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1.
After nearly twenty years of pinprick accuracy in her menstrual cycles, she is late.
First a day, then two, then a week.
She doesn’t tell Garrus. It’s the stress of the move, she thinks; the injuries from the crucible; the medication.
She waits for disappointment.
It doesn’t come.
Then, excitement and terror fight a gut-churning battle.
After two weeks of uncertainty (and some awfully strange looks at the drug store), she buys two pregnancy tests: one dextro, one levo.
She takes levo first, then dextro.
When both come back blinking positive signs, she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
2.
After disbelief, the first emotion she feels is anger.
Because even if she is Commander Goddamn Shepard, there are certain things that are impossible and getting knocked up by your dextro husband is one of them.
The first call she makes is to Miranda.
“I’m pregnant.” She says.
“I see. Well, congratulations, Shepard.” Trademark Miranda: cool and collected, a response every bit as casually muttered as if Shepard had told her she’d eaten a particularly good salad.
“Miranda.”
“What do you want me to say, Shepard?”
“First, you’re going to tell me how this happened.”
“I should think that’s pretty obvious.”
“Not when your husband’s DNA spirals the wrong way.”
“Well, a lot of new tech went into re-making you, Shepard. There were bound to be side effects.”
“This isn’t a particularly hairy spot on my chin, Miranda! I’m having a baby.”
“I know.” A heartbeat. She hears an omni-tool beeping in the background. “I’m booking passage to Palaven now. I’ll be in contact as soon as I have more details, Shepard.”
Miranda disconnects the call.
Shepard wraps her arms around her belly.
“Please be ok,” She says, and she’s not sure if she’s talking to the baby or herself.
3.
Miranda’s next messages says she will be there as soon as she can be – which, thanks to the state of the relays, is 3 months later.
She debates telling Garrus. Tries to figure out how to tell Garrus.
After two weeks of mental anguish, her body does it for her.
Garrus holds her barely—regrown hair away from her face as she throws up, again and again.
“I think we better go to the hospital.” He says. “This is the third day in a row.”
“No.” She coughs, and hurls again.
“Shepard, something’s wrong.” His sub-vocals rise; worry. “You’ve never…”
“There’s nothing wrong.” She tries to avoid sounding annoyed. She fails.
“No.” Deeper, harsher now: anger. “I’m taking you to the hospital, Shepard. I’m not losing you, not again.”
And that’s the moment she knows she can’t wait any longer.
“Garrus,” she turns, shaky, and rises. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Remember how you wanted to find out what a turian-human baby looks like? Well…
Garrus’ mandibles flutter in distress. “Shepard?”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”
“What?” Several emotions play out across his face: disbelief, fear, happiness, hope.
He sits down on the edge of the bath.
She crawls into his lap; his long arms pull tight around her.
“We’re having a baby, Garrus.” She moves one of his hands to her belly. “You’re going to be a father.”
“…How?”
“Have to ask Miranda for details. But it’s ours.”
“…You’re having my baby?” His eyes shine with a dangerous light.
“Yeah,” she says. “You better get ready, daddy.”
“…Is it …ok?” Her smile falters.
“Don’t know yet. But…” She strokes his cheek. “I hope so.”
He holds her tight and strokes her hair. “Me too,” he says. “Me too.”
And so they cling, together, to hope.
4.
Miranda, as always, does her research. And then sends it on to Shepard.
Most of it goes over her head, but she gets the gist.
She suspected Cerberus might have put experimental drugs or tech in her, but the truth – the truth is far worse.
Reaper tech. There’s reaper tech inside her.
She nearly throws up.
If they weren’t already gone, she’d kill every god damn Cerberus agent. Every last one.
Garrus squeezes her hand as he reads from her datapad.
“Damn,” he says, and rests his head on her belly.
Garrus’ mandibles flap outwards and even if he doesn’t say anything, she knows the reason. They both do.
What if the baby’s not …ok?
She thinks of it like that – OK, not OK – because she can’t bear to think of uglier truths. Half-breed. Outcast. Monster.
They have much more to worry about than the baby getting Grandma Hannah's nose, or Grandpa Tiberius’ mandibles.
There’s every chance that the baby will die. There’s a better than average chance that she will.
“Maybe we should…” Garrus grips her stomach. “Maybe we should …let this go.” She knows it kills him to say it almost as much as it kills her to hear it.
“I know.” She says. “But… Can we wait to decide, at least until Miranda gets a chance to…?”
“Yeah.” He massages her slightly-swollen belly. “We can try, at least.”
They both know they might not get the option of choosing.
“Garrus.” She curls her hand around his fringe. “Do you…want this?”
It’s selfish, but she needs the reassurance.
“A baby? With you?” He looks up, startled. “More than anything. But…” He shifts up and wraps those big arms around her. “I can’t bear to lose you, Jane. Not again. And I don’t want our – our baby – to suffer, if it’s… if it’s…”
Not OK, her brain supplies, as Garrus buries his head in her shoulder. “If…if anything happens….If it doesn’t make it, or you can’t carry to term… It’s not going to change anything. We’ll still adopt a whole damn litter of orphans, and maybe we could try again.”
Except they weren’t trying. The odds of this happening were nothing short of miraculous.
The odds of it happening again are even lower.
“Do you?” He asks, and she hears the same need in his voice. “Do you want this?”
“Yeah.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I do.”
5.
By the time Miranda makes it, she is showing.
“Looks like I’m getting here just in time.” Miranda jokes.
Garrus holds her hand as Miranda prepares. His eyes never leave hers, even as his mandibles flicker.
Neither of them want to be told the obvious conclusion.
Miranda waves the transducer, and an image appears. There’s a flicker of movement, and then – then she sees her child for the first time.
It’s small. Smaller, she thinks, than it should be. Garrus notices something; his breath catches. When she glances over at him in worry – something’s wrong, Garrus has sniper’s eyes and of course he’d spot any defects first – he looks at her, eyes full of love, and kisses her hand.
“I can see the spurs,” he whispers, voice hoarse.
“What?” She glances at the screen, and follows Garrus’ finger as he traces out two small bumps – bumps that will one day grow into the elongated spurs Garrus’ has on the back of each of his legs.
She glances closer at the grainy image, and thinks she can make out the beginnings of a small fringe on the child’s crown.
Turian.
Her baby is a turian.
“Heartbeat is healthy.” Miranda says. “Want to listen?”
Garrus nods, and Miranda plays their baby’s heartbeat through her omni’s speakers. She’s afraid, despite Miranda’s words, that it will sound sickly, failing, but it doesn’t. Her child’s heart beats strong, a steady whoosh whoosh in rhythm with her own.
“Spirits, I…” Garrus makes an odd noise, a half-choked laugh. “Oh, Shepard.”
The child shifts in the image, and suddenly she can see a bit more. She can see the very beginnings of a crest at the top of it’s head. Garrus’ fingers ghost against the image, and she can hear him count: six fingers, four toes. He makes another noise, this one uncomfortably close to a sob.
“Well, looks like there’s nothing of you in there, Shepard.” Miranda says, teasing yet all clinical grace. “I’d say it looks like a hale, hearty baby turian.”
“Can it survive?” Garrus asks. She hears her fears in his voice. “Is it viable? Shepard isn’t…”
“I’ll have to do some more tests for any genetic defects, but it’s made it this far. Strong heartbeat, pre-natal development on schedule. Those are are all good signs. And as far as species goes, it appears Wilson’s modifications are….” Miranda clears her throat. “Well, they’re negating the amino acids issue. He’ll be turian in everything but his mitochondria.”
There’s water hiding at the edges of her eyes.
She never thought they’d have this.
Garrus lets out a breath they have both been holding for far too long.
She is hopeful. Dangerously so. Not even born yet, and their baby is already fighting. Like its father. Like its mother.
Yes, this is our baby, she thinks, stubborn as hell, and feels a tear fall. Our baby.
“It’s a boy,” Miranda says.
“A son.” Garrus whispers, voice barely audible.
“Yeah.” She squeezes his hand tight. “Our son.”
6.
As she swells, she savors the pleasant heaviness of the child within her.
Any second, she knows, it might be the last time she feels her baby. He’s a very active child, and she loves every move – every kick, every shift saying I’m still alive.
She knows they’ve both been holding their breath, waiting for this to end.
As if it can hear her thoughts, their baby kicks and she grabs Garrus’ hand and pulls it to her stomach.
Garrus, transfixed, caresses her belly.
The fact they’ve made it this far is unbelievable.
“I think,” she says, and swallows. “I think we need to start talking about names.”
“Yeah.” His voice is husky. “I think we do.”
“So how do we do this…?” She wants to name her son after Anderson, but there are no turians named David.
“Well, traditionally, newborns are named after the highest ranking member of the family. Which would be…” He trails off.
“Your father.” She guesses.
His glare says she is right.
“He doesn’t get that honor.” His voice is thick, angry. “Not after the way he’s treated us.”
“No,” she says, though she’ll never stop feeling guilty for being the wedge between them. “Can we…name him after your mom?”
“Well, I thought… Maybe, next time…” He trails off, the message unsaid, but clear.
And the intention behind it is enough to cause an excited flutter in her stomach.
“Yes.” She runs a hand across his arm. “Next time. For a girl.”
“I…Yeah.” He squeezes her hand for a moment, deep in thought. “…I might have a name.”
“I was thinking… ” He sighs. “Well, there’s a tradition. If an elder has no living children, another family can choose to use their names. To honor them.”
“You’re thinking of doing this for Victus,” She says and he nods.
“That’s nice. I think that he would be honored.” Victus has been a good friend to them both.
“I’m not doing it to be nice or to honor him.” He says. “I’m doing it because it would give him certain…responsibilities, toward our son. If we’re …not around.”
“…Responsibilities?”
“He’d take custody. Raise our son as his own.” He sighs. “I know you probably think it’s odd, but…if anything happens…I need him to be with someone who can keep him safe.”
“Of course.” She nods. “But why not with our families?”
“Solana would, but…” He sighs. “There’s a good chance dad could block her from adopting. She’s still 5 years from mustering out. You know as well as I do that your mother won’t be able to get supplies for a dextro child easily in the Terminus, not with the relays out. And dad…” He glares.
She places a hand on his shoulder. “Do you really think your father would rather see his grandson raised by strangers?”
“I think he’d rather not see his grandson at all.” Garrus tone is bitter.
“He might come around.”
“…But I can’t count on that.”
“Okay.” She nods. “So…Adrien?”
“We could, but,” he strokes her cheek. “I’m thinking Tarquin. Martyr names are…” He mumbles, but she hears it all the same. “…considered good luck. A good name to grow into.”
She thinks of Victus’ son – no matter who he was, he’ll be remembered for this now.
She’s never believed in Garrus’ spirits, but she isn’t about to turn down anything that might help their baby.
Victory, at any price.
“Tarquin.” She tries out the name. “Tarquin Vakarian.”
As if on cue, the baby kicks. Hard.
She laughs, rubbing her belly. “I think he likes it.”
“Do you?” He asks.
“Yeah. I do.”
7.
Of all the ways she has imagined things going wrong this late in her pregnancy, falling out of the way of a charging Krogan didn’t quite register on her list. Yet here she is, going into labor early.
At least, that’s what she hopes. The other option is far too painful to think about. Not this late.
You can’t take him away! Not now!
The guilt hurts. Worse than any gut shot.
“Where’s Garrus?” She grinds out. No Shepard without Vakarian.
In every scenario, Garrus has always been by her side. She doesn’t know how to do this without him.
“We are trying to find ‘zim,” Dr Michel says. “And your docteur Lawson, as well.”
In truth, she’s happy Dr. Michel is the one on call. A familiar face. One who knows their…situation. One who will do everything to keep their baby alive.
I’m sorry, she thinks, willing her baby to understand. Please. Don’t die. Please.
She thinks of his namesake tumbling and her stomach turns.
Garrus. Tarquin. I’m sorry.
The door opens.
“Hello. Sorry I’m late.” Miranda says.
She scrubs in, effortlessly calm.
“You’re already dilated.” Miranda smiles. “Typical Shepard efficiency. It’s rare to be this far along this quickly on your first baby.”
“Is the baby…?” She can’t bare to finish that sentence.
“Well…” Miranda pauses for a second. “I think the best option is to go ahead and try to deliver. That’s the baby’s best shot.”
Dr. Michel nods.
“Okay.” Shepard bites her lip. She won’t cry. She’s faced down god damn reapers. She can handle giving birth alone.
They help her into position.
When Miranda tells her to push, she does.
It hurts. A tear slips out and Miranda wipes it away.
The door opens again, and Garrus, miraculously, flies in, still in heavy armor. “How…?”
“Dad. Never mind, Explain later.” He nuzzles her cheek. “Are you OK? Is the baby OK?”
“So far.” She says, and strokes his cheek. “It hurts.”
“Sorry.” He winces. “Hold my hand?”
She does.
“Push!” Miranda orders.
She does.
“I see him.” Dr. Michel says. “Push.”
She does, crying out in pain. One more.
And then – then there’s another cry. One much higher pitched, with twanging vocals.
“Oh, Shepard,” Garrus says softly, “I see him, he’s - ”
Something’s wrong.
They don’t give him to her. Instead, she sees Miranda hand her baby away, talking softly.
“Where is he?” She demands in her Commander voice. “Give me my baby.”
“Shepard.” Miranda sits by them. Her arms are empty.
“Where’s my son?” She growls.
“He’s fine, Shepard. All his major systems were fully developed; he’s breathing – and crying – on his own.” Garrus visibly relaxes, but she doesn’t. Not yet.
“If he’s fine, then where is he, Miranda?”
“Shepard…Look, there’s a minor problem. Turian carapaces gain their thickness the last 4 weeks of neonatal development. Because Tarquin is premature, his plates are still soft.”
“Will they harden?” Garrus voice hitches.
“They should, and we’ll keep him in ICU to monitor it. But for the first couple months, you’ll have to be careful holding him.” Miranda models how to do so. Her arms ache.
“Can I? Hold him? Please?”
Miranda smiles.
When Miranda places her son – her son - into her arms, she stops breathing as the infant turian looks at her, blurry eyes full of wonder. His father’s eyes. We made this, she thinks. We made this baby. Garrus runs a talon down the baby’s brow, and gives a burst of joy from his sub-vocals that even she can understand.
A little tongue lathes her fingers when she touches Tarquin’s mandibles and she shivers.
“Hey little guy.” She whispers. “You made it.”
Garrus puts one hand on her back, one hand helping to support their baby.
Their baby.
“We have a family,” he says, sub-vocals thick with love.
“We do.” She smiles. Their baby cries, and it is the most beautiful noise she’s ever heard.
“So,” She says as she gently bounces their baby in her arms. “You said you wanted to name the next one after your mom, right?”
“Yeah.” He says. “We’ll do that.”
And, she vows, they will.
After all, they’ve always had a way with beating impossible odds.