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There was a certain irony to dropping out of the Spectre program and having his shuttle blasted out of the sky not ten hours later.
The thought had crossed his mind first as the life-support systems failed, then again when half a dozen heavies dragged him through the ruined airlock. He’d laughed then--which had confused and then infuriated his captors, and they’d chosen to try and beat the sound out of him. His amusement over the timing had lessened as the days dragged on, but every so often, when the tedium and the isolation began to stack up, he’d think back -- to the look on Sparatus’ face, or the bottle of shitty dextro beer he’d cracked just before the proximity alarms went off -- and allow himself a small, self-deprecating chuckle.
Even if they hadn’t left their uninspired emblem clearly emblazoned on the sleeves of their uniforms, their general incompetence and pro-human dogma immediately gave his captors away as Cerberus. Their racist attitudes towards the other sentient races was the worst-kept secret in the galaxy, but even so -- they usually tried a bit harder than this to obscure their true motives. Their insults and slurs weren’t new; he’d heard worse from the humans he’d locked in the drunk-tank during his beat cop days, or the problematically-outdated jokes he and Joker would sometimes exchange on Delta shift. Hell, even Williams had come up with new ones to mutter under her breath; usually, when the Commander chose Garrus over her for a ground mission.
“You never watch your left side,” he murmured, not flinching when the guard banged hard on the cell door and told him to “shut his spikey face.”
Shepard prefers the left .
He’d clocked it before they’d ever set foot planetside together. The way she’d entered Chora’s Den and swept wide around the tables; how she put her weight on her right foot when they’d talked, ready to spring left and throw him off-balance, knowing he’d have marked her firearms were strapped for a right-handed draw. She has to know you’ll watch her six. That’s all, Ash.
“ All it is ,” he breathed, not loud enough to be heard--not loud enough to convince himself.
Eventually, he would fall into a fitful sleep that was more like unconsciousness than true rest. Most times, Shepard was waiting for him in that new dark, wearing that smirk she had when she was about to challenge him to something she knew he’d win, or when she threatened to drive the Mako if he wasn’t geared up in 10. Sometimes it was his sister, sometimes his mother-- but, whoever waited for him, the pain didn’t follow him there.
Cerberus didn’t seem to want any information out of him--they mostly just wanted to take turns kicking him. (One of his leg spurs was definitely broken). He might not have had it in him to toe the Spectres’ particular line of bullshit, but he was a son of Palaven: a soldier of the Hierarchy through and through. And that meant he wouldn’t be broken by a group of snivelling soft-skins, least of all those who thought a symbol and a handful of empty promises made them bigger than they were. Their favorite power plays involved knocking his dextro-gruel across the floor, or -- in an inspired move -- switching it with levo and hoping he’d be sick. They were disappointed on both counts. He had enough energy reserves (and dignity) that he wouldn’t have to resort to eating off the floor for weeks yet, and the only thing their well-plated poison gave him was a full meal for the first time in days. (C-Sec always tested for severe chirality allergies; he wouldn’t have made it past basic if he’d failed the exposure tests.)
His silence, such as it was, didn’t bother them as much as his mockery did--though, how was he expected to stay quiet when their bumbling attempts at torture were so pitiful? Moreso than ever before, it was his mouth that got him into trouble. He’d blame Shepard and her influence for that one. So, in lieu of information, his money (and the credits to his name were not insignificant, given his family) was on ransom. Or -- and this possibility he liked least of all -- a trap for Shepard.
Often their jeers would turn to her; was he praying every night she’d come and rescue him, like a good lapdog? What sort of deal had she cut with the Hierarchy to pretend like the First Contact War had never happened? Half of them saw her as a traitor to their entire race; the other half were convinced Garrus or that “asari bitch” had brainwashed her somehow and they needed to rescue her and bring her back into the fold.
It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so stupid. Like their insults, they weren’t particularly creative with their conspiracy theories and it got old fast.
By his count -- since guard shifts, if not his meals, had been regular as clockwork -- it had been eleven days since Cerberus had forcibly brought him into their loving care. Eleven days until he was broken from his half-hearted rest, not by the usual “skullface,” but by shouts. And gunfire.
Garrus didn’t dare hope--
Or maybe he did. Because he knew that sound; knew that pattern of growing silence. Clustered shots of three that, even distorted as they were through the metal halls, were as familiar to him as the name causing them. Shepard was precise behind a gun. She even used to give him a run for his credits every time she picked up a sniper rifle. (Maybe one day they could go toe-to-toe. See who really was the better shot).
Garrus closed his eyes, every muscle every nerve trained on the sounds of battle moving closer and closer to his cellblock.
“Beta Squad, report!” a soldier barked into his radio, but the only response was static. Then nothing at all.
Cerberus generally operated in rotating squads of seven; an obnoxious number. Too many for a single operative to reliably take on and just enough to start flanking an enemy force without getting in each other’s way. Usually. The base’s halls were narrow and the way he’d been dragged in had appeared to be the only path to the cell blocks.
Garrus counted the shuffling feet; head still resting against the cool metal wall. Four? Five, maybe? Not a full squad then, but enough to be troublesome. His fingers itched for a gun.
For a full minute, nothing happened--no screaming, no gunfire, no nothing. And then--
The pneumatic woosh of the doors was met by the whirr of weapons powering up. Followed by a loud thump .
“Where’s Garrus Vakarian?”
Spirits.
It really was her. No one else could turn a question into a threat like her--all while staring down an overwhelming counter force. Garrus pulled himself to standing, ignoring the searing pain that lanced through his left leg, and pressed his face to the bars of his cell’s window. And there she was--her red hair a shock of color against the white and grey of the room. Just behind her, the automatic doors struggled to close against the body that had fallen in its path, Cerberus chestpiece still smoking. She took another step into the room, bringing her full profile into his view.
“I’m here, Shepard.” Her name came so easily; rank falling away under the overwhelming tidal wave of relief.
She glanced sidelong at him -- just for a split-second, not enough to give an advantage, just enough to be sure. ( It felt like an eternity .)
“How ya holding up, Garrus?” she asked, a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth just for him. Her gun never wavered, all her focus on the five Cerberus soldiers currently being held back by the threat of a single assault rifle.
“I’ve had worse.” That confirmed it: she’d definitely had a bad influence on him.
“Where’s the rest of your petting zoo?”
“Mm,” she hummed. “Just me.”
One of the soldiers laughed--only for it to die out awkwardly. The others shifted nervously. Whether they thought she was lying or didn’t want to be the first one to pull the trigger, it was hard to say. Her reputation preceded her, as it always did: a shadow that lengthened with every battle, every impossible odd overcome. Cerberus had cast their line with intent and only now were they considering whether or not they were ready for what they’d caught.
Garrus didn’t like how convincing her bluff was. Only an idiot would raid a Cerberus base alone , and Commander Shepard was no idiot. But she was sure doing a hell of an impression of one.
“You gonna let him out?” she asked. “Or am I gonna have to do it for you?”
Shepard …
She was baiting them. Picking at them in that way that always made Liara fret and something behind his plates itch. His subvocals pitched low in warning before he cut them off, mandibles pressed so tight against his jaw they ached. Shepard had once called it his “clenched-teeth look.” Said it always came out when she was doing something, quote, “inadvisable.”
One of the soldiers, dumber than the rest for not pulling on his helmet the second the gunfire started and, now, for squaring up against Commander Shepard with just an un-modded pistol, took a swaggering step forward. Shepard didn’t react.
“Why don’t you get in the cell, and we won’t kill the skullface--”
A three-burst hit him straight in the face. Blood and viscera sprayed outward in a mist and he dropped without another sound. Garrus watched her fire another quick burst across the shocked troopers and then dive behind the desk. She picked off another one with a surge of biotic force, clipping him across the torso as he dangled in the air, before slamming him into the floor with an audible crunch.
Just like old times.
When the bullets started flying both ways, he slid to the side and away from the window. It meant he was stuck imagining the scene taking place on the other side of the door, but if he got hit by a wayward shot while being rescued, Shepard would never let his ghost hear the end of it.
It was over in less than a minute.
Using the bars as leverage, Garrus pulled himself back up to the door. He watched as, sliding out from behind cover, Shepard slung her rifle onto her back and began systematically searching through drawers. The bodies were laid out where they’d fallen.
“Where are the others?” he asked, breath a little short in his chest. Maybe Cerberus kicked a little harder than he gave them credit for. “Liara? Tali?”
“They’ll be waiting for us back on the Normandy.” She left another drawer hanging open with a huff and began lifting datapads.
“Try the tall, ugly one.”
She shot him a look.
“The taller , ugly one.”
Shepard shook her head, but stepped over bodies until she could crouch at the one he’d been referring too. She’d always been able to understand what he was saying without all the extra words needing to be said. After a moment of rifling through the soldier’s pockets, she made a triumphant noise. Between her fingers she held up the keycard so Garrus could see.
“You would have found it eventually,” he assured her. The banter was easier, though his voice came out rough and almost wheezing.
“You’re damn right,” she shot back, all easy tones and no bite. She was just like that: all things at once. (If she’d been a turian, harmonics running underneath her voice, every word would be a symphony.)
She keyed open the door and Garrus nearly fell into her.
“Shit, Garrus,” and her hands were pushing up against his chest, bracing him so that he didn’t fall forward. The keen of pain escaped him before he could call it back. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
And here in the harsh-light of the room, his leg did look a mess. The fabric of his undersuit was dark and tacky with blood and he was afraid it was the material alone that was keeping his spur attached. The rest was bumps and bruises in comparison, so that’s what he focused on. “It looks worse than it is.”
She pulled his arm over her shoulder and straightened, keeping him balanced as they shuffled him out of his cell. “Worse than you usually look?” she asked, and Garrus didn’t imagine the strain in her voice.
“Regretting not bringing backup now?”
Shepard scoffed. “I lift. You’re heavy but not that heavy, Vakarian.”
The height difference was substantial, but physics was nothing in the face of Shepard’s sheer determination. After some careful positioning (and a bit of a lean on his part), she was able to take most of his weight as he hobbled forward on his one good leg. “I heard Spectres work alone, but this is ridiculous.”
Shepard shook her head, taking both the joke and the query behind it in stride. “They were both planetside. Investigating...something? You know how Liara gets.” Always, she kept an eye on his injured leg as they maneuvered around the mayhem she’d caused. Adjusting automatically with every twinge, every hesitation. It was unbearably slow going, but he was grateful for it. “Pressly can handle things ‘til we get back.”
Garrus winced and Shepard boosted him a little higher. “Couldn’t have just waited an hour?” he wheezed.
“Wouldn’t.”
And Garrus didn’t have a witty retort for that, or for the way it settled in his chest like the warmth of Palaven’s sun. Shepard’s loyalty was not easily come by. Even harder to earn was her trust. Yet, somehow, he’d found himself in possession of both. He cleared his throat.
“Gotta say, Shepard...I’m not sorry they’re dead..but I am sorry it had to be you.” He looked down into the glassy-eyed gaze of the trooper who’d tried to poison him. He’d been the one to break his leg when the levo didn’t do its job. “It’s not easy going after your own people.”
Blood had started to pool under their feet.
“They’re not my people.”
She looked straight at him, their faces closer now than maybe they’d ever been, and he tried hard not to fidget. (No turian had eyes that green.) “ You’re my people.”
“Shepard…”
Her name just slipped out. Unexpected and humming with the rough burr of surprise--a feeling he knew was writ clear across his face: surprise, and no small amount of wonder. There must have been words for it, but whatever he’d meant to say, it never came. And for the briefest moment, her name was all that hung between them. Then that same almost-smirk curved the corner of her mouth, and she huffed--either in amusement or exertion--her cheeks gone softly pink.
“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s get you home.”