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The Alliance can retrofit their little hearts out, the Normandy SR-2 is what it is, and Garrus surprises himself with how glad it makes him.
They can paint over the Cerberus colors (and good for them on that count), they can rip out half the main deck and put in a war room, they can gut the deepest innards to expand the shuttle bay, they can change the interface of every computer on the ship and trail guarded wires from end to end in hideous exposed braids.
No matter what they do to it, its bones hum at a familiar wavelength, welcoming Garrus back like the subvocals of a dearly-missed family member. If he were kidnapped and blindfolded, he’d still know where he was.
This time was easier than last time, in terms of seeing Shepard and believing she’s real, but it was still quite something. It didn’t really sink in until arriving back here, the interface terminal of the main battery aglow beneath his hands.
With the backs of his fingers, Garrus brushes the spot on his mandible where Shepard kissed him when she came by to check in. He had so many dreams like that in the intervening months he almost stuck himself with a pin to be sure it was real. The harsh, black fog of the minute-to-minute business with the reapers has been so thick he started doubting if anything could cut through it, but Shepard, as a light in the darkness, is not to be underestimated.
How long can he wait before checking in on her without it being weird? She’s technically off-duty in an hour, though she’s never seemed to comprehend the words REST PERIOD before, and he doubts she’ll start now.
Once he finally stops staring at the clock, he does get a few critical first steps taken care of and realizes it’s been nearly two hours since that rest period kicked off. Just to make absolutely sure he won’t be bothering her--
“EDI?” He tries.
“Yes, Advisor Vakarian?” They moved the speaker in the retrofits, so her voice comes from an unexpected direction. “What can I help you with?”
He almost chokes. “I just wanted to ask if you could tell me where Shepard was, but now --”
“I was unsure if the prolonged period without contact and the change in your station, not to mention the adjustment back to an official military vessel, would lead to a more formal address being preferable.”
“Er… no. That’s not necessary.” Garrus is pretty sure she’s subtly sassing him in some way he can’t quite identify. He did keep in touch with some of the other crew -- Joker, Tali, Liara, Thane -- but didn’t think to send her any messages. It wasn’t an intentional snub, he just isn’t used to having synthetic friends, though that’s probably also best not said aloud.
She takes a little mercy on him when she changes the subject. “Commander Shepard is in the engineering subdeck.”
“She’s--wait, should you be telling me that?”
“You are authorized.” EDI doesn’t elaborate.
“Authorized for what?” He asks the new sensor he’s finally found, following the soft flicker of its indicator light.
“Shortly after your arrival, Commander Shepard updated certain privacy protocols.”
“Protocols…?”
“She asked that I assign monitoring of the main battery and loft areas to automated processes unless vital signs within these areas exceed acceptable parameters, and that information about her location and status may be released to you upon your request. You also have access to her private quarters by default. While she labeled the data file Protocol: Unofficial XO, I suspect a significant part of her intent is to continue your prior intimate relationship, as she also expressed concern over whether my algorithms for vital signs were capable of distinguishing sexual activity from physical distress.” After a long pause, she adds dryly: “They are.”
That's a lot to process. He's almost more bowled over by finding out how she sees his role here than by the rest of it. Garrus goes with: “What is she doing down there?”
“There is a crate blocking my optical sensor. However, she is alone, and has been there for forty three minutes. Her heart rate and skin conductance indicate mild distress.”
“Thank you, that’s all for now.” He found it funny, the first time he discovered she was giving EDI access to the readouts of her implants on purpose, but she said she found it comforting, knowing someone was keeping an eye on where she was, how she was doing, without having to have a whole conversation about it. She's an AI, it's not like she's judging. Then, she let him have access to them too, if he wanted, suggesting an almost alarming amount of trust that he wouldn't be judging either, or at least not in any way she'd be uncomfortable with. It's nice to realize he's in range to use that again, even if he doesn't really need it most of the time.
“You’re welcome, Garrus.”
He gets the distinct sense that thanking EDI there was passing a test he didn’t realize he was taking. Moving on, he wanders out of the main battery to figure out what Shepard’s been up to in engineering alone for almost an hour.
He’s not even to the bottom of the subdeck stairs before he hears muted swearing.
“I swear, when I find the useless motherfucker who let you--”
“Shepard?” He ventures.
Bang. “Ow! Garrus?”
He gets to the bottom just in time to see Shepard on hands and knees beneath a long table, clutching the back of her head.
“Are… you okay?”
“No, I survived an assault on the Collector base only to be taken out by a table,” she deadpans, shifting to sit on her legs in a way Garrus still can’t believe humans find comfortable. “What are you doing down here?”
“Looking for you, what are you doing down here?” He looks around. “Who are you talking to?”
Something shifts on her face. Embarrassed? “The answer to both of those questions just ran under that pipe and between those crates.”
Garrus follows where she’s pointing as if the situation will become any clearer. It doesn’t. He gives her what he hopes she recognizes as a look of ongoing confusion.
“First they kill my fish, then they set my hamster loose. I guess I should thank Jack for making such a mess down here, the weird snack hoard she left behind is probably all that’s kept the little bugger alive.”
“Maybe it took some inspiration from you.”
“Huh?" The way her sweatshirt swallows her body gives her a not-the-legend-just-the-person look he suspects is deliberate, especially with so many unfamiliar faces about.
“Surviving against all odds.”
“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t like me very much. Surprised it hasn’t died just to spite me. Imagine that getting uncovered by those vulture reporters. Commander Shepard: She can’t even keep a hamster alive, how is she meant to--” She cuts off her own sentence with an uninterpretable gesture and a huff that covers up something else.
There may be a bit more at stake here than he thought at first glance.
“Pity about the fish. You worked so hard on those,” he sympathizes. “The one time you forgot to feed them, you stopped a whole mission and made us wait while you went back to the ship.”
“I’m glad someone understands.” The way the corner of her mouth twitches suggests she is detecting the light veneer of mockery. “And it was Nos Astra, it’s not like I left you in the desert surrounded by thresher maws.”
“I don’t know.” He gets down on the floor, because if this is what they’re doing, if this has taken on some strange emotional weight for her, then damned if he won't try to carry his share. “Compared to those agents on Ilium, a thresher maw has a certain charm.”
That gets a laugh out of her -- definitely in his Top Five Best Shepard Sounds list -- which is cut off by a gasp, and a hissed: “Look!”
Unfortunately, just as he does, so does the hamster, and it hangs a right to skitter into the long end of the T-shaped path formed by the boxes on the other side of the table and the pipe. At the far end of its road is a tangle of wires, and when he looks at Shepard, he’s pretty sure she’s having the same thought he is about what would happen if it decided to have a nibble.
“We need a strategy,” she decides out loud, just so. It could be any number of moments since he’s met her, writ small and furry
He follows her focus skipping around the space, looking for something, and finding it: A stack of extra interior wall panels, propped up in a corner, probably waiting for someone to take them away until the ship’s retrofits so abruptly and prematurely ended.
“Do you still have that…” Shepard fumbles for the word. “The extendy-thing with the flashlight on it.”
Garrus’ mandibles flick in amusement before he can stop them. “You mean, do I still have the complimentary Armax telescoping combination data-pen, magnet hook and LED light that came with the license? The one you called shameless corporate swag when I rescued it from the garbage?”
“Nerd.”
“Well-prepared nerd,” Garrus corrects.
“I’m gonna block off the other escape routes with these--” Shepard hefts the wall panel with deceptive ease, which is weirdly hot every time it happens. Not that she wasn’t unusually alluring for a human before she had all the cyborg parts, but still. “You scare it with the flashlight. It’ll have only one way out, right into my hands.
It is to Garrus’ chagrin that one of his favorite military aphorisms came from humans: No plan survives contact with the enemy. Turns out it holds up when the enemy is a hamster, too, since while the first stage works perfectly, the into Shepard’s hands bit turns out trickier than expected. She almost has it, but miscalculates on the gentle-but-firm grip just enough that it kicks loose of her hold and skitters up her arm only to take a flying leap off her shoulder.
Fortunately for everyone involved, Garrus is right behind her. He intercepts, and before the little bastard has any idea what’s happening, it’s trapped in a cage of his fingers, scratching and gnawing helplessly at gloves that have taken scrapes a lot worse than hamster teeth.
Shepard gets halfway to her feet before leaning forward, supporting herself with her hands on her thighs as she laughs.
“What?”
“Nothing, I was just…” Her eyes look suspiciously misty. “Here I was thinking this was a perfect metaphor, and you go and prove me completely right. I’d rather not attempt a transfer here, what say you accompany me back up to the loft so we can ensure this little guy doesn’t go AWOL on us again?”
“If you just wanted to get me in your cabin,” he drops his voice, though the hamster in his cupped hands definitely takes something from the effect, “you could have said so.”
She shoots him a look he’s learned to interpret as everybody’s a comedian, and leads the way up the stairs.
Shepard has to dig the hamster tank out of a storage box they’d left some of her effects in (all while Garrus waits with a squealing, scratching, urinating animal trapped in his hands) but once the little guy finally gets back home, he doesn’t take long to situate himself cheerfully in his hideaway.
Must have been a hell of an adventure down there.
When she turns around, she catches Garrus in the middle of stripping the now damp-and-smelly gloves off and depositing them by the door.
“I’m not going to say don’t look at me like that,” he says, sidling past her to wash his hands at her private sink, “because I definitely want you to look at me like that, but this is--I can’t say that’s the cleanest animal I’ve ever carried.”
“How can I not look?” Shepard jabs. “Even your civvies have gloves. Not my fault you’ve conditioned me to have certain thoughts when I see you without them.”
That drags a warm, dark laugh out of him. If he's entirely honest, he feels the same way about the smell of her soap. When he steps back into the room there’s so little space in the work area, he’s already nearly pinning her against the desk, an advantage he presses as soon as he notices it.
“I think I might need a little more detail about that,” he teases.
Shepard must decide two can play at that game, because she hoists herself onto the edge of the desk and pulls him in with her legs, kicking off her boots around him and giving him little choice but to get closer still. She catches his hand and presses his freshly clean palm to her lips, then plants little kisses all the way from the base of one finger to its tip.
“Hey, you filed them. Hoping I’d come back, or popular while I was away?” she says, finding him frozen, all of the sudden breathing like he just jogged up a flight of stairs. “Now who’s staring?”
“The first thing.” Garrus is almost hoarse. Lust and worry and adoration and relief all wrestle somewhere in his chest. “Actually I hadn’t thought about--I just did it. I didn’t even think about it. I guess some part of me really believed I’d see you again. Funny, I never used to be so optimistic.”
“Yeah well, that’s what you get, hanging around me, at least if everybody else is any indication.”
“Oh, I’ve got that malady even worse than you think.” He tips forward and rests his forehead on hers and his eyes fall shut. “I’m already imagining us making it through this and getting to enjoy all the good parts without the added guilt about it.”
“Garrus--”
He opens his eyes, though he can’t see much at this distance. “Hm?”
“You can’t demand misery out of yourself twenty four hours a day just because other people are suffering, that’s crazy. You’re doing everything you can do. We all are. Walking around in a hairshirt isn't going to do any more to help than you already are.” She must catch him trying to puzzle out the word hairshirt, which he makes a note to look up later, because she clarifies: “Distress by itself isn’t goodness. Comfort where you can get it isn’t wrong.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m saying it.” She tilts her chin up to kiss him right where his once-injured mandible meets his mouth.
“Feels stupid to say I’ve never dealt with anything like this before, because no one has, but here I am.”
These human kisses, with her mouth on his like this, were one of those things he once thought he’d do just to make her feel good, but damn if he didn’t wind up liking it and missing it when they were apart.
“Every day an existential roller coaster,” she agrees, and traces her nails up the back of his neck, making him shiver pleasantly. “I don’t think either of us are gonna make it without a hand to squeeze on the drops.”
“Mm, I think I can guess what you mean by that.” He shifts, brushing his cheek past hers and nosing his way down her neck. His grasp practically encircles her entire waist. His subvocals are nearly a growl at the way she feels under his palms, a thing she might not understand precisely, but he knows she’s starting to get an idea through sheer pattern recognition. He draws attention to the touch by sliding it up her sides. “As I recall, there were some other things you were interested in doing with my hands?”