1. Survival

They limp back through the relay, silent with the shock of still drawing breath. They survived. All of them. Somehow Shepard saw them through, and they all survived. He knows of no scale against which to assess what just happened.

The crew is harrowed, but eager for action. In spite of being used to it, the din of their depthless human voices sounds strange all over again. He debates turning off his translator, turns on the Club Kicks mix instead, turns it off in a haste after a handful of notes.

It's a relief of sorts when she calls everyone to the wrecked conference room, where she makes a speech against a background of sparks from the gutted wall panels. It has to be one of her best, if reactions are telling. She even jokes with EDI, but as soon as it's done, he can't recall a single word. It all ends with handshakes, cheering, select hugging, and he wonders if any of them are going through the same motions he is. He estimates she holds his hand longer than anyone else's, but their exchange is straight-up textbook.

"Thank you, Garrus. I couldn't have done this without you."

"I always knew you'd come through, Shepard."

As soon as it's convenient, he retreats to the battery to inventory crash damage, and that's when it hits him how easily she could have plummeted to her death in that last, desperate jump toward the shuttle as the Collector base crumbled away. It takes his talons a hundred and one seconds to unclench.

By the time they dock in Omega, the engineering team has compiled a preliminary repair assessment. The Normandy can be back to roughly ninety-three percent functionality in less than one standard galactic month. After conferring with EDI, Tali and Joker, Shepard seems so satisfied with the numbers, that the first thing she does after the meeting is drop a respectable chunk of Cerberus funds to book the Afterlife's largest VIP room.

He figures the party successful, even by Omega's standards. They are all high on the peculiar success of survival, which is to say they're reeling from a brush with death, so it doesn't take much to generate a good time. There is booze: she convinces Legion it should attempt synthesizing ryncol. There is music: she told the truth about Expel 10 when she baited Morinth. There is dancing: she makes up with enthusiasm what she lacks in skill. There are drunken displays of affection: her arm flung around Mordin as Tali wobbles in front of them, trying to access the camera on her omnitool.

There is even hooking up: her body pressed up against his in a dark corner of the club. She drags her teeth across the vulnerable skin of his throat, fumbles with one of his armor clasps. His heartbeat increases in a way he identifies as arousal, but it is cognitive work, connecting those dots.

"Shepard, let's go back to the ship."

"I thought you'd never ask."

He doesn't correct her assumption. "I'm not asking."

"Oh, you like to give orders, do you, Vakarian?"

In different circumstances her smile would be invitation enough. As things stand, he disentangles her hands from his armor and, hand on her waist, gets her through the crowd. It takes all his dexterity and ingenuity combined to steer her through Omega's zigzagging corridors, to the docking bay, and into the Normandy's cramped elevator.

"Garrus," she says, pulling him closer. Her cheeks are flushed, her pupils dilated. His name in her mouth makes him think of her soft, moist recesses.

"You're drunk, Shepard."

"That's never stopped me before."

He maneuvers around her to reach the control panel, an act that takes more willpower, he realizes with a start, than not taking that shot on Sidonis. "Get some sleep," he says, as the doors slide shut between them.