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Shepard shoves another pair of sweats into her duffel bag. She’ll be damned if the Council thinks they can send her on crap runs to deal with leftover geth without at least the comfort of sweats.
She’s so mad right now, she could headbutt a Krogan. Of course, her favourite Krogan has already caught ship for somewhere else.
“I’ll be in touch, Shepard,” Wrex had said. And he would, she knew. But she missed him, missed the anger and annoyance and blunt looks he doled out to those too stupid to listen to a good idea. He always made her own anger feel valid. And now was a great time for someone to validate it. Valern and Tevos and fucking Sparatus, she thinks. She throws her hands up, a pair of socks slipping away from her and flying into the air. Fuck! Next time a giant space monster attacks the Citadel, see if I save your asses. She tells herself that next time, she will pack earlier too.
She won’t.
Her omni-tool pings and she exhales relief at the interruption.
Shepard, I’ve been officially discharged from the hospital. See you tomorrow on the dock.
-Liara
She smiles and taps out a quick response.
Liara, glad you’re out. Contingency plan was kidnapping. See you tomorrow.
-S
[message received]
She’d only been released a few days ago herself. Nothing too serious—broken arm, fucked up ankle, bruised ribs, a few new scars. Despite the impressive amount of rubble that had piled on top of her in that last desperate dash out of the Tower, Liara and Garrus had fared worse. Garrus particularly so. The idiot had been shot, twice, and he’d apparently not even noticed until it was all over. Adrenaline, she guessed. He was fine, which was a relief, but they were holding him longer.
He wouldn’t be able to come with them. It bothered Shepard. She’d gotten used to him... being there. And it would be strange not to have him at her back.
Coming by tomorrow morning before we leave. Last chance for me to spring you from the hospital. Think about it.
-S
[message received]
Shepard, still can’t walk. Think about THAT.
-G
Minor details.
-S
[message received]
Hang on...
-G
Dr. Michel said no.
-G
We need a second opinion, G. Michel is compromised.
-S
[message received]
Ok...
-G
Chakwas said no too.
-G
Wait, what do you mean compromised?
-G
Poor choice of words considering their recent investigation into mind-controlling machines, but Shepard can’t help laughing. The woman is probably bending over backwards—or forwards, Shepard thinks—trying to get him to notice her and now she’s gone and made Garrus think his doctor is an indoctrinated assassin or something.
Galaxy’s going to shit real quick but you’ve got to take joy in the little things.
...
Garrus tries to drag his hand across his face in irritation but stops just in time; he’s pretty sure that if he moves too much, he’ll pull out a wire or knock over an important IV stand or somehow end up with his hospital bed busting through his plexi-glass window.
He’s just so sick of his monitors. They just won’t stop beeping. And sure, that’s good, but damn it’s annoying after a while.
And sure, maybe he’s a little frustrated that the Normandy’s leaving today and maybe he’s not as excited about staying on the Citadel as he’d thought he’d be but... That beeping is so damn grating!
Where is Shepard anyway? She’s late. She is twenty minutes late. Turians are never late, not even him.
Unless she forgot. Or maybe something came up and she won’t have time to come by before she leaves. Or—Nah, not Shepard. There’s no way she’d leave without saying goodbye. He’s certain of that. But still, he pulls up her extension and types out a “gentle” reminder.
Shepard.
You’re late.
-G
[message received]
There’s no reply right away and the longer he waits, the more he worries that she really might have left without coming by. She’s twenty-three minutes late now. But then the doors of his room swish open and she’s standing there, a balloon tied to a bag at her feet and holding up a finger at him, telling him to wait while she types something into her omni-tool.
His own gives off a little ping and, despite himself, he looks down at her message.
You’ll forgive me. I brought you booze.
-S
By the time he finishes rolling his eyes and looks back up at her, she’s carefully moving his feet to the side and settling herself onto the end of his bed.
“This is to cheer you up,” she says, tying a blue balloon to the bed rail.
He can’t help his grin; it’s sort of silly, really, but it’s just the kind of thing he’s come to love about Shepard—when he’d met her and gone on those first few runs with her, he’d thought she must be some sort of angry superhuman. Her tiny little human body seemed wholly devoted to yelling, shooting, or beating her enemies into submission (and it worked, too). He’d thought she must be invincible. She had been impressive, if a bit intimidating. But after a while, he’d catch her doing things like that—buying the nutribars Tali liked every time they were docked or sneaking migraine meds into Kaidan’s shore bag. Tying balloons to her crewmate’s bed rail after she’s destroyed the greatest threat in the galaxy. No big deal.
“And this,” she says, pulling a bottle from her bag. “This is to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
She just grins and shrugs. “Whatever you feel like celebrating. In case I’m not around when something good happens.”
That’s certainly not what he wants to hear. And she must see it on his face too (she’s gotten much better at recognizing Turian expressions). “What’s that face for, Garrus?”
“You say that like you’re not coming back.”
“What? Of course I’m—oh. Oh.” She laughs. It’s not funny, but she laughs. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I just meant I don’t know how long we’ll be out. You know how important hunting rogue geth is considering everything that’s happened. Gotta get those geth.” She doesn’t hide her irritation with her new assignment and Garrus is a bit amused by her souring expression.
But then she reaches out and takes his hand and perhaps it is surprise that speeds his pulse.
“I wish you were gonna be out there with me,” she says, staring quite intently at the door. That is perhaps the most informal thing she’s ever said to him. And she’d gotten them all very drunk the night before Ilos. He’s not really sure how he’s supposed to respond to it. Part of what makes Shepard... well, Shepard, is that those things she does—things like sneaking meds for Kaidan and food for Tali—she does them when she thinks people aren’t looking. But when people are looking? She says “Good job out there, guys.” She says “You’re all going to kick ass today.” She says “Listen up, asshole, my crew is the best damn crew in the Alliance, so you can take your separatism and shove it.” But she doesn’t say “I wish you were gonna be out there with me.”
Except, apparently, she does.
He’s going to miss the strange crew she’s assembled. He’s going to miss Joker telling inappropriate jokes over the comm. He’s going to miss being sure that he’s following the right orders. But maybe what he’s going to miss most is knowing Shepard just a little more than he did yesterday.
He doesn’t think about it really, just gives her hand a quick squeeze. He wishes he was gonna be there with her too.
That seems to be enough, though, because she lets out her breath and rises from the bed and gives his monitors a quick look-over. “You get yourself all fixed up while I’m gone,” she says. “Get back in shape.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She’s got to go. Liara and Joker and Kaidan and the rest. They’ve got to go. But it’s harder than he’d expected it to be—watching Shepard head for the door, watching her leaving him behind. He can’t explain it, but the urge to reach out and pull her back, to make her stay, to at least make her wait, is so strong he very nearly does it.
And it’s not about him—not about him wanting to be out there with her instead of here, shuffling more paperwork (although the more he thinks about it, the more he knows that’s just as true). It’s just... well, he doesn’t rightly know what the hell it is but damn if it isn’t something. Something like worry, something like dread, something like care. But surely those years in the military instilled more discipline in him than this. She’s N7, she’s a spectre, she’s Commander Shepard. For fuck’s sake, statistically, she should’ve died around seventeen times already, so worry is hardly appropriate.
She gives him a soft smile and a wave before the doors close behind her and he returns it, anxiety roiling in the pit of his stomach.
He spends a couple of hours flipping through a few of the books some old co-workers at C-Sec brought by. Then he spends another half-hour yelling at the news vids for spewing politically convenient nonsense. Then he spends twenty more minutes staring at his ceiling and wishing he could at least sleep in his own apartment.
Then he caves.
He’s in the middle of pulling up her omni-extension when a quiet ping interrupts him.
Bored yet? Because I sure fucking am.
-S
...
If she never has to deal with politics again, Shepard will be a happy woman.
The only—and she does mean only—good thing about all this political bullshit is that it made it a hell of a lot easier to keep Liara on board. Probably, if they hadn’t had their own lives to live, she could’ve kept Garrus and Tali too, and she can at least take satisfaction in that, in knowing that the exact political bullshit that would’ve tried to jerk her crew away is what keeps the brass from making a fuss. She’s a big fat hero now and no one listens to a goddamn thing she says but at least they’re scared she’ll make a scene on the news if they try to take her crew away (and she would; god save the ego of her superiors, she would).
One of the many, many downsides, however, are Council calls. She doesn’t even know why they bother. They send her out here to the edge of nowhere, full-well knowing she’s not gonna have anything to do, and then they bug her once a week with comm. calls. Jackasses.
“I understand that, Councillor Tevos, but we’ve been out here for two weeks and there’s no sign of anything worth mentioning. That’s the report: there’s nothing to report.”
Sparatus tries to placate her. If she weren’t mildly attracted to him, she’d have punched him straight in his plated Turian nose after the attack on the Citadel, assault charges be damned. “Shepard, we understand that you must be anxious to get back home—”
She clenches her fists at her sides. What the fuck do they know about her wanting to get back home? To what? The Citadel? The foster-family she writes to once a year? The training barracks of the Alliance?
Mindoir was her home. Mindoir is gone. The Normandy is her home. She is home. She just wishes she could relocate her home to a place with more work to do and maybe a better view of the void.
“I’m sorry, Councillor, could you repeat that? I couldn’t quite catch it,” she says.
“I said, we understand you’re probably anxious to get back home but given the political climate, we feel you can do much more good out in the field,” he repeats.
Shepard squints at the perfectly clear holos and tilts her head. “Councillor? Are you there? Can you hear me? Something’s interfering with our connection. I—”
And then all three holos click off, looks of confusion (and irritation) plastered on their faces and Shepard breathes.
“Thanks Joker,” she says to the ceiling.
His voice floats over the comm. “No problem, Commander. Hanging up on those guys is my second favourite hobby.”
Right after listening in on private conversations, she thinks.
“I’m going to get some sleep,” she tells him, already heading to her cabin. “You should too.”
“Sure thing.”
“I mean it, Jeff.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
She sighs when the door of her room slides shut. Probably it would be morally wrong to sedate him without his permission...
She falls onto her bed and just stares up at the ceiling for a while. Next time she’s in Council Space, she’s going to use all that speedy extranet juice to upload at least seven more sims to the Normandy. Probably won’t help with Joker getting more sleep but at least they’ll have something to do out here (she’ll have to settle for being Player 2, though; no way Joker will let her sit in his chair).
Her omni-tool pings and she lets out another relieved breath. You hang up on the Council and things really do just get better from there.
I had a weird feeling that you’re having a bad day.
-G
She smiles. Boring as the last couple of weeks have been, she’s at least had time to hang out with her crew. She and Joker play cards and watch movies at ungodly hours of the off-shift. She and Liara have started trying to learn Quarian writing (of course, those daily exercises have devolved into deep discussions of Liara’s work and gossiping sessions; they’ve hardly learned the alphabet). She and Kaidan have been “practicing” their biotics in the cargo bay by way of trying to lift the Mako. So far Kaidan holds the record for 3 feet in the air for 4.5 seconds. She’s a close second though, at 3 feet for 3 seconds. She periodically loses dishwashing duty and nutribars to the crew in various games of gambling.
But the best part of every day is definitely Garrus. It had been hard, leaving him to recover in the hospital. There wasn’t much she could do about that, though, and at least he had people on the Citadel he knew. That was something. And she’d been worried, honestly, that the friendship they’d developed was going to fizzle out while she was gone. Things like that seem to happen her, despite her best intentions. But it seems they’re both just awkward enough to keep up a conversation.
And how did you know that?
-S
[message received]
Sparatus just sent me some angry mail. He apparently thinks I have some kind of influence on your bad manners.
-G
Of course he did. Meddling bastard. Her mild attraction to the man lessens with every single conversation. Maybe she really will just punch him. It works on Krogan.
I didn’t realize you two were so close.
-S
[message received]
That’s not the word I’d use.
-G
Tell me you got into a shoot-out today. It’s so boring out here.
-S
[message received]
Nothing that exciting, sorry. Although, I did get into another fight with my father.
-G
And that’s basically the same as a shoot-out.
-G
Uh-oh. Come on, Vakarian. Spit it out.
-S
[message received]
What?
-G
She snorts. The best thing—no contest, really—about translators is literal idioms. Once, Garrus had sent her something that translated to English as “he should bite the tail of his mother” and she’d laughed for two solid minutes because, well, what the hell?
Just tell me what happened.
-S
[message received]
...
Garrus is at home when it happens.
Maybe if he’d been at work—if he’d been at work, the news would’ve come through C-Sec first. He could’ve... He... But he’s at home, making breakfast and only sort-of listening to the news vids from the other room.
Something-something Councillor Tevos.
Eggs in the skillet.
Something-something studies suggest Hanar philosophies gaining popularity in Citadel Space.
Does he have juice? He’s sure he bought some...
Something-something Normandy, famed vessel of Commander Shepard, has been attacked...
He drops a glass.
What?
He runs to the other room, eggs burning on the stove behind him, and turns the volume up as high as it will go. He’s not even dressed yet. He’s not even brushed his teeth yet. This is... This isn’t real.
“...over Alchera, in the Amada System. The circumstances of the attack are still unknown, as is the status of those onboard...”
This isn’t real.
“...of the Alliance have been dispatched to retrieve escape pods...”
This isn’t real.
The smell of burning eggs and smoke is quickly filling his tiny apartment. The smoke detector will go off soon. Garrus doesn’t move.
“...received a transmission from one of the pods several hours ago: ‘This is Dr. Liara T’Soni. The Normandy is under attack... evacuated... I repeat: Alliance vessel SSV Normandy... assistance... Amada sys...’”
This isn’t real.
He lifts his arm and pulls up Shepard’s omni-extension methodically, like he has every day for the last month.
Shepard.
[message not received; user unavailable]
Yesterday! He’d just talked to her yesterday! He was at work and she’d sent him a dirty joke and everyone in the office turned to look at him when he’d laughed. She’d tried to take credit for it, but it had clearly been one of Joker’s.
The reporter keeps talking but he’s having a hard time keeping up.
“...indicate all escape pods were deployed. We are confirming survivors as they are registered with Alliance rescue teams...”
He tries again.
Shepard answer me
[message not received; user unavailable]
“...Normandy confirmed destroyed; no news yet on what prompted the attack or who is responsible, though rogue geth are a prime suspect...”
The Normandy was due to dock in two more weeks. They’d only been given a weekend of shore leave but Garrus had been saving the bottle of champagne she’d brought him at the hospital, figuring shore leave was a perfectly good reason to celebrate. He hadn’t quite talked himself out of leaving C-Sec again, just up and going with her to whatever dead-end the Council sent her to.
shepard please
[message not received; user unavailable]
“...twelve confirmed survivors, but no news yet of the Commander’s status...”
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
She’s Shepard. She’s his best friend.
This can’t happen.
shepard
[message not received; user unavailable]
shepard
[message not received; user unavailable]
shepard
[message not received; user unavailable]