A/N: This was written to fill a masskink request, and it just came out this way. All I can say is, good grief. If you're not a fan of non-con or angry Garrus (or of n00b writers), now's your chance to flee.

All characters belong to BioWare. I'm just playing dollies with them.

I've been summoned to Shepard's personal quarters. This is unusual; we always discuss at my console in the gunnery. And usually, she lets me in on what it is she wants to talk to me about. I'm not accustomed to being kept in the dark. I feel off-balance. My finger hesitates in front of the door control. I take a breath.

I'm trying to figure out what's bothering me about this summons. In moments when I'm honest with myself, I know that nothing's been right between me and Shepard since she found me on Omega, since I made the decision to play it cool. "Shepard. I thought you were dead," I'd said, as evenly as I could manage. Raw fatigue helped me pull it off so well. She'd spread her arms wide in greeting just moments before, but after she heard me, they hung limply at her sides and she played along with my professional tone. Then there was that crazy skirmish with the mercs, and I took a gunship rocket to the head.

After I came aboard the Normandy, I was amiable enough, but I felt better when I could avoid any heart-to-hearts with Shepard, so I kept putting her off. Calibrations. I did joke around with her a bit the way we used to in the old days, and I did call on her for help when I had tracked down Sidonis. I hoped it might somehow put my mind at ease, but even that didn't go as planned. I settled on refusing to think about any of it.

Anyway.

I buzz the door to her room, and I enter. I don't see Shepard anywhere. She must be in the bathroom, or on her way here herself. The door closes behind me, and I shuffle about the room nervously, feeling like an invader. I catch a glimpse of myself in her mirror. Me, with my face half shot off and chunks blasted out of my armor. The face, I'm unhappy about, though I'd never admit it out loud. I used to be rather handsome. The armor, however, I'm used to. It serves as a reminder of everything that's happened before—everything I need to atone for—like a checklist. I wear it everywhere.

"Shepard? Are you in the can? Should I come back later?"

A small pain in my neck, and everything turns gray. I've never been good with gray. I fight it, but I lose. Again. I'm out before I hit the floor.

The second I come to, my mind flails, groggily trying to assess the situation. I am...blindfolded. And gagged, but not so I can't breathe. A small mercy, but one that tells me something about my captor: whoever it is probably wants me to stay alive. Whether that's out of compassion or in preparation for a torture session, I don't know. I'm restrained, lying on what feels like a human bed, my arms tied together at the wrists and fastened above my head, my legs shackled and spread. Something pillowed under each of my knees so that my leg spurs don't dig into the bed. This place smells and sounds like the Normandy. Has the ship been captured?

Disturbingly, my armor has been removed, as have any other garments I was wearing. And...there is a thing around my dick. It's cool and made of metal, but not sharp. Someone's got a sick sense of humor and they're out to see me suffer, I decide. Maybe some mercs overpowered us, as unlikely as that seems to me. I'll try to withstand them as long as possible, and then I'll hope for death. I just hope there are no pictures. My father would die of shame.

Maybe I deserve this. Maybe this will be how I pay for my failures.

I can hear someone move close to the bed, coming around to my left side, about three feet away now. I lurch hard in his direction, trying to see if I can startle him. If he jumps back or gasps, it's a clue—I might hear his voice, or find I can frighten him. The restraints hold perfectly, though, and the person near me does not betray himself. It is not encouraging.

"Garrus." That's Shepard. Is she stuck here with me? But without a gag? That makes no sense. I try to speak, but my throat is dry and the gag muffles me.

"Garrus," she says again, almost a whisper. "You're safe. You're in my quarters. The door is locked, there are no bugs or cams, and I'm the only one here. Are you understanding me?"

What I am right now, is pissed as hell. Humiliation, dealt to me by the one person I never saw it coming from. A practical joke at my expense. A betrayal of the deepest kind, and she doesn't even know it. I snarl and wrench at my restraints, shouting for EDI to call security, but the gag again interferes and no one answers me.

This is sick. I feel sick. As soon as I get out of this trap, I am going to head straight for the nearest airlock and space myself out of sheer spite. Show her how it feels to lose her mindlessly faithful right hand man. I'm done with nasty surprises and I just want out, forever. The rage builds in my core. Though it shames me, I'm shaking.

"Garrus..." Stop saying my name, you crazy bitch! You've lost the right! "I want to ask you one question. When I get a truthful answer, I'll release you. Do you understand?"

Oh, very nice. A game. I'm not playing. I make no indication that I've heard her question. I don't have the time for this.

"I know you can hear me. I think you do understand. Your mandibles are twitching like crazy, and I know you probably wish you could knock me out and storm out of here. Hear me out, Garrus. I've asked you a question a few times now, and each time you've given me a crap answer. I want the truth. You need the truth. Will you answer me?"

This is SHIT. But I want so badly to get out of this room, off this ship. I'll have to figure out what she wants to hear and say it to her, and then I can get this...this thing off me...collect what scraps remain of my dignity, and lock myself away until I can finish our mission and disappear again. Good. I have a goal now. I nod curtly in the direction of her voice.

I hear padding feet, movement near my face. The gag is delicately removed from my mouth. Fingertips momentarily caress the scars on my face, and I jerk away in disgust.

I hiss, "Is this Cerberus brainwashing, or some fucked up human dominance sex thing? Are you raping me, Shepard? Did I miss something in Fornax that would explain this? Or are you just sticking the knife in my back the way everyone else does? Whatever it is, you'd better either let me go or kill me. You can bet I won't forget this."

A moment ago, when I'd lurched and strained at my bonds in order to try to get a rise out of her, she hadn't startled. It's my words, now, that get a reaction: a catch of the breath, and not one of pleasure or anger. My words hurt her. I hate myself for giving a damn.

Shepard recovers, but her voice has gone low. I feel her hand on my arm. It's comforting, and I don't want it to be. I flinch.

"I know you won't forget this," she says. "When this is over, and we've finished with the Collectors, I'll be at your mercy. I need the truth from you on this one thing. That's all. Please."

"Fine. Fine, Shepard. Would you please ask me the question, then?!"

"What were you doing on Omega?"

"Shit, Shepard, really? I told you this. After you crapped out on us two years ago, I put together a team to try to do some good where it would matter. I didn't want to deal with C-Sec's restrictions, so I went to where there were none. Can I go now?" As I speak, I feel a finger trail over one of my arms. I've been shaking from anger and embarrassment, and her touch is a balm. Soothing. She's taking liberties with me that she'll come to regret, I tell myself. I won't acknowledge this.

"No." The contact is withdrawn. "That's just the same thing you told me before, and it doesn't sound right. It sounds like you're sticking to a story. I want the truth. What were you doing on Omega? Why did you go there?"

"What do you want, Shepard? C-Sec was killing me! I thought it would be good there. I thought I could continue your work, make life better for honest people! But all it did was bog me down with procedures and paperwork, reasons why I couldn't follow through on what was right! Even worse, I started realizing that there were almost no honest people to help." Warm palms again, making soft contact with my thigh, taking care not to tickle. Just stroking me while I speak, as if in sympathy.

I scrabble to prolong my little monologue. Galling though it may be, I can't help wanting to be comforted, even by a commanding officer who has knocked me unconscious and inappropriately tied me to a bed. I guess I take what I can get. "I missed our team. I missed our mission. Then you left. Everyone scattered, and I had to make do. So, I scattered too. I went to Omega and kicked merc ass until you showed up again. End of story. Why is that so damn difficult for you to digest?"

"I didn't leave you, Garrus. I died."

At that word I give an involuntary shiver. I think back to how, when I was told that Shepard had died, it made some things in my life easier. My guts permanently curled up into a fist. I felt stronger, and I was definitely meaner and colder. While the rest of the Shepard's squad grieved, I felt I'd just been ditched by the best person, the closest comrade, I'd ever known. When she reappeared, reanimated by Cerberus and ready to pick up like nothing had happened, I made funny, wisecracking Garrus unavailable.

In this moment, I know I've been unfair. She suffocated alone in the dark, probably hoping someone would save her, and I wasn't there. It's a wonder she even wanted to pick up our friendship where it left off before she died, after that. Another of my failures.

Shepard interrupts my self-flagellation by doing the most insane thing: I feel her weight on the bed as she kneels beside me and rests her forehead on my chest. I jerk slightly, then force myself to relax. I doubt she knows the significance of that for turians; for us, that's basically a kiss. I choose not to comment. Her skin is warm, and I can feel her breath. When it's clear I'm holding still, that I'm allowing this, she puts an arm across me. I can feel its heat through the thin cloth of whatever it is she's wearing. She's holding me.

It dawns on me that this ridiculous setup can't be about sadistic pleasure or revenge. If it were, Shepard would already have cut to the chase—she doesn't tend to play with her food, so to speak. Furthermore, she's left herself vulnerable to me. Even bound, I'm a resourceful person. With her leaning over in what must be an awkward position, I could inflict a few bruises at least, if I wanted to. But I don't.

Shepard says nothing, but I feel her hand curl around my side and her thumb rub back and forth on my skin.

After a few minutes of silence, I relent. "Look, Shepard. Everyone felt lost. I wanted to go away, to forget. I wanted to make something right." She sits up and moves away. I wonder if she thinks I'm lying again. I'm about to say something when she comes back to the bed.

Something feathery grazes me. At first I don't recognize it, but then I smell it: human hair. When I first met Shepard, her hair went only to her chin. Then Cerberus rebuilt her, and they didn't bother getting that kind of cosmetic detail right, so she came back with long hair. I guess she must have liked it. She didn't cut it, but she always keeps it pinned up. It now cascades into my face, smelling like Shepard, but more. I want to run my fingers through it, to press my face into it, but my bonds hold me back. She slowly brushes me with her hair, dragging it down my chest, my belly...my cock. I'm desperately willing myself to picture dead varren, but my arousal is swift. The purpose of the metal ring is quite clear now: to prevent release. Ah. I suppose there are worse methods of torture to endure. When she finally lets me get out of here, I may need one hell of a cold shower.

Shepard shifts again, placing one palm on each of my shoulders, leans so close to my face I can almost feel her lips. Her hair pools at my shoulders and cowl, grazing my neck.

"Making things right? Is that what you were doing after Sidonis betrayed you, and the mercs whittled your team down to one? Let me quote what the Illusive Man wrote about Archangel in the dossier he gave me: 'Archangel is a mercenary commander whose operations are noted for their technical expertise and strategic brilliance.' "Garrus, was the situation I found you in on Omega really the best work of a tactical genius? You tell me."

"The mercs needed to pay for what they did! Who was going to make them? Aria? You know the stereotype, how you'll never see the back of a turian unless he's dead. You know I had to stay there and give Omega hell." I pause to take a breath. "Besides, I've never heard myself described as a brilliant strategist before. Looks like the Illusive Man got taken in by hype." Part of me is talking just to keep her attention focused on what's coming out of my mouth, and not what's going on below my waist. The other part of me would strongly prefer that Shepard focus solely on what's going on below my waist.

Her fingertips start in slow circles on my thighs, my waist, my chest. She leans on the bed with a knee, and I feel warm skin briefly against my hip. Shepard, with bare legs and her curious human hair unbound, and I can't even see it. I flex my wrists and ankles gingerly in their bonds. Wherever her touch lands, my body arches into it, and a low, growling moan escapes me. My mind is whirling between so many things. My helplessness. Shepard's closeness. My anger. Our past.

She snorts derisively. "Don't bullshit me, Garrus. I've worked with you! You are brilliant. You are all those things in the dossier. You could have given them far worse hell than you did. An escape plan. Death traps. Misinformation. You could have come back to fight another day. Only a couple of those mercs seemed to even know you were turian, Garrus. You could have disappeared for a little while, built up another team. Had another go. Stuck to the mission. That is the stereotypical turian. Instead, I found you in that base, all alone! What were you doing to yourself on Omega?" Her voice breaks, ever so slightly.

Realization slams into me like one of my own concussive shots, and at the same time I'm overpowered by desire. She's peeled back my defenses, all of them. Armor, cloth, anger, lies, and excuses. I have to concentrate hard in order to speak as my hips buck uncontrollably into the air and I writhe against my bonds.

"Dying, Shepard," I choke out. "I was dying. It started the day you...and I was just...t-taking some assholes down with me before I went. Please." I can hardly breathe.

Shepard inhales sharply and freezes for a fraction of a second. Then she shifts on the bed and the metal ring is quickly removed from my shaft. I hear it fall to the floor. Her alien hands grasp me, cradle me, rub me. It doesn't take much. In an instant I'm thrashing and coming so hard it almost stings, all over my chest and belly and Shepard's hands and whatever else might have gotten in range. Shepard works me until I'm completely spent, twitching and exhausted on her bed.

I'm incapable of speech for the moment, so I just lie there mutely, replaying in my mind what's just happened. Shepard pads to her bathroom, returns with a warm towel, and gently cleans me off.

"Thank you," she tells me, her voice strangely flat. She undoes my restraints and slips off my blindfold. I flex my cramped limbs and roll onto my side to face in her direction. The room is completely dark. This whole time, she'd been able to see only a little more than I could with the blindfold on.

She continues, "Before you say anything, please let me tell you a truth. Will you?"

I can do nothing but nod silently. She either hears the movement, or takes my silence as assent.

"When Cerberus brought me back to life, they told me my team—my best friends--had all gone in separate directions. They knew where Tali, Ashley, Liara, and Wrex were, but the Illusive Man told me you were just gone, and no one knew where you were. When I set out to find Archangel, I had no idea it was you. Either the Illusive Man didn't know either, or he did know and wanted to see how I'd react. Either way, the Archangel dossier was the best thing he ever gave me, or ever will give me. My own life doesn't compare."

"Shepard, I--" I croak, recovering my voice.

"Let me finish."

I shut up.

She draws a long, shuddering breath.

"When you took off your helmet there in that base, and I saw your face...I don't even have a name for that kind of joy. But then I saw how worn out you were. You were so tired. You may have been giving those mercs hell, but you were about to die. You carried yourself like you knew that, like you didn't care. You'd just been waiting up there for someone halfway competent to take you out. Suicide by merc, Garrus, for fuck's sake! Maybe I'd have caught rumors about what happened to Archangel, but I would never have known what happened to Garrus Vakarian. I would have spent the rest of my life searching for you. I almost lost you as it was."

My muscles feel like jelly as I weakly reach out toward her in the dark and find her hand, which is balled into a fist at her side.

"No matter what happens or what you think of me because of what I've done here, please, please don't ever throw yourself away like that. I couldn't bear it."

I pull her down to the bed and gather her close as best I can with my sore limbs, pulling covers over us, pressing my forehead to hers. She tenderly explores my broken face with her fingers, while I trace the faint scars left by Cerberus on her cheek. This is all just cosmetic damage, I tell myself. The real wound was a festering boil on my spirit, and it would have continued to poison me if Shepard hadn't risked everything—our friendship, her physical wellbeing, her credibility as a commanding officer, the mission, even her own dignity—to lance it here and now.

"So," I say. "We have an agreement. We both try our damnedest not to die prematurely again."

She nods.

Maybe other people would have spent the rest of the night making love. That's how it always goes in romance vids, anyway. That can wait. Shepard and I spend the night alternating between snoozing and talking together, finally making up for lost time. It works for us.