on the next.
Garrus doesn't move. Shepard releases the grip she has on his wrist just enough for him to be able to break it if he so wishes.
The jellyfish continue to silently move to and fro, more letting the water carry them than actually swimming. She can see their outlines clearly reflected in his pupils where she continues to look long after she should have stopped.
He blinks. Neither of them moves.
Shepard wants to say something, but she finds herself coming up empty.
"…Yeah," he whispers eventually. "Yeah, I… I'll stay with you, Shepard." Her fingers release their grip on him completely, but he doesn't even attempt to move away.
Shepard doesn't need a mirror to know there are dark circles underneath her eyes, they've been there for months, but in this instant she feels like they might have just grown a few shades darker.
"You'll stay," hoarsely, she repeats. "Til the end?"
Garrus releases his breath loudly: it escapes through the gaps between jaws and mandibles almost as audibly as if it were a sigh — albeit a very shaky and muted one. His fingers find her cheek and caress gently enough for goosebumps to follow in the wake of his touch.
Her eyes burn, but she gives no relief to the drought — she shuts them closed, reaches forward until she feels the familiar roughness of his nape plates underneath her fingertips, and pulls him close with a practiced urgency. Their foreheads press together but she continues to pull him in until their noses meet as well, until they're fully flush with one another.
"As long as I can," he whispers. The unspoken promise fills the estuary where his breath meets hers. He mouths the words, or so she thinks, I promise, but not a sound leaves his throat aside from a mournful, steady note that reverberates in the echo of his words.
Shepard slowly pulls away from the embrace. Garrus, as is his nature, understands her intent without words, because he's already taking off his undersuit before she has a chance to start. Their fingers meet halfway and work together to undo the hidden clasps and fastenings until he can wiggle out of the last layer separating their bodies.
Shepard doesn't cry as he holds her. She pulls him onto the bed to sit beside her, crawls into his embrace, presses her shivering form against the certain warmth of his body, shuts her eyes and shakes with sobbing breaths, but she doesn't shed a tear.
Garrus doesn't speak a word. He holds onto her like she's a life preserver on a sinking ship, but stays silent while she sobs into his neck. Hair tickles his neck, uncomfortable and alien, but he tucks her head underneath his chin and closes his arms around her nonetheless. She's so small when she's not wearing her armor and uniform, when she's not wearing her rank and reputation, when it's just a human he's holding in his embrace and not an idea.
His talons gently run over the numerous scars and skin grafts on her back, eager to commit every imperfection to memory — just in case, he tells himself. Just in case she doesn't make it back, just in case this really is the last time. She's already so hurt, so damaged… If he could, Garrus would keep her here forever, her face pressed into his neck and her limbs wrapped around him too tightly like she would sooner lose them than him.
Her spine is too defined on her back when she shakes in his embrace: it ripples underneath her skin when she moves: something just underneath the surface, threatening to tear her apart just before it snaps down when she looks up.
They're eye to eye now, Palaven-green staring back at him from between heavy eyelids, and she just… watches him. Looking as though she's committed some horrid crime she can't atone for.
"I'm sorry." Shepard gently cradles his face in her hands, thumbs slowly rubbing along his colony markings like she's done so many times, like so many nights they've clung to each other like this.
He still doesn't know what she's always apologising for. He knows that she's mourning someone she hasn't lost yet, knows that her roaming touch all over his face and neck is a mirror of his own on her back, but he doesn't know why she takes the responsibility for that loss on herself. As if she doesn't have enough on her shoulders already.
He doesn't stop her. The reverence with which the delicate tips of her fingers brush across the edges of his plates, lap against the shore of exposed hide on his neck like summer waves, is telling of something more than just a goodbye, more than just mourning. It's something… else. Something that Garrus knows, something he won't let himself mention by name. Not like this, not with her, not—
Not with everything on the line.
"I'm sorry," she repeats. Her head sags in the space between them, resting her forehead against the flat of his nose, eyes dark. Her hands, down to his shoulders now, grasp on tightly. Blunt little fingernails dig into his plates, hard enough to make him wince at the high-pitched sound it produces. "I'm sorry."
"Shepard." In an instant, he finds his fingers around her wrists — when did his hands move to reach for her? He can't remember. — and gently but firmly prying them off himself. She doesn't fight it: the moment he grabs her, she goes limp and just quietly lets him move her hands and carefully lay them down in her lap.
His hands linger there, resting gently on top of hers — so scarred, rough, and damaged… Those hands he's seen hurt and kill, as worn out as the rest of her, are still small and delicate in his grasp. He doesn't understand how she's both: the weapon and the soldier wielding it. Doesn't know which one he's trying to hard to protect, either. Neither needs his protection, after all.
And from what's coming, he wouldn't be able to protect her anyway. All he can do is just be here with her, hold her her hands in spite of the blood on them, and pretend they're not dead men walking. His facade has been slowly cracking with each passing minute, but it's here when they're all alone, skin against plates, fully bare in front of each other, that it shatters completely and he just collapses.
She holds him as he does, lying down without a single word. He's the one to curl up around her now, his head resting comfortably on her chest, rising and falling with each breath she takes underneath his cheek. One of her hands caresses his fringe absently.
"Thank you for tonight," he says quietly. He makes no effort to look at her. He knows without so much as turning his head, exactly what she looks like: eyes closed but brows furrowed, uneasy and restless, freckles smushing together as she fights a frown. She's back to where he picked her up from: worried, preparing, with the weight of the world on her small human shoulders.
Garrus stares at the wall on the other side of the bed. There's nothing here but cold metal, with the skylight above Shepard's bed looking out into even more cold metal of the docking bay outside.
He's so tired. Can't even begin to guess how she's feeling.
"Should I still be here when you wake up?" he asks softly. He won't hold it against her if the answer is no. He knows she needs rest and time to prepare, and he will understand if it's something she needs to do on her own. It wouldn't be the first time he's stayed with her until she fell asleep and left so she could be alone when she woke up: it spoke of a specific kind of intimacy different than sleeping together, one he silently appreciated without ever addressing aloud.
Shepard's hand is resting on the back of his neck.
"Yeah. Stay," she whispers. He's the one who asked and still she makes it sound like a request. Like he's not already offering. "I don't want to be alone tonight. Stay with me."
"I'll stay."
He does. He stays until she falls asleep.
The countless premature wrinkles on her face smooth out, aside from the concerned ones on her forehead, her breath slowly evens out, and her grip on him loosens. That's when he carefully slips out of her embrace.
He gets up and locks the door. Turns off her terminal, still blinking with hundreds of unread messages, checks up on the hamster, feeds the fish, covers up the skylight. Puts his visor on the nightstand.
Then he gets back to bed and crawls underneath the covers, warm with her presence. He puts his arms around her and closes his eyes.
If the world ends tomorrow, he wants to stay right here.
the amazing artwork by garfbin: citadel tower at the time of their first meeting vs the present in this fic
