Title: Cracked Faith (Part 5 of 5)
Author: skybound2
Rating: M
Characters: F!Shep, Garrus, and assorted squad and crew (Tali, Jacob, Thane, Samara, Joker, EDI, and Jack are also in this part)
Word Count: ~10,800 this part (~32,800 in total)
Warnings: This piece references NON-CON events in the past, and as such may be triggering for some. Please bear that in mind.
Summary: Not all wounds are easily healed, and some will always leave scars.
Spoilers: For Garrus' loyalty mission in ME2 and the Shadow Broker dossiers. (No ME3 in here!)
Author's Note: It's been more than two years since I last updated this thing (I'm sorry), and holy hell, it's done. It's finally, FINALLY done. While I always planned to finish this thing, I honestly never thought it would take 4+ YEARS to complete (it's not even very long!). But this story has been very difficult to write, and I felt like the subject matter deserved to be treated with respect, so that meant not rushing through it no matter how strong the urge was. A HUGE, GIANT THANK YOU to phdfan for beta-reading this chapter, and providing hand-holding. I really needed it! To all who have stuck with me through this, I want to say THANK YOU. Every single bit of feedback (from favorites to bookmarks to kudos to comments to pleas for me to just finish it already!) has meant a lot to me, and has kept me motivated at times when I just wanted to give up on the whole thing. Consider this a dedication to all of my readers, because without your support, I'm honestly not sure this fic ever would have reached completion. So thanks, and I truly hope the end was worth the wait.

Chapter 5

When Shepard disembarks from the Normandy to meet with the Admiralty board, Tali and Krios in tow, Garrus doesn't bother to hack into the comm systems to follow the play-by-play. The thought of playing the silent observer on this particular mission too unpalatable for him to stomach, what with his conversation with Tali from earlier that week still stuck like a rock in his gullet: 'All I'm saying is that whatever happened, just give it some time. You've been friends for too long to let just anything get in the way.'

He's had a hell of a time keeping food down since that night. Not that he has much of an appetite at all, but it's worsened in recent days. Now that he recognizes that the horrendous betrayal of trust he perpetrated extends beyond Shepard. Now that he sees that it colors every relationship he has in swaths of guilty red. Lying to Tali - by omission if nothing else - is chipping away at what is left of his sanity. He's certain that whatever is left of him when all is said and done will be nigh unrecognizable.

He's not sure that's a bad thing.

Part of him is desperate to confess his crimes, to lay his sins out there so that someone can judge him and put him out of his misery. But then he thinks: would that do her more harm than good? Or would it just paint a picture of the Commander for the crew that they could never unsee, that she could never shake? No. His confession will do nothing to help her, not unless she demands it. In which case, she can have it, along with any other punishment she chooses.

He can give her that much, at least.

So as long as she is avoiding him, he will do what he can to make things easier on her. Including keeping his mouth shut.

Instead of engaging in the fine art of audio voyeurism, he spends the time cataloging the stores of weapon mods and ammo down in the cargo hold, coming to the disturbing conclusion that they are running short on almost everything. If they were to enter into a fight at this stage, they'd sustain heavy losses. And that's not acceptable.

He compiles a list of their needs, based on both previous requisitions and on his own personal preferences and observations. (Why do they even have polonium rounds anymore? They don't even have any guns that can use the things...) For almost three hours, his entire existence is narrowed down to a five by five radius around his person, and the only things that enter it are datapads and gear. It feels good, being out of the battery, being distracted - being useful. When he's done, he files a report with Lawson remotely, and hits the showers.

He makes quick work of cleaning up, mentally noting how much tighter his hide is where it clings to his bones, how much easier it is to scrub away bits of desiccated flesh to be swept away with the waste water for recycling. Though it has been months since he last heard her voice, Garrus can imagine the sound of his mother's admonishment at his poor nutrition with ease.

The thought of her, healthy and alert, and scolding him like she did when he was a child, intensifies the familiar empty feeling in his gut. That doesn't stop him from bypassing Gardner and the others gathered in the mess for dinner and heading straight for the battery when he's finished, however. By now, no one even looks twice at him for skipping a meal.

When the doors swish open some time later to admit Tali, he's crouched down, one arm elbow deep under the console maneuvering the wires so that he can complete an overdue upgrade. He holds his other arm out at face level with his omni-tool projecting a rotating graphic of the schematics for him to follow.

From the corner of his eye, he sees her move far enough into the room to allow the doors to seal shut behind her, but she doesn't say anything. Instead, she lifts a hand towards her mask, scratching at the hood just behind it. Her arm drops back to her side with a sigh as she moves towards the stacks of cargo in the corner, hands flitting aimlessly over them. He might not be able to see her face through the mask, but her body language projects her state of mind well enough that he doesn't need to.

He lets the wires go, and slides out from under the console, going vertical on the side of it opposite Tali. The low wall that it makes between the two of them offers a strange sort of comfort. Her being here...it doesn't really tell him anything. Whether she was exiled or pardoned. But for the first time in too long, Garrus feels a little spike of hope. A hope that something has finally gone right. "How'd it go?"

"They dropped the charges against me. I - I haven't been exiled."

The relief that blooms in Garrus' chest at the announcement catches him by surprise. The smile that flares the mandibles of his damaged face the first one he can recall in weeks. "That's fantastic, Tali."

"And it's all thanks to Shepard. She was, she was amazing, Garrus. The things she said to the Admiralty Board - you wouldn't believe...Well, maybe you would." Her voice pitches higher at the end, an indication of a smile fighting through the disbelief. "You know how she is. But, still, to hear her say those things? About me? You should have been there, Garrus..." She shakes her head once, the bright spots that mark her eyes behind the mask dimming out on an exhale as she leans back against the bulkhead.

There's nothing he can say to that, so he chooses to ignore it altogether, instead focusing on the unspoken. It's easier not having to think about why he wasn't there. "You know, I'd think you'd be more excited. If ever there was a time to celebrate, not being exiled seems like one of them, Tali'Zorah vas Neema."

"Actually, It's Tali'Zorah vas Normandy now." There is obvious pride in the inflection of her speech, overlaying the still present aura of sadness, and though he knows he should be happy for her, the statement hits him like a punch to the gut. Never has an expression of loyalty been so easily summed up in a name. And Tali deserves it, she's earned it. She belongs here.

He doesn't.

He forces himself to take a breath, to focus on the conversation at hand, and not fall into that bleak inner turmoil that he's spent so much time dwelling in lately. The closest thing he has left to a friend is standing in front of him, and she's hurting. This isn't about him. "Then what...?"

"It's...my father... Keelah, my father's dead. Garrus. He's dead." The last word spills out of her on a choked sounding sob, and then the rest follows. A brittle account of everything that happened aboard the Flotilla, everything that they had uncovered. About her father, about the geth. And ending with a recount of Shepard's verbal smackdown of the Admiralty Board.

Her enthusiasm for the retelling grows towards the end to such a degree that it's infectious. He gets caught up in the haze of her excitement as she moves from leaning on the bulkhead to pacing the small space to slumped against the crates - grief etched in her frame as she muffles a sob, glossing over the discovery of her father's body, and his final message - to vibrating with poorly suppressed glee as she does a somewhat passable impression of Shepard shouting 'This is a sham!' complete with finger pointing and jabbing. Her performance brings a snort of laughter out of him, the picture that she paints clear as a vid-feed in his head.

It isn't until Tali lays a gentle hand on his arm that he realizes that, at some point, he crossed over from behind the console to join her on the side nearest the door. The unexpected touch causes his body to tense, a subtle enough flinch that she either doesn't notice, or is kind enough to ignore. "Thank you, Garrus." She gives his forearm a small squeeze, before dropping her hand and stepping back, the doors of the battery opening at her approach. He hopes that the relief he feels at the added distance isn't written all over his face. Though knowing his luck...

"For what? You may not have noticed, but while you were purging a ship full of live geth and fighting to prove your loyalty to your people, I was hanging around here taking inventory. Really not all that impressive in comparison."

"For listening. I - I needed that."

He shuffles back and forth on his feet, lifting a hand to scratch idly at the bandage covering half his face. "Uh, hmm, of course. Anytime." It's the sort of empty platitude that people pass back and forth to each other all the time. The sort that he is guilty of having served up on occasions too numerous to count. The odd thing is, this time, it's not empty. He actually means it.

He doesn't know if he has what it takes to be anyone's friend anymore, knows with even more certainty that he doesn't deserve to be one, but even so, he finds that he wants to try.

~~~\/~~~

Early into the morning shift cycle three days after they leave the Flotilla, Garrus gets another visitor to his corner of the ship. But instead of the almost-welcome sight of Tali, this time it's Operative Taylor poking his head through the battery doors, half invading the space that Garrus has always thought of as his. The Cerberus employee's uninvited presence - as unobtrusive though it may be - grates on Garrus, but he lets it go, knowing that he has no real claim to anything on the Normandy. Not anymore.

"Vakarian. Sorry for interrupting, but your intercom's switched off." Garrus grunts, too busy with the console in front of him to bother pointing out that yes. He knows. And that it was done intentionally so as to avoid any such interruptions. Or even to hammer home the fact that if it was truly important, Taylor could have had EDI override his request, thereby saving himself the trip from the armory, and Garrus the nuisance of his presence.

"Just wanted to inform you that we'll be docking on Omega in twenty. Better suit up and meet us in the hangar in fifteen."

Garrus pauses in the middle of his work, one hand hovering over the firing algorithm he was about to initiate; thankful that the unexpected statement didn't catch him so far off-guard that he slipped in his entry of the digits. His heart thumps faster in his chest at the implications of Taylor's casual statement. Shepard's ordering him off the ship? At Omega? Garrus had known they we approaching the lawless station, but he hadn't thought...though he should have.

Shit.

Adrenaline spikes through his system, the taste of his own fear sour on his tongue. Whatever Shepard's decided, he'll accept. And while he's not one for poetry, even he can see the beautiful symmetry of her leaving him in the same place that she rescued him so many weeks ago.

It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep his voice even when he speaks. Not that Taylor would be able to pick up on the subtleties of turian subharmonics, but that's beside the point. "A mission?"

Taylor snorts, rocking back once on his heels before falling into an at-ease position that Garrus thinks is incongruous with the Cerberus uniform he wears. "I wish. I take it you didn't get the memo?" Garrus shakes his head once while dropping his hand back to the console to save his work. If he's expected to be off the ship when they dock, then he's not going to have time to finish the simulation he's prepared. Best not to try and rush it.

Besides, EDI is more than capable of picking up where he left off, should he not return to the Normandy.

"Probably because you have your comm turned off. You put in a lengthy requisition order, right? Well the Commander's tapped you, Krios, and me to negotiate the acquisition of a chunk of those requests on your former stomping grounds. Guess she figures you'd be best suited to get us decent prices, given your contacts."

"Shepard's not going?"

Taylor shakes his head. "Nah. Samara got a lead on that daughter of hers. Turns out she's been holed up on Omega for awhile now. Shepard's helping to track her down, so we get left with the shopping. Not exactly my idea of a good time, but her ship, her call."

"Right."

"The hangar in fifteen?"

Garrus nods his head once. "I'll be there."

~~~\/~~~

Stepping off the Normandy into the dismal port of Omega thickens the air in Garrus' lungs, the tempo of his heart outpacing his breath until he feels choked and lightheaded. His vision darkens at the edges, little bright spots of light popping in his line of sight. It takes him a moment to collect himself, head drooped down towards his collar, and one hand pressed to his thigh in an effort to help him stay mobile. Taylor doesn't notice, too busy accessing his omni-tool for the list of goods they need to collect, but when Garrus looks up, Krios' eyes are trained on him.

It's no less disturbing a sensation this time than any of the other times. But he buries it down with all of the other less than pleasant emotions he feels every moment of every day, and moves past the drell and the human to the railing at the far end of the port. He clenches the metal in his hands and looks down over the stacked rings of the station. Each one, he knows, populated with people more desperate - more lost - than him.

People he had once hoped to save.

People he's failed.

Is he even capable of doing anything else?

With a flex of his talons against the railing, he pushes his body back a step and turns back to his companions, making a show of accessing his omni-tool in an effort to avoid direct eye-contact for as long as possible. Best to just get this over with, so that he can he can get back to sequestering himself in the battery as soon as possible. "What's on the list?"

"The engineering staff put in a request for an upgraded set of power couplings, and then there's the requisition order that you placed for just about every type of ammo currently in production." The subtle rebuke is accompanied by an upturn of Taylor's lips that Garrus takes as amusement. "We've also been asked to keep an eye out for a new interface module for the Kodiak's navigation system, along with a selection of other items the crew and squad has asked for, and that the Commander has approved. And as always, Gardner is on the hunt for better food supplies, but I somehow doubt we'll be able to get those here."

"Hmm, we probably could, but I wouldn't recommend it. Omega's not exactly known for its fresh produce." Garrus's omni-tool pings as Taylor sends the supply list over to him. He studies it for a minute, mapping out a sensible route in his mind for procuring the items in question, and figuring out who to message to try and set up an exchange, and determining what they'll be willing to give up in return. The activity sends a ripple of discord up his spine; the memory of settling down to tackle the same sort of task with Sidonis, on occasions too numerous to count, crisp and clear in his mind.

"There's a salvage stall down in the marketplace where we should be able to find the couplings. Might even have a few of the items I'm after at that one, but most of what's on this list won't be so easy to come by."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that ninety percent of the supply chain on Omega is below board. We're not going to get it by stopping at a kiosk."

"What do you suggest?"

Garrus rotates his neck back and forth, attempting to relieve some of the tension that being back on Omega is causing to multiply within his system. "I have a few contacts. Well, I used to. Hard to say how many of them are still alive, let alone still on the station." He types out a short inquiry on his omni-tool, and sends it scuttling out to the comm addresses he thinks should still be working; former contacts and associates that dwell in the nether regions of the station and are therefore less likely to have been compromised.

He can only hope that at least of some of those who were loyal to him just a few months back remember the favors he's done for them in the past, and are willing to talk business with a ghost. "Let's check out Kenn's Salvage in the meantime; we can pick up those couplings, and I can get a feel for just who's running the supply lines these days. Spirits only know how much things have changed since I last stepped foot on this rock."

With the briefest of nods at his companions for the day, Garrus sets off, doing his best to ignore the way the walls of the station seem to close-in around him as they make their way to the lower levels. Tries to ignore how much like a tomb the whole place feels, with the ghosts of his dead squad flickering at the edges.

He's not even remotely successful.

~~~\/~~~

To say that Shepard isn't into the club scene at the best of times is an understatement of epic proportions.

And this...this is decidedly less than the best of times.

But damn it, Samara needs her to do this, so she's going to do it. No matter how uncomfortable the situation makes her. She fumbles her way through the club at first; makes small talk, orders a drink, dances. Following Samara's advice as best as she can. Whether or not that includes kicking the shit out of a turian getting too handsy with an asari after she'd said no, Shepard can't say for certain. Doesn't stop her from doing it though.

And if the too-brief-scuffle eases some of the ever-present tension she's been living with for the past few weeks, well Shepard's just going to chose to not think about that right now. Or ever if she can help it.

Morinth takes the initiative and introduces herself after that though, so Shepard figures she must have been doing something right. Considering how long Samara has been hunting Morinth, it's mind-bogglingly easy to get an invite back to Morinth's home following mere minutes of conversation.

Once ensconced within the walls of Morinth's home, the amount of attention the other woman showers on Shepard, and the false persona she's wearing, is...strangely gratifying. So much intensity - all focused on her. If Shepard were anyone else, she thinks she might be flattered.

She can understand why a young, impressionable girl like Nef would be pulled in by it all.

When the moment of truth comes and Morinth is leaning in and whispering words that Shepard knows shouldn't be as alluring as they are, she finds that it's a struggle to remember why she's really here. To remember Samara's warning.

'She will be planning to inflict horrors on you. If you are not careful, you will want her to.'

For seconds that stretch into eons that meld back into the barest flicker of time, Shepard is caught in the fathomless pools of Morinth's dark gaze. And the pull, the want to give in to her siren call is all-consuming.

There is something so enticing, so inviting, about the thought of releasing control to the Ardat-Yakshi. About giving all of herself - handing off her burdens, her worries, her fears - to someone else.

About just...letting go.

The proffered reward is a promise that she feels settle down deeper, and deeper in her bones with each moment that she remains trapped by Morinth's will, until she's not certain where she ends, and Morinth begins.

Until she doesn't even careto know the difference. She's falling, falling...slipping away...

It's the sound of shattering glass that shakes Shepard's will loose enough from Morinth's to observe what is happening around her. By then, Samara and Morinth are speaking, noises that barely gel together into words within Shepard's cloudy mind. Each of them entreating Shepard for help. And Shepard - stomach rolling back and forth like a stormy sea - Shepard makes a choice, and the loser ends up dead.

She's on her hands and knees dry-heaving in a corner when she fully comes back to herself.

"Shepard, do you need assistance?"

"I'm fine." The words taste as acidic as the bile coating her mouth and tongue; the urge to choke on them strong. The whole situation made even worse by the voice in the back of her mind growing steadily louder shouting liarliarLIAR. She tries not to pay it any mind; instead she levels a look at the Justicar that could not possibly be interpreted as anything other than back off. "Just give me a minute."

It's absurd, she knows. Samara just killed her own daughter, after hunting her for centuries, and here she is, asking after Shepard's welfare. How the hell did Shepard let herself become so weak?

Hot anger blossoms in her stomach, filling the pit so recently vacated, and with a growl she grasps hold of the edge of the potted plant she is kneeling beside, and forces herself to rise until she is vertical once more. She hocks up some saliva, swirls it around in her mouth, and spits it out into the plant as a stop-gap until she can do a proper rinse; wiping the bit that dribbles down her chin with the back of her hand.

She turns back to Samara - uncertain what sort of platitudes to offer in this sort of a situation - when she's saved the trouble via her omni-tool flaring to life, blinking out an urgent message from the Normandy.

With a low pitched grumble, she flicks the mute button off, allowing Joker's voice to fill the room. "Commander, we've got a bit of a situation."

Shepard barks out a brittle sort of laugh. Of course they've got a situation. That's the story of her life in a nutshell. She runs a rough tongue over her lips, catching the sharp tang of bile on the tip. "What now, Joker?"

"The Shopping Contingent ran into some trouble down in the Zeta District. Whoever's taken over the local 'Mercs-R-Us' must be running a two-for-one special on cannon fodder, because the place is flooded with the bastards. They're requesting backup."

Shepard feels the vein in her forehead throb out a plea for mercy, and makes a silent vow to raid Chakwas' med supplies later. And possibly her brandy stores as well.

"We can be there in ten. Just need to get the hell out of this dress and back into some proper armor. Can they hold out that long?"

"Should be fine. Garrus routed them into a former blockade area he use to use, it's helping to funnel them down. Handy having Omega's very own nemesis on the squad, huh?"

Shepard doesn't flinch, but it's a near thing. "Right. Any idea what started it this time?"

"You mean beyond Omega being populated by trigger happy nutjobs?"

"Yeah - beyond that."

"Whelp, from what I could make out over the comm in between the random bursts of gunfire and screaming - our Merry Men pulled a Robin Hood. And the local Sheriff's pissed."

The corners of Shepard's mouth pull into an involuntary smile. "Understood. Let 'em know we're en route, Joker. Shepard out." Shepard turns towards the exit, prepared to rush back to the club to retrieve her kit from where it's been stashed, but the sight of Morinth's dead body laying sprawled out in a pile of shattered glass upon the floor brings her up short. She frowns, and turns to Samara, prepared to offer her sympathy in the only way she can at the moment. "Samara, if you're not up to this right now, if you need to talk, or...I can have Joker send someone else -"

"Shepard, I just killed the bravest, and smartest of my daughters. There are no words that can describe what that feels like. I will...need time." Samara breaks eye-contact, turning away from Shepard and swallowing down a breath of air. Looking more rattled than Shepard has ever seen her before. But it lasts no more than a moment. Then Shepard watches as Samara's back straightens, and she forces herself to raise her chin once more; mouth in a thin, determined line.

"For now, I would rather not dwell on what has happened, but focus on the tasks that still lie ahead. Let us leave this place, and offer our assistance down in the Zeta District. I am eager for the distraction."

Shepard feels like a shit of a human being for being grateful that the Justicar didn't want to have a heart-to-heart, but she's grateful all the same. How the hell could she be any help anyway, when she can barely keep her own emotions in check these days? "I get that. Come on, then. Best get our asses down there before they manage to get themselves into even more trouble."

"I am at your service, Shepard." Samara doesn't smile, but it's close enough that Shepard's concerns are eased a fraction.

~~~\/~~~

"I thought you said these guys were trustworthy, Vakarian?!" Taylor's frustrated shout over the comm is muffled by the echo of a merc screaming as he is yanked off his feet. Garrus shifts his sights twelve degrees east, adjusts the scope, and pulls the trigger. Two-hundred and thirty meters away, the merc falls to the ground.

"This is Omega. Trustworthy is relative."

"Hah! That's putting it mildly."

In the time that it takes Garrus to shuffle out the spent cartridge in his gun for a fresh one, another merc drops. Only this one falls forty paces from Garrus' perch. A flash of metal ducking beneath the upper catwalk gives away Krios' position, and his help in keeping Garrus' head still attached to his shoulders. Garrus doesn't know how well Krios can see him, but he offers a nod in thanks regardless.

Garrus pops back up again, taking aim at a merc that's closing in on Taylor's position, just in time to see another fly up into the air and hurtle backwards from a slug to the chest.

"Remind me again how a shopping mission escalated to us being attacked by three dozen mercenaries?" The sound of another shot being fired echoes over the comm. "And counting?"

Figuring the question's rhetorical, Garrus doesn't bother to respond, instead choosing to focus on his target. To his surprise, Krios answers. "I believe that the battle we're currently engaged in was in direct response to taking opposition with the manner in which said mercenaries were taxing the local shopkeepers." Garrus can't help the slight twitch of amusement that flitters over his face at the drell's simplified recounting of events; or the way another merc goes down from an unseen round shot from the catwalk at the same time.

The drell's good.

"Ahh, right. Now remind me again why the hell we were even assigned shopping duty to begin with? Huh, Garrus?"

"Hey now, don't blame that one on me. I just did the inventory, it's not my fault that Cerberus has no idea how to stock a ship." Garrus takes the target down, and stoops to reload. The action so ingrained, that it's almost meditative. To the point that the joking back-and-forth that so often goes hand-in-hand with a fight rolls off his tongue without thought. "The damn thing had polonium rounds on it. Maybe if the armory officer was paying attention before launch- "

"Oh, I see how it is. Blame the guy who was on the ship when it launched-"

"Nah, just blaming the guy that was in charge of the ammunition. You wouldn't happen to know who that is, would you Taylor?" Five degrees south, aim, fire. One more down. Only two dozen more - give or take - to go.

Whatever quip Taylor readies next is lost on Garrus, as, once again, Shepard appears like the avenging angel the people of Omega so often claimed Garrus had been. Rocketing into his crosshairs, a blur of red and silver making a mad dash from one merc to the next. The poor fools never even see her coming. His view goes blurry, and it takes him longer than it should for him to realize that it's because his hands have started to shake.

He pulls back from the ledge for one heartbeat - two - so that he can get his breathing under control enough to steady his aim. As he lifts the gun again, her voice booms over the comm in his ear.

"Heard you guys could use a hand?"

"'Bout time you got here, Shepard."

"Aww, sorry I took so long, Jacob. My mistake for thinking you could handle picking up supplies without me."

Without even trying, Garrus finds her in his scope again, doing a tuck and roll behind a column; gun at the ready. Not ten steps behind her he catches sight of Samara, tossing a merc that dared to get too close, without her ever even having to touch him.

The fight moves in double-time after that; Krios and him providing long-range support for the rest of the crew down on the lower level. What was a doable, but daunting task a few moments ago, is suddenly child's play. The rush of it floods him, narrowing his focus to the enemies within his scope. The rhythm of the fight is familiar. Normal. He almost feels...good.

Down below, a merc must manage to get past their defenses, because the next time he swipes his scope past Shepard and the others, Shepard is helping Taylor up off the ground. Somehow completely oblivious to the enemy coming at her from the rear.

There's no thought. No split-second of hesitation. He doesn't even need to focus. He just takes the shot. And the merc falls dead a half-step behind her.

With the merc down, the hall goes quiet. The singular sound of a battle past. The readings from Garrus' visor confirm as much.

Shepard looks up at him, her face clear as day through the scope, though he knows he must be a smudge to her at best. "Nice shot, Vakarian."

Something warm and light bubbles up inside his chest at the statement. A set of simple words he hadn't even known he'd given up for dead, buoying him up.

"Now get down here. You too, Thane. You three have some explaining to do."

He doubts he's ever scurried so fast before in all his life.

~~~\/~~~

The Port Observatory is quiet. The space is sparsely furnished, only a desk to the left of the door, and a couple of chairs. A blank spot along the far wall still looks perfect for that bar that Jacob and her have discussed installing on board, but never actually done anything about. The warm burn of a decent bourbon is something she could use right now. She makes a mental note to add a selection of liquor to the list of rations to be purchased at their next docking point. (Not Omega.)

She's spent too much time sober lately.

But, the lack of alcohol in her system allows her a chance to observe the stars as they skitter on by the observational window. The sight, along with the lack of foot traffic, makes this the perfect location for her to take some downtime. Doesn't hurt that it's pretty much the only corner of the ship as yet unoccupied by crew or squad.

She's been deftly (if she says so herself) avoiding the common areas of the ship, while still managing to make her presence felt by the crew. It hasn't been easy – but she knows that he has to venture out of the main battery eventually and she'd rather not be in the mess when he decides to do so.

It's been difficult enough dealing with Mordin's curious gaze, and Jack's all-too-knowing looks. She's studiously avoided direct eye-contact with Chakwas for over a week now. And she's not sure how much more she can take before she cracks.

She imagines that the fallout from that would be something that even Cerberus wouldn't have the creds to fix.

The silence that envelops her here, the room well insulated from the overall drone of the ship, combined with the view of inky black on black that stretches out forever in all directions, interrupted by only pinpricks of light, is a comfort in a way that it probably shouldn't be. Not for someone who remembers the slow tumble of being spaced. The sight should invoke fear, anxiety, nausea. But those physical reactions have been co-opted by an entirely different memory. A memory whose edges haven't been dulled by the harsh blade of death.

It's funny how that works. Even more funny is how it soothes her instead.

And right now? She needs that. Needs this momentary solitude in the wake of the emotional upheaval that was Omega. Dealing with the aftermath of Morinth, and her own near suicidal dive into the other woman's clutches; straight into the utter bizarreness that was the gunfight down in the Zeta Distract. Utterly bizarre in just how normal the whole thing was. How easy it was to follow the usual fight patterns. Duck and dodge and fire and banter.

Rinse, repeat.

She'd had a taste of that, back on the Flotilla, with Tali and Thane. But this was different. This was so very different. Because it was Garrus that had her back.

And it was Garrus that saved her life. Not like that was a first, but it was the first time since…

It had almost felt like old times. And that scares the ever-loving shit out of her.

The shower she'd taken after returning to the ship had pushed the boundaries of the ship's safety limits. Again. Her skin's still raw.

But, for whatever reason, the rawness helps. She really doesn't give two shits why, she just cares that it does.

The door behind her hisses open, but doesn't close. The vibrant yellow light from the hall spills over the threshold, bathing her feet in jagged shadows, but she doesn't turn to face the intruder. Holding onto her false sense of sanctuary for as long as she can. If they want to interrupt her, then they can damn well do it themselves, she's not going to make it easier on them by acknowledging them first.

There is a heavy shuffling sound from behind her, but the sound of the door hissing shut never comes. Instead, the shadows by her feet dance to and fro, a mockery of life against the floor. The intruder seeming content to wait her out in an open door. Either that, or at least attempting to pretend to have some respect for her little oasis. A minute passes, then two, followed by one more, and Shepard feels her calm start to slip away like water through a cracked glass. Her hands curl in upon themselves, the anticipation grating on her nerves until she is ready to scream. Then the silence is shattered.

"Shepard, got a moment?"

A chill skitters up her spine at the sound of his voice. A voice she recently associated with budding attraction, to kinship forged in fire. Now it makes her want to tear chunks out of the nearest available surface, and release a building scream. She settles for clenching her fingers around her sidearm. Angry at herself for not having known it was him standing in the doorway behind her, when she has sworn to herself to never allow him such a position again. And angry at him for everything else.

So very, very angry.

"No, I don't."

She can hear the heavy intake of breath indicative of him gearing up to speak, but no words come. Instead he releases the air in a sigh, the sound so hollow as to almost be a shudder. The weight of it carrying as much meaning to her as any statement ever could. But she doesn't care, and he doesn't speak.

And he doesn't leave.

Why the hell doesn't he leave?

It's a question that has plagued her for some time. Why doesn't he go? When she'd sent him onto Omega she'd more than half been hoping he would take up her unspoken offer and stay there. But then the firefight happened...and he came back. He always comes back. Why?

And why hasn't she done anything about it yet?

Of course, she knows the answer to that question. Has rolled it around inside her brain a thousand times trying to prove it wrong. Trying to find some way to justify the alternative. To be able to justify making port at a backwater station and leaving him to rot. To rid herself of this man who was once one of her closest allies, one of her best friends; someone she once thought might be more.

Hell, in her darker, more desperate moments, she's visualized a much less civilized method of booting him from her ship, one that involved him gaining first-hand experience of what it's like to be spaced.

But damn it all, she's too much of a marine for any of that. So no matter how much she may want to, no matter how much she might wish she could, she knows that she can't. The mission doesn't allow her that luxury.

Doesn't mean she needs to spend any time in his presence outside of a firefight. "Did you not hear me, Vakarian? Why are you still here?"

"I-" His statement falters, and she hears his armor scrap against itself as he shifts position, finding his voice once again. "I thought - hoped - that we could talk."

"That's nice." The bitterness she feels at his intrusion on her peace is so close to the surface that rather than masking it, she feeds it, making sure it drips like oil off every syllable. "We don't always get what we want." A sound like a diseased laugh passes her lips. "But while we're on that subject, I don't just mean why are you still standing in the doorway pestering me, why are you still here, on my ship?"

When silence is her only immediate answer, she allows her anger to propel her into motion, swiveling around on her heel and pinning her eyes to his, any semblance of calm she had felt before his arrival washing away with the motion and the sight of him. The iron-clad grip on her self-control slips, and her voice is thick in her throat as she spits the words that have been clawing at her for weeks, desperate for life and no longer willing to be held back. "You raped me, Garrus."

She hadn't meant for it to burst from her like that, hadn't meant to air the truth of it all so plainly. She hasn't even really allowed the words to form inside her mind. She has, in fact, done her damnedest to avoid thinking about what happened in anything but the most abstract of ways. But now that they have wrestled life from her lungs, she is grateful. Nauseous and angry and a little frightened, but grateful to have thrown the words at him; to smack him with this reality that she has been left stumbling through.

She watches his whole body, back-lit in the lighting from the hall as it is, tense up. Mandibles flaring out wide, his mouth partially opened on a word or a breath, she doesn't know. Two beats of her overtaxed heart pass when his head droops, his whole stance loosening until he sags against the junction of the door. The downward angle muffling his subharmonics until they are but a whisper. "I know."

The quiet admission is a punch to the gut. In the recesses of Shepard's mind, where she had subconsciously played out this confrontation at length, having him own up to his actions so easily was never a scenario that she had entertained. It leaves her feeling unbalanced. A sensation she can't be rid of fast enough. She lashes out, rage propelling her forward a step, and her hand wrapping around the gun now perpetually strapped to her hip.

"You - then why - there's not some magical fix that's going to make that alright. It's never going to be alright." She shuffles a hand through her hair to hide the shaking, the motion failing to alleviate her tension. Despite the fact that he is on the other side of the room, he's still too close for her peace of mind. It makes her skin itch, and her blood race. Fight or flight, her body wants her to make a choice and stick with it, but instead, she stays planted. Her feet magnetized to the deck as much by willpower as the artificial gravity. "So why are you still here?" It surprises her how much she genuinely wants to know, because try as she might, she can't figure it out.

His head stays bowed, eyes cast downwards for several lingering moments, each of which pulls the knot of tension in her gut ever tighter. "I'm not after forgiveness, Shepard, that's not...There's nothing I can say that is going to change what I did. There's no way for me to be forgiven." He glances up, electric blue focusing on her out of a face that she knows so well, even if he seems so much like a stranger to her now. "I'm still here because what happens to me isn't my call. It's yours."

"Excuse me?"

And some of that life that she has always associated with Garrus Vakarian filters back into his voice. A strength of conviction that she had at one point greatly admired, and which had always made him a valuable ally. She despises it now. "That's why I'm still here, Shepard."

"What the hell are you talking about, Vakarian?"

"You don't trust me. I don't trust me. Not after...So why- I deserve whatever punishment you deem fit. I expected- I want that punishment. You're my Commanding Officer, but you're also my - well you were - oh who am I kidding, you still are my...my best friend. And I know that I'm not yours - or anything close. Not anymore. Hell, I don't deserve to breathe the same air as you now. But that doesn't change the fact that you're the best friend I've ever had and I...what I did was reprehensible, Shepard. I know that. I know it." The vitriol, the utter hatred in those words, in his tone - all self-directed - is so thick that she thinks he might choke. And all she can think is: Good. "I know it..." His eyes close, and his head drops away again, his body still slumped against the door jam.

"I could tell you that I'm sorry. Sorrier than I've ever been for anything in my life. And I am. I am…" Shepard tries to ignore the way his voice cracks, and how he has to clear his throat before continuing. Tries. "But what the hell good would it do? There's no way for me to apologize. There aren't enough words in any language to express how wrong- how awful, loathsome...And even if there were, I'd probably just butcher them trying to, to explain...But there isn't any way to explain - not when I don't even understand..."

The sound of a door whooshing open down the hall startles them both. It's only a crewman heading from his quarters to the bathroom, but it's an obvious reminder that this conversation is too personal to be had in an open doorway. Shepard sees Garrus hesitate, clearly waiting on her signal. If she says so now, he'll leave. He'll leave and take this ugly conversation with its hideous truths with him and maybe then she'll never have to confront him - or it - again.

But the thought of doing that, of burying it all down until it either explodes - contents under pressure - or until it drags her down her with it, makes her stomach turn. Decision made she tightens the grip on her gun, leaving it in its holster. For now. "Step inside, Vakarian. I don't need the whole crew overhearing this."

She can tell that the command catches him off guard, but he nods and steps forward. "Of course, Commander." His words are overlaid by the slide of the door, punctuated by a final hiss as it shuts them in the room together. Though he makes no move towards her, the grip on her gun tightens, an outward reflection of the quickening pace of her blood. Heart to limbs to head, and back again.

Shepard waits for him to pick up the discussion where he left off, doing her best to ignore how pale his facial markings have become - the need for a touch up clear. She tells the twinge in her chest at the observation to settle down. There is no room within her to feel concern for the stranger wearing the face of her former friend. She takes it upon herself to end the crushing silence when he refuses to speak. "What would happen to you? On Palaven?"

He doesn't hesitate, though his voice is rough when he says the words. Like he's been thinking on them for a while, rolling them over on his tongue, until it's all dried out and it hurts to speak. "Stripped of colony markings, chemically castrated and imprisoned, though less financially stable colonies favor exile. That's the expected punishment. Execution if the crime was against a child or if it occurred multiple times prior to the perpetrator being brought to justice. It's...this is...not a common occurrence."

"And is that what you want? To have your colony markings removed? To be castrated and shipped off to a prison?"

For the first time since he entered her space, her little sanctuary, he sounds almost like the friend that she once thought he was; certainty pouring out of his eyes when they lock on hers. "It's what I deserve."

The air shuffles out of her lungs, leaving her feeling spent and weary. She glances back towards the viewing window, careful not to turn her back to the man standing twelve paces in front of her. Everything she knows about turian body language - a great deal of it learned from him - tells her that this man is damaged. In pain. Broken.

He reminds her so much of Sidonis in that moment, it's uncanny.

And there it is, isn't? The reason he's leaving his fate up to her? The reason he didn't run from her the way that Sidonis ran from him, but instead came crawling back to make her life as uncomfortable as it could be? Sidonis was a coward, Garrus isn't. She might not be sure of much anymore, but she's sure of that.

He's not seeking absolution, he's looking for penance. His mistake is in thinking that she's going to be the one to impose it on him. "I have no idea who you are anymore, Garrus."

"Neither do I." It's as honest an admission as she's ever heard from him. For once, she wishes he would just lie. That, she thinks, she could handle. But the honesty - it reminds her too much of the earnest C-Sec officer that she befriended on their hunt for Saren. And that reminder hurts. "I don't think I've known for a long time - and I - I don't know how to get back to who I was. I'm not sure that I can."

"And what? You expect me to draw you a map? That's not my problem. Not anymore. You made sure of that."

"I know. But…" He sighs, "I have no idea where to even start. And I know that, that it's not fair of me to ask you, but- but my life? It's yoursnow, Shepard."

"Mine, huh?" Garrus doesn't break her gaze, and so she shakes her head to do it herself, a barely-there laugh skittering out. "Well I don't want it. You wanna know why I haven't spaced you? Put a bullet in your head? I've thought about it. Some nights I think of little else." It's true. She's visualized it a hundred times. Imagined the way his head would kick-back, and the bloody blue spatter that would stain the deck. Minus the feeling of horror that the same scene doused in red conjures, it always comes across to her like some comical misinterpretation of death you'd see in a children's cartoon.

The visual takes up a large part of the real estate inside her mind when she can think of him at all. But then - near as often - her brain conjures up an insta-replay of quiet evenings spent looking over gun schematics, or talking strategy. Of her introducing him to chess, and him trying to convert her to his hideous taste in music. She recalls, with utmost clarity the sense of relief that she felt upon first finding him on Omega; and the abject fear she felt when she saw him wiped out by that gunship.

Remembers how very not comical the color of his blood was then, as it spilled from his broken skull and seeped into the joints of her suit as she waited by his side for help, telling him that everything was going to be fine.

Why the fuck wasn't everything fine?!

She squashes down the shiver her meandering thoughts cause, and tries to focus on the here and now. She can't afford to be distracted. To keep being distracted.

"This mission is too important for me to squander resources...even if I...It doesn't matter what I feel." The grip on her gun tightens until she can feel the cool metal and warm composite dig into her flesh. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep the tumult of feelings from overtaking her completely. She's had enough of those to last her a dozen lifetimes. "We need the best if we're going to have even a snowball's chance in hell of pulling out of this thing alive. And the fact is that you're the best sniper I've ever seen, and a damn fine tactician. And I can't just throw a resource like that out an airlock. Doesn't matter if I trust you or not."

Garrus' undamaged mandible flares out, in time with the slide of his shoulders back as he stands just a tad straighter. "But if you can't trust me-"

"I believe that you'll do your job. That's all I need to know. What happened on Omega proves as much." She scratches at her scalp with her free hand; nails that she's chewed down to ragged nubs getting snagged in her hair. The weight of her gun heavy by her side in her other hand. "Now's not the time for me to start being picky about who the hell's riding my ship. It doesn't matter how I feel about you personally. So long as you're taking down Collectors, you'll remain on board. But Vakarian?"

It's odd, the way that Garrus manages to slump while simultaneously standing straighter. An exhausted soldier waiting for a command. She'd have found it endearing once. (She tamps down on the part of her psyche that still does. There's no more room for that here.)

"Yes, Commander?"

"If a miracle happens, and our asses manage to survive this mission? You're off the ship at the first port. What you do with yourself after that is none of my concern. Is that understood?"

"Yes. Commander."

"Good. Dismissed."

Shepard has no real expectation of her order being obeyed. And for a moment, when Garrus' mouth opens and shuts with a click, she anticipates him declaring the conversation not over. Anticipates him sticking around, and talking some more, and the assumption makes the hairs on her neck stand on end. She's feeling frayed at the edges, and isn't certain she can take much more without screaming.

But luckily, he doesn't do what she anticipates (when does he ever anymore?) instead he gives her a perfunctory nod; his eyes flicking back towards hers, lingering for a moment, before he ducks back out of the room without another word.

Shepard exhales a long, ragged breath the second the door shuts behind him; hands shaking, she slides her weapon back into its holster. She has no clue when she even slipped it out...

"EDI?"

The blue orb immediately flares to life at its stand. Shepard's not sure if it's her imagination or not, but it seems to...hesitate before speaking. "Yes, Commander?"

"I want you to delete all records of the conversation that just took place between Officer Vakarian and myself. And I mean ALL records. Including backup copies and any backups of those backups that you or the Illusive man, or whoever makes. Then I want you to wipe this conversation between the two of us as well. And I want it done immediately. Is that understood?"

This time, Shepard is certain that the orb flickers and pauses before responding. "Certainly, Commander. Deleting records, and all associated redundancy files, now."

Shepard counts off two dozen beats of her heart via the clench and release of her fists before she asks, "Is it done?"

"Please clarify as to what action you are speaking of, Commander."

"Nothing. Thanks, EDI."

~~~\/~~~

Shepard's never understood why Jack chooses to sequester herself in the dreary, overheated sublevels of engineering when there is a perfectly serviceable private bunk available to her on the crew deck, but as she waits for Jack's return, she thinks she finally gets it. There is something so...comforting about this space.

The gentle throb of the ship's engines, the warmth from the core draining the tension from her limbs whether she wants it to or not (she does), and the dim lighting all work to put Shepard at ease. Regardless of Jack's less than inviting welcome when she returns from wherever she's been and discovers Shepard perched on the edge of her cot.

"What the fuck are you doing down here?"

"Nice to see you too, Jack."

Jack stomps over to the table, the sound of heavy booted feet reverberating in the small space, and tosses a datapad down onto a haphazard stack already decorating the surface. "You come down here for a reason, or you just like invading other people's space?"

"Last I checked this was my ship, Jack. Pretty much gives me license to go where I want."

"Figures. Bad enough Cerberus has every inch of this placed wired up. Now I can't even get the illusion of privacy? You're on their payroll after all, don't know why I expected any better."

Shepard cringes, the point too valid to ignore. "You're right, Jack." She pushes herself up off the cot, and moves to exit the small room, feeling justifiably chastised. "I should go." She makes it as far as the space that Jack occupies, feet spread wide and arms crossed over her chest, before the other woman responds.

Jack stands stationary, blocking her path, and eyes her up from head to toe. "You done trying to get everyone to swallow down all the bullshit you keep spewing?"

Shepard lifts one side of her mouth up in a pathetic excuse for a smile. "Not everyone."

Jack sneers at Shepard, shouldering past her. "Well don't I feel special. But I'm not really the touchy-feely type, Shepard. You should know that by now."

"Hell, Jack, why do you think I'm here?" Shepard spreads her arms out, gesturing to the room at large, before letting them flop down against her sides.

Jack snorts, a fleeting smile touching the corners of her mouth. "Would you look at that, the great Commander Shepard, slumming it with the locals for the hell of it. Wonders never cease."

Jack drops onto the grating by her cot, and slides a box out from it's hiding space beneath the bed. The sound of glass clinking together is followed by the sight of several long-necked bottles each with a different shade of liquid sloshing around inside. "I'm planning on getting shit-faced. If you're sticking around, you are too." Jack selects one of the bottles and thrusts it out into the air towards Shepard. The label is written in what looks like asari, but the lettering is too smudged and stained to be legible. "In or out, Shepard."

Shepard lifts an eyebrow, but doesn't argue, instead she crosses back to the cot, and grabs the bottle by the neck before setting herself on the edge. Jack selects her own bottle - a dark amber one - and pushes the box back towards where it came from, though still within reach. She choses to sit on the floor, her back propped against the cot, rather than joining Shepard on the bed. Shepard's not sure whether to be insulted or grateful.

Shepard settles on the comfortable space in between, and pops the cap off her drink. The scent that assails her nose is fruity without being cloying. A quick swallow reveals a taste that is similar, but with just a slightly bitter undertone and a subtle effervescent quality that leaves a pleasant aftertaste. "Not bad."

"Damn straight it's not bad. That shit you're drinking's worth 1700 creds."

Shepard chokes on her next sip. Only years of training at scarfing down slop keeps her from spitting it back out. "Shit, Jack. You should have said something!"

"Yeah, well, don't say I never gave you nothin'. Sides, it's not like I paid for it or anything."

Shepard snorts, and takes another drink. Letting the bubbly liquid and the warm hum of the engines lull her into a state that is as close to relaxed as she call recall being in months. Since before she woke up not dead. Which is of course why she decides to shatter the companionable silence they're sharing. Shepard never could leave good enough alone.

"...Did it help? Blowing up Pragia?"

A burst of manic laughter echoes off the bulkheads, for several long, seconds. Jack's mirthful face locks on Shepard. "You're serious? Fuck, yeah, it helped! Best fucking thing I've ever done."

"Really?"

Jack's eyes scan across Shepard's face. Shepard has no idea what it is she's looking for, but figures she must find it as the side of Jack's mouth pulls downward and she gives a one-shouldered shrug, throwing back the remains of her drink. "I don't know. A little. Felt good at first, seeing it all up in smoke."

Shepard plucks at the label on her bottle, little wet bits of it coming off and getting stuck to her fingertips. "But, it didn't last."

"No." Jack reaches behind her blindly, snagging another bottle by the neck, and pops the top of it off with her teeth.

"So, then why-"

"Fuck, Shepard. I'm not your goddamn therapist."

"Jack, if I wanted a therapist, I'd be sitting in the mess with Chambers instead of hiding down here with you."

"Glad to know I rank above the mini-cheerleader in terms of companions."

"Yeah, well, your drinks are better."

Silence settles over them again, heavier this time, as the make their way towards the bottom of their bottles. Oddly enough, it's Jack that breaches the quiet next.

"It's like - Look, whatever went down, whatever happened, ain't no one gonna be able to help you figure out how to get past it but YOU. Now me? I needed to run amok through the galaxy for a decade, get myself caught, beaten, WORSE, tossed into cryo, sprung by a space marine with a holier than thou attitude and an unwillingness to accept FUBAR as an excuse, only to finally return to the shithole where it all began and watch the place burn before I could even start to figure out what the word 'closure' meant. And I'm still not all that fucking sure I've got a handle on it.

"All I know, is that once you do work out what you need to do, don't let anyone tell you different. Because fuck that, and fuck them if they think they know what's best for you better than you do. You're the only one inside your head, and you're the only one that's gotta keep livin' inside your skin. You just do what you gotta do to get you through one night and then the next so that you don't have to keep scrubbing your flesh raw just to feel clean.

"And when you got all that figured out, do me a favor and let me know how the fuck you managed it, cause I'm sure as shit not all the way there yet."

Shepard blinks in rapid succession, her bottle caught in midair on its way to being emptied. What Jack's said is all so fucking logical, that it shouldn't be some big revelation for Shepard. But to hear someone else say it? To have it all layed out like that? It...it helps. And Shepard feels strangely lighter for it having been spoken. And this time, her gratitude doesn't feel shameful, or self-serving, but entirely genuine.

"Thanks, Jack."

"Whatever. You let me know if there's anything you need to blow up though, yeah? 'Cause it may not last, but it's sure as shit is fuckin' fun while it does."

"Knowing my luck, Jack, there's probably a half-dozen things that are gonna get blown sky-high before this mission is over. But I'll make certain you've got a front seat."

Jack swivels her head so that she's staring down Shepard from her position on the floor. Which is an impressive feat in and of itself. "I thought you said you'd cut the bullshit."

"Jack-"

"Look - I got no interest in making you talk about shit you don't wanna talk about yet, but don't play that fucking game like we both don't know what I meant, or you can walk your ass right on outta here."

"Sorry."

"Don't fuckin; apologize, just don't fuckin' do it."

"How about I just promise to try, and we call it even?"

It's only a lifetime of experience combined with extensive military training that keeps Shepard from squirming at the assessing look that Jack gives her. "Fine. And, Shepard? You repeat this conversation, to anyone, and I will eviscerate you."

"Wouldn't expect any less, Jack."

"Just so we're clear."

"Crystal." Shepard lifts her bottle in a mock toast, before draining the remains. The dregs at the bottom sharper than the rest.

There's a world of pain, of hurt - a near insurmountable chasm of betrayal - that Shepard still needs to cross. She's got a mission to complete, a galaxy to save, and somewhere in there she needs to figure out a way to put the scattered pieces of herself all back together if she's gonna have a hope in hell of coming out the other side.

She looks back towards Jack - at the roadmap of experience inked into her skin - and she knows, that whatever happens, she's not going to be the same person when all is said and done. But that's okay. She's been resurrected before, doing it again should be a piece of cake by comparison.

And maybe this time it won't take a known terrorist organization a billion plus creds to accomplish. Though Shepard's not opposed to draining them of all they're worth in the interim.

It's the little things in life, after all.

Shepard reaches down, grabs another bottle from the bin, and twists the top; catching Jack's eye as she takes a swig. The laugh from the other woman as Shepard sputters at the sour taste, a bright spot in the dimly lit room.

Shepard may not have found the way yet, but maybe she doesn't have to go it alone.

And hell, that's a start.

~ End.