It was worst at night.

Garrus folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling as if the answers to the universe were coded into the ugly pattern of the tiles. It had been like this for the last five days, ever since the final battle against the Reapers had put most of his friends in the hospital and one of them in the ground.

He could handle it during the day. In the daytime, he could find tasks to do, little things to focus on so he didn't have to think, for minutes at a time, or even an hour if he was lucky, and he could function until something triggered a memory and reality hit him again like a ballistic missile. At night, though, with the dark closing in and nothing but himself for company, all he could do was let his mind drift, flitting from thought to thought without really thinking anything, hoping they might settle down enough to let him get some sleep.

During the day, he could forget, if only for a little while, that the most important person in his life, partner, mentor, best friend, was gone. He'd never see her confident grin ever again. She'd never elbow him in the side and crack jokes about calibrations. He'd given her shit about her speeches, but he'd do anything to hear another lecture.

He'd thought he'd grieved enough the first time she'd died.

Somehow, it was so much harder the second time around.

"Garrus?"

He looked up. Tali stood in the doorway, twining her fingers nervously around each other.

"Hey," he said.

"I couldn't sleep. I thought maybe you'd still be awake."

"I'm up." He moved over, wincing as his bandaged ribs protested. She perched on the edge of the mattress.

She didn't say anything for a few moments. Then she asked, "Do you ever have nightmares?"

The answer, of course, was yes. Nobody saw the things they saw and came out of it without a few nightmares. Before this, he'd never have admitted such weakness. Now, he was too damn exhausted to care.

"All the time," he said.

"Me, too. Since the first Normandy." She looked away. "The doctors say we're supposed to see a therapist."

Garrus snorted. "Where the hell are they going to find a therapist? They've got their own problems."

Tali's fingers tapped against the mattress. Garrus caught her hand to stop her fidgeting. "What are we supposed to do now?" she asked.

"I don't know. Rebuild, I guess."

"I wish Shepard was here. She'd know what to do. She always did."

Shepard always knew. She'd had a gift for anticipating the enemy's movements, for moving forward with purpose even when the objective was ill-defined, and it had served her well until the end. She'd planned so carefully, done everything she could to prepare them for an unwinnable fight. All that work had paid off; they'd all made it out alive. All of them except her. Garrus was well aware that life loved cruel ironies, but knowing didn't make it any easier.

He couldn't see Tali's face behind the mask, but her shoulders were shaking, and he knew what that meant. He didn't really know what to do with that, but he could give it a shot.

He moved his arm up, making a space for her to settle in beside him. "Thanks," she said.

They were quiet for a while before Tali spoke again. "I miss her."

Miss was such an inadequate word. "I miss her, too," he said. "Always will."

Talking about it hurt, a physical ache in his chest blocking the words as they struggled to get free. Once they were out, though, the ache lessened, just a bit.

A rustling noise came from the doorway. "Are you awake?" Liara asked. "I'm sorry. I thought I heard voices. Am I interrupting?"

"No," Garrus said. "We were just talking. Thinking. Talking and thinking."

"About Shepard?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too."

Garrus patted the mattress with his free hand, and Liara climbed up next to him. He put his arm around her and pulled her and Tali in close. They laid their heads against his chest, and the room was silent except for slow breaths and a few sniffles.

He wasn't a touchy-feely kind of guy, but sometimes touching and feeling is what you need the most.

They'd get through this. They always did. Somehow.