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Shepard was, for the most part, an agreeable woman.
When the Council or the Alliance imposed a new restriction on her, she accepted it in stoic silence with a set jaw. If civilians made absurd requests of her already limited time, Shepard would acquiesce with a smile. Nothing -- rachni, the Thorian, a krogan breeding facility -- fazed the infallible Commander Shepard.
That was what Garrus had thought, at least, until their last Council meeting.
“What do you mean, you aren’t pursuing the Reaper threat?” Sharp as a whiplash, her voice rang through the Council chambers.
“Commander Shepard, there is no Reaper threat, only the geth threat,” was Councilor Valern’s tired response.
“You --” Her teeth bared, Shepard jabbed a finger in the Council’s direction. “War is on our doorstep. But instead of acting upon our knowledge to give ourselves the advantage against an impossible enemy, you’re asking me to chase cannon fodder instead.”
Clearly exhausted by their diatribe, Councilor Sparatus’ response was even sharper than Shepard’s. “We have no proof of the Reapers, Commander. We will not waste our resources chasing legends.”
“You’re too busy wasting your resources in other ways, Councilor .”
His eyes narrowing, Sparatus reeled. “Commander --”
“No.” Shepard let out a weary sigh. “I’ll do it, but know that this is absolutely --” She paused, biting her tongue to contain the word that wanted to slip so badly from her lips, “-- Ridiculous.”
“You’re dismissed,” Tevos hissed.
Her shoulders stiff and her expression closed off, Shepard spun on her heel to exit. High spots of colour dotted her otherwise pale cheeks, and when her steps brought her to Garrus, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Garrus?”
“Yes, Shepard?”
“Can we drink? Please?”
A ghost of a laugh escaped him. “Of course. I’m right behind you, Shepard.”
--
“I will never forget the look on Ashley’s face when she said, ‘It was you, Tali?!’ while she strode around the hanger in that awful pink armour.”
Shepard threw her head back and laughed raucously, her eyes wild and unrestrained when she let out a series of snorts.
This was a Shepard rarely seen but treasured: the one behind the Commander’s mask, who laughed at terrible jokes and cried at romantic vids, whose favourite colour was orange, who managed to fall asleep in the most uncomfortable of places, who pulled her hair up when she had a good hand in poker and let it down again when she had a bad hand. This was the most human and real side of Shepard, and it was the side Garrus favoured and yearned to see more and more of.
With a long finger, Shepard brushed a tear from underneath her eye. Her words were slurred from drink and laced with longing when she said, “I’ll miss this crew.”
Garrus’ brow furrowed. “Miss us? Who said we’re going anywhere?”
Like a child caught in the candy jar, Shepard’s gaze flickered away, her already red cheeks flushing deeper. “I can’t ask you to go on this wild goose chase with me.”
“We’re your crew. We signed up to stay with you , regardless of the mission parameters.” His tone was hard, almost steely; he hadn’t been prepared for the rush of tightness in his chest at the thought of leaving Shepard’s side. She had become a mentor and a friend to him, and she had brought out the best in him. One poor mission wasn’t enough to deter him, to send him back to C-Sec on his knees.
“Don’t look so wounded,” she chastised, a smile flickering across her mouth. “Just… look at you. You’re smart, you’re skilled, you’re determined, and you’re young. You could do so much more than waste your time chasing an unimportant threat with me.”
“Shepard --” his subvocals wavered with longing, a sound so unfamiliar it shocked even him. What was it that he was about to lose that he longed to keep? The sense of belonging? Of making a true difference?
Worrying her lip between her teeth, Shepard let her hair down, sending a jolt through Garrus’ abdomen.
Perhaps he knew exactly what he longed for, but in no way was he prepared to address -- or act upon -- that longing. It was one to better remain buried, right beside thoughts of his mother’s lingering illness and his father’s perpetual disappointment in him.
Shepard’s eyes met his, and he wondered how a gaze so gentle could come from a woman who could drop him with her bare hands in under thirty seconds. “Garrus, I --” her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She opened her mouth, paused to consider, and closed it again, her lips set in a hard line. “I’ve sent a recommendation to the Council to nominate you as a Spectre candidate. Hopefully with my saving their lives recently, they’ll actually listen to what I have to say this time.”
Both joy and fear rose up high in his throat, choking him. “You did?”
Shepard nodded, her hair bouncing with the motion. She whispered, “You’ll be a great Spectre, Garrus.” Her wry smile didn’t reach her eyes. “And next time we work together, you won’t have to listen to me.”
He only hoped that time would come soon.
“Now walk me back to the ship, please, before I pass out and make a bigger ass of myself today.”
--
He woke to the sound of her name; the fog of sleep lingered, and it took a moment before he realized that the cries were being wrenched from his own lips.
Growling in frustration, he bunched the threadbare sheets in his fist, his other hand reaching up to cover his eyes.
Shepard.
It was almost ironic that the greatest tragedies could bring with them the greatest realizations. Before he had heard of her death, he never would have admitted to himself that he was falling in love with her. It wasn’t that he had an interest in humans -- he never had, they were both too soft and too abrasive -- but Shepard was a unique woman. Once, she had been his closest confidante; now, he would never be able to speak to her again.
His talons tore through the sheets again as the grief crashed over him in rolling waves, burying him deep in hopelessness. Never again would he see her bright smile, hear the laughter in her voice, smell her mismatched scent of salty sweat and sweet flowers. In a flash she was gone, the galaxy robbed of her far too soon.
He knew that one day he would wake and the grief wouldn’t feel as stifling.
Four hundred and forty-three days had passed, but he still had faith that day would come.
Today was not that day.