Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Normandy was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that came after battle, thick with relief and shaky breaths. No, this was colder. Heavier. Like death had claimed her too. There was no soft hum of engines winding down, no static over the comms. Just silence, deep and final, like a tomb sealed shut. No voice echoed through the corridors. No synthetic cadence offered system updates. No flicker of EDI’s presence in the walls.
She was gone. So was Shepard.

It was as if the ship itself had gone still in mourning, ribs cracked open by reentry, hull scorched and torn, her heartbeat extinguished. The Normandy, once the sharpest spear in the galaxy, now lay crumpled on an unknown stretch of soil, breathless. Waiting. And somewhere inside her wrecked metal bones, the crew stirred—alive, but altered. Grief moved faster than pain. And Garrus Vakarian hadn’t moved at all.

He lay strapped to a medbay bed, half-conscious, furious, grieving. The restraints weren’t for his safety; they were to keep what was left of him from dragging broken bones out of bed. He’d already tried once. It didn’t end well. Bandages clung to his skin, stained dark with dried medi-gel, crusted like old blood. His left side was a mess of cauterized gashes and fractured plating. Burn marks traced his right arm like a roadmap of failure.

The lights above him flickered in fits, casting erratic shadows across the walls too weak to chase the darkness. Too stubborn to go out. Every blink of light exposed just how empty the medbay was. How quiet.

His visor was gone. Shattered in the fall. Like everything else. Beside his bed, a cracked datapad lay face-down on the small bedside table. The screen spiderwebbed with impact. It had once held fragments of EDI’s voice, just a few logs, half a diagnostic. Echoes of her. He’d tried to boot it three times. On the fourth, he’d thrown it. Hard. Now it was just another ghost. Just like her. Just like Shepard.

“You should be dead,” Chakwas had murmured when they hauled him into the medbay on a half-busted stretcher, blood in his mouth and shrapnel in his side. Her voice was quiet. Measured. But he heard the strain underneath. “Frankly, I don’t understand how you’re not.”

He hadn’t answered. What was there to say?
He couldn’t explain that the only thing keeping him breathing was the last image burned into his mind—Shepard, wreathed in smoke and fire, her armor scorched, her silhouette framed by the ruin of Earth behind her. Her eyes screamed with her final order: Don’t follow. And like hell, he listened.

His ribs ached with every breath, each inhale scraping against broken cartilage and regret. His leg, what was left of it, was a twisted mess of bone, muscle, and hastily applied metal stabilizers. Medics had done what they could. Painkillers dulled the edge, but not the memory. Not the silence. No EDI’s voice checking vital signs. No Joker cracking jokes through the pain. No Shepard barking orders, swearing at fate, laughing in the face of gods. Just stillness. Just the cold hum of an empty medbay. Just Garrus.

Chakwas leaned over him now, her brow furrowed, her coat smudged with smoke and ash. “I need to assess the damage. Figure out where we even are. You do not move, Garrus. That leg won’t hold.”

The older woman touched his shoulder, a gesture that almost meant something. Then she was gone. The door hissed closed behind her, sealing him in.
And then the silence returned. Thick. Oppressive.
Survival hadn’t brought relief. It brought questions. Empty chairs. Dead air. A war ended in static. And Shepard wasn’t here to tell him what to do anymore.
That’s when it hit him, pressure, an ache spreading through his chest, slow and suffocating. A reality of a nightmare. Shepard was gone and he was still here. Why?

The medbay lights dimmed again. Emergency power was holding, but barely. The ship let out a low groan through the walls, metal settling into damage it couldn’t fix. Garrus didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
He just stayed there. Breathing. Existing. Drowning.
The pain in his body was almost welcome. It gave shape to the ache in his chest. Gave it rules. Limits. But the pain inside his head—his heart—that didn’t stop. It just kept spreading, like rot in a ship’s core.
She was gone. Not missing. Not late. Gone.

The Turian tried to swallow, but his throat was sandpaper. His mouth tasted like blood and ash. Shepard’s scent still clung to him, barely. Smoke. Leather. The faint sterile sharpness of medi-gel she never wiped off after combat. He could smell her on his gloves. He would never smell her again. Never hold her again. Never hear her mutter his name in that tired, raw voice she only used when it was just them. Never get to tell her, really tell her, what she meant to him. She wasn’t just a beacon, a commander, a myth wrapped in N7 black and red. She was his. And he’d never see her again. They were so close. So goddamn close.

A home on Palaven, quiet, distant, untouched by war rooms and mission briefings. Somewhere still. Somewhere safe. A baby. Her hands resting on her stomach, laughter spilling out like she almost couldn’t believe it was real. It had been a dream once.
Now it was something else entirely—twisted, soured, poisoned by the echo of a dead man’s wish. What once glittered ahead unraveled thread by thread, until the tapestry of tomorrow lay in tatters at his feet. All of it… gone. The laughter, the warmth, the dream of peace. Love had painted a future in colors too vivid to last, and in an instant, it was stripped away. How cruel it is, to give your heart to a hero. Love becomes a debt too costly to measure, its price collected in silence and shattered dreams. The crash of reality comes swift and merciless, leaving only the hollow ache of knowing that saving the world means losing the one you longed to build with them.

He should’ve known. He did know. Heroes die. That’s what makes them heroes. But what did that make him? Just some half-broken Turian sniper who couldn’t stop it. Who got left behind. Whose body survived because he wasn’t the one the galaxy needed.
The Normandy groaned again, like she agreed with him.

Garrus turned his face to the ceiling, breath ragged, vision swimming. His hand clenched slowly into a fist, weak and trembling. Why’d you leave me? His mind screamed, ached, flooded into the question.

The medbay didn’t answer.

Fatigue had its claws in him now deep, ancient, relentless. It crept through muscle and marrow, heavy as lead, curling around his chest like chains. Every heartbeat felt slower, stretched thin over pain and silence. His body gave up before his mind did, but even that was starting to fray.
He didn’t resist. Didn’t fight the pull. The weight dragged him under, down into a darkness so vast and absolute it felt like drowning in the void between stars. No light. No sound. No Shepard. Just the black. And he let it take him.

A sound stirred him.
Soft. Subtle. Like boots on metal, careful not to disturb. His heart skipped, literally missed a beat in his chest, for a second, the pain in his leg, the hollowness in his lungs, vanished. He knew that sound. He knew it. Shepard walked like that. Controlled. Balanced. Even when she was dead on her feet.

The shadow crossed the threshold of the medbay doors, blurred by flickering lights. A silhouette framed in white and gold, the way she looked in her old dress blues. His breath caught. His hand twitched.

“Shepard…” His voice cracked, half choked, half a prayer.

She stepped closer. His body betrayed him. He tried to sit up, bolts of agony ripping through his side. But he didn’t care. He wanted the pain. He welcomed it. If this was how it ended, if she was really here… But then the light hit her face. And the illusion shattered. Not Shepard. Not the woman he loved. But her mother, Hannah Shepard.

The resemblance was cruel. The same emerald eyes. The same strong presence. The same impossible strength carved into every line of her face. And for just a moment, his heart still wanted to believe. The pain caught up then, dragging him down like a weight strapped to his chest. His spine arched in protest as he dropped back against the bed, a broken exhale tearing through his throat. Of course it wasn’t her. Of course she was gone. He’d known that. But hope was a liar. And Garrus Vakarian had always been too damn stubborn to stop listening.

Hannah paused at the foot of his bed, her expression unreadable. Maybe she saw the flicker of grief in his eyes. Maybe she understood the mistake he’d just made. He turned his face away before she could speak, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

…You’re not her. He thought, not to Hannah, but to himself.

The black crept back into his vision, only this time, it didn’t stay empty. Somewhere in the stillness, color began to seep in. Soft and gold, like dawn bleeding through closed eyes. The air smelled different. Clean. Salted by wind and water. He heard waves first. Not alarms. Not gunfire. Just waves. Garrus opened his eyes to a world that couldn’t exist. The ocean stretched out before him, glittering under a twin-sun sky, warm wind brushing over plated skin like a lover’s touch. Sand clung to his legs. He was sitting on a blanket, his back against something solid—someone solid. Shepard.

The woman he loved was behind him, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck, chin resting on his crest. Her laugh ghosted against the curve of his neck as a small hand tugged at his talons. He looked down. A baby, their baby, was cradled in his lap. Pale, soft skin, bright, curious eyes that didn’t belong to any species in the galaxy. A strange, perfect miracle.

Garrus exhaled, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, it didn’t hurt. He traced one talon along the baby’s arm, slow, gentle, terrified to break the moment. Shepard’s hand slid into his, fingers threaded through like she’d done a thousand times before.

“How’d we get here?” he asked, voice soft. Disbelieving.

She didn’t answer. She just smiled, soft and faraway, eyes fixed on the horizon like nothing beyond it could touch them. Not war. Not Reapers. Not time. The wind tugged at her hair, sun warming the line of her jaw, and for once, she didn’t look like a soldier. She looked free. Just this. Just them.
Garrus closed his eyes and leaned into her. Into the heat of her body pressed against his back. Into the wind curling around them like an old song. Into the bright, innocent sound of their child’s laughter, a sound so pure it almost hurt to hear. It bubbled up like the tide, sweet and high and real. He held onto it. Clawed fingers resting gently around the curve of the baby’s side, feeling the soft rise and fall of breath, the tiny heartbeat ticking against his palm like a secret.

This was the future they almost had. The one they dreamed about in whispers, in brief touches before battle. The one war tried to steal. The one he still bled for—limb by limb, breath by breath—in the waking world. But even now, even wrapped in warmth and sand and love, something inside him knew. It wasn’t real. Not really.

The edges of the world began to blur, first the ocean, turning soft like watercolor under rain. Then the sky, flickering like a broken vid screen. The light fractured. Shepard’s hand slipped from his. And when he turned, she was gone. The warmth vanished with her. The child in his arms turned to vapor. And Garrus Vakarian was alone again, just a wounded soldier lost in the silence, clinging to ashes in his sleep.

Chapter Text

The blast lit the stars. Even from orbit, the Crucible’s detonation burned across Hannah Shepard’s retinas, searing white and sickly red, like a sun going supernova behind Earth’s curve. Alarms screamed through the cabin of her ship, the SSV Orizaba, warning of radiation spikes and gravitational disruptions. Hannah didn’t hear them.

She was already on her feet. Already moving. Already scanning the debris field with her heart clawing its way into her throat. Then she saw it. A flash of silver and black. Darting through the edge of the blast zone like a wounded animal. A trail of fire in its wake. Smaller than a dreadnought. Sleeker. Familiar. The Normandy.

Her breath caught. Her hands flew to the console before her brain even processed it.

“Confirm visual. That’s an SSV Normandy-class vessel. Repeat: Confirm Normandy in transit through the relay!”

No one answered fast enough. No one could. Hannah didn’t wait.

Her ship’s engines screamed as she pushed them harder than they were ever meant to go, chasing the Normandy’s trail through the Citadel debris and dying reaper husks. She hit the relay right behind them, cutting it closer than regulations, or physics, would allow. And then, Silence.

The screaming lights of the relay vanished. Replaced by black. Cold. Scattered stars. And the ping. Soft. Faint. But there. A long-range transponder code, barely alive.

SSV Normandy. Emergency signal. Systems damaged. Crash imminent.

Hannah’s breath hitched in her chest. She stared at the flickering display like it was trying to lie to her. Her hands hovered, trembling slightly, over the controls. The ship survived. That’s all the display said. But what about Jane? Had her daughter made it onto that ship? Was she aboard when it jumped? Or did the Normandy flee without her? Her pulse pounded in her ears. Her fingers moved on instinct, locking in on the distress beacon’s coordinates. The system was unfamiliar, barely charted. Nothing out there but dust and cold.

“Helm, plot a course. Full burn. I don’t care what it takes.”

A beat passed before the pilot spoke. “Ma’am, if the Normandy’s crash-landed—”

“Then we find it.” Her voice was iron. Her grip tightened on the console. Please… please be on that ship.
If she wasn’t, if Jane Shepard went down with the Crucible, then Hannah was too late. Again.

The silence in the cabin was thicker than the vacuum of space. Only the low thrum of engines broke it, steady and indifferent. Hannah Shepard stood at the forward observation window of the Orizaba, hands braced on the steel rail as stars blurred past. Somewhere ahead, buried in an unnamed system and a debris field of broken gods, was the Normandy.

A single emergency ping was all they had. Coordinates, barely holding. No crew manifest. No confirmation. Just a flicker. She’d followed less before. But never with this much to lose. No one spoke. Her crew had seen everything first hand, and if they hadn’t, they saw the footage. The Crucible firing. The Citadel breaking apart. Earth burning. The Normandy running like hell through the edge of it all. And behind it, nothing. Just silence.

Jane…

Her daughter’s name echoed through her mind like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing. Jane. It rang in her bones with every heartbeat. It sat just behind her eyes, thick and swollen, like a scream she refused to let out. She didn’t show it. Not even now. She stood straight. Sharp. Controlled. The way captains were expected to stand when the world was ending, when they had no answers.
But her chest was tight. Her breath came shallow. And every passing second scratched at her skin like it knew something she didn’t. What if Jane didn’t make it onto the Normandy? What if the ship jumped… alone? She squeezed the railing tighter, until her knuckles went pale. Her mind drifted, back to another kind of silence.

A hospital room. Thirty-two years earlier. The lighting had been dim. The walls a tired shade of off-white. Everything smelled like antiseptic and aftershock. Sterile, over-clean, like the room was trying to scrub away the conflict. But in this room, tucked away in a quiet corner, the galaxy didn’t matter. Because this, this, was where Hannah’s world truly changed.

She remembered the hush that fell as they placed the newborn in her arms. The silence wasn’t reverent. It was raw, a stunned kind of quiet, the kind that comes after a storm, when the sky hasn’t decided whether to rain again. She remembered the weight of her newborn baby  in her arms for the first time. How impossibly small she was. The rosey flush in her cheeks, eyes blinking like the light offended her. Fragile and furious, lungs already defiant. Her tiny fists balled up like she was ready to fight the whole damn galaxy. Hannah remembered the way her daughter’s skin had felt, soft and new, like holding starlight wrapped in a thin pink blanket. Even then. Especially then. She remembered whispering her name for the first time.

Just once. Barely a sound. Like saying it too loud might draw the universe’s attention and cost her everything. She remembered promising, right then, with the smell of newborn skin and salt and sterile gauze in the air, that she’d always protect her. She remembered leaning down, forehead to forehead, and making that promise with her whole soul. 

But what use was that promise now? What protection could she offer from light-years away, chasing a wounded ship through an uncharted system, praying to signals and static?

Please… let her be on that ship. Let her be alive. Let her be anything but gone.

Hannah had brought her daughter into this world on nothing but blood and defiance, and the galaxy could burn before it stole her out the same way. But fire never lasted forever. What lingered was quieter, crueler—the ache that smoldered after the blaze. The memory that always followed, the one carved deepest into her bones.

She remembered the last time she held her daughter. It was brief. Not tender. Not like that first time. They were docked at the Citadel, just after shore leave. Jane was about to ship out again. Hair pulled back, jacket half-zipped, exhaustion carved beneath her eyes. She looked older than her years. Hardened, distant, already slipping back into myth. Hannah grabbed her without thinking. Arms around her in one fast, fierce pull. Tight enough to steal breath. Tight enough to feel something beneath all that N7 steel.
It caught Jane off guard. Her body tensed for a heartbeat… Then she gave in. Neither of them said a word. No ‘I love you’. No ‘Come back safe’. They didn’t do goodbyes. They never had. But in that silence, Jane trembled. Just slightly. Just enough for Hannah to feel it. And just before she pulled away, Hannah whispered the only thing she ever let herself say.

“Tell the stars I said hi.”

Jane didn’t answer. But her grip tightened for half a second. And that was enough. Because at that moment, buried in a mother’s embrace, her daughter wasn’t a soldier. She wasn’t a Spectre. Or a commander. She was just Jane. Her child, her only child. And maybe… somewhere deep down… Hannah knew it was the last time.

Now, as the Orizaba hurtled toward the coordinates, that memory clawed its way back to the front of Hannah’s mind, relentless, unshakable. All she could do was hold onto those two moments. Like bookends to a life that had moved too fast between them. Her jaw clenched. She wouldn’t cry. Not yet. Not until someone told her for certain that her daughter was dead. Until then: Jane Shepard was alive. And by all the stars in the sky… Hannah was going to bring her home.

The Orizaba touched down just outside the wreckage. The second the ramp lowered, Hannah was already moving, boots hitting scorched dirt, eyes locked on the broken silhouette of the Normandy. Captain Shepard’s crew fanned out behind her, weapons holstered, scanning for survivors.

Smoke curled upward in thin trails. The wind was low, but bitter. It carried the scent of melted circuitry and blood. She didn’t wait for a briefing. Didn’t ask who was in charge. She walked straight toward the crash. Three figures broke off from the triage perimeter to meet her. Familiar shapes. Familiar faces.

Joker moved stiffly, one arm in a sling, limping worse than usual. His face was pale, sweat beading at his temples, but his eyes were sharp beneath the exhaustion.

James Vega followed beside him, uniform jacket undone, knuckles scraped raw, blood smeared across his collarbone, none of it his.

And behind them, quieter, was Liara T’Soni. Her coat was torn. Her lip split. Her eyes red. But her spine was straight.

Hannah stopped in front of them, expression unreadable. “Jeff.”

He saluted the captain and tried for a grin. Failed. “Well… I always figured we’d meet again. Just didn’t think it’d be over wreckage and mutual trauma.”

“Where is she?”

The question cut straight through the tension. Direct. Immediate. Final. No one answered right away.

James looked down. Joker shifted his weight. Liara was the one who stepped forward.

“We… don’t know,” she said softly. “I was with her during the descent. But at some point—she stayed behind. To make sure we got clear of the beam.”

“She ordered Garrus and Liara to get on board, ma’am,” James added, voice low. “Refused to let them argue. Told them she’d follow.”

“But she didn’t,” Hannah said.

None of them answered. They didn’t have to.

She looked at each of them in turn. Joker’s clenched jaw. James’ bruised hands. Liara’s tear-rimmed eyes. The ache in them was familiar. Too familiar. The same ache she’d seen in her own reflection after her daughter was spaced. 

“You all made it out,” Hannah said, not coldly, but close.

“We tried to go back,” Liara said. “Joker ran every scan. Nothing. No signal. Just… the blast.”

Joker’s voice broke through next, quiet, but bitter. “She always did have a habit of saving everyone but herself.”

Silence settled around them again. Hannah turned toward the wreckage, eyes narrowing as she scanned the twisted metal. Her chest ached, but her voice didn’t crack. “Where is Garrus?”

James stepped forward. “Garrus is in there. In the medbay. Bad shape. Dr Chakwas is with him. He was conscious when we pulled him off the ground.”

Liara chipped in, voice low, but trembling at the edges. “Garrus saved me.”

The others went still.

“Just before the evac. He shoved me out of the way—took the hit himself.” Liara’s hands twitched like she could still feel the impact. “I turned around and… he was bleeding, barely able to stand.” Her eyes lifted to meet Hannah’s. “That’s when Shepard dragged him up. She threw him onto the Normandy’s ramp. Screamed at Joker to get us in the air.” She blinked fast. Swallowed. “And then… she stayed behind.”

Hannah didn’t pause. She didn’t flinch. 

“Take me to him.” Her voice wasn’t raised. She didn’t need it to be. It hit like a command carved from steel.

James nodded, already turning toward the ruins of the Normandy. But before he could move, a familiar voice called out from the wreckage.

“Captain Shepard?”

They all turned.

Chakwas stepped out from the shadows of the shattered hull, her coat smeared with smoke, hair pulled back in a messy knot, eyes hollowed from too many hours without rest. A dimly flickering medi-pad glowed in one hand. There was blood on her sleeve, dark, tacky, and unmistakably blue. Not hers. Turian.

She stopped a few feet from Hannah and took a breath. “Not exactly who I thought I’d find, but happy to see you nonetheless.”

Hannah’s shoulders tensed. “I’m told Garrus Vakarian’s in the medbay.”

Chakwas nodded. “He is. Barely.” A pause. “He asked for her. Over and over.” Her voice dropped, lower, softer. “I sedated him not long ago. He was in no condition to stay awake. Not with the injuries he took.”

“What are we talking?” Hannah asked, too used to war to flinch. “How bad?”

Chakwas met the captain's familiar eyes. “Third-degree plasma burns across his right arm and shoulder. Multiple rib fractures. One leg shattered at the femur, makeshift stabilizers until we can get proper med support.” She hesitated. “And a concussion. Maybe worse. I can’t rule out neural trauma. He’s… lucky to be alive.” 

Hannah didn’t blink. “Can he hear me?”

“Possibly. But even if he can’t…” Chakwas stepped closer. “He’ll know you’re there.”

The two women stared at each other for a long moment. They'd never met before, but there was no need for introductions. They knew each other. Not only by name, but by weight. One had kept soldiers alive through orders and war. The other had kept its heroes breathing long enough to fight another day. Different battlegrounds. Same cost.

They stood across from one another like mirrors distorted by years of loss, one in burnished blues, the other in smoke-stained white. But it wasn’t rank that passed between them. Not medals. Not protocol. It was grief. A kind of silent knowing forged in too many death reports, too many last words, too many promises made and broken in medbays and mission logs. The kind of grief that didn’t need explanation. Only acknowledgment. And in that moment, between two women who had carried Jane Shepard in their own way, one as blood, the other as breath, it passed between them like a vow.

“Come with me,” Chakwas said, and turned toward the ship. Hannah followed.

They walked in through the torn side hatch, past scorched plating and shattered glass. The smell was worse inside, copper, ozone, and the sharp tang of burned insulation. The heart of a once-mighty vessel, now cracked open like a ribcage.

Chakwas led her down a short corridor, one that flickered with half-dead lights, to a medbay that looked like a battlefield dressing tent. Most of the power was routed to life support. Everything else flickered in and out of working order. And in the far corner, flat on the gurney, was Garrus.

Hannah stopped cold. He looked worse than she expected. His armor had been stripped down to the frame. What was left of his plating had been cut away to expose the wounds. Fresh bandages wrapped his ribs in layers, and the left side of his face, his unscarred side, was bruised, mottled with deep purple from the impact. His leg was propped at an angle, immobilized in a crude frame. Tubes and lines connected him to the barely functioning med systems. But he was breathing. Shallow. Rhythmic. Present.

“Everyone keeps talking like she’s dead,” Hannah said quietly.

Chakwas didn’t respond.

“She’s not,” Hannah added. “She wouldn’t leave him behind.”

And just like that, she moved to Garrus’ side and sat down slowly, careful, but with the full weight of her resolve. “She wouldn’t leave me behind either.”

She reached for his hand—clawed, burned, trembling in sleep—and held it like she was grounding them both.

Chapter Text

The stretcher creaked beneath him, metal groaning in protest every time the incline shifted. Garrus barely registered the pain anymore. It was dull now. Far away. A storm behind a glass wall. It only came back when they moved him. And they were moving him. Rough hands steadied the frame, while Chakwas barked orders sharp enough to keep the medics focused. The Normandy’s medbay had given all it could. Power was intermittent. Supplies low. The emergency backups were failing, and the Orizaba, Hannah Shepard’s ship, was the only vessel in range with working stabilizers and a functioning surgical bay. So they moved him.

He wasn’t conscious enough to argue, but if he were, he might’ve tried. The Normandy still felt like hers. Like Shepard. Even broken. Even dying. The walls still held her presence like smoke, gunpowder and leather, and the ghost of something fierce. Like the aftershocks of a battle she’d already won. Every scorched panel, every bloodstained floor tile still breathed her name. She was in the scratches on the bulkhead from her last sprint to the CIC. In the dented locker door where she kicked it shut mid-argument with Joker. In the scent of medi-gel and ozone that always followed her out of combat. The Normandy didn’t just smell like Shepard. It mourned her.

A sudden bump jolted the stretcher. His body seized. Pain erupted like a firework beneath his muscles. “Careful, dammit,” Chakwas snapped.

Hannah watched from the side, arms crossed, face carved from stone. She hadn’t said a word since they started moving him. Just followed. Measured. Not as a mother. As a captain doing her duty. But that was a lie, and she knew it. Every time Garrus flinched, every time a breath caught in his throat or a groan slipped past cracked mandibles, something twisted in her gut like a wire pulled too tight. Her daughter had loved this man. Had chosen him in a way Jane never chose anyone. Which meant… this broken thing on the stretcher, shivering and bleeding and whispering her daughter’s name like a prayer, he mattered. He mattered to Jane. And that made him hers, now, too.

When he whimpered—raw, guttural, helpless—her hand twitched. Not much. Just a flicker. But it betrayed the quake rolling through her chest like thunder. The kind of quake that came not from fear, but from the impossible weight of love you didn’t ask for, but couldn’t refuse.

The corridor from the Normandy to the Orizaba had been reinforced with emergency supports, the makeshift docking bridge rattled under each step. Garrus stirred again, eyes fluttering open, pupils unfocused. The edges of his vision blurred, too bright, too loud. Voices overlapped like echoes in a cave.

“Shepard…?” he mumbled.

Chakwas leaned in. “Not yet, Garrus. Just hold on.” But he didn’t hear her. Or maybe he didn’t care. He reached for something, someone, not there, his hand trembling in the air before falling limp again.

They entered the Orizaba’s medbay. It was cleaner. Brighter. Not just functional, precise. The overhead lights ran in seamless rows, evenly spaced, calibrated to eliminate shadows. No flicker. No hum. The air was chilled to regulation standard. The scent of antiseptic hit like a slap, sharp, medical, surgical. Beneath it, the faint tang of sterilized metal, polished alloys, and scrubbed-down machinery. No blood. No smoke. No chaos. The Orizaba’s medbay didn’t respond to crisis. It anticipated it. Stainless steel walls, lined with redundancies. Cabinets labeled in military-standard shorthand. Every datapad locked to its station, every instrument arranged by frequency of use. Even the emergency stretchers gleamed, untouched by panic, waiting for deployment like soldiers on standby. It felt less like a hospital and more like a battlefield prep room, a place not meant for comfort, but for control.

This was Hannah Shepard’s ship. Her reputation lived in these walls. Sharp. Unyielding. Efficient to the bone. The bed they lowered Garrus onto hissed quietly as it adjusted to his frame, the motion so smooth it felt rehearsed. The med team moved around him in a practiced dance, no fumbling, no raised voices, no emotion. Hannah’s eyes never left him. In this space, this controlled, orderly domain, Garrus Vakarian looked wrong. Jagged. Burned. Raw in a way that didn’t belong among the polished chrome and color-coded sterility. He was a walking breach in the hull, something broken that didn’t fit here. But that didn’t matter. Because the Orizaba had room for him now.

Chakwas immediately began directing the Orizaba’s med team. “We need a new stabilizer on the femur, standard won’t hold Turian density. Switch to triple-segment bracing. I want vitals on loop and neural activity monitored. His brain took a hit, and I don’t want to guess how bad.”

Hannah finally stepped forward. She didn’t speak. Just watched as the team swarmed around him like bees patching a broken wing. Garrus muttered again. Not words. Not really. Just fragments. One of the Orizaba’s techs, a young woman with grease smudges on her collar, glanced at Hannah. “Ma’am?” Hannah moved closer. Just enough to see his face. The unscarred side was bruised, swollen. His mandibles twitched with every breath, pain etched deep.

“Shepard ordered him to board,” Chakwas said quietly. “Threw him onto the ramp herself. Then stayed behind.”

Hannah didn’t respond at first. Then softly, “Sounds like her.” She reached out, hesitant for the first time in days, and placed a hand lightly on Garrus’ forearm, right over the bandages. “You’re not the only one she left behind,” she whispered.

The machines hummed alive beside her. Steady. Stable. Monitors flickered with dull, repetitive green. Turian vitals scrolled across the screen in quiet loops, numbers she didn’t fully understand, but she didn’t need to. She could hear it in the rhythm of the beeps, the way his breath caught every fifth inhale like he was still reaching for something just out of his grasp. He was still fighting. Even unconscious. Even broken. And so was she. Not in the way that earned medals. Not in the way that showed up in mission reports. But in the quiet, invisible way women like her always had to fight, behind closed doors, behind rank, behind the uniform. In silence. In stillness. In the choice to stay sharp when everything inside wanted to shatter.        

Hannah hadn’t cried. Not when the Crucible fired. Not when the Normandy crash-landed. Not even when she watched the life drain from every transponder reading in orbit. That wasn’t how she fought. Her grief didn’t scream, it endured. Hardened into something sharp. Something she could aim. And right now? She aimed it here. At him. Garrus Vakarian was more than just her daughter’s partner. He was the last piece of Jane left with a pulse. The last tether to the woman Hannah had raised and lost in the same breath. He was still fighting for his commander, for her daughter, clinging to her memory like it was oxygen. So Hannah fought for him.

Beyond the Orizaba’s clean, controlled medbay, the wreckage of the Normandy groaned like a wounded animal. Her insides looked like they’d lost a fight with a black hole. Panels hung like shattered bones, torn open by reentry and rage. Power conduits sparked at odd intervals, popping with bursts of ozone and memory. The AI core bay had fared better than most, but just barely. A single floodlight kept vigil over the scorched floor, its beam casting long, trembling shadows across wreckage that once carried legends. It didn’t feel like a ship anymore. It felt like a tomb. But Gabby Daniels wasn’t about to let it stay that way.

“Alright,” she muttered, crawling elbow-deep into a ruined access panel. “That’s the last bypass. We’re hot.”

“Hot as in ready,” Kenneth called from the other side of the bay, “or hot as in ‘might catch fire and melt my boots’?”

Gabby blew a loose strand of hair off her forehead. “Depends on whether you reconnected the primary bypass in the right direction.”

“I did!”

“You sure?”

“I’m not incompetent, Gabby.”

“You once tried to fix a coolant leak with duct tape.”

Kenneth popped his head up, indignant. “And it worked!”

Adams pinched the bridge of his nose nearby. “Remind me again why I didn’t retire after the war ended.”

“It hasn’t ended,” Tali said quietly, her voice even. “Not until we know for sure that she’s alive.”

That silenced them. For a moment, the only sound was the low whirlpool of backup generators.

Then Gabby sat back on her heels and gestured toward the interface terminal, her hands smudged with grease and resolve. “Alright. Power rerouted. Core is isolated and stabilized. As stable as it gets, anyway.” She looked to Tali. “Ready?”

Tali nodded once. “Do it.”

Gabby flipped the main breaker. A low hum stirred in the air, deep and metallic, like the ship remembering how to breathe. One by one, dormant systems sparked to life. The lights inside EDI’s core flickered, hesitant at first, then stronger, brighter.

Kenneth watched the diagnostic readout scroll. “Matrix integrity holding… Come on, EDI…”

The hum rose. Adams leaned forward, brow furrowed. “There, core’s cycling. She’s booting.”

Then—Snap! A power conduit overloaded. Sparks flew. The lights cut out. Dead silence.

“No, no, no,” Gabby hissed, rushing to the panel. “She was right there.”

“Damn it,” Adams muttered, hitting keys.

“Fallback routine isn’t engaging. She’s not responding.” Kenneth sighed, defeated. “We lost her.”

“No!” Tali crossed the bay in two quick strides and slammed a hand onto the interface. “No. She’s not gone.” Her voice shook, not from fear, but from fury. “She kept redundant backups. I know she did. She mirrored herself after every mission. She learned from every damn failure. She wouldn’t just… leave.”

Gabby’s voice cracked. “She backed up for Joker. For the fish, even.”

Kenneth smirked weakly. “I always suspected she liked them more than me.”

Tali’s hands flew across the console, keys clacking in rapid sequence. “Come on, EDI. You don’t quit. Not now. You always said Shepard gave you purpose. She’s not here to wake you up—but we are.”

The lights blinked again. Once. Twice. Then blue glow surged across the core, slow and steady, and a voice crackled through the static: “Core systems… nominal.” Everyone froze. EDI’s voice strengthened, smoothing out as subroutines stabilized. “Diagnostic complete. Subtle errors detected in non-vital personality modules. Locational uncertainty. Query: Where is Shepard?”

Nobody spoke. The question hung in the air like a second explosion. Tali stepped forward. Her breath fogged the inside of her helmet. “She’s missing. The Normandy made the jump. She didn’t.”

EDI’s lights dimmed for a moment, processing. Then: “I know. I do not sense her now, though. Does this mean Commander Shepard didn’t survive?”

“No,” Gabby said quickly. “No. We don’t know that. We think she’s alive. Somewhere.”

“She saved us all,” Kenneth added, a little too loudly. “Kicked fate right in the bloody teeth while doing it.”

There was a pause. The lights pulsed slowly, steady like a heartbeat. “I see,” EDI said. Her voice had changed. Not broken, but quieter. Gentler. “I am experiencing… a sensation I am unfamiliar with. It is not logical. Not efficient. It is grief. I believe it is grief.”

Tali’s throat tightened. Gabby wiped the corner of her eye with the heel of her palm. “Yeah, EDI. That’s the one.”

Tali stepped forward, the emotion in her voice sharp beneath the filter of her helmet. “We’re going to find her. You know that, right?”

A flicker ran through the lights in the core, like a breath catching in the throat. The lights brightened, soft but steady. For the first time since the Crucible fired, the Normandy didn’t feel like a tomb. She felt alive. With EDI’s core systems reinitialized, her presence returned to the Normandy, disembodied, but aware. Her mobile platform remained offline, pending a full diagnostic sweep and recalibration.

In the meantime, the crew worked tirelessly, patching ruptured bulkheads and coaxing life back into the damaged engines, each repair a small act of defiance against the void. The sun was setting over the crash site. What passed for one, anyway. An orange dwarf star bleeding against a pale, dust-choked sky. The wind had picked up, whistling through the jagged remains of the Normandy’s hull like it was mourning her, too. Sparks still burst occasionally from exposed circuits. The scorched earth beneath her belly steamed with heat from half-buried engines. But she stood. Barely. Stubborn, like the woman who commanded her. Crew of both ships stranded, crawled across her skeleton, tools in hand, sleeves rolled, soaked in sweat, ash, and stubborn loyalty. Sparks flew from welding guns. Panels were propped against crates, repurposed scrap turned makeshift replacements. It was chaos, but the kind held together by muscle memory and a shared ache.

Gabby wiped a streak of soot off her face. “I swear this ship gets heavier every time we fix her.”

“That’s because she knows you’re the one carrying her dignity,” Kenneth said, hauling a conduit over one shoulder like it owed him money.

“Don’t make me hit you with this wrench.” “You’d have to catch me first, and I’ve seen you sprint—”

“I will knock the accent off your face, MacBeth.” Adams didn’t look up from his console. “If you two break something again, I’m spacing you both.”

Tali crouched beside EDI’s core housing, running a diagnostic as she murmured softly to herself. “Power draw normalized… routing secondary lines through auxiliary conduits…”

“EDI, how are you holding up?” Gabby asked.

“I am currently operating at 47.6% capacity,” EDI responded from the interface, voice calm. “However, emotionally, I am… still buffering.”

Kenneth chuckled. “Aren’t we all.”

That’s when Hannah’s voice cut through the noise. Firm. Calm. Unmistakably final. “That’s enough for today.”

The engineers froze. Hannah Shepard stood just inside the corridor, arms crossed, the dim glow from her omni-tool reflecting off her polished cuffs. She didn’t raise her voice, she never needed to. Authority followed her like a shadow.

“Tali. Gabby. Adams. Everyone,” she continued. “You’ve done more in a day than most ships manage in a week. But the Normandy isn’t going anywhere tonight. Neither are we.” She let the silence stretch for a breath. “And her crew needs a different kind of repair right now.”

Tali lowered her omni-tool, slow. Adams gave a single respectful nod. Even Kenneth didn’t argue.

“Wrap it up,” Hannah said, softer now. “Bring whatever you’ve got left to the mess hall. Orizaba’s stocked. Consider it… a toast.”

Adams leaned against a crate nearby and quirked a brow. “You buying, Captain?”

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Tonight, I am.”

•••

They gathered aboard the Orizaba not long after. The mess hall wasn’t built for comfort, it was built for efficiency. Every table was bolted, every chair aligned with military precision. The walls were sterile steel, polished daily. Overhead lights had been dimmed just slightly, casting a soft amber wash across the room. Warm enough to soothe, but still formal. Still hers. Hannah had made sure the space was prepared. Plates were set. Rations portioned evenly, enough to eat, not enough to indulge. Bottles placed with quiet intention down the center table, a modest selection from the Orizaba’s stores and what remained intact from the Normandy’s wreckage. No music played. No laughter yet. Just the scrape of chairs being pulled out. The low murmur of a crew trying to remember how to breathe. Everything was still in its place. But tonight, for once, the people weren’t.

The surviving crew of the Normandy took their seats slowly. Some sat shoulder to shoulder. Others left space beside them, as if expecting someone else to fill it. No one said her name yet. They didn’t have to. It hung in the air like smoke. Dr. Chakwas stepped into the room, still in her coat, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dried medi-gel on her cuff. Her expression was tired, but not withdrawn. Her eyes were sharp as ever, even if the lines around them had deepened with sleepless nights. She nodded to Hannah as she approached.

“I left Garrus in the hands of the most competent medics this ship has. Cross-trained between both crews. I gave them strict instructions not to let him die while I took ten minutes to honor the woman keeping him alive in the first place.”

A few smiles flickered. Joker exhaled a soft snort. Chakwas folded her arms gently as she took a spot beside EDI’s interface, letting her eyes drift around the room.

“I’ve served under a lot of commanders. I’ve written far too many casualty reports. But Jane Shepard…” She paused. “Commander Shepard wasn’t just a soldier. She made us into something better.” “She gave the Normandy a soul,” Chakwas continued, quieter now. “We all followed orders before her. But we followed her because we believed. Not in the Systems Alliance. Not in some flag. We believed in her… she was best damn patient I ever had. And the only one who made it a habit of flatlining just to prove me wrong.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room, soft, genuine. The kind that hurt just a little because it felt so real. Then came the voice everyone expected next. Joker. He didn’t stand, he remained in his seat, arms crossed, bottle dangling from one hand like an afterthought. Posture casual. Expression not. Not when you looked at his eyes.

“So,” he said, voice low but even, “are we gonna sit around and pretend she didn’t carry us all through three cycles of hell… or are we finally gonna talk about it?”

No one answered. He didn’t need them to.

“I hated her, the first week,” he said, taking a swig of something that probably should’ve come with a radiation warning. “You all remember that? Thought she was just another Alliance hardass—too much rank, not enough sense. She had that look like she was ready to write us all up for breathing too loud.”

A few chuckles surfaced, tentative.

“But then,” Joker continued, his tone softening, “day nine, she chews out an admiral. In front of everyone. Sticks her neck out for me. Says—and I quote—‘He’s a better pilot than your entire goddamn fleet, and he can fly circles around your protocol.’” He looked down at the bottle. Turned it slowly in his hand. “That’s when I knew. She saw me. Not just what I could do—me. The broken-boned jackass who always had a smart comment and no real reason to be here except the ship moved when I told it to.”

His jaw twitched. Not from anger. Something else. “She did that for all of us. Made us feel like we mattered. Not because we had titles or perfect service records. But because we were hers. And when she believed in you…” He shook his head. “You believed in you, too.”

He raised his drink in the air. “To Shepard. The only person in the galaxy who made dying seem like a minor inconvenience.”

More laughter this time. A little sharper. A little sadder. But real.

Tali nodded, hugging her knees to her chest from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. “She once reprogrammed a cleaning drone to leave flowers outside my door after my father died. She said it was to ‘balance out the trauma with color.’ It kept malfunctioning and throwing pollen everywhere. I sneezed for three days straight.”

They laughed.

“She never said sorry. Just grinned.” Tali continued, “vas Normandy.’” Her eyes lifted, glassy behind the mask. “They meant it as an insult. As a mark of exile.” She looked around the table, at the faces gathered, at the empty space they all felt. “But Shepard, she made it mean something. Everything. She turned ‘vas Normandy’ into the shiniest damn medal in the galaxy. Because that’s what she did. Everything she did, it always meant something.”

Kenneth cleared his throat. “Well… she also turned half our engine bay into a death trap every time she wanted to ‘test’ a new upgrade.”

Gabby snorted. “Remember when she ordered us to reroute the Tantalus drive core through the primary bypass without even checking the specs?”

“She said she read the manual,” Kenneth said, shaking his head. “Turned out it was the weapons manual. From the SR-1.”

“She fried the cooling system,” Gabby said, smiling. “We had to work in a full environmental suit for two days. I nearly passed out.”

Adams, who had been listening quietly, let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh. “And yet, somehow, it worked. It always did. Shepard had this uncanny ability to ignore every rule in the book… and still come out on top.” He leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. “She wasn’t just a commander. She was the kind of leader you followed into the fire because you knew she’d come out dragging victory behind her. And maybe you’d survive. Maybe not. But damn it… you believed.”

Next came James Vega, leaning against the table, arms folded. “I owe her everything. She pulled me out of a pit I didn’t even know I was in. Taught me that strength isn’t just about holding the line, it’s knowing what the hell you’re holding it for.”

He looked down. “And she never flinched. Not once. Even when everything else went to shit, she stood. So I did too.”

Across the table, Liara T’Soni sat with her hands clasped in her lap, posture elegant, but her expression distant. Like she was still sorting through a landfill of thought to find the right words.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft. Thoughtful. But steady. “I used to believe the past held all the answers,” she said, eyes fixed somewhere just beyond the circle of light. “The Protheans were my obsession. Every relic, every fragment, every whisper they left behind… I chased it like it could fix something in me. Like it could make sense of the chaos.” Her fingers curled slightly. Not regretful. Just… remembering. “I was so focused on what was gone. What was lost. I never thought to look ahead. Never even thought I belonged in what came next.” Her gaze lifted, meeting the eyes around her. “Then I met Shepard.”

A quiet passed through the room. Reverent. “She didn’t care how many degrees I had. Or how long I’d studied. She didn’t even care that I was chasing ghosts. She just looked at me and said: ‘You’re here now. Make it count.’” Liara’s voice cracked just slightly, just enough to make it real. “She made me stop chasing ruins and start building something. A future. A place for myself. For us. She made me believe that maybe… I didn’t have to be a shadow of the past. I could be part of the light in the now.”

She smiled faintly. The kind of smile that carried weight. “Shepard didn’t just fight for the galaxy. She helped people find their place inside it.”

Javik raised a bottle of something ancient and awful. “She insulted me the first time we met. I insulted her back. It was love.”

They laughed harder at that one.

“I respected her. Even if she was primitive.”

“I knew you were gonna say it,” Joker muttered.

Steve Cortez leaned forward, hands wrapped around a metal mug. “She saved me after Robert died. I don’t mean professionally. I mean… me. The part that was ready to shut down with him. She found it. Kept it breathing. Even when I didn’t want it to.”

Then, EDI’s voice came from the console behind them. Quiet. Controlled. But softer than usual.

“She once told me,” EDI said, “that humans fear silence because it reminds them of space. Of absence. But she said the silence between friends was something else. That it meant trust. Peace.” A beat. “I understand that now. Thank you.”

Kaidan stood. The room stilled. He didn’t hold his glass up. Just turned it slowly in his hand, eyes tracing the way the light caught the rim like he was afraid to look at anyone.

“I only spent one night with her,” he began, voice low. “Just one.”

A few heads tilted, surprised by the admission.

“And I used to think that made it silly. That maybe I didn’t have the right to hurt this much. But that’s the kind of woman Shepard was, wasn’t she? One night. One look. One breath… and suddenly, you were standing on a ledge you didn’t even realize you’d climbed.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “I loved her. I really did. But it wasn’t the kind of love that saw her. Not the way I should’ve. I thought I did. I wanted to. But I was so wrapped up in the version of her the galaxy handed me—the soldier, the Spectre, the savior—that I stopped looking for the woman underneath.”

The biotic finally looked up, meeting a few gazes across the room. “And when she came back with Cerberus, I… I didn’t understand. I thought it was betrayal. But it was survival. And I walked away when I should’ve stood by her side. I failed her.”

No one said anything.

Kaidan swallowed hard. “And I won’t lie, sometimes, when I look at Garrus, I feel it. That sting. That jealousy. But… then I remember how she looked at him. Like he was the only calm in a galaxy on fire.” He turned slightly, gaze flicking toward the medbay hallway, as if he could feel Garrus through the walls. “They belonged to each other in a way I never could’ve matched. And I hope, when we fix the Normandy and find her, I hope I get to see them together again. Just once. Just to know she made it back to the place she chose.” His voice dipped, softer than before. “She did belong to the fight. To the stars. But more than anything… she belonged to herself.”

He reclaimed his seat now, finally. “To Shepard. The one that got away. And thank God she did.”

No one clapped. No one spoke. They just sat there, glasses in hand, hearts in pieces, each one nodding slowly. Silently. The kind of agreement that didn’t need words. The kind that lived in the eyes. Even Joker, who always had something to say, kept quiet. One by one, their gazes shifted. Turned. To her. To Captain Hannah Shepard. She hadn’t spoken once since they’d sat down. Hadn’t interrupted. Hadn’t filled in gaps or corrected the stories. She’d just listened, each memory carving deeper into the hollow that had opened in her chest the day the Crucible fired. Now it was her turn.

She sat straight-backed, hands resting on the table, untouched glass beside her. Her eyes scanned the faces, these people her daughter had loved, bled for, trusted with her life. And in return, they’d followed Jane to the edge of the galaxy… and somehow made it back. All but one.

“She never had this,” Hannah said quietly. No one interrupted.

“She grew up alone. Constant deployments on starships took what childhood she had. Any chances at lasting friendships disappeared every time I was reassigned. And her father—” Her voice caught, just barely. Just enough to sting. “She lost him when she was five.”

A few heads turned. They hadn’t known that.  

“She adored him,” Hannah continued. “They were alike—so alike. Brave. Reckless. Heart way too big for the rules they lived under. He used to call her ‘his little storm,’ because she was always in motion. Always pushing against the world, even when she didn’t understand it yet.”

She glanced down, then back at the table. “When he died, I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. I still wore a uniform. Still had orders. I was deployed five weeks later. Black Ops. Solo run. Classified for six months.” Her jaw tightened. “I left her with my father, her grandfather. Kindest man I’ve ever known, but already sick. He did what he could. Told her bedtime stories about stars. Taught her how to fix the fuse box in the kitchen. But he was just one old man trying to hold together a little girl with a cracked heart.”

A pause. Just long enough to hurt.

“When I came back, she didn’t cry. Not once. Just looked at me like she’d grown up while I was gone and didn’t need anyone anymore. That was when she started building walls. Not out of spite. Out of necessity.”

Hannah’s eyes met Liara’s. Then Tali’s. Then Joker’s. Even Kaidan. Each one holding something different—sorrow, guilt, memory.

“She grew up without friends. No birthday parties. No school dances. No soft places to land. Just drills. Transfers. Protocol. Cold meals and colder orders. No one ever really saw her. Just the uniform she was destined to wear.” She looked around the room. Each face. Each grief. Each person who had finally seen what Hannah feared no one ever would. “You gave her something I never could. A family.” Her voice was steady now. Final. “You gave her reasons to come back.”

Hannah picked up her glass at last, and raised it, not with a soldier’s stiffness, but with a mother’s ache.

“To Jane. To Shepard. To the girl I raised… the woman you followed… and the commander we will bring home.”

Chapter Text

The morning after the remembrance sat heavy on the ship like dust that refused to settle. The Orizaba’s corridors, usually humming with purposeful movement, had dulled into silence. Crew members passed each other with muted nods, their eyes tired, conversations stalling before they could begin.

The mess was nearly empty save for the clink of utensils and the occasional cough, each sound a violation of the hush. Liara sat hunched over a mug that had long gone cold. Joker nursed a real hangover and a deeper emotional one, staring at the table like it owed him something. James leaned against the counter with his arms crossed, sunglasses on indoors, unshaven and still wearing the same shirt from the night before. No one mentioned the night before. No one had to. In the quiet corners, eyes drifted toward the medbay doors. The only person who hadn’t spoken during the remembrance. The only one too injured to. Garrus Vakarian.

Inside the medbay, it was dark and cool, the kind of still, humming quiet that settles over the dying and the ones who refuse. The overhead lights had been dimmed to preserve rest. This was a place of waiting now. Dr. Chakwas moved in and out like a ghost, her steps muffled, her face drawn with the weight of too many battles and too few miracles left. She checked Garrus’ vitals every few hours, fingers precise and professional, as if performing the ritual of care could keep hope alive. She didn’t speak to him. He hadn’t spoken in days, but she whispered, sometimes. Soft encouragements, half to him, half to herself.

“Come on, Vakarian. Don’t let this be the way it ends.”

This time, something felt different. It started subtly, the way weather shifts before a storm. Not a noise. Not a movement. But a pressure, low and deep, like the hum of a predator too big to name. The air changed. Not colder. Not warmer. Just charged, like static before a lightning strike. Like grief waiting to take form. The monitors didn’t spike. Nothing blinked red. But Chakwas paused mid-note, her pen hovering above the pad as her instincts flared. Something was watching. Not her. Not the machines. Garrus didn’t move. But something in the set of his jaw, the twitch of his mandibles, the stillness of his chest, it was no longer unconsciousness. It was tension. Like a wire pulled taut across some invisible chasm. And then, A whisper. So faint it could’ve been breath. Or memory. Or madness. But it wasn’t coming from the medbay.

“Vakarian…” A name. Spoken like a summons. Not a question. A call. His name.

The Turians eyes snapped open. No sluggish flutter, no groggy confusion. Just open. Alert. Locked. Like waking from drowning with no transition, just the cold slap of the surface. He gasped, not because he couldn’t breathe, but because he’d forgotten how. His chest rose too fast, too hard. Pain flared through his ribs, white-hot and punishing. He didn’t care.

“Commander?” His voice cracked like dry stone, raw and desperate.

He tried to sit up. Tried to move toward the voice, toward that tether only he could feel. Chakwas was already there, hands on his shoulders, firm and practiced. She pressed him back down, and for a second he fought her, not because he thought he could win, but because staying still felt like betrayal.

“Lie still,” she said gently, then firmer, “Garrus.”

But he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were wide, searching the ceiling. Or beyond it.

“I heard her.” He said it like confession. “Commander Shepard. I—she said my name. She was here. Just now.”

Doctor Chakwas didn’t answer right away. She looked at the readouts. They were normal. Stable. No surges. No neural spikes. But Garrus wasn’t lying. And this wasn’t a hallucination. She could see it in the way he breathed, sharp and urgent, like he’d just outrun death and wasn’t sure who had won.

“I believe you,” she said quietly.

Garrus didn’t respond. He just stared upward. Still listening. As if somewhere out there, beyond the metal hull, beyond the stars, beyond death itself, she was calling for him. His breath finally slowed, but his heartbeat didn’t. Even as Chakwas adjusted the IV line and dimmed the monitors again, even as she offered him that practiced, steady smile, the one she wore when she didn’t want to say the odds out loud, Garrus barely registered her. He heard her words, but they didn’t land. His focus tunneled inward. The voice still echoed in the hollow space behind his eyes. Not loud. Not sharp. Just… persistent. Like a warmth pressed against scar tissue. Like a memory that refused to die.

‘Vakarian.’

It wasn’t how she used to say it. Not in the battlefield bark, not in the breathless whisper she used in the quiet of her cabin. This had been something else. Not comfort. Not command. A signal. And he felt it, not just heard it. Like it had reached out from somewhere beyond everything they knew and brushed against the edge of whatever was left of him. It had touched the part of him that still refused to believe she was gone. He closed his eyes again. Not to sleep. Just to exist in the dark where her voice had lived. Shepard had always been more than a soldier. More than the medals and command stripes. More than the title they tried to stitch onto her like armor. She was momentum. Unstoppable. Messy. Terrifying. Tender in ways that made him want to protect her, even though she never needed it. And when she broke—because everyone breaks—she did it alone. Except with him.

He remembered her curled on the bed in her personal cabin after the Leviathan dive, nails digging into the sheets like she was trying to ground herself in artificial gravity she no longer trusted.

“It’s in my head, Garrus.”

“What is?”

“All of it. The Reapers. The Leviathan. I don’t know where I end and they begin anymore.”

He’d held her that night. Told her it was stress. Trauma. Pressure. Lied to her because he needed to believe she could survive anything. But now he knew better. Because what he’d just heard wasn’t in his head. It wasn’t memory. It wasn’t madness. He could feel her. Still out there. Somewhere. She was different. There was something behind her voice, something that hummed with weight, like an ocean just below the surface of a calm sea. Ancient. Distant. And she was afraid. That’s what gutted him. She sounded afraid.

He brought a hand up to his face. The movement burned. Everything burned. His ribs, his arm, the wound down his side still packed with biofoam. But pain didn’t matter. He pressed his palm over his eyes, willing the voice to come back. To say anything else. Nothing. Just the sound of the ship breathing and the ache of being left behind.

•••

Hannah Shepard’s hands were dirty. Elbow-deep in an exposed conduit panel just outside the Normandy’s battered engine core, she braced her foot on the bulkhead and yanked a fused cable free with a grunt. Sparks spit in protest. Her engineers flinched. She didn’t.

“Gabby, re-route the stabilizer feed,” Hannah ordered. “Kenneth, check if we’ve got enough plating to patch the breach in sub-deck C. I’m not about to get us halfway flight-ready just to have this damn ship bleed out in vacuum.”

Kenneth gave her a crooked grin. “Now you sound like your daughter.”

Hannah paused. Just a beat. The older woman didn’t respond at first. Her hands were still buried in the conduit, but her mind stuttered on the comparison. The Normandy was halfway to spaceworthy. Which, considering where it had started, ripped open, scorched from nose to tail, half-buried in a crater of its own making, was like a miracle clawing its way out of death.

From the outside, she still looked broken. Her hull was pitted and scorched, plating warped along the starboard side where the Crucible’s detonation had flayed her open. Whole sections of the undercarriage had been torn off like flesh. But the lights were back on. Dim. Flickering. Alive. Inside, it was a symphony of labor. Panels were stripped open like surgery wounds, wiring guts spilled across the deck in tangled veins. Adams barked power cycles from one end of engineering while Gabby and Kenneth wrestled a fried coupler the size of a toddler out of the bulkhead. Sparks rained. Ventilation roared to life in stuttering pulses. The comms hissed like they were trying to find their voice again.

Tali stood near the exposed core chamber, visor aglow, her fingers dancing over her omni-tool. A pulse of blue light arced through the drive core, shaky at first, then steadier. The room bathed in its glow. Familiar. Beautiful. For the first time since the fall, the Normandy had a heartbeat. Hydraulic limbs groaned as doors unlocked for the first time in days. Bulkheads sealed. Gravity stabilized. The deck stopped feeling like a dying animal and started feeling like home again, battered but defiant.

“She’s breathing,” Adams murmured under his breath.

No one responded right away. For a moment, everyone just watched. Not out of caution, but reverence. Like standing in the rubble of a cathedral while the stained glass stitched itself back together.

Tali stood near the power grid relay, her omni-tool flickering with diagnostic data. “We can boost core power to 60 percent within the next day, assuming the port drive doesn’t short again.”

“And the beacon?” Hannah asked.

Adams turned from his station. “Working on it. We can modify one of the Normandy’s launch pods into a long-range distress signal. High power, low sustainability. One shot.”

“One’s all we need,” Hannah said. “Send the specs to the Orizaba. If we’re lucky, the Alliance is still listening.”

Gabby wiped sweat from her brow and leaned against the console. “And if they’re not?”

“Then we make noise,” Hannah said.

The beacon launched some hours later. A sleek pod, no bigger than a shuttle’s cargo module, burst from the Normandy’s auxiliary tube and streaked out into the black, carrying encrypted coordinates, status reports, and one name repeated like a lifeline.

Normandy. Normandy. Normandy.

While the others celebrated with exhausted high-fives and shoulder claps, trading jokes and trembling relief at the hum of a reborn ship, Hannah didn’t stay. She crossed the gangway alone, past flickering consoles and open panels, and stepped into the Normandy’s lift. It groaned under the strain of its still-recovering systems, then lurched upward.

As the numbers climbed, her chest tightened. She wasn’t sure what she was doing. She’d told herself she just wanted to clean the place up before her engineers swept through. Maybe tidy it. Maybe prep it for the day Jane came back. But really? She just needed to feel her daughter again.

The elevator stopped with a soft jolt. The doors opened. Her boots echoed in the empty corridor, sharp, unfamiliar in a space that once felt warm with life and laughter. The Normandy felt wrong without her daughter in it. Like a soul removed from its body. This ship had always been Jane’s chariot. A place of purpose and defiance, built to carry the weight of impossible choices. Now it was just a shell. Steel and silence.

The cabin door opened with a struggling hiss. Hannah stepped inside. The air was still. Stale. A thin layer of dust coated the surfaces, left undisturbed since the crash. The lights were low, just enough to paint shadows across the floor. The fish tank sat empty and lifeless, a tiny ocean that had dried up without anyone noticing.

Hannah stood in the doorway for a long time, afraid to touch anything. The bed was still made, military-tight, corners folded with the same precision Jane had hated as a kid. On the opposite side of the room, the couch, was its opposite: a mess of throw pillows, blankets, and comfort in reckless color. She smiled faintly. Some part of her daughter had always warred between discipline and chaos. Jane’s model ships still stood in careful rows, lined up like trophies. Some were pristine. Others bore the scars of glue repairs and tiny missing parts. Hannah walked over and let her fingertips trail along the display. She recognized a few, Alliance dreadnoughts, a Turian cruiser, a battered miniature of the original Normandy SR-1. There was even a Geth ship, tucked awkwardly at the edge like it didn’t quite belong but hadn’t been banished. Her throat tightened. She remembered Jane at thirteen, nose buried in a datapad, arguing over thruster specs with some poor science officer who’d come to dinner.

“They’re not just toys,” she used to say. “They’re history. They’re survivors.”

Hannah sat down on the couch, sinking into the pillows. It smelled faintly like Jane’s shampoo—faint citrus, synthetic mint. Still clinging on. She touched small things without thinking. The cup on the side table. The extra socks kicked half-under the couch. The journal with its broken spine. None of it had meaning on its own, but together, it was her daughter. The pieces Jane never showed anyone but lived in.

And then her eyes drifted to the computer terminal on the desk. Hannah hesitated. She knew it was wrong. Knew Jane would hate the idea of someone combing through her files without permission. Especially her mother. But what if there was something there? Some last trace? Some whisper Jane hadn’t meant to be the last one?

Hannah stood. Moved to the desk. And pressed her thumb to the interface. The screen flickered once. Then it came to life. She swallowed thickly, her hand brushing along the desk as if contact might conjure her daughter from the static. Jane had always lived in half-finished reports, snack wrappers, and coffee mugs she forgot to rinse. But the terminal still worked. Barely.

Hannah sat down. Her fingers hovered over the interface. She shouldn’t. But she did. Most logs were corrupted. System damage. Auto-deletes. Encrypted files that required clearance Hannah didn’t care to bypass. She wasn’t here for mission reports. She was here for her. And few logs remained. Two stood out to Hannah. The last log recorded and one meant for “mom.” Hannah opened it.

——————————————————————

Mom,

I heard your message. I listened to it in my quarters. Alone. I played it three times and haven’t slept since.

I want to tell you I’m okay, but I’m not. I want to tell you Cerberus didn’t change me, but they did. I want to tell you I’m proud of what I’ve done, but sometimes I don’t even recognize the person making the calls.

I didn’t reach out because I didn’t think you’d understand. Because I didn’t want to hear disappointment in your voice, even if it wasn’t there.

I’m still fighting. I’m still me. At least I think I am. I don’t know if I deserve to come home. But I miss you. I miss who I was when I had nothing to prove to anyone but you.

Maybe I’ll send this someday. But probably not.

—Jane

——————————————————————

Message saved. Not sent.

Hannah sat in silence. The words blinked on the screen, cold and still, like an open wound preserved in digital amber. The cursor flashed beneath the final line—not sent—as if daring her to respond to something that had already passed through the veil of time and regret.

Hannah hadn’t realized she was shaking until her fingers curled tight against her palm. The way she’d written “I don’t know if I deserve to come home” like it was just a fact of war, not a knife pressed to the heart of who she used to be. And all Hannah could think was—You did. You always did.

She thought about the scraped knees and busted lips, the rebellious teenager who challenged every authority but still called home when the nightmares got too bad. The cadet who mailed home citations and commendations like trophies. The woman who had saved entire worlds, and still felt like she’d failed the only one that mattered. Hannah had tried so hard to be strong. To stay out of the way. To let her daughter stand on her own and not feel the weight of a mother’s worry. But somewhere along the way, she’d also built walls. Told herself it was for Jane’s sake. For her independence. For her safety. And in the silence between them, her daughter had learned to suffer alone.

A tear slipped down Hannah’s cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. “I miss who I was when I had nothing to prove to anyone but you.” Those words gutted her. Hannah remembered that girl too. And she had been proud. She’d just never said it the right way. Never enough. Never when it counted. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the console. She wasn’t ready to move. Not yet. Another file pulsed faintly beneath the one she’d just opened, barely labeled, partially corrupted. No subject line. No encryption. It didn’t belong there. Not officially. But it was hers. The last voice log Jane ever recorded.

Hannah stared at it, a pit blooming in her chest. She didn’t know what she expected. Maybe something tactical. Maybe nothing at all. What she heard instead cracked through her like lightning. The audio glitched on playback. Static popped and dragged across her eardrums like claws. The timestamp was unreadable, just symbols and slashed, but Jane’s voice was there. Cutting in and out like it was coming from underwater.

“Headaches won’t stop. Not since Leviathan…” crackle “…feels like something’s inside my skull is breathing with me…” The voice faltered. Jane broke between breaths, sharp inhales, ragged, panicked. “But when my head isn’t pounding… I feel stronger. Faster. But not whole. Not clean.”

There was a long pause. A silence that said more than the words that came after.

“Chakwas confirmed I am pregnant.”

Hannah’s heart stopped.

“Maybe it’s just symptoms. I know. It doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t… match anything I was told was possible. But this isn’t biology. It’s not nature. Or science. This is… something else.”

Hannah didn’t move. She couldn’t. Not at first. The words hung in the air like smoke—pregnant— and behind it, something colder. Deeper. Something unnatural clawing through the seams of her daughter’s voice. She felt it hit her in layers. Not just shock. Not just grief. Rage. At everyone, at everything. Chakwas knew. She said so—‘Chakwas confirmed.’ That meant the doctor, the woman who had been by her side minutes ago, had known this entire time. Through every triage report. Every recovery update. Every quiet moment when Hannah had asked how bad it was. Not a word. Not a goddamn word.

Her hands curled into fists against the desk. Who else knew? Did Garrus know? Was he the father? Was this some secret they had all shared while she was left outside, grasping at scraps and static and wreckage? Her stomach turned. Her breath came in too fast, too shallow. Jane hadn’t told her.

Hannah understood secrets. She’d kept enough of them herself. She understood need-to-know. Understood the instinct to shield the people you loved. But this? She had a right to know. Her daughter had been pregnant. With something she didn’t understand. Something related to Leviathan? Something Jane was scared of, and still, Jane had kept her mother on the outside looking in. Why? Because she thought Hannah would be disappointed? Because she didn’t think she could handle it? Because it was easier to pretend she didn’t have a mother at all?

Hannah stood too quickly, knocking the chair back. It clattered to the floor. The noise broke the silence, but it didn’t help the ache that bloomed in her chest like shrapnel. Raw. Bleeding. She walked across the cabin in a daze, not sure where she was going, only that she needed out. Needed space. Oxygen. And then she needed answers.

The door hissed open behind her, but she barely registered it. Her feet carried her like muscle memory, autopilot overriding the roar of her thoughts. She stumbled into the elevator and slapped the controls with the flat of her hand, not caring which deck. Just down. The lift doors sealed shut, sealing her in. And then the silence pressed in. The kind that screamed. Hannah stared at the floor, chest rising too fast, her breath shallow and uneven. The lights flickered above her, casting shadows that seemed to stretch with the weight inside her chest. Pregnant. The word rang like a siren in her skull.

Chakwas had known. She could still see her face. Calm. Controlled. Maternal, even, like the ship’s quiet conscience. Like someone Hannah had trusted. And through every day, every wound, every update… Not. One. Word. And Jane. God, Jane. Her daughter had looked the end of the world in the eye and never blinked, but she hadn’t trusted her mother with this? Was it fear? Shame? Or had Hannah just… not been someone worth telling? Her hands trembled at her sides, rage and sorrow clashing like tides. Not just grief—betrayal.

The elevator doors opened. The CIC was humming softly with ship activity. Joker stood at the helm, sleeves rolled up, hands flying over the console as diagnostics scrolled by. He looked up, saw her, and gave a lopsided smile.

“Captain, hey! Good news, the beacon actually—”

She didn’t hear the rest. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at him. Joker’s voice faltered as she passed, his grin fading. He watched her go, confusion in his eyes. He’d never seen Hannah Shepard ignore a room before.

She made it to the airlock. Didn’t remember how. Didn’t care. The outer doors hissed open, releasing her into the brittle cold of the makeshift landing platform the engineers had built during repairs. It wasn’t elegant, just scrap panels and scaffolding, but it was outside. Open. Stark.

Hannah walked until she couldn’t hear the ship anymore. Until the natural breeze stung her cheeks and the stars felt too big and too far away to touch. Then she stopped. And for a long moment, Hannah just stood there, alone beneath the endless sky, fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms. And then, like a dam breaking without ceremony, She sobbed. Not a polite, silent kind of grief. Not the composed kind expected of soldiers or mothers or captains. This was feral. Ripping. The sound cracked out of her like something ancient. A scream swallowed into silence. A mother’s howl to a daughter who might never hear it. Her knees gave out and she sank to the soil beneath her, hands covering her face as the tears finally came. Hot, wild, real. The first time she’d cried, actually cried, since her husband died. Since Jane died. And it came like memory with claws.

John. He’d died in the First Contact War, one of the first to fall when diplomacy broke and everything turned to fire and static. They told her it was quick. A shot through the cockpit. Gone before he hit the ground. Like that was supposed to help. Like knowing he didn’t suffer was meant to soften the blow of losing the only man who ever made her feel like she wasn’t just a soldier with a name. She didn’t scream at the funeral. Didn’t cry in front of the brass. She just stood there, stiff in uniform, like grief was something to be endured in silence. Something to shove down. Swallow. Bury.

The real crying came later. Alone. Behind closed doors. In the cold quiet of her bed. She was given leave, but it unraveled her even more. There was no one left to salute. No mission to distract her. Just a pillow soaked in rage and guilt, and a world she no longer recognized. And instead of staying, instead of being the mother Jane needed, Hannah ran. She left her five-year-old daughter with her own father back on Earth, packed up the memories she couldn’t face, and begged for deployment. Six months. Special ops. Voluntary. Anything to get away from the house that still smelled like John. From the child that still looked like him.

She told herself it was duty. Service. Sacrifice. But it was cowardice. She couldn’t breathe around Jane. Couldn’t stand the way those small green eyes searched her face, looking for comfort she didn’t know how to give. Couldn’t handle the way Jane cried for her in the night, soft and confused. So she left. And when she came back, something in Jane was different. The open, laughing child had gone quiet. Controlled. Too still. Like she’d learned not to need. Learned not to ask. From that moment on, Jane never really let her back in.

The walls between them weren’t built on battlefields. They were born in that moment. In the goodbye Hannah never earned. In the silence Jane learned to live in. She didn’t raise a daughter, she raised a survivor. A girl who learned early that grief makes people disappear. That the people you love can choose not to stay. So of course Jane didn’t tell her. About the baby. The headaches. The slow physical unraveling. The fear crawling behind her eyes. Because Hannah had taught her how to wear the armor, but never how to take it off. And now she wept, not just for the daughter she might never see again, but for the mother she never learned how to be. In that moment, beneath the stars her daughter had died to protect, Hannah Shepard wept for everything she had lost. And everything she hadn’t known she was losing.

Eventually, the tears ran dry. They always did. But the silence they left behind was worse. Echoing. Hollow. Hannah sat there for a long time, knees curled under her, fingers raw from clutching at nothing. The wind shifted around her, cold and biting. Somewhere behind her, the Orizaba blinked in quiet standby, life still moving, still surviving. Jane had survived. Long enough to carry a life inside her. Long enough to feel alone enough not to tell her own mother.

She wiped her face with the heel of her hand, smearing salt and dirt across her cheekbones. Her breath came in sharp, deliberate exhales. Not steady. But functional. Enough to stand. Enough to walk. She pushed herself up slowly, legs trembling beneath her, and turned back toward the ship. The grief was still there, heavy as ever, but something else had taken root beneath it. Fury. Not just at the galaxy, or Cerberus, or the Reapers, or herself. At them. The ones who knew. The ones who kept it from her. Chakwas. She’d had every opportunity. Every chance to say something. And she didn’t. She let Hannah walk blind through her own daughter’s undoing.

As the airlock hissed open and the metallic scent of coolant and disinfectant filled her lungs, Hannah’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t know who else knew. Garrus? Joker? The whole damn crew? But she was going to find out. And Chakwas would be the first.

She strode through the CIC, posture straight, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. In the corner of her eye, she saw her crew. They fell silent. Whatever conversations were happening stopped cold, like the air pressure dropped the moment she entered the deck. Eyes tracked her, but no one dared meet her gaze. The fire burning behind her eyes was unmistakable—raw, righteous, dangerous. Not the fury of a captain reprimanding subordinates, but the kind of storm people instinctively stepped back from. Even Joker, cocky and irreverent as ever, caught the shift. He opened his mouth to say something, something easy, something to smooth the moment, but the words never made it out. Her expression froze him mid-breath. She didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge anyone. Didn’t blink. She moved like a warhead with a mission.

The elevator doors parted before her like they were smart enough to get out of her way. She stepped inside without a word, metal groaning softly beneath her boots. And when the doors sealed shut again, the CIC exhaled as one. By the time they opened again, the fire in her chest had sharpened into something deadly calm. Hannah was done being left in the dark.

Chapter Text

The medbay lights were low, night cycle dimmed to a pale blue hum, quiet enough to let the crew sleep and the machines whisper. But Hannah Shepard didn’t knock. She didn’t ask. She stormed in like the place owed her answers.

Chakwas and Garrus both looked up, caught mid-conversation. Garrus was half-seated on the medbed, still wrapped in bandages, a stabilizer clipped to his side, but he was awake. Alert. His mandibles twitched the moment he saw her face.

Hannah’s boots slammed against the floor as she crossed the room. “How long have you known?”

Chakwas stood instinctively. “Hannah—”

“No.” Her voice cracked across the silence like thunder. “No more bullshit.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. Not shaking. Not anymore. The grief from earlier was buried now, shoved into a corner behind a tidal wave of fury.

“You sat there, looked me in the eye, and listened to me beg for answers. Beg. And you said nothing.”

“Hannah—please. It wasn’t my place.”

“You’re a doctor,” Hannah spat. “My daughter’s doctor. And this is my ship. You think that gives you the right to decide what I do or don’t get to know about my own daughter’s condition?”

“Patient confidentiality—”

Hannah surged forward, pointing a finger like a blade. “She’s not a patient. She’s gone. And I’ve been tearing myself apart trying to figure out what I missed, what happened, and the whole time you were sitting on the one piece of truth I had left.”

“She made me promise.”

The voice wasn’t Chakwas. It was Garrus. Quiet. Low. But it cut through everything.

For a second, Hannah didn’t move. Then her eyes slid to him, slowly, like a gun locking onto a target. “You knew.”

He held her stare.

“You knew.” Her voice dropped to a low, vibrating whisper. “How long.”

Garrus’s mandibles flared and tightened. “After the Citadel. After shore leave..”

“The party.” Her mouth twisted around the word like it physically burned. “You sat next to me. You toasted with me. You let me talk about how proud I was, how I wished she’d let me in—and the whole time you knew she was—” Her voice cracked, and she didn’t let it finish. “You knew.”

“I didn’t want to lie,” Garrus said. “But I wasn’t going to break her trust.”

“You think this is about trust?” Hannah shouted.

Chakwas flinched. Garrus didn’t.

“This isn’t some classified op, Garrus! She was my daughter! And you—you were supposed to be the one who loved her!”

“I did!” he shouted back, the words ripping out of him. “I do.”

“Then why the hell did you let me bury her without knowing I lost a grandchild, too?!”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even the machines seemed to hold their breath. Hannah took a step back, her chest heaving.

“You think you’re in pain? You think you’re the only one who lost her? You think keeping her secret made you noble? All you did was rob me of the last piece of her I could’ve had.”

Garrus snapped, his mandibles twitching tight. “I didn’t just lose her, I lost everything. Every plan we made, everything we let ourselves believe in—gone. You think I didn’t want to tell the whole galaxy? That she was pregnant, that we had a future?” He shook his head, voice roughening. “But she made me promise. And when someone you love asks you to carry something like that… you carry it.

The room went still. Hannah’s face crumpled, just for a second. But she shoved the grief down like a fist in her gut.

“She was my daughter.”

“And she was the love of my life.”

Hannah let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, is that what she was? Is that how you make sense of it? Tell yourself it was her choice to die alone on that battlefield?”

Garrus looked like she’d struck him. And maybe she had. Wounded and bandaged, he sat up straighter, like he needed to take the hit fully.

His voice was low, shaking with restrained fury. “She wasn’t alone. She just didn’t choose you.”

Hannah’s jaw clenched. Garrus didn’t flinch. His voice was low. Measured. Razor-sharp. “She walked into hell carrying all of us. And whether she’s gone or still out there, you don’t get to rewrite what she chose just because you’re angry.”

Hannah stared at him, stunned for a breath. Then she stepped closer, close enough to see the cracks behind his eyes.

“You think I wanted her to choose me?” she said, voice trembling at the edges. “I wanted her to choose herself. For once in her life. Not the war. Not the mission. Not you.”

Hannah shook her head, bitter tears rising, but she didn’t blink them away. “I watched this galaxy devour her piece by piece. And I stood there and let it happen because I thought—hell, I hoped—you might be the one thing she finally chose for herself.” Her voice dropped, quiet now. Devastating. “But you just helped her burn the rest of herself to ash.”

Garrus didn’t look away. “She wasn’t ashes when I held her.” His voice didn’t rise. It dropped lower, like something heavy sinking through water. “She laughed. Kicked my ass in target practice. She planned names.”

A pause. A flicker of pain crossed his face, he didn’t let it slow him.

“She knew exactly what she was walking into. And she chose to carry it. Not because I asked. Not because of the war. Because she believed it would end with the people she loved still standing.” His mandibles flexed. “If you’re angry she didn’t run, you don’t know her like you think you do.”

Hannah took a breath like it hurt. She didn’t yell. Didn’t need to. Her voice was ice, precise and cutting.

“I gave the galaxy my daughter. You got the laughter, the cozy nights, the future.” She jabbed a finger into his chest plate now. “And you still let her walk into hell alone.”

Chakwas finally stepped forward. “Enough!”

Hannah whipped around. “You don’t get to decide what’s enough.”

“No,” Chakwas said calmly, firmly. “But I can tell you when you’re lashing out at the only other person who understands this kind of grief.”

Garrus looked up at her, eyes hollow. He didn’t speak again. Hannah stood frozen. Her fists slowly unclenched. But something in her had fractured permanently. She turned without another word and walked out, this time not storming, not crying. Just… gone.

•••

The Orizaba’s airlock hissed open behind him, but Garrus didn’t turn back. He walked alone across the space between ships, limping slightly despite the stabilizer clipped to his side. The pain was nothing. The silence, that was harder. The Normandy loomed ahead, dimmed but alive, systems stuttering back to full capacity. A skeleton of what it was. Just like the rest of them.

He stepped inside without a word. The crew was scattered, some helping with repairs, others resting, grieving in their own ways. No one stopped him. No one even looked. He took the elevator up. The soft whirl of old servos welcomed him like an old ghost. When the doors opened, he stood outside the captain’s cabin for a long time. Their cabin. His hand hovered over the keypad. It still accepted his code. The door sighed open.

Everything inside was still. Intact. Like she might walk back in at any moment, tug off her armor, and collapse into his arms with that same tired smile she always wore after a fight she shouldn’t have survived. But the air was stale now. The fish tank, empty and dim. Her scent lingered. Garrus stepped inside. The door closed behind him, locking the world out. He didn’t sit. Couldn’t. He paced once. Twice. Then stopped at her desk, tracing a clawed finger over the datapads she hadn’t touched.

Hannah’s voice echoed like gunfire in his skull. He didn’t think she meant to hit where it hurt. Or maybe she did. Either way, she’d hit dead center. “You let her walk into hell alone.” His mandibles twitched. He hadn’t let Shepard do anything alone. Not once. Not on Omega. Not with Cerberus. Not against Saren. Not on Horizon or Palaven or Earth. He followed her into war, into suicide missions, into every storm the galaxy could conjure. Until the beam. Until the moment that mattered most.

He’d been bleeding out, held back, carried off. And she—she’d turned around one last time and let go. “Don’t argue, Garrus.” He hadn’t. That’s the part that gutted him. He hadn’t fought her. But standing here, surrounded by the ghosts of their life together, he wasn’t sure what was a worse thought: That she died… Or that she died thinking he could live without her.

His eyes dropped to the floor. Then to the couch. The desk. The bed. Every inch of this place was a shrine now. A memory with no ending. He finally sat on the edge of the bed. Let his head fall into his hands. The room was still, the air thick with everything Garrus wouldn’t say out loud.

Then—blink. His omni-tool lit up. A message. Liara T’Soni. Of course. Word traveled fast. He didn’t open it right away. Just stared at her name for a while, wondering who told her. Chakwas, maybe. Or Joker. Maybe no one had to. Maybe grief just radiated off him like static.

He finally tapped the message. “I heard there were words earlier. I won’t ask. But if you need an ear—I’m here.” Simple. No pressure. Not like Liara to dance around a subject, but then again, maybe she understood that grief didn’t respond well to direct lines.

He stared at it for a moment longer, then keyed a reply before he could talk himself out of it. “Come up.” She didn’t make him wait long. The door slid open softly a few minutes later. Garrus didn’t look up right away. Just listened to her footsteps cross the room and stop, deliberate and respectful. She didn’t sit on the bed. She took the couch. Her usual spot. Opposite ends, like bookends to a story that never got a final page.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d answer,” she said softly.

“Neither was I.”

A quiet beat passed. Then another.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No,” he said. Then after a breath: “Yeah. I think I do.”

Liara nodded, hands folded gently in her lap. She didn’t push. Didn’t lean forward. Just waited.

“She was pregnant,” Garrus said.

Liara’s expression shifted, just slightly. Shock tempered by the fact that she expected something heavy. Still, the weight of the words landed.

“We didn’t find out until after shore leave on the Citadel,” he continued. “We were on a Cerberus raid. Easy, quick. Shepard got sick on the shuttle and Chakwas confirmed it. Said she wasn’t sure how it happened, just that something changed after Leviathan.”

Liara’s brows drew together. “Changed how?”

“Shepard said she felt… rewired. Like the Leviathan touched something deeper than just her mind.” He paused. “Chakwas thought it altered her at a cellular level. Something about her biology—about mine—like they made us compatible.”

Liara’s voice was nearly a whisper. “That’s… unprecedented.”

Garrus let out a dry breath. “Yeah. She thought so, too. She was scared. Not of the baby. But of what it meant.” He looked up at last. Met Liara’s eyes. “She didn’t tell anyone. Said she didn’t want to be treated like she was fragile. Like she couldn’t finish the fight.”

“Shepard never let fear dictate her path,” Liara said gently.

“No,” Garrus agreed. “But she carried more of it than anyone realized.”

Silence crept in again, heavier now.

“She didn’t want to be remembered as a martyr,” he said finally. “But I think that’s what she became.”

Liara shifted forward just slightly. “No. She became a myth. But the people who loved her… we remember the truth.”

That made something in Garrus’s chest tighten. He looked away, voice dropping low. “I should’ve stopped her.”

“You couldn’t have,” Liara said softly.

“I know.” A pause. “But I still should’ve.”

Liara let the silence stretch, but not out of discomfort. It was reverent. Like she understood that rushing anything now would break something fragile and sacred between them.

“She’d spent so long being the galaxy’s weapon. I think… I think this was the first thing that was hers.” Garrus said softly. Liara nodded slowly. “Something untouched by war. Untouched by duty.”

“She wanted to believe they could exist together,” he murmured. “Love and war. Legacy and survival. She wanted to believe in a world after all this. Enough to bring a child into it.”

Liara’s voice was a whisper. “That sounds like hope.”

He huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. And she gave it to me. And I was stupid enough to let her walk away with all of it.”

Liara looked down, hands folding tighter in her lap. “She always carried too much,” she said. “Even when we tried to help. Even when we begged her to lean on us.”

“She never wanted to be a burden,” Garrus said quietly.

“She wasn’t.”

“Never,” he agreed. “But maybe she didn’t believe that.”

Liara hesitated, then looked up. Her eyes shimmered, but didn’t fall apart. “Do you think she’s still out there?”

That was the question.The one that had clawed at the back of Garrus’s mind since the beam. Since the Normandy fell from the sky and they found the wreckage without her in it. His answer came slower than anything he’d said so far.

“Yes.”

Liara stood, stepping carefully across the room. She didn’t reach out, didn’t touch him, but she stood near the bed, watching him like she was seeing the shadow of the man he used to be and the hole Shepard had left behind.

“If she is,” she said softly, “we’ll find her.”

Garrus didn’t move. But his voice came, quiet and hollow. “But if she’s not?”

Liara’s expression didn’t waver. “Then we remember her as she was. As she chose to be. Not just what the galaxy made her.”

Liara sat in the chair, near the bed, watching him, giving him the space to break without pressure. Garrus sat still, elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of him like a prayer he didn’t know how to finish. The silence stretched again, but this time, it wasn’t companionable. It was suffocating.

His thoughts started looping, unspooling, curling tighter the longer he sat there. A cold little spiral he couldn’t stop. He should’ve argued. He should’ve told her no, that they were going to live long enough to fight over baby names for months. He should’ve made her stay. But he didn’t. Deep down, even then, some part of him knew she didn’t expect to survive. She didn’t tell the crew. Didn’t tell Hackett. Didn’t tell her mother. Only him. He was the secret keeper. The only one who knew she wasn’t just fighting for the galaxy. she was fighting for something small. Something personal. Something human.

And he let her go anyway. He saw it in Hannah’s face earlier. That rage, that pain. The look that said: You should’ve stopped her. And he hadn’t. Because Shepard had asked him not to. How do you say no to someone who’s already decided to die?

He dragged a hand down his face, claws scraping lightly against old scars.

“She was getting headaches,” he said suddenly, his voice rough and low. Liara looked toward him, listening. “After Leviathan.” He let out a breath, shaky. “She didn’t complain. Not really. Just… mentioned them. Like it wasn’t worth worrying anyone.”

He glanced down at his hands. “But I saw her at night. I knew something was wrong. I just kept telling myself it was stress. That she’d been through too much.” Liara stayed, still not interrupting. “I should’ve pushed harder. Asked Chakwas to check her out. Forced her to slow down. Something.”

His voice dropped, bitter. “But she was stubborn.”

“She was,” Liara said gently. “That’s the tragedy of it, isn’t it?”

Garrus looked up at her, something cracked in his expression. “I thought I had more time.”

Liara’s voice was soft. “So did I.”

He turned away, staring at the bed like he could still see the imprint of her lying there.

“The night before Earth… she asked me what I wanted after. When the war was over.” He swallowed. “I told her, I just wanted her. Maybe a house, someplace tropical, and to find out what a Human-Turian baby looks like.”

Liara moved then, finally sitting beside him. Not touching. Just… there.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she said.

Garrus didn’t respond right away. But when he finally did, his voice was a rasp. “I don’t know who I am without her.”

Liara stared ahead. “Neither do I.”

They sat like that for a while longer. Two survivors. Two grieving friends. No more speeches. No more battles. Just memory. And the echo of a woman too big for any ending

Chapter Text

It had been eight weeks since the Normandy fell from the sky. Since fire rained through the upper atmosphere and the war that was supposed to save the galaxy left them stranded on an unnamed planet, orbiting the edge of a dead relay and a dying dream.

Two months. 

Long enough for the bruises to fade. For the dead to be buried. For the silence to settle into everyone’s bones like old shrapnel that never quite worked its way out.

Hannah Shepard hadn’t spoken to Garrus Vakarian since the night she found out about the pregnancy. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t nod when he passed in the halls. Didn’t ask how his limp was healing.

Garrus didn’t mind. He wasn’t avoiding her. He just wasn’t chasing what wasn’t his to fix. He knew grief when he saw it. And Hannah’s was the sharp kind, the kind that wouldn’t soften until it cut through everything in its path. Maybe not even then.

His own injuries had nearly finished healing. He walked without pain now, though the limp remained. Small, barely there, but permanent. A souvenir.

The Normandy was fully operational again. Not as sleek as she’d once been. The armor was patchwork, the engine still whined in certain atmospheric pressures, and the hull bore scars that no amount of polish could cover. But she flew. And that mattered.

Liara had thrown herself into the Leviathan mystery with the kind of quiet, relentless obsession only someone like her could maintain. She and Garrus worked long hours in the lab, sifting through ancient scans, neural echoes, what little data Shepard had left behind. There were patterns neither of them could explain. Gaps in the readings that felt intentional. Alive. Like the Leviathan hadn’t just done something to Shepard—but left something behind. Still, they had no answers. Just theories. Just silence.

Until the signal came through.

It was a routine check-in, one of dozens, Hannah’s crew had sent through the repaired relay over the past month. Weak transmissions. Pings into the void. A long-distance searchlight hoping for a reflection. And this time, it came back. Hannah stared at the comms screen as the message unfurled. Text-based. Plain. But final.

-

Alliance confirmation received.

SSV Orizaba and Normandy location verified. Relay online. Return to Earth authorized.

Welcome home.

-

For a long time, she didn’t say anything. Then she stood. Straightened her spine. Smoothed her uniform with hands that still shook if she sat still too long. They were going home. To what, she didn’t know. But the waiting was over.

Hannah Shepard stood at the front of the Orizaba’s cockpit, hands folded behind her back. The clouds beyond the viewport looked different now, less like a prison, more like a path. The relay pulsed in the distance, newly reactivated. Open.

Her officers stood behind her. Joker sat at the Normandy’s helm, patched into the broadcast with a flick of EDI’s signal bridge. On both ships, screens lit up. Audio channels opened. Engineers paused their welding. Medics stilled their hands. Tali, Adams, Chakwas, Vega, Liara, Gabby, Kaidan, Garrus—every one of them stopped to listen.

A soft tone rang through both ships. And then Hannah’s voice came through, low, steady, and clear:

“This is Captain Hannah Shepard, speaking to both crews of the SSV Orizaba and the SSV Normandy.”

“We’ve been through hell together. We survived the Reaper War. We crash-landed on a planet we couldn’t name, in ships held together by scrap and willpower. And we endured.”

“For eight weeks, you worked without rest. You gave your time, your skill, your loyalty—without promise of rescue. Without command. Without backup. You patched wounds, rewired engines, kept the lights on when nothing else was working. And you did it with heart.”

“I want to thank you. Not as your commanding officer, but as someone who saw what this galaxy tried to take from us, and what we refused to give up. Today, we received confirmation. The relay is fully operational. The Alliance has our location.” 

“Earth is waiting. Prepare for return transit. It’s time to go home.”

The message ended with a quiet click.

On the Normandy, the CIC lit up with the soft buzz of movement. Crew members glanced to each other, some stunned, some smiling faintly for the first time in weeks.

In the Orizaba’s cockpit, Hannah kept her posture straight, her expression neutral. Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. Home. She wasn’t sure what she’d find there. But it was time to see.

The hiss of cooling vents and the soft whine of the targeting matrix filled the battery. Garrus was knee-deep in the same calibration cycle he’d run twice already that day, maybe three. He told himself the weapon needed fine-tuning after atmospheric stress. Truth was, it didn’t. But his hands didn’t know what else to do. The barrel felt familiar beneath his fingers. Solid. Clean. Controlled.

Then the comm channel opened. And Hannah’s voice filled the room. He froze. Not completely—his fingers kept moving, like they hadn’t gotten the memo—but his breath stilled in his chest. Her voice was steady, authoritative, clipped in that Alliance tone she always wore when she wanted to keep her heart out of her orders. But it slipped through, here and there. He heard it in the way she said we endured. He heard it in loyalty. In thank you. By the time she said, It’s time to go home, his hands had stopped. He stared at the glowing diagnostic readout, but he wasn’t seeing it. Home. 

It used to be wherever Shepard was. Sometimes her cabin. Sometimes a war zone. But always near her. Now? Now it was a relay away. A planet that had burned. A future that looked nothing like the one they’d planned.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. Hannah hadn’t spoken to him since that night. And maybe she never would. Maybe she couldn’t. He didn’t blame her. But hearing her voice echo through his ship—Shepard’s ship—it felt like something shifted. Just slightly. A gravity well pulling them all forward again. Even the ones who had no idea where they were supposed to land.

Garrus leaned forward, resting both hands on the barrel of the cannon.

“Going home,” he murmured to no one.

Then, quieter: “Guess we’ll see if there’s anything left of it.”

•••

Liara sat alone in her lab aboard the Normandy, lights dimmed, consoles casting soft reflections off metal and glass. The hum of the drive core rumbled faintly beneath the floor. Outside the viewport, stars slipped by, casual and endless, unaware of how much weight the silence inside the room carried.

She’d listened to the logs a dozen times. She was listening again.

“Headaches haven’t stopped. It’s like… something crawled inside my skull and decided to stay.”

“I’m not afraid of it. Not exactly. But I don’t think it’s done with me.”

Shepard’s voice crackled softly through the speakers. War-worn, but sharp. Measured. And more honest in these private moments than she ever was over comms or briefing rooms.

“I don’t sleep anymore. Not really. I dream of deep water. Something watching. Not malevolent—just… old. Older than anything. I feel it when I wake up.”

Liara paused the playback.

Her fingers hovered over the interface, then slid to another screen, a graph. Neural activity. Shepard’s scans from before and after Leviathan contact, processed through every VI enhancement she had access to. The difference was unmistakable.

She’d compared hundreds of spectrographic readings in her life. Prothean, Reaper, even Thorian once, but none of them behaved like this.

Shepard’s post-Leviathan brainwave patterns weren’t just different. They were layered. A second pattern overlapped the original, woven through it like a parasitic melody. Not invasive. Not destructive. Just… other. Like something had left a thumbprint on her mind.

Liara stared at the screen, then quietly activated the comm.

Garrus answered. He was calibrating, always, but the moment he heard her voice, he came.

Now he stood beside her, arms crossed, mandibles set in that subtle, tense way that meant he didn’t want to hope, but couldn’t help it.

“She was right,” Liara said without preamble. “Something changed in her. After Leviathan.”

Garrus leaned over the console, studying the graphs.

“You think it’s what made the pregnancy possible?”

Liara hesitated. “That… and something more.” She pulled up another screen. “These are the readings from before Leviathan. And here—after. See the increase in psychic resonance here? That’s not normal human neurophysiology. That’s… not even Prothean.”

Garrus narrowed his eyes. “So what does that mean?”

Not human. Not Prothean. Not Reaper. Something older. And it hadn’t left.

Liara leaned back in her chair, brows furrowed. It wasn’t indoctrination, not in any sense they understood. Indoctrination degraded. It broke down. What she was seeing here was different. This… preserved. It amplified. It rewrote Shepard’s mind without erasing her. And more than that, it shielded her.

“Shepard’s physiology shifted. Cell regeneration rates, neuro-electrical conductivity, hormonal pathways, everything adapted. But this…” Liara gestured to the brainwave chart. “This is something else entirely.”

Garrus leaned in slightly. “Indoctrination?”

Liara shook her head. “No. It’s the opposite. Indoctrination corrodes. This builds.” She paused, adjusting the filter. “I think Leviathan imprinted on her. Protected her. Psychically. Whatever it left behind, it didn’t just shield her from the Reapers. It made her… resilient.”

“She always was,” Garrus murmured.

“Yes,” Liara said quietly. “But this… it rewrote her mind without erasing who she was. And more than that—it preserved her.”

Garrus stepped back, staring at the ghost of Shepard’s neural imprint on the screen.

“And you think that’s why she had to have survived the Crucible.”

“I don’t think it was chance. Or luck. I think she was designed to endure.”

A silence fell between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was reverent.

Liara’s voice, when it came again, was almost a whisper. “No wonder the Reapers couldn’t take her.”

The silence between Garrus and Liara stretched one beat longer. Then the Normandy’s comms crackled to life, all channels open, Joker’s voice unmistakable and as sharp as ever:

“All hands, this is your favorite pilot. Buckle up and find a seat—Earth in sight, relay crossing complete. ETA: 37 minutes to atmo. Repeat, 37 minutes to Earthfall. Guess we’re finally going home.”

His voice lingered a second too long. Then the channel cut. Neither Liara nor Garrus moved at first.

Then Garrus exhaled through his nose. “I should… get ready.”

Liara nodded, offering him a look that was equal parts encouragement and understanding.

“Good luck, Garrus.”

He didn’t respond. Just gave a faint nod before turning and heading for the elevator.

Garrus stepped inside Shepard’s private quarters slowly, stripping off his armor piece by piece with quiet precision. Not ritual, not vanity, just the need to feel human again. Or the turian equivalent.

The water hissed to life in the shower, steam curling around him, hot and grounding. He stayed there longer than necessary. Let it beat against his plates, his scars, his thoughts. And when he stepped out, toweling off, pulling on fresh clothes, he let his mind drift.

Back. Way back.

— 

C-Sec HQ was full of cowards.

Garrus paced outside the evidence room, mandibles tight, fingers twitching at his side. He’d just been chewed out, again, for daring to suggest that maybe, just maybe, Spectres shouldn’t be above consequences.  But no. The Council had spoken. Case closed. Evidence ignored. And he was being benched. Again.

He barely registered the footsteps behind him until a voice—human, female, sharp—cut through the haze.

“You always this subtle?”

He turned.

The woman standing in front of him, didn’t look like much, short for a soldier, posture too relaxed, too tiny to have her arms crossed like she owned the room. She was dressed in armor, N7 proudly displayed on her upper chest plate, the stripe down her arm was also a clear indication that she was an advanced solider. Her face wore a look that said: I don’t wait for permission.

“Do I know you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Commander Shepard. Alliance.” She offered no handshake. “I heard you were looking into Saren.”

Garrus studied her. He’d read the reports—Skyllian Blitz, life long career soldier, half a dozen other messes with her name on them. Always came out alive. 

“You figured I’d what—hand over my investigation?”

She raised a brow. “Figured you were the only one on this station who wasn’t kissing the Council’s ass.”

His mandibles twitched before he could stop them. “Not wrong.”

“Great. So do you have anything useful, or are you just pacing and brooding for fun?”

He bristled. “I don’t share intel with just anyone.”

She shrugged and turned. “Then I’ll find it myself.”

Garrus watched her walk away, casual, confident, not looking back.

“You’ve got nerve,” he called.

She glanced over her shoulder. “You’ve got a stick up your ass. So what?”

He laughed. Actually laughed. He didn’t follow her. Not yet. But he remembered the way she walked away like the galaxy owed her answers. And he liked it more than he wanted to admit.

And when he ran into her again, it was in the chaos of a clinic and the search for a lost Quarian. By the time Shepard burst in, gun drawn, the hostiles were already down. Sprawled on the floor, unconscious or worse.

And Garrus was standing over Dr. Michel, breathing hard, sidearm still hot. He looked up when she entered.

She looked around, then at him. “You always make this kind of impression?”

He shrugged. “Only on the people who need saving.”

She stared at him for a second, then holstered her weapon.

“Come on,” she said. “You want a shot at Saren? Stick with me.”

He arched a brow. “Just like that?”

“I like your aim. And your attitude. You’re a pain in the ass, but so am I.”

A beat. Then he nodded.

And just like that—without fanfare or protocol or Council approval—Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian became a team.

The second time Garrus met Commander Shepard, she was a ghost, two years dead, and yet somehow right back in the heart of chaos. Of course she was. Some things never changed.

Smoke, gunfire, shouting. All major merc squads pinned him down. Sending in team after team. He was already in motion, sniping from cover, but tired. Ready for it to end. Then she came into scope, shotgun and over moded tech gear wrapped in black leather and armor. The moment was a blur of violence, and it took him half a second to realize who it was. Not by her face. That came later. By how she moved. How she owned the fight. How the battlefield shifted when she entered it, like every threat instinctively knew who the real apex predator was. When she turned toward him, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat, it was like watching a ghost blink back to life.

“Archangel.” she’d said when she finally made it to his base, squinting through the smoke. “You always this theatrical or is today special?”

He’d kept his voice low, modulated through the helmet. “You’re mouthier than I remember.”

The moment stretched. Guns cooled. Her aim didn’t waver.

Then he pulled the helmet off. Her smile hit him like recoil.

“Garrus?”

“Took you long enough,” he said, smirking.

He didn’t remember taking a rocket to the face shortly after that, but he remembered the way her breath hitched when she saw him, and the way she smiled when his helmet hit the floor. And in a place built to bury people, somehow, she brought them both back to life.

—

Garrus sat on the edge of the bed, rolling the cuff of his sleeve, mandibles flexing faintly. Is that how I’ll react when I see her again? He wasn’t sure. He’d seen her in war. In silence. In love. In death. What was left? He stood slowly, they were almost to Earth. He just didn’t know what version of her would be waiting. If she’d smile. If she’d remember. If she’d still be herself. Or if she wouldn’t be waiting at all. He only knew one thing: He’d recognize her. Anywhere.

Ping.

The soft tone from his Omni-tool broke through the stillness. A message, high-priority clearance. From Hackett.

ADM. HACKETT – PRIORITY

Garrus. Shepard is alive. Dr. Lawson recovered her after the beam hit. She’s stable. You’ll be taken to her as soon as you land.

He stared at the words. Alive. Recovered. Stable. His mandibles twitched. His heart thudded like a war drum beneath his plates. She was alive. He read the message again—just to be sure. Then again. He hadn’t even made it to Earth, and she’d already found a way to come back to him.

Of course she had.

Across the stars aboard the SSV Orizaba, Captain Hannah Shepard stood at the CIC console, her posture as sharp as her uniform. The stars outside were the same ones the Normandy chased, but her thoughts were anything but aligned with the man on the other ship.

“ETA to Earth: thirty minutes,” she announced, voice clipped and clear as it echoed through her bridge. “All hands, prep for orbital transition. Final diagnostics in fifteen.”

Her crew moved efficiently. They always did. Discipline didn’t have to be loud. As soon as the command was given, she stepped away from the center of the room, nodding once to her XO before making a quiet exit.

Her boots echoed down the corridor, controlled, steady, until she reached her quarters and sealed the door behind her. The moment it clicked shut, she allowed herself a breath. Just one.

Then she keyed the comm panel.

Incoming channel request: Admiral Steven Hackett – Priority One

She straightened instinctively, like the man could see her through the screen.

“This is Captain Shepard. Go ahead.”

The screen flickered to life, casting a cold blue glow across Hannah’s quarters.

Admiral Steven Hackett’s image sharpened, shoulders squared, face lined, eyes as unreadable as ever.

“Captain Shepard.”

“Admiral.” Her voice was level. Professional. The only way she knew how to be with him now.

Hackett spoke again. “We’ve received your transmission. Your crew’s condition reports have been reviewed and logged. Orizaba’s retrofit performance is… impressive, given the field conditions.”

“We did what we had to.” A pause. “The Normandy crew played a large role in that. They’ll need debrief and medical leave the second we touch down.”

“That’s being arranged. Logistics have already started on our end.” Hackett assured. 

The silence after that was long enough to mean something. Hannah’s jaw tightened. She didn’t ask. Hackett folded his hands, gaze dropping briefly to something off-screen, like there was something in the report he hadn’t decided how to say out loud.

“You’ve done well, Captain. Holding two crews together under those circumstances… not many could’ve done it.”

She didn’t respond to the compliment. Didn’t deflect it either. Just stood there, waiting.

“There’s one more thing,” Hackett said.

Her heart didn’t race. Not visibly. But her fingers curled tighter around the console edge.

“A former Cerberus operative, Miranda Lawson, located David Anderson’s body, and commander Jane Shepard.”

That got a reaction. Just the flick of Hannah’s eyebrows. Hackett noticed.

“She reached out immediately. Brought something to our attention.”

Hannah’s pulse jumped. Still, her voice stayed even. “Go on.”

Hackett hesitated. Just for a breath. “We recovered Anderson’s body. Like I said, but also Commander Shepard, she’s still alive. Extensive damage. Near-total organ failure on arrival.”

Her stomach dropped, but she said nothing.

“Lawson is keeping her alive. She’d been stabilizing her on and off for weeks—running her off synthetic upgrades and emergency tech she’d stolen from the Illusive Man himself.” He leaned forward. “It’s her, Hannah.”

Silence. Not shock. Not relief. Not joy. Just silence.

Hannah blinked once. “How is Jane now?”

“She’s alive. Stable. But, there are… variables..”

That broke something in her voice. Just slightly. “What kind of variables?”

“It would be better discussed in person.” 

•••

The ships broke through the clouds in tandem, silent silhouettes against the bruised curve of the Earth. The planet still looked whole. Still green in places, still blue where the oceans held. But the scars ran deep. So deep, even space couldn’t hide them. Pillars of smoke clawed toward the sky from the shattered continents below. Some fires still burned so hot, their glow pulsed through the clouds like warning lights, visible even from orbit. Cities that once sparked like constellations were gone. Gutted. Ghosted.

The Normandy’s cockpit was quiet, Joker’s hands flying across the console with precision that didn’t match the hollow look in his eyes.

“No auto-landing feed,” he muttered. “Guess satellites are still fried.”

Tali, standing just behind him, didn’t speak. No one did. Not at first. Even EDI stayed quiet, letting the weight settle.

Down below, the ground unfolded like a battlefield frozen in time. Fields blackened by Reaper fire stretched for miles. Roads were barely visible under collapsed buildings and scorched steel. Civilian camps clustered where emergency shelters had gone up, tiny patches of life scattered across the ruined terrain like sparks struggling to catch.

Children clung to parents. Soldiers leaned on crutches or carried others in makeshift wheelchairs. Flags waved weakly from crumpled buildings, too tattered to mean anything now. It wasn’t peace. It was survival. And even that felt uncertain.

The Normandy touched down first, landing struts groaning against uneven ground. The Orizaba followed, settling beside it in a slow, controlled descent. Hannah stood at her CIC viewport as Earth rose to meet her. She watched the fires, the broken skyline of London, the crater where the Citadel beam had once torn into the ground.

No words came. This wasn’t the home she remembered. It was the graveyard her daughter had disappeared into. And now it was where she’d find her again.

The landing ramp hissed as it lowered, groaning like it hadn’t quite forgiven them for surviving. Garrus squinted into the daylight. The air was thick with smoke and static. He could taste it. Burnt ozone. Ash. And under it all, the iron tang of soil that had bled. His boots hit Earth for the first time since the Crucible fired. It didn’t feel like victory. It felt like walking into someone’s funeral a few days too late.

Around him, the Normandy’s crew stepped off in silence. Joker limped down, eyes scanning the horizon. Chakwas helped Kaidan off the ramp with a steadiness that said she was used to moving forward, even when her heart was behind her.

Then he saw Hackett. The admiral stood waiting at the edge of the landing zone, uniform crisp despite the ash, hands clasped behind his back. The wind pulled at the edges of his coat, but nothing else about him moved.

As Garrus approached, Hackett offered a slow, grave nod.

“Vakarian. I want to personally thank you—and your entire crew—for everything you’ve done. You carried the galaxy through fire. And you brought the Normandy, with all her crew, home.”

Garrus didn’t respond right away. Just nodded back. “She carried us, sir.”

Before Hackett could reply, the air shifted. He turned, and there she was. Hannah Shepard.

Stepping down from the Orizaba with the kind of poise only someone forged by service could carry after a war like this. Her eyes swept the camp. Her jaw was tight. She was all steel and silence. Garrus straightened instinctively. Hannah stopped in front of Hackett. Not a handshake. Not a nod. Not even eye contact for more than a second. Just a formal, practiced salute. No words exchanged. Nothing personal. Just two soldiers putting their grief on a shelf because duty came first.

“Captain Shepard,” Hackett said, glancing between them. “Garrus. With me.”

He turned toward the hardened path leading away from the landing zone, toward what remained of a secure compound, likely scavenged from reaper tech and Alliance retrofit alike.

Then Hackett paused and looked back to the crew. “The rest of you, stand down. Get checked out by med staff, grab a warm meal. I know you’re eager, but I don’t want to overwhelm the commander. She’ll need time.”

A murmur of understanding moved through the group. Garrus hesitated—just for a second—then followed. So did Hannah. They walked behind Hackett, flanked by silence, surrounded by smoke and the echoes of a war that hadn’t quite stopped ringing in their ears. Each step closer to her felt like stepping through the aftermath of a dream he wasn’t sure would survive waking. The compound wasn’t far, but it felt like it took years to reach.

They walked in silence, the crunch of boots against ruined soil the only sound. What passed for a path was uneven, half stone, half mud, peppered with Reaper shrapnel half-buried like broken bones. Portable fences had been thrown up hastily around the perimeter, lined with Alliance flags that fluttered in the wind, scorched and faded.

The closer they got, the quieter the world became. No gunfire. No orders. No comm chatter. Just the low hum of power generators and the sharp, sterile hiss of med bays trying to function inside what was once an Alliance command post. The outer walls were scorched white, repainted just enough to cover the worst of it. Power cables coiled like veins across the ground, pulsing faintly with borrowed life. Solar panels glinted weakly overhead. Drones hovered at the corners, silent sentries watching their approach. The air smelled of antiseptic. And fire. And rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

At the main entrance, two armed guards stood at attention, saluting as Hackett passed. One of them keyed in a code on a rusted control panel. The door hissed open with a hydraulic groan, like the place itself didn’t want to be disturbed.

Inside, the light changed. Gone was the sickly gray of battlefield skies. Inside the compound, the lights were clean. Soft. Artificial. The floor was a patchwork of matte steel and old Alliance paneling, covered in non-slip medical runners. The hallways were narrow, lined with crates and supplies and oxygen tanks. Engineers passed in silence. A medic moved by with a datapad, eyes wide when she caught sight of Hannah and Garrus, but said nothing. It wasn’t a hospital. It wasn’t a military base. It was something between the two. A liminal space. A place where no one quite breathed normally.

They passed a room where a holographic model of a human body spun slowly above a terminal, Shepard’s, Garrus realized, by the shape of the scarring, the readouts. Bio-synthetic overlays flickered over her skeletal structure. Notes scrolled in the air: Pulmonary enhancement. Neural scaffolding. Cardiovascular matrix, stable. All in Miranda’s formatting. All far above Alliance standard. Hannah slowed as she passed. She didn’t stop.

They reached the end of the hall. Another door. This one unmarked. No room number. No name. Hackett keyed it open himself. The light inside was dimmer, just enough to ease headaches, no doubt. A small private room. One bed. Monitors arranged like a protective circle. Breathers. IV lines. Cooling systems. Not a full medbay, but enough to keep someone alive. And then some.

There was a figure on the bed. Still. Too still. But alive. He knew it even before the readouts confirmed it. Garrus felt his throat go tight.

Shepard. She was here. Not a memory. Not a body. Here.

Garrus stepped through the threshold first, boots silent against the padded floor. The door sealed behind them with a hush, and suddenly, the world narrowed.

The hum of machines filled the space, low, steady, rhythmic. A heartbeat made of metal and light. Green monitors pulsed, casting their glow over Shepard’s silhouette like starlight on stone. She lay on her back, unmoving, half-sunken into the curve of the mattress. Tubes ran like vines from her arms and ribs. Electrodes trailed up her temples. Her hair had grown. A lot. Messy at the edges. But it was her.

Even broken, even sleeping, she carried weight. Gravity. A presence that filled the room like oxygen. Garrus didn’t move closer yet. Couldn’t. His legs were frozen, locked somewhere between instinct and awe. His eyes scanned every inch of her like a soldier confirming intel, counting breath, checking rhythm, looking for any sign she’d stir.

Hannah moved beside him. Silent. Still in uniform, but smaller now. Shoulders drawn in, fists tight. She looked older. Like time had moved faster for her than anyone else in the room. No one spoke. Not even Hackett. He stood near the door, watching, waiting. The machines beeped on.

A sigh left Garrus, shaky and half-swallowed. His mandibles twitched. 

“She’s alive,” he said, barely above a whisper. A fact. A prayer. A promise. “Spirits… she’s actually alive.”

His voice cracked halfway through. And for just a second, it looked like Shepard might stir. A flicker behind the eyes. A twitch in her fingers. Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe the mind plays tricks when hope walks back in.

Hannah reached out then. Brushed her hand against her daughter’s fingers. Careful. Gentle. As if afraid she might break the illusion.

“She always finds a way back,” she said softly.

Chapter Text

Garrus didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. Time had gone soft around the edges, stretched thin between the sound of Shepard’s breathing and the blinking of monitors that felt too loud for a room this quiet.

Every part of him wanted to move closer. Touch her. Say something. But some instinct, something primal and reverent, told him not to. Like she was a shrine. Like this moment was a fragile thing, suspended in stasis, and even the smallest motion might break it.

And then the door hissed open. He turned, expecting a medic. Instead, Miranda Lawson stepped inside.

She was exactly as he remembered, perfect in a way that felt both manufactured and entirely natural. Hair a sleek curtain of ink-dark gloss, not a strand out of place. Cerulean eyes, cool and calculating. Her white uniform clung to her with military precision, every seam pressed, every detail immaculate. She didn’t walk so much as glide, posture like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.

Her gaze swept the room once, and Hackett took his leave with a nod, “Dr. Lawson can fill you in from here. Good luck and congratulations to both of you.” 

Once the doors hissed shut behind the admiral, Dr. Lawson introduced herself in true Miranda fashion. “It’s rude,” she said crisply, “to barge into a patient’s recovery suite without the attending physician present.”

Her voice was like frost, polite, poised, and unmistakably condescending.

Garrus bristled, but Hannah beat him to it.

“Miranda.” The name came flat. Controlled.

Miranda arched a brow but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she walked past them like they weren’t there at all, straight to Shepard’s bedside. She tapped something into the wall terminal with surgical efficiency. Lights blinked in response.

“I suppose Hackett let you in early,” she said. “Not ideal, but not catastrophic. Her vitals remain stable.” She looked up, eyes flicking between Garrus and Hannah. “No sudden movements, no talking near her left ear. Neural sensitivity is still heightened from reactivation.”

‘Reactivation.’ Garrus almost asked what the hell that meant, but Miranda kept talking.

“She’s healing.” She gestured to a screen, bringing up Shepard’s scan—layer after layer of muscle, bone, synthetic threadwork, and glowing overlays. “Neurological activity is strong. Cardiovascular systems are within normal range. Musculoskeletal regeneration is ahead of schedule. Whatever kept her together after the blast did a passable job. I’ve improved on it.”

She paused, fingers poised midair over the terminal. Then she turned slightly toward them, just enough to signal this next part was intentional.

“And,” she added, voice smooth as glass, “the fetus appears healthy. No abnormalities detected. Growth rate consistent with human gestation. Approximately sixteen to seventeen weeks.”

Silence followed. Garrus didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“The fetus?” Hannah’s voice had dropped an octave.

Hannah knew of the pregnancy, obviously, but had barely hoped her own daughter survived. Let alone the baby she barely carried. 

Miranda blinked slowly, assuming she broke new information. “Oh. You didn’t know.” She sounded almost pleased.

“She’s pregnant,” Miranda said plainly. “Has been since before Earth. Possibly even before the Cerberus base. The fetus is genetically viable, no signs of hybridization, which frankly is a miracle considering the circumstances. Whatever the crucible or catalyst did to her… it made this possible, I assume.” 

She stepped back from the bed now, folding her arms as she looked down at Shepard—like a scientist admiring her most promising experiment.

Garrus couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All he could do was feel. Shepard. Alive. And carrying their child. His knees might’ve buckled if he weren’t trained to hold the line.

Miranda, of course, barely registered the emotional quake she’d just detonated. “I’ll be monitoring her closely. The baby, too. She’s stable, for now. But if you’re hoping for a reunion scene, I’d recommend you lower your expectations. Shepard won’t be conscious for another day or two.”

She tapped a few final commands into the panel, turned sharply on her heel, and walked out, flawless as ever, leaving the door hissing shut behind her like a final period on a sentence no one was ready for.

Garrus looked at Hannah. But she wasn’t looking back. Her eyes were locked on Shepard, wide, damp, stunned. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to. The weight of it was enough to silence galaxies.

•••

The mess hall in the camp wasn’t much. Tin tables. Stale air. The clink of cheap utensils echoing like gunfire in a steel drum. But for the first time in eight weeks, it smelled like real food. Not rations. Not protein paste. Actual, honest-to-god warm food. Beans, meatloaf, something that might’ve once been vegetables if you squinted. The crew sat shoulder to shoulder in a room that was too small, too quiet, and somehow too loud all at once.

Joker picked at his tray like it might detonate.

“I mean, I’m just saying,” he started, voice pitched to reach the table but not the walls, “if they were walking into a morgue, Hackett wouldn’t be wearing his Sunday face.”

Across from him, James grunted into his meal. “Could’ve been Anderson.”

“Could’ve been a hundred people,” Kaidan added, eyes distant.

“Yeah,” Joker said, flicking his spork dramatically, “but it wasn’t.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew. Steam curled off the trays. The hum of the generators vibrated up through the floor like a second heartbeat.

Liara sat at the end of the table, her food untouched. Her fingers were steepled beneath her chin, eyes fixed on some invisible point just past the bulkhead wall.

“She’s alive,” she said finally. No drama. No buildup. Just the facts, delivered like gravity.

Steve’s breath hitched. “Wait—what?”

Liara looked up. “I didn’t see her. But I saw the readings. Neural. Bio-synthetic. It’s her.”

Chakwas leaned back, arms folded. She’d known. Of course she had. Her silence hadn’t been denial. It had been discipline. Maybe even fear. “I suspected as much,” she murmured. “But until I saw her myself…”

“You saw her?” Joker’s voice went sharp, slicing into the air like a thrown knife.

Chakwas gave a slow nod. “I caught a glimpse through the medbay’s observation port. Unconscious. Tubes. IVs. She looked like hell. But it was her. Lawson looks to be in charge.” 

The air shifted. Chairs scraped. The whole table seemed to lift slightly, as if the center of gravity had just moved.

“I knew it,” Joker whispered. Then louder, half-defiant: “I knew she wasn’t gone.”

Steve covered his mouth with one hand, like he was holding something in. A prayer. A sob. A scream.

“She’s been alive this whole time?” Kaidan said, stunned.

“Looks like it,” Joker muttered, leaning back. “And Miranda’s been playing Lazarus 2.0 in secret. Again. Color me shocked.”

“You think scars knew?” James asked.

Everyone looked at him.

“You saw his face when they came back,” Liara said quietly. “He looked like a man who saw his heart restart.”

Javik, silent until now, tilted his head. “She is the center of your gravity. This ship… this crew… all of you rotate around her. She dies, you fall out of orbit.”

No one argued. For a long time, the only sound was chewing. Breathing. Someone’s tray creaked as they pushed it away.

Joker stared down at his beans. They’d gone cold. “So… what now?” he asked no one in particular. “We just sit here? Pretend we don’t know? Wait for them to come down from Olympus and tell us if the god we prayed to is still bleeding?”

“We wait,” Chakwas said firmly. “We give them time. She’s not out of danger yet.”

“But she’s here,” Tali said. “That’s what matters.”

They all sat there for another few minutes, like the truth hadn’t quite sunk in. Like it needed to circle the room a few more times, sink into skin and memory.

Joker leaned back, arms crossed, eyes on the far wall. “I knew it,” he said again. This time, not with sarcasm. Not even with pride. Just with something quiet. Something grateful. “I always knew she’d find her way home.”

Then—ping.

It started with a single chime from his omni-tool, but it spread like a contagion, up and down the table, wrists lighting up in unison, a glow of orange and blue refracted off tired faces.

PRIORITY MESSAGE – ADM. HACKETT

ALL NORMANDY CREW. REPORT TO BRIEFING ROOM GAMMA. TEN MINUTES.

“Shit,” Joker muttered, sitting up straighter. “Well. There goes digestion.”

James was already on his feet. “Bet it’s about her.”

“Of course it’s about Shepard,” Tali replied, moving faster than she had in weeks.

Chakwas didn’t speak, just stood with the quiet authority of someone who already knew the script. Liara folded her tray, calm but unreadable. Tali rose with a youthful jolt. Even Javik moved with purpose, ancient and silent, like he’d been expecting this summon since the beam hit Earth.

They filed out together. No one strayed. No one asked questions. The air was different now, charged, crackling with anticipation. If before the camp had felt like a waiting room for the dead, now it pulsed with something close to hope.

[Briefing Room – Earth Base]

The briefing room wasn’t much better than the mess hall, just another box welded from old war steel and desperation. Same exposed beams in the ceiling like the ribcage of something long dead. Same overhead lights, flickering and buzzing like dying insects trapped in glass. But it was cleaner. Tighter. The air carried the bite of sterilization spray. Along one wall were old mission monitors that blinked in standby mode, casting pale blue shadows across concrete floors scuffed by a thousand boots. A long, war-scratched table dominated the center, flanked by mismatched chairs dragged in from half a dozen departments.

At the far end stood Admiral Steven Hackett. Arms folded behind his back. Jaw locked tight. The weight of a dozen star systems carved into the lines on his face. He didn’t pace. Didn’t fidget. Just waited, still as gravity, while the last of the crew filtered in and took their places. Boots clinked softly on metal. Breath fogged faintly in the colder corners of the room. No one spoke. And when the door hissed shut behind them with a hydraulic sigh, Hackett didn’t wait.

“She’s alive.”

No preamble. No ceremony. Just the truth, leveled like a gunshot. A low ripple moved through the crew. No one interrupted. No one dared.

“Commander Shepard was recovered from the surface by former Cerberus operative Miranda Lawson,” Hackett continued. “Somehow… and we still don’t know how… her body survived the beam impact and the detonation at ground zero. She was barely alive. Lawson stabilized her and brought her in.”

Joker’s throat felt stuck. He wasn’t breathing. No one was.

“She’s unconscious. Medically induced coma while her nervous system continues to repair itself. But her vitals are strong. Stronger than they should be. We’re looking at a full awakening within seventy-two hours.”

Seventy-two hours. Liara’s heart kicked once, then again.

Hackett stepped back, letting the gravity of the moment settle before he moved on. “The Alliance is preparing a formal debriefing and commendation ceremony. We want the crew of the Normandy recognized—all of you. Your actions saved this galaxy. And when Commander Shepard wakes, she deserves to see what she protected standing tall.” He paused. “There’ll be cameras. Medals. Speeches. It’s mostly for the vids, yes. But I want you all to know, it’s real too. You matter. What you endured matters. And she’ll know it.”

Silence thickened, respectful. Reverent.

Then Kaidan cleared his throat. “And after?”

“We go forward,” Hackett said simply. “Together.”

The lights dimmed slightly as the briefing ended. People started to rise, to breathe again. To blink and shuffle and whisper like they’d just walked out of a dream.

Liara stayed seated a moment longer, staring at the center of the table like she could see her reflection in the hologlass. Seventy-two hours. She could wait.

•••

The door hissed shut behind them with a sound too final to ignore. For a moment, Garrus didn’t move. He stood just outside the recovery room, where Shepard lay behind glass and quiet miracles. The soft hum of the medbay whispered through the corridor, cooling systems, distant voices muffled by steel. And beneath it all, the weight of what Miranda had said still echoed through him. 

She was pregnant. Still pregnant. Still alive. And everything had changed again. foot steps behind him. Steady. Familiar. He didn’t turn. Not yet. He could feel her there. Still carrying the weight of two wars and a grief that never asked for permission. 

“You knew,” Hannh said behind him. Her voice wasn’t angry this time. Just tired. Like her ribs were still wrapped in too many memories. “About the baby. You knew before I did.”

He closed his eyes. “Yeah. I did.”

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t,” he said. “I wanted to. Spirits, I almost did a hundred times. She didn’t want you to know. Said you’d treat her different.” 

Silence stretched between them. She didn’t deny it.

“She was probably right,” Hannah admitted softly.

Garrus turned, finally facing her. The harsh overhead lighting softened around her silhouette. Her face looked older than when he’d first met her, a battlefield of restraint and regret. But her eyes… they were still hers. The same ones that narrowed at him when she found out, the same ones that scanned for danger before emotion. But right now? They just looked tired.

“You’ve been angry,” he said.

She didn’t argue. “I was grieving. And scared. And ashamed. My daughter was dying and I didn’t even know what she was carrying.”

“She didn’t tell anyone but me,” he said, quietly. 

Hannah studied him, arms crossed, weight shifting like she didn’t quite know how to stand still anymore.

“Do you love her?” she asked.

Garrus blinked. “Is that a serious question?”

She didn’t blink. “I need to hear it.”

His voice dropped, rough as flint. “She’s the axis my whole life turns on. Every time she’s died, I’ve died with her. And every time she’s come back…” His throat tightened. “I learn how to breathe again.”

Hannah let out a slow breath. Not in frustration, not in disbelief, just in release.

“Then I guess we’re on the same side,” she said.

Garrus’s mandibles twitched, caught between disbelief and cautious hope.

Hannah took a step forward. Her voice softened, the steel melting around the edges. “I still don’t like what happened. I still wish she’d told me herself. But I’m not here to punish you for loving my daughter. Or for honoring her trust. That’s more than most ever did.” Hannah let out a deep breath, “I’m sorry,” she paused before continuing. “For what I said. For how I handled it. And… congratulations, Vakarian.”

The words hit harder than he expected. Not because he needed them. But because she meant them.

He straightened slightly. “Thank you.”

The air didn’t feel like a weapon between them anymore.

“You should get some sleep,” Hannah said, voice tilting toward something almost maternal. “We don’t know how long she’ll be out”

“I’m not going far.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

Hannah gave a final nod, then turned and walked down the corridor, boots echoing softer than before.

Chapter Text

There was no light. No sound. Only the slow pressure of something cold and crushing.

Shepard floated in the dark like debris. Drifting. Detached. The sensation wasn’t weightlessness, it was suffocation in reverse. No gravity to anchor her. No sky to reach for. Just endless stillness and the echo of her own pulse, slow and shallow, like a memory trying to remember itself. 

She tried to breathe. Nothing came. No air. No fire in the lungs. Just the stale vacuum of silence pressing tighter around her chest.

Am I dead again?

The thought didn’t form as words. It came as a ripple in the dark, a whisper beneath her skin. Panic rose slow, like blood in water, thick and suffocating. She tried to move, but her limbs didn’t exist. Tried to scream, but her throat had forgotten how.

This wasn’t sleep. This wasn’t peace. This was being trapped behind her own eyes, screaming into the void with no sound. A coffin without walls. A breath that never came. She’d been here before, spaced over Alchera, lungs frozen, heart clenching around its last beat. But this was worse. There had been stars then. Cold. Distant. Here, there was only dark. No breath. No body. No name. Only the weight of everything she didn’t finish.

Time blurred. Minutes, hours, days—it didn’t matter. She drifted through them like smoke, every second pulling her deeper. Somewhere far off, voices echoed. Muted. Warped. Unreachable. Like sound underwater. Like home through a locked door.

She wanted to fight. But her fight had burned out. All that was left was silence, wrapped around her like a second skin. And then, a flicker. Barely there. A pulse. A pressure. The ghost of warmth brushing her shoulder. Shepard stilled. No, she focused. Reached toward it with everything she had left. And there it was again. Garrus.

She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t hear him. But she felt him. Felt the gravity of him. Felt his fingers on hers, or maybe it was just memory trying to survive the dark. He was calling to her without speaking. Anchoring her without knowing. And for the first time since she slipped beneath the surface, something cracked. The dark hissed. The silence thinned. And in the distance, like the glint of a star that refused to die, there was light.

—————————————————————

Garrus woke to the sound of a heavy footsteps and the distinct scent of burned ozone and battle-worn leather. His head jerked up. He’d fallen asleep in the bedside chair, arm slung over the side, neck at a crooked angle, a cramp blooming somewhere near his shoulder blades. The lights in the recovery suite hadn’t changed. Still soft. Still dim. Shepard hadn’t moved.

He rubbed a hand over his face, mandibles twitching back to life. That’s when he saw him.

“Congratulations, princess.”

Wrex stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest like a wall of living armor. The scar across his eye caught the low light, a faded map of a hundred wars. His mouth curved, not into a grin, but close. The Krogan equivalent of affection.

Garrus blinked, then scoffed. “You wake all your friends like that, or am I just special?”

“Only the ones who get their mates knocked up and nearly die saving the galaxy,” Wrex said, stepping inside. “It’s a short list.”

Garrus stood slowly, trying to shake the fog from his head. “Didn’t know you were still on Earth.”

“Wasn’t trying to be. Just dropped in for the party.” He gestured to the room. “Hell of a venue.”

Wrex made his way toward Shepard’s bedside, posture softening as he looked down at her. He didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched the rise and fall of her breath.

“She looks better than she did when they pulled her out,” he finally muttered.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah. Checked in a few times. Quiet visits. Thought it best not to spook the Alliance brass.” He glanced at Garrus. “You’ve been holding the line.”

“Barely.”

“Still counts.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was shared. Worn. Like armor that didn’t need polishing anymore.

“She told me once,” Wrex said after a moment, “that if she ever went down for good, she wanted to go out swinging. No hero’s funeral. No martyr speeches.”

“She didn’t go down,” Garrus muttered.

“No,” Wrex agreed. “But she damn near set the galaxy on fire on the way back up.” He looked at Garrus, something unreadable in his ancient gaze. “You alright?”

“No,” Garrus said honestly.

Wrex nodded. “Good. Means you still give a damn.”

They stood there a moment longer, Krogan and Turian, both carved by war in different ways, bound by the same loyalty to the woman in the bed between them.

“She’s strong,” Wrex said. “Stronger than most. She’ll wake up.”

Garrus looked down at Shepard. “She will.”

Listen,” Wrex said, his voice gentling in a way that would’ve shocked anyone not in the room. “I don’t know what this kid of yours is gonna be. Human. Turian. A damn walking monument to impossible odds.” He looked back at Shepard. “But if they’re anything like her, the galaxy’s not ready.”

Garrus’s mandibles flexed, a breath catching behind his plates. “She wanted that future,” he murmured. “Tried not to hope. But she did.”

“Then hold onto it,” Wrex said. “Doesn’t matter how she wakes up. You remind her who she was fighting for. You remind her who the hell she is.”

He turned to leave. At the door, he paused, just for a moment.

“Let her know we didn’t just survive, we’re building something. She always did like impossible odds.”

Then he was gone. The door sighed closed behind him, and the silence folded back in like a blanket. But it felt different now. Garrus didn’t move at first. The door clicked shut, sealing Wrex’s departure, but his words lingered like smoke. “We didn’t just survive. We’re building something.” He could still hear the low rasp of his voice, roughened by war and softened by history, by the woman they both owed everything to.

A damn walking monument to impossible odds.

Garrus sank back into the chair beside her, slower this time. No bravado. No mask. He set his elbows to his knees, hands clasped between them like he was trying to hold something together with sheer pressure.

Shepard hadn’t stirred. Not even a twitch beneath the steady rhythm of the vitals beside her. But the silence didn’t feel hollow anymore. It felt… paused. Like the world was holding its breath for her. His gaze dropped. Not to her face, which he knew like scripture. Not to the tangle of wires and readouts keeping her anchored to this side of life. But lower. Just below the thin medical blanket—mid-torso. Where her armor would’ve split. Where the explosion would’ve hurled her back and slammed her into the earth. Where, against all odds, something else had begun. A soft curve, barely there. Subtle. But not imagined. Not anymore.

He hadn’t let himself look too long before. Not directly. He’d memorized the scans, monitored the reports, listened to Chakwas and Miranda with a soldier’s focus, but this was different. This was real.

His hand hovered over her for a moment. Taloned fingers splayed, unsure. His heart thudded with an ache he couldn’t place, grief, awe, fear, love. It all felt the same now. Then he laid his palm down. Gently. Carefully. Like the world might shatter if he moved too fast. Her skin was warm. Steady. The faintest flutter responded beneath his hand, almost too soft to feel. But it was there. Life, stretching against the cage of her body. Reaching back.

Garrus exhaled. Shakily. His head bowed, mandibles flicking once, then again as if bracing himself. He closed his eyes and pressed his brow to the edge of the bed, his hand never leaving that small, sacred swell.

“I don’t know who you’re gonna be,” he whispered. “But you’re already braver than me.” He paused. “She wanted this. You. Even when everything else was burning down. She held onto it. Onto you.”

The breath hitched in his throat again, harsher this time. “I swear to you, I’ll be ready. For whatever you are. Whatever you become. You’ll never have to wonder if you were wanted.”

He let the silence return. Let the steady rise of Shepard’s chest and the whisper of movement beneath his hand speak louder than anything he could say. Outside, the world kept turning. Inside, something was waiting to begin. The silence had just started to settle again when the door hissed open. Garrus didn’t move. His hand was still resting on the gentle swell beneath the blanket, as if letting go would undo the moment. But his head lifted, just slightly, mandibles tensing. He knew that sound. He knew those footsteps.

Miranda Lawson stepped into the room like a blade. Her white coat flared with her stride, tablet in one hand, eyes already scanning the monitors. The heels of her boots clicked softly across the floor, every step practiced, controlled. Precise. Behind her, quieter but no less commanding, came Hannah Shepard. Her eyes went straight to the bed. Not to Garrus. Not to the machines. To Shepard. Her jaw clenched like it wanted to say something but couldn’t yet find the words. She stayed just inside the doorway, hands folded behind her back in an old military stance that looked more like a shield than a habit.

Miranda didn’t speak right away. Just stopped at the foot of the bed, her gaze flicking from Shepard to the readings above her, then to Garrus.

He sat up slowly, hand retreating from Shepard’s stomach with something that almost felt like guilt. Like he’d been caught trespassing on sacred ground.

Miranda arched a brow.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she said, voice cool as ever. “She’s been responding to touch for the last forty minutes. Neural spikes. Stabilized vitals. Elevated synaptic feedback.”

Garrus blinked. “What?”

“She’s waking up,” Miranda said simply, sliding her tablet into the crook of her arm. “Not all at once, but… the climb has started. Before schedule, of course.”

He stood fully now, body stiff with tension. “You’re sure?”

Miranda tilted her head, almost amused. “I don’t make a habit of saying things I’m not sure of.”

Hannah stepped closer, slowly. Her gaze scanned the same readings, then Shepard’s face, then Garrus.

“She moved?” she asked, her voice rough, like it had been wrung through too many sleepless nights.

“Not visibly,” Miranda said. “But her mind has started responding to external stimuli. Touch, sound. Especially his voice.” She nodded toward Garrus, not unkindly. Her tone softened then, just a little. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.

“I’ve seen her fight out of worse. Maybe not physically, but… Shepard’s always had a way of rewriting the odds. She did this before, when I rebuilt her with Cerberus. Woke up too soon.” Miranda looked at the monitors again. “Frankly, I’m more surprised she stayed under this long.”

Garrus turned to look at Shepard, throat tight. Her fingers hadn’t moved. Her eyes were still closed. But something was different now. The air had shifted. Like something ancient was waking up beneath the surface. 

“She’s strong,” he murmured.

Miranda gave a quiet hum of agreement. “She’s also stubborn, infuriating, and addicted to doing the exact opposite of what I recommend—but yes. Strong.” Miranda gave Garrus a look, half dry, half knowing. “I’ve managed to stabilize and slow her neural activity. She still needs time to fully resurface, but at this rate she’ll be conscious by morning.” She glanced between the two of them, soldier and partner, mother and mate, then added, more gently, “I’ll give you some privacy.”

She turned to leave, already thumbing through her tablet again. At the door, she paused, her voice just above a whisper.

“She’s not alone in there. Remember that.”

Then she was gone.

Hannah lingered near the door, motionless. Her eyes never left Shepard. But Garrus saw it, the flicker behind her gaze. Not just exhaustion. Not just grief. That aching blend of disbelief and yearning. Of a mother standing inches from her child, unsure if she was allowed to touch.

“So… She’s been responding to touch,” he said gently.

Hannah’s eyes shifted to him, unreadable. Without another word, Garrus stepped aside. He reached for her hand—hesitant, careful—and guided it over the curve just below Shepard’s ribs. The warmth of it still hummed against his palm.

“Here,” he murmured. “I felt something a few minutes ago. Movement. Subtle, but...”

For a long second, Hannah didn’t breathe. Then her hand settled. Fingers trembling, she watched her daughter’s face as if afraid the slightest pressure would break her. And just beneath the surface, there it was. Movement, a kick. Faint and brief, like a heartbeat in the dark. Hannah exhaled sharply, her shoulders folding in like someone who had been holding herself upright for too long.

Garrus spoke softly now. “Out of all the things she lost, she never let go of this.”

Hannah didn’t speak. But she nodded, just once. Her jaw was tight, her eyes bright. That steel spine didn’t waver, but something else cracked open inside her, a kind of fragile awe. A mother meeting a part of her daughter she never imagined.

Garrus stepped back, giving her space.

“If you’d like a moment,” he said, “I think I should… check on something. An idea I want to follow through before she wakes up.”

Hannah looked at him, surprised. “What kind of idea?”

“The kind she might yell at me for,” he said, mandibles twitching with the ghost of a smirk. 

She didn’t stop him. Just nodded again and turned back to Shepard. Garrus gave her one last look before slipping out, the door sighing shut behind him. Inside the room, it was quiet. But not silent. And not alone.

The walk back to the Normandy felt longer than it should have. Earth’s wind carried the scent of fire and ash, tinged now with something newer. Steel, dust, solder. Reclamation. The sky above was streaked with smoke trails and sun-bleached clouds, a canvas torn and patchworked by war. But below, life was stirring. They were rebuilding.

The Normandy stood at the edge of the Alliance recovery zone like a monument to defiance. Black hull scorched, forward plating torn open like a scar across her flank, but she still had her shape. Still held her name. Engineers climbed her sides like ants, barking codes and hauling cables, welding new skin onto the broken vessel. Sparks flew like fireflies, catching on wind and fading fast.

Garrus slowed as he approached. He could hear the voices before he saw them—familiar, grounded in the here and now. Just outside the ramp, a small circle had formed.

Joker leaned against a cargo crate, legs stretched out, one hand loosely holding a datapad he wasn’t looking at. His other hand gestured animatedly as he said something sarcastic enough to make Kaidan shake his head and rub at his temples. Kaiden looked cleaner than most, still scraped up, wrist in a bandage, but upright. Focused. Always focused. Wrex stood across from them like a mountain refusing to be moved, arms folded, expression somewhere between unimpressed and amused. His armor still bore the grime of Earth’s soil and Reaper blood, but he wore it like a badge. And in the center of them all, the EDI platform stood tall and steady, glowing lines pulsing faintly beneath her synthetic skin. Her eyes tracked each speaker, flicking between them like someone soaking in the pleasure of company. Her posture was relaxed. Human. Comfortable. She was learning again.

Joker noticed Garrus first.

“Hey, look who finally crawled out of the crypt,” he called, raising a hand in lazy greeting. “Did she wake up and kick you out, or are you just stretching your legs before the next round of brooding?”

Wrex grunted. “He’s brooding. Trust me. I know the signs.”

“Same,” Kaidan added, though his voice was gentler. “Good to see you upright, Vakarian.”

Garrus offered a half-shrug, too tired to deflect but not too far gone to appreciate the banter.

“I needed a walk,” he said. “And some air that doesn’t smell like disinfectant and heart monitors.”

“You’ll get your fill of burnt wiring here,” Joker said, patting the crate beneath him. “Home sweet wreckage.”

The wind stirred through the field around them. Tools clinked against metal. A fusion torch hissed in the distance. They were alive. And Shepard was coming back.

Garrus crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest support strut, mandibles twitching with the hint of a smirk. “Thought you were heading out,” he said, eyeing Wrex.

Wrex grunted, his arms still folded like crossed cannons. “Ran into these idiots.” He tilted his head toward the others, expression deadpan. “Had to make sure they still knew how to hold a gun.”

“Hey,” Joker piped up, raising a hand. “I’ll have you know I held a joystick that shot down three Reapers. Not exactly the same, but I’d argue harder.”

“You would,” Wrex said.

Kaidan shook his head with a half-smile. “He’s been circling the camp all morning, growling at junior officers like a damn drill sergeant.”

“They flinched,” Wrex said, mildly offended. “Some of them even dropped their weapons. It was embarrassing for all of us.”

EDI blinked, hands clasped lightly in front of her. “Wrex’s motivational strategy appears to rely on intimidation, sarcasm, and excessive volume. The soldiers responded with elevated cortisol levels and minor cardiac distress. Statistically effective.”

Wrex grinned. “Exactly. See? The robot gets it.”

Garrus let the laughter ripple around them for a moment. It was light. Easy. The kind of sound that hadn’t existed for weeks, maybe months. And it wasn’t forced.

He looked back to Wrex.

“Really though. Thought you’d be back on Tuchanka by now.”

Wrex shrugged. “Transport’s delayed. Apparently, ferrying dignitaries and cargo gets higher priority than the guy who helped unmake a galactic extinction.”

“You’re gonna complain?” Joker asked. “You punched a dignitary.”

“He deserved it,” Wrex said flatly. “Besides, you think Shepard wouldn’t have?”

That shut them up again, just for a beat.

Then Kaidan smiled. “No. She absolutely would’ve.”

The laughter died down slowly, replaced by the kind of quiet that only existed between people who had survived the same war. Garrus let it linger, then shifted his weight and glanced back at the Normandy.

“There’s something I need to do,” he said.

Joker raised an eyebrow. “More brooding?”

“Less brooding. More… cleaning.”

“Okay, now I’m worried.”

Garrus gave him a look, dry as Palaven dust. “I’m heading up to Shepard’s cabin.”

That earned a pause. Even Wrex cocked his head.

“She’s not awake yet,” Kaidan said gently, as if Garrus didn’t know.

“I know.” Garrus looked down at his hands for a second, then flexed his fingers like shaking off a sniper’s cramp. “But she will be. And when she is… I want her to see home. Not the wreckage we dragged off a battlefield.”

He looked toward the ship again, voice lower now. Focused. “She deserves to walk into that cabin and see her fish alive, her armor polished, her books back on the shelf. I’m even going to try and find that damn space hamster.”

That got a snort out of Wrex. “She still has that thing?”

“Disappears for months, shows up in the vents like a ghost,” Joker muttered. “Swear it’s got Reaper cloaking tech.”

“She loved that damned hamster,” Garrus said, smiling faintly. “Used to act like it didn’t matter, but I caught her feeding it once at 0200 while listening to Tali’s music.”

Kaidan’s expression shifted, wistful, but soft. “Shepard always pretended not to care about the little things. But she cared more than anyone.”

Garrus nodded. “Exactly. That’s why I’m going to clean the place up. Fix what I can. Maybe leave a few things she’ll recognize.”

He didn’t say it aloud, but they all heard it: If she wakes up disoriented, scared, changed… she’ll remember who she is when she sees her space again.

EDI tilted her head. “Would you like assistance locating the hamster? I have compiled a predictive algorithm based on its last seventy-two documented escape patterns.”

Joker raised a brow. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

Garrus smirked. “Not yet. But if I can’t find it by morning, I’ll take all the predictive algorithms I can get.”

Then, with a nod, Garrus turned toward the ramp, ready to slip away into the hum of welders and engineers and the crew that still carried her name like a shield. But before he could take a step, Kaidan spoke. 

“I’ll help.”

Garrus paused, surprised.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Kaidan added, offering a small smile. “And… I wouldn’t mind a few minutes to talk. Just the two of us.”

Garrus studied him for a beat. Then nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”

They left the others behind, walking side by side toward the Normandy’s open ramp. The sounds of repairs faded into background static as the doors hissed open and swallowed them inside. The elevator groaned a little, everything still ran on emergency power, but it held. As they rode up, the two men stood in silence, the kind that came from long miles, not discomfort.

Finally, Kaidan spoke. “I saw the fish once. The real ones, not the holograms. I asked Shepard why she kept replacing them every time one died.”

Garrus glanced over, curious. “What’d she say?”

“She said it was the only thing in her life she let herself fail at.”

Garrus huffed softly. “Sounds about right.”

“She said as long as something lived in that tank, she wasn’t completely alone.” Kaidan’s smile faded. “I don’t think I really understood what she meant back then.”

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. The cabin was an organized chaos. But still chaos, nonetheless. 

Books toppled from shelves. Shattered glass glittered faintly across the floor where some old picture frames fell. Her N7 armor was still mounted on the wall, dented but upright, like a spirit in vigil. 

Garrus had all but claimed the cabin before returning to Earth, camped out in her space like a ghost refusing to leave. All he ever did was straighten up. Shift a chair. Stack a few datapads. Preserve the chaos like it was sacred.

This time was different. This time, he wouldn’t just tidy. He’d clean. He’d restore. He’d reclaim every inch of this place, wipe away the soot, the blood, the silence, and give her back the world she’d built. Because when she opened her eyes again, it needed to feel like home.

He stood still for a moment, just breathing in the room. The air was stale, but it was hers. Faint traces of worn leather, gun oil, and something softer underneath, lavender maybe, or one of those cheap soaps she swore by. He let the scent settle in his chest before he moved.

Then he started with the desk.

The datapads were layered with dust and ash, some melted slightly at the corners, but the names on the tags still glowed faintly. Field reports. Combat rosters. Notes from Mordin, scribbled in frantic shorthand. He stacked them neatly, wiped down the surface, and ran his claws along the carved edge where she used to tap her fingers when she was thinking.

He remembered the rhythm of it. The quiet tap-tap-tap while she poured over casualty lists and made impossible decisions.

He moved to the armor next. Her N7 set still hung where she’d left it. Battered, scorched, but unbroken, like her. He unlatched the display mount and set it down gently, running a cloth over each plate with slow reverence. As if he could polish away the fire. As if care alone could make it new again.

He moved around the room, piece by piece. Resetting her books. Untangling the mess of wires by the console. Reattaching the frame of her photo with Liara and Joker from the shore leave party, its glass had shattered, but the picture was intact. Her smile was crooked. Her eyes were tired. But she looked happy. It was the kind of smile you gave when you didn’t expect to have joy, and then found it anyway.

By the time he reached the space where the fish tank had once been, the ache behind his breastplate was sharper than usual. But he welcomed it. It meant he could still feel something. Still feel her.

Kaidan straightened, brushing dust off his hands.

“I wanted to say something,” he said, voice quieter now. “Before she wakes up. Before everything picks up again.”

Garrus looked at him, waiting.

“I’m proud of you, Garrus.” Kaidan’s voice didn’t waver. “And I’m glad it’s you.”

The silence was real now. Deep. Garrus didn’t answer at first.

Kaidan continued, “I used to think maybe she and I could be something. Back before everything fractured. Back before I realized I didn’t really see her the way you do. Not really. I loved her, sure. But I don’t think I ever got her. Not the way she needed. I always wanted to make her feel safe. You made her feel seen.”

Garrus swallowed, mandibles flexing once.

Kaidan gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Plus, I’m kind of relieved I don’t have to call Hannah my mother-in-law. She terrifies me.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Garrus. “You’re not wrong.”

“You’re laughing, but that woman looked at me once during a debrief like she could crush my skull with her thoughts.”

“She probably could.”

“I know she could.”

They both laughed, soft, not forced. The kind of laugh that cracked something open. The kind that said we made it. Somehow. 

Kaidan looked around the cabin, nodding toward the half-rebuilt space. “She’s going to notice this. First thing. She’ll know someone cared enough to make it hers again.”

“That’s the point,” Garrus said. “She gave everything. She deserves to wake up to something that tells her not everything was lost.”

Kaidan nodded slowly. “Then let’s make sure she gets that.”

The two men went back to work, not as rivals, not as ghosts of old affections, but as something closer to comrades. Quiet hands, steady focus, rebuilding not just a space, but a sanctuary. And somewhere, beneath the deck, a tiny squeak echoed from the vents.

Chapter Text

There was no sound. No voices. No alarms. No boots striking metal floors. Only a pulse, distant and dim. Not her heartbeat, but something deeper. Older. Like the galaxy had taken one final breath… and she had slipped into the space between. Then came the pain. Not sharp. Not sudden. Just total. A slow, crushing ache that bloomed through every nerve, as if her body was remembering the war it barely survived.

Her eyelids twitched. Too heavy. Her lashes felt fused shut. Her throat burned, like she’d swallowed smoke and silence and tried to scream through both. Her chest rose once, then again, but it didn’t feel like breathing. It felt like breaking.

Her eyes opened like the blast doors of a failing airlock, too slow, too bright, too loud. Light seared across her vision. The room spun in pieces. Her pupils refused to adjust. Her lungs couldn’t find rhythm. Couldn’t find air.

Shapes hovered above her. Faces. Familiar, blurred, fractured by light. Their mouths moved, but sound came late, warped and waterlogged. Her mind lagged behind her body like it had to climb to catch up. She blinked. Once. Then again. It hurt. But she was here. Breathing. Awake. Alive. A shadow leaned in—sleek, sharp, impossibly composed.

“Commander?” The voice was crisp, clinical. Miranda. No barking orders. No urgent alarms. Just observation. “Shepard, your vitals are stabilizing. Neural response is returning. Take your time. You’re safe.”

Shepard tried to focus, but the words blurred like breath on glass.

“She’s conscious,” Miranda continued, speaking to someone else now. “Not fully responsive yet, but she’s climbing.”

Climbing. Yes. That’s what it felt like.

“Don’t rush her,” Miranda said, her tone gentler now, but still measured. “Waking from this depth… it’s like surfacing through gravity.”

A hand brushed against her wrist. Firm. Familiar. Shepard flinched, barely, but someone noticed.

“Shepard,” another voice, lower, rougher. Garrus. Closer. “If you can hear me… we’re here.”

Her chest hitched. A breath that caught halfway between fear and relief.

Miranda’s voice again. “Ocular tracking is improving. Motor function will take longer. Try not to force movement.”

Shepard blinked again. Light and shadow slammed against each other, violent, blinding. Her vision fractured like glass hit by a bullet. The world didn’t sharpen; it shuddered. Every flicker of movement sent a fresh spike of pain through her skull, hot and electric, like her brain was rejecting the act of waking. But she blinked again. And again. Because she had to. Because if she stopped, she wasn’t sure she’d come back.

Her throat burned. Not the dull dryness of thirst, but something harsher. Hacked raw. Like she’d swallowed fire and acid. Every breath scraped along the inside of her neck like broken metal. She tried to speak. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Only a rasp. Barely air. Her tongue felt swollen. Foreign. Her jaw wouldn’t cooperate. Her body refused to remember itself.

She shifted, tried to, anyway. One finger twitched. Then another. The muscles in her neck clenched, spasmed, collapsed. Her chest rose too fast, too shallow. A shudder more than a breath. Panic bloomed. Hot and sudden. Her hand jerked, weak and trembling, reaching for something, anything, but there was nothing solid beneath her except the bed and the weight of her own useless limbs.

And still she tried. Because she was Shepard. Because stopping meant fading.

The next movement came harder. Sharper. Her arm jolted upward with all the strength her failing body could muster, enough to spike the monitors into a sudden wail of warning. 

Miranda stepped in immediately, her voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. “Of course. Commander Shepard, back from the brink and immediately ignoring medical instruction. Some things really never change.” Her tone was dry, but there was something beneath it, something brittle with awe.

Shepard tried to sit up, her torso barely lifting before her muscles gave out. Pain stabbed through her ribs like a blade. Her head fell back, sweat slicking at her temples. But still, she tried again.

“Easy,” Garrus said quickly, his hand pressing lightly against her shoulder. “Don’t—don’t push it. You’re not there yet.”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell him she had to move. That lying still felt like dying all over again.

Hannah was at her other side now, hand clutching Shepard’s forearm as if she could hold her daughter in place by will alone.

“Jane,” she breathed, voice low and shaking. “You need to stop. You might hurt the baby.”

The room went still. Even the monitors seemed to hesitate. Shepard’s eyes widened. Not fully—just a flicker—but it was enough. Hannah froze, her hand still tight around her daughter’s arm, as if the words had fallen out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Miranda exhaled quietly. “Well,” she said. “So much for waiting until she was fully awake.”

The words echoed. Baby.

Not a concept. Not a maybe. Not a hope she’d buried beneath battle plans and Reaper fire. Real. Shepard’s mind stuttered, then began to collapse under the weight. Images shattered through the fog, the last things she remembered: Garrus’s voice in the dark. The heat of the Crucible beam. Blood on her thighs. The sharp gasp of breath in her final moments, her hands trembling over her abdomen. That low, pulsing hum in her skull—Leviathan. The moment she knew. And then forgot. Because everything had burned.

Her hand slid down her stomach, fingers curling inward, searching through fabric and pain for proof. The swell was there. Small. Warm. And beneath it, movement. A flutter. A push. Panic lanced through her. Her heart kicked. Her breathing spiked, shallow and broken. Too much. The light was too bright again. The voices too loud. The world too close. Shepard’s body recoiled, instinct pulling her back from the edge she’d just begun to crawl over. Her fingers slipped from her stomach. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her eyes fluttered once. Then closed. The monitors dipped. Stabilized. The climb halted.

Garrus moved instantly. “Shepard—?”

Miranda checked the readouts, voice clipped. “She’s still conscious. But her brain just pulled the emergency brake.”

“She’s shutting down?” Hannah asked, breath tight.

“Not fully. Just… pulling back,” Miranda said. “Too much neural activity, too fast. She’s overwhelmed.”

Somewhere above her, voices continued, muffled now. Filtered through layers of water and distance. Shepard couldn’t make out the words anymore. Only tone. Pressure. Vibration.

Miranda’s voice cut through, firm but not panicked.

“She’s alright. Her vitals are holding. This was expected, just too much too soon.”

Someone exhaled. Garrus, maybe. Hannah, too. The air shifted around her, and for a moment, Shepard thought she could feel it. Like heat from the other side of a window.

Then came movement. Not hers. Beneath Garrus’s hand, something pushed, swift and strong. A roll under the skin. Another kick. Then another.

Garrus’s head snapped toward Miranda. “She—it— moved,” he said quickly. “Not Shepard, the baby.”

He guided Miranda’s hand to the same spot, careful not to press too hard. Beneath the blanket, Shepard’s stomach fluttered again. Alive. Urgent.

Miranda’s brow furrowed. She was already scanning, her omni-tool humming to life as the display flickered above her forearm.

“Fetal heart rate is elevated,” she murmured. “Active. Very active.”

Garrus didn’t speak. His hand stayed over Shepard,  palm to her stomach, thumb brushing slow circles like he could will her to feel it too.

“Shepard,” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”

But she couldn’t. Not really.  The voices faded further, like a radio slipping out of range. Her mind pulled deeper, not into unconsciousness, not entirely. But away. Into herself. Into the place where it was quiet, where nothing expected her to be anything yet. Not a soldier. Not a mother. Not a miracle. Just… a breath, waiting to happen. The world moved around her as she drifted again.

Garrus didn’t move. His hand was still over her stomach, where the baby had kicked, hard. Once, then again. A tiny rebellion under paper-thin blankets.

“She’s not gone,” Hannah said from Shepard’s other side. Her voice was low, more steel than panic. “She’s still here. You just have to hold her steady until she finds her way back.”

He looked down at her face, pale, drawn, beaded with sweat. His hand moved again, lightly pressing beside the swell beneath her ribs. The baby kicked back, sharp and insistent, like they were trying to be felt. Heard.

Miranda checked the readings again. “They’re healthy. Shepard’s vitals are steady. The neural retreat should pass.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Hannah asked quietly.

Miranda didn’t answer right away.

“We wait,” Garrus said. “And when she comes back… we make damn sure she knows she wasn’t the only one fighting.”

Garrus looked down at his hand, still resting over the baby’s kicks.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured. “Either of you.”

He didn’t move. Not even when Miranda stepped back to adjust the monitors. Not when Hannah sat again, rubbing at her temples with hands that had fought every damn admiral in the galaxy to be here. Garrus just stayed there, thumb drifting in slow circles, like he was trying to memorize the shape of something he never thought he’d be allowed to hold.

He didn’t say it out loud. Not even in his own mind. But the thought pulsed through him anyway, low and brutal: He was scared. Not battlefield scared. Not the kind you feel behind a sniper scope or staring down a Thresher Maw. That fear was clean. Simple. It made sense. This was the kind of fear that came with watching someone breathe and still not be sure you hadn’t lost them. He had watched her die once already. Over Alchera. The moment burned itself into his bones. The ping of her vitals cutting out. The silence that followed. The guilt that calcified in his chest for two years.

But this, this was worse. Because now she was alive. They were alive. Just barely. Just enough to make him hope. And hope was cruel. He looked at her face, so still. Her brow was damp, her lips slightly parted. If he hadn’t felt her chest rise beneath his hand, he’d think she was gone again. And for a second, he hated how peaceful she looked. Like death had tried to seduce her again, and she was thinking about it.

His mandibles twitched, and he shut his eyes, jaw tightening. He wanted to beg her to come back. Not for him. Not even for the war. For the tiny soul beneath her skin. And still, she drifted. He didn’t know if she could hear him now. Didn’t know if she was trapped inside her own mind or walking somewhere between life and the void. But he whispered anyway, that’s what you did when someone you loved was lost in the dark. You left the light on.

His eyes drifted down, tracing the lines of her face, the curve of her cheek, the hollow beneath her eyes. She looked like herself. And she didn’t. The bruises were fading, but they were still there. Yellow-green shadows blooming beneath the surface. Her lips were cracked. Her knuckles, what he could see of them, were raw, scabbed over in places. Calloused in others.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. It was what he couldn’t see. The internal trauma. The neural scarring. The stress on her heart, her lungs, her bones. Miranda had shown him the scans once—just once—and he’d stopped her halfway through. Couldn’t take it. Couldn’t listen to someone list the ways the woman he loved had been broken open and stitched back together again by fire and force. 

The worst part? None of it surprised him. Shepard never knew how to stop. She didn’t win battles. She bled for them. Breathed smoke. Took the hits no one else could survive and somehow kept moving. Until she didn’t. Until this.

His eyes dropped to her side, where the blast had hit her. He knew the exact spot. Knew how her armor had buckled. Knew what it had cost her to stay upright long enough to shove him onto the shuttle, to make him leave her behind.

The silence settled heavy around them. Only the soft hum of monitors and the flickering pulse of Miranda’s omni-tool filled the space. Garrus hadn’t moved. Not in minutes. His hand still rested over Shepard’s stomach, fingers splayed like he could shield her—shield them—with just his touch.

He didn’t notice Hannah watching him until she spoke.

“Are you okay?”

Her voice was soft, but not fragile. Not unsure. Just tired. Honest.

Garrus didn’t answer at first. His gaze stayed locked on the rise and fall of Shepard’s chest. On the tiny, defiant thumps beneath his palm.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. The words rasped low. “I don’t know what okay even looks like.”

Hannah gave a quiet hum of understanding. She shifted in her chair, legs crossed, eyes focused on the same point he was.

“You’ve got that look,” she said after a moment.

“What look?”

She smirked faintly. “The overprotective one. Her father had it too. He used to hover near me like I was going to break, especially in the last trimester. Wouldn’t let me carry groceries. Wouldn’t let me get within ten feet of a flight deck.”

Garrus’s mandibles twitched, just slightly.

“She hated it,” Hannah continued. “Even in the womb, Jane liked her space.”

His throat tightened at the sound of her name. Jane. Not Commander. Not Shepard. Just Jane. It felt heavier when Hannah said it. Like a memory dressed in armor.

“I’m not hovering,” he muttered, still not looking away.

Hannah tilted her head. “You’ve had your hand on her belly for twenty minutes.”

“She’s moving,” he said. “The baby.”

“She’s just telling you ‘I’m here.’”

He nodded, barely.

“And that you’re already a terrible hover-dad.”

That got the faintest huff of a breath. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“She’s strong. She must get it from her mother,” he said.

“No,” Hannah replied, softer now. “She gets it from you.”

Then Miranda’s voice cut in, smooth and dry as ever. “So we’ve decided the baby is a girl, then?”

Both Garrus and Hannah looked up.

Miranda didn’t glance away from her omni-tool. “I just want to be sure. Before we all start assigning traits and projecting legacies.”

Garrus blinked. “We haven’t decided anything.”

“I have,” Hannah said calmly, arms crossed. “I can feel it. That’s a girl in there, stubborn as hell.”

Miranda arched a brow. “Scientific, as always.”

She tapped a few quick commands into her console. “For the record, we’re just shy of nineteen weeks. With your permission, I could run a full anatomy scan. Organ development. Heart chambers. Limb formation. Gender.”

Garrus looked down at Shepard. She hadn’t moved. Still quiet, still drifting.

“I don’t know if she’d want us to,” he said, voice low.

“Under normal circumstances, no. But given the nature of her recovery,” Miranda replied, tone softening slightly, “it may help us establish baseline health, for both of them.”

Hannah leaned forward. “Then do it.”

Miranda nodded, fingers already dancing across the console with her usual precision. She’d run this scan countless times before, memorized every line and rhythm of it. But this time wasn’t about vitals or data. This time was different. This was for them—for Garrus and Hannah. So they could see not just proof of survival, but the flicker of a future, fragile and extraordinary, blooming to life before their eyes.

Garrus moved his hand as the scanner moved into place, hovering above Shepard’s stomach. The soft whir of diagnostics filled the space. He didn’t look at the display. He only watched her. Whatever the results said, whatever name, or shape, or future Miranda gave them, this was the moment that mattered: Shepard was still here. So was the child. And neither of them were fighting alone anymore.

The scanner hummed low, washing her stomach in soft blue light. Garrus didn’t dare breathe, Hannah sat rigid beside him, and Miranda’s gaze stayed fixed on the readouts with her usual clinical calm. The room was quiet but charged, all focus on the flickering image of the child, until something shifted. At first it seemed like nothing. Just the faintest flutter beneath Shepard’s lids. Once. Twice. Then, as Miranda adjusted the scan, Shepard’s lashes trembled again and her eyes opened. Not sharp, not all at once, but slow and quiet, like someone surfacing from deep water.

Garrus felt it before he saw it. Some part of him just knew. He looked down, into those tired, war-ravaged eyes, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

“Jane,” Hannah whispered, leaning forward, already on her feet. “Hey. Hey, sweetheart.”

Shepard didn’t answer. Her lips parted slightly, dry and cracked, but no sound came. Her throat worked around the effort. The breath was there. The will was there. But the words hadn’t returned yet. Didn’t matter. Her gaze tracked—slow, but steady—from Hannah, to Miranda, and finally to Garrus. It stayed there. No panic this time. No confusion. Only calm. She blinked once, deliberate. Her hand, weak and slow, moved beneath his. Garrus’s breath hitched. His fingers curled gently over hers, holding it there, anchoring her like he had all along.

Miranda didn’t speak. She just stepped back from the scanner and lowered her omni-tool, giving them space.

“She’s back,” Hannah said softly. A tremor in her voice, like a crack she’d been holding off for days.

Shepard closed her eyes again, but this time, it wasn’t escape. It was rest.

Chapter Text

The world didn’t come back in a rush. It came in waves. Soft. Reluctant. Careful. The kind of slow return that wasn’t sure it wanted to be real yet.

Shepard didn’t move. Not at first. Her muscles remembered pain before they remembered purpose. But she could feel the texture of the blanket against her skin. The warmth of the room. The pressure of a hand, calloused, familiar, anchored just below her ribs. His hand.

She tried to open her eyes again, slower this time, and the light didn’t cut as deep. Shapes were clearer. Walls. Curtains. A chair pulled close to the bed. Garrus’s silhouette slumped in it, his head lowered, one hand still cradling hers like it might slip away if he let go. 

The room was quiet, reverent, almost. Like it knew a war had happened here. And the soldier who’d survived it was still somewhere in the ruins, finding her way back. The quiet wasn’t hollow. It was full. Of things unsaid, things unfinished. It pressed against her like gravity. Familiar in a way she couldn’t explain.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her voice still felt borrowed, buried somewhere deep in her chest, wrapped in gauze and time. But her fingers moved, slow, trembling, his hand twitched in response.

Garrus lifted his head. Even blurred by sleep and worry, the lines of his face hit her like a memory she’d been aching for. The curve of his plates, the slope of his scars, the faint, familiar crack near his right mandible. He looked older. Leaner. Like war had carved him in places time couldn’t reach. But his eyes… 

They weren’t ocean-dark, not really. Not today. They were lit from within, a pale blue so bright it bordered on silver in the warm light, starlight caught in frost. They shimmered with something raw. Unspoken. He didn’t blink. Just stared, drinking her in like she might vanish if he looked away.

His mandibles twitched, a breath hitching behind his plates. And in that moment, she realized he wasn’t just seeing her. He was counting all the ways he almost lost her. And all the ways he still could. She wanted to reach for him. To anchor herself in the cool steel of his armor, the warmth of his palm, the pulse she could feel vibrating faintly through his fingertips. But she couldn’t. Not yet. She wanted to say his name. Say it and watch the tension break in his shoulders. Say it and prove that she was still here. That they both were. But all she could do was look at him, and hold on.

He leaned forward, just slightly, like the air between them had become sacred. His hand never left hers.

“Shepard…” Her name was barely a word. More like a prayer. “I missed you.”

Her eyes burned. She blinked, and it felt like exhaling for the first time in days.

The monitors clicked softly behind her. The light shifted. Somewhere in her body, pain still echoed, but it didn’t own her anymore. Not in this moment. Not with his hand wrapped around hers like a vow he never stopped making. She moved her fingers again, this time with purpose, and he understood. Always did.

“Don’t push yourself. Just breathe. That’s all I need.” His voice cracked at the end. Barely. But she felt it. Like a fault line in the quiet.

Miranda Lawson approached with the fluid confidence of someone used to command, but this time, she slowed. Her heels didn’t strike the floor like weapons. Her tablet was already in hand, lit and waiting, but for a moment she didn’t raise it. She just looked at Shepard, really looked. Not like a project. Not like a miracle. Like a person. Fragile. Burning her way back.

“Shepard,” Miranda said, voice level but gentler than usual. “We’re going to run a few light tests. Don’t try to speak. Just follow.”

She held up a slender penlight, its tip flaring soft and blue. Shepard blinked once as the brightness pierced the haze. Miranda moved it slowly—left, then right, a curve across her field of view.

Shepard’s eyes tracked it. Not smoothly. Not easily. But they moved.

“Pupil response sluggish,” Miranda murmured, mostly to herself. “But consistent. Neural latency within expected range.”

The light passed again. This time, Shepard blinked before following. Her breath hitched with the effort.

Miranda lowered the penlight. “Good,” she said, softer now. “That’s good, Commander.”

She switched tools without fanfare, scanning Shepard’s vitals with her omni-tool. Garrus didn’t move, his hand still anchored over her stomach like a steadying weight.

“She’s holding,” Miranda confirmed, her voice returning to that precise, analytical cadence. “Brain activity is still erratic, but improving. Higher cortical regions are starting to stabilize.”

She looked at Shepard again, just briefly, but it was different this time. There was something behind her eyes. Something Miranda rarely let show. Not just respect. Not just relief. Wonder. Like even now, even after everything, Shepard still found ways to defy expectation.

“She’s fighting,” Miranda said, almost to herself.

Then she glanced at Garrus and gave a single, curt nod. “I’ll start the prenatal scan next.”

The penlight dimmed. The monitors hummed their soft mechanical lullaby. And for the first time since opening her eyes, Shepard didn’t feel like she was drowning.

She wasn’t floating either, not yet, but the chaos that had flooded her chest began to recede. Just a little. Just enough.

Garrus hadn’t moved. His hand still covered hers, anchored over the soft swell of her stomach. His other hand braced lightly on the edge of the bed, close but not pressing. Just… there. As if his presence alone could keep her tethered.

She looked at him again, eyes heavy, dry, still burning at the edges, this time, there was recognition in the way they softened. Not just memory. Trust. Like her soul had returned to a body she could almost wear again.

He didn’t speak. Not right away. He didn’t need to. His thumb moved once, a slow arc across the back of her hand, then stopped. It was the smallest touch, but it steadied her more than the bed, the machines, the oxygen in her lungs. In that moment, nothing else existed. Not the pain. Not the war. Not the half-heard echo of Miranda’s scans calibrating in the background. Just him. Just this.

Across the room, a fourth presence lingered. Silent. Still. Hannah Shepard stood near the wall, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable, but her eyes never left her daughter. She hadn’t spoken since Shepard opened her eyes. She hadn’t moved. Just watched. Watched the impossible unfold. Watched her little girl—who wasn’t little anymore—pull herself back from the edge of death like it was something she’d done before. Because it was. And yet… Hannah said nothing. If she spoke, she wasn’t sure what might break first: the quiet, or herself. She just stood there, holding vigil, her body as still as Garrus’s hand. Shepard, still caught between worlds, didn’t notice her yet.

Miranda adjusted the scanner with a grace born of repetition, her movements brisk but unhurried. The hum of the machine rose in pitch as it calibrated, light flickering against the ceiling in soft pulses that matched the rhythm of Shepard’s heartbeat. Or maybe the baby’s. It was hard to tell.

“Vitals remain stable,” Miranda murmured to herself. “No signs of fetal hypoxia. Minimal elevation in stress markers, within normal range, all things considered.”

Shepard’s eyes shifted toward the glow above her. She couldn’t turn her head, could barely lift her hand, but she listened. Each word like a stone skipping across water. Some sank. Some stayed afloat.

“She’s handling it,” Miranda continued, narrowing her gaze at the display. “Still kicking like she’s got something to prove.”

A small smirk tugged at her lips, brief and private, before her voice steadied into something gentler. “Strong heart rate. No signs of arrhythmia. Limbs forming perfectly. Spine alignment… ideal.” A pause. Then: “Organs symmetrical. Lungs developing well. Cranial ridge intact.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It swelled. Like it knew something was coming.

Miranda tilted the display, angling it toward Garrus and Hannah but careful not to overwhelm Shepard’s line of sight.

“Well,” she said, her voice softer now. “If there was any doubt left…”

Garrus leaned in. “What?”

Miranda’s mouth twitched again, just enough to suggest warmth behind the clinical mask. “She’s a girl.”

It was a whisper of a sentence. Not triumphant. Not explosive. Just true. A girl. Shepard heard it. The words cut through the fog with uncanny precision. As if her daughter’s name had been whispered straight into the marrow of her bones.

A girl. A daughter. The flicker of Shepard’s eyelashes deepened. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Still no voice. But something shifted behind her eyes. A pulse. A spark. Like something inside her had been waiting to hear that truth just to know the fight had been worth it. Garrus froze beside her. His hand still rested lightly across her stomach, but now he could feel it, something deeper. A sense of shape. Of reality. A daughter.

Hannah reached toward the monitor and gently tapped the image. “That’s her?” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “That’s my granddaughter?”

“She’s perfect,” Miranda confirmed. “A little stressed from earlier, but nothing alarming. Frankly, it’s astonishing how well she’s doing.”

Shepard blinked again, slower this time. Her breath barely moved her chest. But inside, something had reoriented. The world wasn’t just spinning. It was taking form. Naming itself. She wasn’t just surviving. She was becoming. And she wasn’t alone. 

A soft rasp pulled their attention back to the bed. Shepard’s lips moved again, slow and dry. A whisper tried to form in the raw gap between thought and breath.

Garrus leaned closer. “Shepard?” He brushed a knuckle against her temple, mandibles flicking in restrained awe. “You scared the hell out of all of us.”

Shepard’s gaze drifted, searching, anchoring. Her breath hitched like her body was remembering how to exist again. Garrus followed her look, knowing what came next.

“You made it out,” she rasped, just barely.

“So did the crew,” he said, voice low but steady. “Joker’s still yelling at people and pretending he’s the sole hero. James hasn’t stopped bench pressing crates either. Tali’s halfway through rebuilding the galaxy’s tech with pure spite. And Liara, she’s turning every datapad into a historical artifact. They’re all here. Just… waiting. For you.”

Shepard’s eyes brimmed with something heavier now. Not quite tears, but the shape of them, buried under willpower and memory. Her throat flexed again. Another word forced its way out.

“…Anderson?”

Garrus faltered. His breath caught, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, quietly, “He didn’t make it.”

A silence settled, thick and reverent. Shepard stared past him, unseeing, her gaze pinned to something far away. The weight of it crashed through her. Her fingers twitched, her jaw clenched. But her body was too weak for the grief that surged inside her. Quietly, the memory rose—unbidden but sharp.

They were sitting together, side by side, above the glittering curve of Earth. The Citadel’s viewport arced high above them, a cathedral of glass and silence, framing the bruised planet in shades of fire and shadow. Below, cities still burned. Tiny sparks against the dark, but from this height, the devastation looked almost peaceful. Like war had held its breath. The chaos, the screaming, the blood in the cracks of her armor, it all felt distant here. Muted by altitude. By gravity. By the presence of the man beside her.

Anderson didn’t speak at first. He just sat with her, shoulders squared, hands resting on his knees. Solid. Steady. The kind of quiet that didn’t ask anything of her, just reminded her she wasn’t alone.

Eventually, he glanced sideways and gave a small, tired smile. “Best seats in the house.”

His voice had been low, but full—full of everything they couldn’t say out loud. Gratitude, weariness and goodbye.

She remembered the way his profile caught the light, the deep lines carved by command and sacrifice. The faint tremor in his hand that he tried to hide. The tension in his jaw as he looked out at the planet they’d both bled for.

“You ever think about settling down?” he asked, casually. But there was something underneath it. A softness. A sorrow. Maybe even hope.

She had smirked, brushing it off. “I don’t think I know how.” 

He’d chuckled, the kind of laugh that softened years.

“You’d make a great mother, Shepard,” he’d said, turning back to the stars. “Think how proud your kid would be. Telling everyone their mom is Commander Shepard.”

The words had caught her off guard then. Now they landed like a promise. A daughter. A future. A reason. And now, in this sterile room, surrounded by beeping monitors and grief she could barely carry, those words returned like a heartbeat. Steady. Unrelenting.

She clenched her fists against the sheets, breath hitching. David Anderson believed in a version of her that might still exist. A version she hadn’t dared to hope for. She was having a daughter. Anderson will never get to meet her. But his voice, his faith, it lived on. Etched into her. Into the child growing inside her and into whatever came next. She blinked, and the memory dissolved, its light retreating, leaving only silence and loss behind. Anderson was gone. But his words had stayed. And somehow, they were still guiding her home.

Shepard blinked slowly, the weight of memory still pressing against her chest like a bruise that wouldn’t fade. Her throat burned, but she pushed through it, forcing her lips to move again.

“…How long?”

Her voice cracked under the strain, a whisper scraped raw by silence, the question hung heavy in the air, undeniable.

Garrus hesitated, but it wasn’t him who answered. Hannah stepped forward from where she’d been standing silent in the shadows, watching with a composure only just holding. She crossed to the bedside with careful, even steps, her boots echoing faintly against the polished floor.

“Sixty-two days,” she said softly. “Since the beam. Since you saved us.”

Shepard turned her head slightly, eyes searching her mother’s face. The strength in Hannah’s posture didn’t hide the red rims of her eyes, or the exhaustion threaded into her voice.

“You were declared MIA. We were stranded on an uncharted planet.” A faint, grim smile touched Hannah’s lips. “But we made it back home. Just like you did.” 

She glanced toward Garrus, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

Miranda spoke up now. “I recovered you from the Citadel’s core—what was left of it. Your body was in catastrophic condition. Multiple fractures, collapsed lungs, severe internal bleeding. Frankly, by every known metric, you shouldn’t have survived.”

She paused, eyes flicking briefly to the monitors. “Liara believes that whatever the Leviathan did to you… it altered your biology enough to keep you breathing. Just enough. It may be the only reason you’re still here.” Miranda continued,  “You were never just a subject to me, Shepard. But even with everything we’ve seen… I didn’t expect you to beat the odds twice.” She added quietly, “I’m glad I was wrong.”

Shepard’s brow furrowed. Sixty-two days. Long enough for stars to move. Long enough for grief to settle in like a second skin. Long enough for the galaxy to start imagining a future without her.

“I wasn’t going to leave,” Hannah spoke, her voice softening. “Not until I saw you open your eyes.”

She reached forward, slowly, reverently and brushed a strand of hair from Shepard’s forehead, her fingertips trembling.

“And the Alliance…” Her throat tightened. She cleared it before continuing. “They’ve held off Admiral Anderson’s funeral. Waiting for you. He was your commanding officer. Your friend. They knew it wouldn’t be right without you there to say goodbye.”

Hannah drew in a breath, steadied herself. “You’ve lost a lot,” she sighed heavily. “But you came back. You fought your way back.” She paused, the edges of her voice turning glassy. “And I want you to hear me, Jane: I am so damn proud of you.”

Shepard blinked hard, and this time, the tears didn’t hold. They slipped free—slow, silent, inevitable. She let them fall. For Anderson, whose voice still echoed in the bones of her memory. For the sixty-two days she would never reclaim. For the war that had taken everything, and somehow left her with even more to lose.

Grief throbbed against her chest like a second heartbeat, jagged and holy, a rhythm carved out of everything she’d lost. It was heavy, relentless, an ache that should have pulled her under. But beneath it, faint as a whisper through water, something stirred. A flicker. A fragile pulse. Not orders. Not duty. Not the weight of a galaxy on her back. Just a name. Unspoken. Unknown. But hers. A tether waiting in the dark.

She was shattered, scarred and rebuilt from pieces that should not have held. Yet breath still moved through her, soft and stubborn, carrying with it the cruel miracle of survival. And in that fragile quiet, Shepard realized the truth she’d buried under war and sacrifice: for the first time in longer than she could remember, she wanted to live. Not for the galaxy. Not for the myth. But for love, and for the future still beating inside her

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t fully risen. Golden rays cracked across the sky like the first breath after drowning, brushing soft against the windows of the private medical suite. The room was still, the kind of hush that comes after a storm, only the slow beep of a heart monitor kept time. One of them had fallen silent. The other still ticked.

Time had unraveled into fragments. Hours, days, maybe more. Shepard couldn’t tell. Each time she clawed her way to the surface, the world broke into flashes: a hand closing around hers, the low murmur of voices, the sting of antiseptic at the back of her throat. Sometimes Garrus’s silhouette leaned close, steady and immovable. Sometimes it was only light, the blinding kind, fractured and bending across her vision until it was too heavy to hold. Then the dark would drag her under again.

Still, Shepard opened her eyes. Her body ached like it had been buried and dug up again. She moved her hand first. Fingers stiff, swollen. Skin pale but warm. The IV tape tugged when she flexed. Her pulse jumped on the monitor.

The days—or hours, she couldn’t tell—bled together. Voices came and went like dreams. Joker’s sharp humor, clipped by nerves he thought she couldn’t hear. Liara’s voice, soft as rainfall, reciting things Shepard half-remembered, like she was trying to anchor her to history itself. Tali’s laughter, thin but determined, rattled through the haze, often followed by the quiet hum of tools she swore she only brought “just in case.” James’s steady baritone broke through once, teasing about pushups even though his voice cracked halfway through. Wrex didn’t talk much; his presence was a weight at her side, his silence louder than most words. Others came, too. Some faces blurred together, but the warmth of them lingered.

She didn’t know how often they visited, or if it all happened in a single day. Her mind slipped between moments like water through broken glass. Even when Chakwas or Miranda bent over her with calm precision, reminding her she was healing faster than any human should, it still felt slow. Every breath, every flicker of muscle was a battle. And still, she fought to keep her eyes open a little longer each time. No matter who came and went, one constant always lingered.

On the couch near the door, Garrus was curled like a sentinel at rest. One foot braced on the floor, a blanket slung half-off his bare chest. His mandibles twitched slightly in sleep, his breath steady in the quiet like a distant tide. A jacket was tossed over the back of the chair, abandoned without thought. He hadn’t left. Not really. He was there in every blink, every half-dream, the steady shape in the corner of her fractured hours. Watching. Waiting. Holding the line, even in sleep.

She watched him for a long moment. Then she reached for the IV. The tape pulled. The needle slipped free with a sharp tug and a hiss between her teeth. Her legs weren’t ready. But she didn’t wait. She swung them over the edge of the bed. They hit the floor with all the grace of a collapsed building. Her knees buckled instantly. Pain ricocheted up her thighs, through her spine, into her ribs. Her hands gripped the bedrail like a lifeline.

 Breathe in. Don’t scream. Everything hurt.

The pain was sharp, so sharp it almost made her regret being alive. It was the kind of hurt that reminded her she was held together by metal, stitches, and sheer defiance. She stayed where she was, head bowed, sweat slicking her forehead from just that small effort. The hospital gown clung damp to her back, the tape of old IVs still tugging faintly at her skin. And beneath it all, deeper than the ache in her ribs, she felt a different rhythm. A quiet, steady, insistent: Her daughter. 

No one was awake yet. Good.

She forced herself upright, using the IV pole for support even though it wobbled like a drunk. Every step felt like betrayal. Her legs didn’t trust her. Her lungs worked too hard. Her body screamed retreat. But retreat wasn’t in her vocabulary. She shuffled toward the window. It took everything she had.

The muscles in her back trembled. Her shoulders burned. The stitches—wherever they were—pulled tight. She kept her jaw clenched, her breathing shallow, until she reached the edge of the light. She gripped the wall and let her forehead rest against the cold windowpane. And there it was. The dawn over Earth. Smoke still curled along the edges of the horizon. Fires still smoldered in the scars of cities. But the sky was soft. Pink and gold leaking behind clouds like hope bleeding through wounds.

She closed her eyes as the light found her, brushing her face with a tenderness she’d nearly forgotten. There was warmth in it, not the fevered heat of fire, or the sharp sting of weapons’ flare, or the rush of adrenaline burning through her veins. This was gentler. Truer. Morning warmth, soft as breath against her skin. How long had it been since she’d felt it freely? Two years? Longer? Time itself seemed to dissolve in its glow. Through the glass it spilled, golden and slow, kissing her skin, melting the edges of her into light, until even her broken silhouette seemed less fractured, more whole.

Her hand drifted lower, settling over the gentle curve that hadn’t been there before. The gown couldn’t hide it, the weight, the quiet gravity of change. Fingers spread, breath unsteady, she felt it: a flutter, light as butterfly wings. Brief, fragile, but enough to turn pain into wonder. She wasn’t alone in her body anymore. She wasn’t just surviving for herself. The war had taken everything. Then given her this.

“Hell of a place to land, huh?” she muttered, hand resting against her belly. 

No answer came, of course. Just that faint stir beneath her skin. Like a tiny hand pressing gently back. Shepard didn’t feel like a soldier. Or a weapon. Or even a legend. She felt like a mother. Broken, tired, still bleeding in places she couldn’t name. But still here. Still standing.

She let the silence stretch, only the sun and her daughter to witness it. Her forehead stayed against the glass, her hand on the swell of her stomach, and she closed her eyes.

“Not exactly the retirement I planned,” she said to the bump. “But screw it. You and me? We can build a home here.” 

The soft hiss of the automatic door barely registered against the quiet. Shepard didn’t move. Didn’t need to look to know who it was. The quick click of heeled boots. The sharp inhale of someone trying very hard not to explode.

“Are you kidding me?” Miranda’s voice was a hiss, sharp as glass. “Shepard, what the hell are you doing?”

Shepard kept her forehead against the windowpane, her hand still resting low on her belly. 

“Enjoying the view.”

Miranda’s boots struck faster now, closer, until she stopped just short of grabbing her by the arm. “You ripped out your IV. You’re stitched in places that haven’t finished healing. Your blood pressure is still a disaster, you haven’t eaten—you should not be on your feet.”

Shepard finally turned her head. One brow lifted. “But I am.”

Miranda made a sound like she was going to combust. “You’re not indestructible, despite your charming ability to push limits.”

“I’m not asking to run drills,” Shepard muttered, leaning more heavily into the large window now. Her body trembled, just a little. “Just wanted to see the sun. And her.”

Miranda’s mouth opened, then closed again. The fire in her eyes dimmed. Just a fraction. She looked at the curve of Shepard’s abdomen. Then at the sweat on her forehead. The slight shake in her legs. 

“You’re going to lie back down,” she said finally, quieter now. “And if you don’t, I will call your mother. Don’t test me.”

Shepard groaned. “That’s low.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are,” Shepard said, finally shifting to move, her hand bracing against the window as she turned. Her body protested like hell, but she didn’t fall. “But give me two more seconds. Just two.”

Miranda hesitated. Then sighed. Crossed her arms. “You get one. And I swear, if you pass out and I have to carry you, I’m leaving you on the floor.”

Shepard smirked. “Noted.”

Miranda slipped an arm around Shepard’s waist, gently, but with enough force to remind her she wasn’t winning this one.

“Don’t fight me,” Miranda warned under her breath, muscles tense beneath the clean lines of her uniform. “You’ve already proven your point.”

“I wasn’t making a point,” Shepard muttered, her legs dragging as they moved. “Just… needed a second.”

“You nearly blacked out standing still.”

“I didn’t black out.”

“Because I caught you.”

Shepard grunted in protest as Miranda guided her the last few steps to the bed. The mattress looked deceptively soft, like a lie, but her body was starting to scream in ways she couldn’t ignore. Miranda helped lower her down inch by reluctant inch, until Shepard’s head finally hit the pillow.

Her eyes stayed on the ceiling, chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. “Okay. You can go now.”

Miranda snorted. “Don’t even start.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re full of it.”

“Miranda.”

“I said don’t start.”

In the corner of the room, Garrus stirred. A  deep breath first. Then the subtle shift of weight on the couch. One foot hit the floor, then the other. His voice came low and gravel-rough, still half-dragged from sleep.

“Shepard?”

Shepard winced, whispering through her teeth. “Shit.”

Miranda straightened, arms folding across her chest like a reflex. “Perfect.”

Shepard tried to sit up again and immediately regretted it. “No, don't wake—”

Garrus stood. He moved with a limp, one hand braced on the arm of the couch, his other reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes. His gaze landed on her almost immediately, still and pale in the bed, Miranda hovering at her side. His mandibles flicked, concern painting itself across every line of his face.

“What happened?” he asked, voice sharpening. “Is she—?”

“She decided to take a sunrise stroll,” Miranda said flatly. “Unassisted. Unsanctioned. And unbelievably stupid.”

Shepard shot her a glare. “I’m right here.”

Miranda returned it, deadpan. “Exactly.”

Garrus was already crossing the room. “You got up? Shepard, you couldn’t even sit up yesterday without blacking out.”

“I didn’t black out!” she snapped, then immediately hissed in pain as her ribs pulled tight. “I just… got a little lightheaded. That’s all.”

Miranda rolled her eyes skyward like she was begging for patience from whatever gods hadn’t already abandoned them.

“I’m fine,” Shepard added quickly, her voice dipping softer as Garrus reached her side. “I just needed to see it. The sunrise. Earth. Her.”

Garrus’s gaze followed her hand as it drifted to her stomach, resting gently there. He exhaled slowly, the fight bleeding out of his shoulders. One hand reached to brush sweaty hair back from her temple, his touch feather-light. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Miranda, meanwhile, was already backing toward the door. “If she tries to stand again, tackle her.”

“I’ll try,” Garrus said. “But you’ve seen her.”

Miranda muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “impossible woman” and vanished into the hall. The door hissed shut behind Miranda, sealing with a soft finality. And then it was just them.

Garrus stood beside her, not speaking at first. Just watching. His eyes traced the lines of her face like he was memorizing every freckle, every bruise, every twitch of pain she couldn’t quite hide. Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, and her fingers, still pale, still shaking, clutched the blanket like it was the only tether she had left.

“Are you hungry?” he asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Shepard’s head tilted just enough to look at him. Her eyes were heavy, but clear. Awake in the way only someone who’s seen too much ever really is.

“No food,” she murmured, voice ragged at the edges. 

Garrus nodded once. He didn’t argue.

“Alright,” he said, softer than before. “Just get some sleep.”

He reached for her, and she didn’t flinch. One hand skimmed gently through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. The other braced beside her, lowering him until his forehead touched hers.

Cool plates met fever-warmed skin. A breath passed between them, slow and sacred.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he murmured. “You won’t even miss me.”

She closed her eyes, letting herself fall into that quiet space. His scent lingered, something uniquely him. The heat of his body close. His fingers brushed her temple in a final, grounding touch.

She was asleep before he left the room. And even in dreams, she swore she could still feel his forehead against hers. Sleep came in fragments now, shallow, unreliable, barely enough to count. But the bed had stopped spinning. Her chest ached less. And no machines beeping in defiance of her stubbornness. When she opened her eyes again, the room was quiet. Garrus was gone. No blanket on the couch. No rumble of his voice. No quiet mandible click that had, somehow, become more familiar than her own heartbeat. Just stillness.

When Shepard opened her eyes again, the room was different. Quieter, brighter, changed in ways that told her more than a clock ever could. Garrus was gone. No blanket on the couch. No rumble of his voice. No quiet mandible click that had, somehow, become more familiar than her own heartbeat. Just stillness. The clock on the wall glowed 07:52 AM, but it wasn’t the same morning she remembered. The light was angled differently, heavier with the weight of time she hadn’t felt pass. A whole day had slid away while she drifted, lost somewhere between pain and sleep.

Slowly, she sat up. Her body protested, of course. Her spine ached like rebar had been shoved into it sideways. Her abdomen pulled with the weight of new gravity, her center of mass shifted and strange. But she was up. And she was alone. Her fingers traced the edge of the thin hospital blanket. Then her gaze fell to the door on the far side of the room.

The shower.

She didn’t remember the last time. Not really. Not clearly. Eight weeks, maybe more. Stitched. Cleaned. Monitored. But not properly washed. Not on her own. She swung her legs over the side of the bed again, slower this time. Braced herself. Waited for the stars behind her eyes to clear before she stood. No IVs now. No wires. Just gauze. Scars. Her own will. And the weight of a daughter she hadn’t met yet, tucked safely beneath her chest.

She shuffled toward the bathroom, hand pressed to the wall. Every step was a small rebellion. Her hospital gown brushed against bare legs. Her body felt unfamiliar, bloated and bruised and foreign. No longer just a subtle swell. It was real now. Round. Solid beneath her skin. Not stretched to its limit, not yet, but already heavy with a presence that pulled at her balance, her breath, her every movement. It wasn’t just her body anymore. And for the first time, she felt the full weight of what that meant.

She paused in the doorway. The bathroom light flickered to life. It was small. Unremarkable. Tiled in pale gray. The kind of sterile comfort Alliance designers thought was soothing. She stepped inside, peeling the gown off slowly, wincing as it caught against the tape on her side. Her reflection in the mirror stopped her cold. She didn’t look like a hero. She looked like a ghost with eyes sunken, collarbones sharp, stomach round and taut like she was housing a galaxy. Scars branched across her skin like rivers. A few new. Many old.

She touched the glass, almost to make sure she was real. Then turned on the water. Steam began to rise. She stepped in. And for a moment—just a moment—it wasn’t about survival. It wasn’t about war, or titles, or planets burning. It was just hot water sliding down her skin.

The first breath she took under that stream felt more real than any she’d taken since the Crucible fired. Her hair plastered to her face. Her shoulders sagged. Water hit the curve of her belly like a benediction. She let it run. Over scars. Over bruises. Over everything she’d endured and everything she’d become.

She didn’t know how long she stood there. Steam wrapped around her like fog, thick and clean and soft. It clung to her lashes, soaked her hair, dripped down the planes of her back. Her arms rested against the wall, forehead pressed to tile, chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate rhythm. The water hit her body in waves. Gentle. Constant. A quiet percussion against a person that had only known violence for far too long.

She let herself feel it all. Not just the soreness. Not just the weight. But the life. The moment she reached to turn off the stream, a hiss of air behind her made her freeze. The door. She turned her head slowly, water still streaking down her neck. Garrus stood in the doorway.

He must have slipped in when she was too lost in the steam to hear him. His shoulders filled the space, one hand still resting on the frame, talons curled slightly like he’d needed to brace himself. His eyes locked on her.

Shepard didn’t flinch. Didn’t hide. Just stood there. Dripping, marked, bare in every way that mattered. Scars crisscrossed her abdomen like constellations. Some healed. Some still angry and red. Her belly rose gently from her center, round and real and heavy with purpose. Her arms, once tightly corded with muscle, now carried the softness of stillness and survival. She was different. But she was still her. And in his silence, she saw it, that flicker of grief for what she’d endured, and awe for the woman standing in front of him.

She broke the moment first.

“Garrus,” she said, water still trickling from her jaw. “I’ve asked you for a towel three times.”

He blinked, like coming out of a trance, and moved quickly, fumbling for the cloth draped over the warmer, passing it to her.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse. “You… you caught me off guard.”

She raised an eyebrow, pressing the towel to her chest, water still dripping from her collarbone. “That hard to look at?”

He stepped forward now, slower. Eyes roaming over her. not with just lust, not with pity, but with reverence. “Shepard,” he murmured. “You look… stunning.”

She blinked. Then laughed, short and surprised. The sound bounced off the tile like a crack of light in the fog. “Seriously? Is that supposed to melt a girl’s heart?”

He tilted his head, mandibles twitching upward. “No,” he said, stepping close enough now that she could feel the warmth of him. “But this is.”

He moved toward her slowly, each step unhurried, deliberate, as though closing the distance to something holy. Steam drifted between them in gentle curls, dissolving the room into haze until nothing remained but the two of them. She watched him. Watched the flicker of his eyes as they roamed her body, not hungry, but devotional. Like she was something he couldn’t quite believe he still had in front of him.

He stopped just inches away, water still sliding from her skin. She stayed still, silent, until his hand found hers, closing slow, certain, his claws threading carefully between her fingers. Warmth met cool, skin to carapace, a union both fragile and sure. He drew her hand downward, not with haste but with gravity, with a need too long kept quiet. Lower, until her palm rested against the seam of him, where armor gave way to heat, where his pulse beat quickly and insistent. It throbbed beneath her touch—eager, undeniable—his body tilting toward hers as though the contact had lit a fuse beneath the plates.

And then, a knock. Sharp. Measured. Familiar. “Jane?” came the voice through the door. 

Garrus groaned.

Shepard rolled her eyes and muttered into the towel, “Perfect.”

He looked at her and whispered, “If she kills me, I just want it on record that I died happy.”

“Damn it,” she sighed with a slight chuckle. 

Garrus just groaned. “I know. Your mother has diabolical timing.”

She pulled back slightly, biting down a laugh. “She always has.”

He didn’t move away. Didn’t drop her hand. “Tell her we’re not decent,” he murmured, leaning closer, “and we’re not sorry.”

Another knock. Firmer this time.

“Jane,” Hannah’s voice came again, edged with exasperated concern. “If you needed a damn shower, you could’ve asked. I’d have helped you.”

Shepard sighed, still dripping, still clutching her towel where it mattered. Garrus stepped back instinctively, though his eyes lingered like he couldn’t help it.

Then Hannah added, gentler, “Do you… need help?”

Shepard rolled her eyes and reached for the robe on the hook. She tugged it on, gingerly, wincing as the fabric dragged against healing skin, and opened the door.

Her mother stood in the medical suite, arms crossed tight, brow furrowed in the way only a mother’s could be. But the second her eyes landed on Garrus behind her daughter, Hannah went stock-still. And blushed. Bright red. Like someone had slapped her with a heat lamp.

She cleared her throat. “Are you two..?”

Shepard didn’t miss a beat. “He helped me clean up,” she said dryly, tying the robe tighter around her waist, enhancing the clear evidence that they were no strangers to being intimate. “Not that it’s your business.”

Garrus, to his credit, just folded his arms across his chest and gave a small, satisfied rumble.

Hannah opened her mouth to respond, but whatever she’d meant to say vanished like smoke. She blinked, glanced away, then finally remembered why she was there.

“Right—Hackett,” she muttered, regaining her tone. “He needs to speak with you. Said it’s important. Something about the upcoming service and crew recognition.”

Shepard leaned her head back against the doorframe and exhaled. “Of course it is.”

“I told him you needed rest, but he insisted it be today. He’s downstairs, or if you prefer, he can come up”

Shepard nodded, wiping condensation from her brow. “I’ll be down in ten.”

Hannah started to object, already stepping forward. “You’re barely—”

“I’ll see that she gets there in one piece,” Garrus interrupted smoothly, stepping beside Shepard now, steady and calm.

Their eyes met, mother and alien, and something unspoken passed between them.

Hannah hesitated. Then nodded. “Fine. But ten minutes. Not fifteen. Not twenty.”

She turned and marched toward the suite door without waiting for a response.

The moment she was gone, Shepard exhaled and muttered, “You think she’ll ever stop doing that?”

Garrus tilted his head. “Walking in at the worst possible moment or trying to run your life?”

She smirked. “Both.”

He stepped closer again, brushing a stray damp strand of hair from her face. “Not a chance.”

She huffed out a tired laugh, leaning just slightly into his hand. He stayed a moment longer, watching her with that same unreadable tenderness that always made her chest ache.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’ll grab your clothes.”

She nodded, and he slipped out the door.

She took her time drying off, moving slow, deliberate, like every movement was a conversation with gravity. When she finally stepped back into the room, he was already there, setting a folded bundle on the edge of the bed with that careful reverence he reserved only for things that mattered.

“Didn’t think you’d want to meet an admiral in a bathrobe,” he said, glancing up with a flick of humor in his eyes.

Tight black athletic pants. A loose N7 t-shirt. Black shoes that had definitely seen better days.

Shepard raised an eyebrow. “So you brought my gym clothes?”

Garrus shrugged, mandibles twitching slightly. “They were the only things in your room that didn’t reek of reaper dust and gun oil. Figured you might want something that still feels like you.” He paused, eyeing her midsection, then added with a smirk, “Besides, I didn’t think your little black dress would fit the same these days.”

He made a vague circular gesture in front of his own stomach. She crossed her arms, slowly, because everything still hurt, and arched a brow at him.

“Oh, you mean the one you always said was a ‘distracting tactical disadvantage’?” She glanced down at her belly, then back up with a deadpan expression. “Looks like I upgraded to heavy artillery.”

Garrus’s mandibles flared as he let out a low chuckle. “Terrifying,” he said. “I love it.”

She smirked, tugging the N7 shirt down over her stomach, the fabric stretching and almost completely concealing her new curve. It felt like slipping back into an old skin, familiar, but no longer quite hers.

From the front, she looked almost normal. Maybe a little pale. A little thinner than she used to be. The shirt was loose, the pants tight, her posture still trying to remember what strength felt like. But from the side… The bump was visible. Subtle, but real. If you didn’t know to look, maybe you’d miss it. But it was there. Just under the hem of the shirt, stretching the fabric slightly over her lower abdomen like a small hill rising from a once-flat battlefield.

She straightened, jaw tight, spine pulled taut like a fraying wire. One hand instinctively braced against her lower back, the other resting protectively at the base of her belly. Pain flared low in her back, creeping down her legs like a warning. She’d been on her feet too long. Her muscles trembled beneath the weight of effort, her joints aching with that deep, post-trauma exhaustion that never truly left.

Her body wanted to fold. Sit. Give in. But she wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until after Hackett. She pulled her hair back with trembling hands, tying it at the crown. Simple. Efficient. The Commander’s version of armor.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said, steadying herself.

She was still Commander Shepard and the galaxy didn’t wait.

Chapter Text

The door opened with a soft hiss. Inside, Admiral Hackett stood alone at the far end of the room, hands clasped behind his back, a tablet flickering in front of him.  Hackett turned as they entered. He looked like he’d aged ten years, even beneath the weight of polished brass and regulation posture Shepard gave a salute, Hackett returned the respect. 

“Commander,” he said. 

The room was dimly lit, the overhead panels casting a soft, muted glow across the polished metal floor. A wide holomap of Earth rotated slowly at the center console, its surface scorched and fractured, a patchwork of red zones and blue flickers marking cities still holding, others already gone. Reconstruction reports scrolled quietly in the corner of the display numbers, names, estimates. Too many of them unreadable.

Admiral Hackett stood in uniform, navy blue with gold trim, pressed. There was a frayed edge near the collar. A tear that had been patched at the shoulder. His hair, what was left of it, was streaked with more gray than before, and deep lines creased the corners of his eyes and mouth like etched stone.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, as though the war still lived in the lines of his face, refusing to release him.

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. “And the baby?”

Shepard’s gaze didn’t waver. “We’re fine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not completely. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. The words sat between them like fragile glass, polished enough to pass but too thin to hold weight.

Hackett inclined his head, something like relief softening the steel in his eyes. “Then… congratulations, Commander. Congratulations to you both.”

Her reply was automatic, clipped by habit. “Thank you, sir.”

But the moment lingered longer than protocol allowed. Hackett studied her, as though searching past the armor of her voice for the woman who had carried the galaxy on her back and somehow still stood. Then, with the kind of gravity only he could bring, he turned back to the central console. His fingers tapped against the edge of the display, the faint rhythm echoing like a heartbeat in the silence.

Behind him, Earth turned slowly in orbit, charred, fractured, but still alive. Still spinning. Much like her.

“I want to suggest something,” he said slowly. “And I mean this with all respect to your privacy, but… when the time is right, I think you should announce the pregnancy.”

She said nothing.

“The war took too much from everyone,” he continued. “Whole cities. Whole families. Heroes. Some people are holding on by threads right now. They need something to believe in. Something new. A life like yours… it could matter. It could give them hope.”

Still, Shepard didn’t answer. She just looked past him, to the edge of the holomap where Earth’s southern hemisphere burned faintly red.

Hackett cleared his throat and moved on, mercifully. “There are three things that need your attention.”

She nodded, slow and deliberate. She could feel Garrus shift just slightly behind her, still there. Still steady.

“One,” Hackett said, “we’re holding a memorial for Anderson. Here in London.” 

The breath caught in her throat. She didn’t let it show.

“You’re not required to attend,” he added, “but… it’s your call. He was your captain, you served at his side with loyalty. If anyone should decide how he’s remembered, it’s you.”

She nodded again. 

“Two,” he said, “The Normandy crew is to be honored. Publicly. Official recognition, Alliance commendations. The works.”

Shepard’s brow furrowed.

“I know,” Hackett said, “they didn’t do it for the medals. But Earth needs heroes. Needs faces. People to look up to again.” He looked at her  “You can give a speech if you want. Or stand beside them. Or sit behind the curtain. That’s your choice. But your presence… it matters.”

Shepard’s jaw flexed.

“Three,” he said, and his voice softened, “the galaxy is watching, Shepard. Whether you like it or not. You represent something now. Unity. Sacrifice. Survival. They’re going to look for you. If you disappear, they’ll think we lost something. And we didn’t. We still have you.”

He paused. Let it sit. She was quiet for a long time. And then, finally, she exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

“If they want to honor the dead,” she said, voice low and sharp, “they better damn well listen to the ones who are still standing.”

Hackett gave the faintest smile. “That’s the Commander I remember. We will need an official answer soon.” He straightened, his tone shifting, practical but edged with something almost like care. “When medical clears you, there’s an apartment waiting. Somewhere quiet. Miranda will give you the details.”

Hackett didn’t linger. “I’ll leave you two alone to think it all over.” He gave her a final nod and turned away, the soft shuffle of his boots the only sound in the room. No parting words. No orders. Just the silence between two people who’d seen too much and knew better than to fill it.

The door hissed shut behind him. Shepard didn’t move. The quiet wrapped around her like gravity, heavier than anything she’d carried into the room. Her shoulders sagged, not from defeat, but from the weight of expectation, again. Even after the war. Even after dying. Again.

She stared at the spot where Hackett had stood, the glow of the console fading slowly behind her. Earth still spun. Still burned. Still expected her to stand. Garrus didn’t speak. He waited, a pace behind her, where he always had. She finally exhaled, long and tired. Her hand drifted to her stomach, thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of her shirt. The child inside her didn’t move, but she imagined the warmth of her was still there, quiet and waiting. 

“You were born to do this,” Garrus said softly.

She turned, slowly.

“But you don’t have to do it alone.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, with a faint nod—just enough to say I know—she took his hand. And together, they walked out.

The hallway back to the med suite felt longer. Shepard’s legs ached. Her lower back throbbed in a deep, pulsing way that made her rethink every single step. Her body was heavier now, not just with exhaustion, but with the full understanding of what came next. The war was over, but the weight of it hadn’t lifted.

Garrus walked beside her, silent. He didn’t need to offer support, his hand was already there, steady at her back, guiding without pushing.

When the door to her room slid open, Miranda was waiting. Arms crossed. Foot tapping. Eyebrows lifted with surgical precision.

She didn’t even pretend to hide her disapproval. “You were supposed to rest,” she said, sharp and immediate. “Not take a victory lap through the compound.”

Shepard gave her a look. “It wasn’t a lap. Just a very painful walk to be told the galaxy still expects me to fix it.”

Miranda didn’t smile. “And now I get to fix you, again.”

She gestured to the exam table with a tilt of her head. “Sit. Vitals. Now.”

Shepard groaned but obeyed, moving slowly to perch on the edge of the bed. She caught Garrus smirking from the doorway, arms folded like he was enjoying this a little too much.

Miranda was already scanning her with a handheld omnitool, eyes flicking between the results and Shepard’s face.

“Pulse elevated. Blood pressure low. Oxygen’s dipping. You’re either on the verge of collapsing, or you’re about to give one hell of a motivational speech,” she muttered. “Probably both.”

“I’m fine,” Shepard said.

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “You always say that right before you pass out or get shot.”

Garrus coughed. “Or both.”

Shepard rolled her eyes. “It was one meeting.”

Miranda lowered the scanner and gave her a look like she was debating whether to sedate her for the rest of the day.

“You don’t get to be a symbol if you keel over during your own ceremony,” she said. “So you’re going to hydrate, rest, and maybe eat something with protein before your body stages a coup.”

Shepard leaned back against the bed, closing her eyes briefly. For a moment, no one spoke. Then, softly, she said, “They want me to speak at Anderson’s memorial.”

Garrus’s mandibles flared, but he didn’t interrupt.

Miranda’s expression shifted—still sharp, but quieter now. Her arms lowered slightly.

“Will you?” she asked.

Shepard opened her eyes. Looked up at the ceiling. Then down at her hands.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I’ll be there.”

Miranda gave a small nod. 

The soft hiss of the medbay door came again, not urgent this time. No stomping boots. No sharp heels. Just a quiet entrance. Shepard didn’t have to look up. She felt it in the air first, calm, cool, steady. Like a breeze through a war-torn room. Liara.

“Am I interrupting?” the asari asked gently, pausing just inside the doorway.

Miranda didn’t look up from her datapad. “Yes. But maybe she’ll actually listen to you.”

Shepard sighed. “I’m sitting. I’m breathing. I’m even tolerating a lecture. What more do you want?”

“Hydration,” Miranda said flatly, and handed her a packet of electrolyte fluid like she was feeding a very stubborn stray.

Shepard accepted it with all the enthusiasm of a kicked pyjack.

Liara smiled faintly as she stepped forward, datapad clutched lightly in her hands. Her eyes moved across Shepard’s form, not judging, not alarmed. Just watching. Absorbing. Measuring pain and presence the way only a scientist could.

“You look…” Liara hesitated, searching for the right word.

“Awful?” Shepard offered.

“Alive,” Liara said softly. “You look alive.”

Shepard blinked. Of all the things people had said to her since waking, that one landed with the most force. She didn’t respond. Didn’t have to. Liara moved beside her, standing where Garrus had stood only hours ago, and gently reached for her hand. Shepard let her take it.

“I just came from the Normandy,” Liara said. “Repairs are almost finished. Tali says she’s convinced it flies better now than it did before the war. Joker disagrees.”

That pulled a small smile from Shepard.

Liara lowered her voice. “They’re all talking about you, you know. The crew. People on the ground. Civilians. They’re asking where you are. If you’re okay. What happens next.”

Shepard’s fingers tightened slightly around hers. “And?” she asked. “What do you tell them?”

Liara looked at her, eyes full of that deep, endless sadness the galaxy always seemed to hand to those who cared too much.

“That you’re still standing,” she said. “And that means there’s still hope.”

The heartbeat monitor kept its steady rhythm, a quiet metronome against the hush of the room. Miranda’s fingers moved quick and precise across her datapad, every keystroke sharp enough to remind Shepard she’d be sedated in a second if she so much as thought about wandering toward the door again. Garrus leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her with a weight that felt less like scrutiny and more like orbit.

Shepard—tired, aching, carrying more than her body should—let something shift inside her chest. Not pressure. Not pain. Something steadier. Quieter. The kind of stillness that felt like it could last. Tomorrow was a mystery. The day after, even more so. But here, in this fragile moment, she wasn’t alone. She had Garrus. Miranda. Liara. The stubborn rhythm of her own heart. And beneath it, the softer, insistent echo of another, beating with her.

Liara’s fingers brushed the back of Shepard’s hand, delicate and unhurried. Her voice was gentle, almost reverent.

“I brought something… for the baby.”

The word hit like a dropped weapon in a silent room. Shepard’s head snapped toward Garrus, eyes narrowed into a glare sharp enough to punch through plating.

You told her? her expression shouted, unmistakably.

Garrus froze. His mandibles twitched.

“…I might’ve mentioned it,” he muttered, “once. Maybe twice.”

“Once?” she hissed under her breath, jaw tight. “You told Liara before I even woke up?”

Liara raised both hands, ever the diplomat. “He didn’t share anything disrespectful, Shepard. He was… grieving. We all were. He needed someone. And I’m glad he told me.”

Shepard huffed, lips pressing into a line. “Still. Would’ve been nice to be the first one to say it out loud.”

“It’s a girl,” Garrus said softly. “By the way, Liara.”

Shepard exhaled sharply through her nose, half a scoff, half a laugh. “Glad we’re just handing out all my medical records like party favors.”

Garrus tilted his head with faux innocence. “Should I have sent a fruit basket too?”

She gave him a look. The kind that said: you’re lucky I’m too sore to hit you.

Liara, meanwhile, stood stunned. Her eyes had gone wide, shimmering slightly, and her voice was nearly breathless when she spoke.

“A girl?”

Shepard blinked at her. “Yeah.”

Liara’s hand covered her mouth for a second, an instinctive gesture of reverence. “Goddess, Shepard… that’s… that’s incredible.”

“It’s something,” Shepard muttered, one hand reflexively pressing to her stomach. 

“She’ll have your strength,” Liara said. “And his fire. Goddess help us all.”

Garrus let out a low hum behind her. “I’m just hoping for your stubborn streak and not mine. Otherwise, the galaxy’s doomed.”

Shepard glanced back at him with a dry smile. “We’re doomed either way.”

Liara smiled, full and bright, the kind that didn’t come often anymore, and shook her head.

“No,” she said softly. “The galaxy has never been in better hands.”

Then, as if remembering something, her expression shifted. She reached into her satchel and carefully withdrew a small object wrapped in cloth. Unfolding it, she revealed a golden rectangular locket, scorched at the edges, faintly tarnished, its surface etched with the image of a cross. 

“It survived the Citadel,” she said. “I found it in the rubble while helping with recovery. I didn’t know why I kept it, but… I think it was meant for you.”

She offered it, cradled in a single palm. Shepard stared at the locket in Liara’s outstretched hand.

It was small. Simple. Nothing extraordinary. But the scorch marks along the edges, the faded glint of gold, a beaten cross still engraved in the metal, it all hit harder than any service metal she’d ever been handed. Her fingers hovered over it for a moment before taking it. It was warm, somehow. Maybe from Liara’s touch. Maybe from the weight it carried. She turned it over slowly in her palm, thumb brushing the rough edges, tracing the lines worn faint with time and fire. The latch gave with a soft click, and the locket opened, empty inside. Waiting. She swallowed hard.

Empty. The kind of emptiness that echoed, the way the Normandy had when she first woke to corridors stripped of life. The way Anderson’s silence had answered her call, heavy and final. The way her own chest sometimes felt, hollowed by loss, carved out by survival.

And yet… emptiness was not nothing. It was space. A breath waiting to be filled. A room for something new, something fragile, something she had never thought she’d be allowed. Something she hadn’t dared to want.

She closed the locket with a soft, decisive snap, the sound small but absolute. Her fingers curled around it, knuckles white, as though loosening even for a moment might let the promise slip away. It pulsed warm in her palm, the weight of memory and possibility pressed into metal. A keepsake. A lifeline. A reminder that heartbreak could also be proof that her heart still beat.

“…Thank you,” Shepard said, her voice rasping low. “I don’t know what else to say.”

Liara just smiled. “You don’t have to.”

From the couch nearby, Garrus tilted his head, mandibles flexing with a hint of hesitation. “What does the cross mean? To humans, I mean.”

Shepard glanced down at the locket, the tarnished etching catching in the light. Her thumb lingered over the worn symbol. “Faith,” she said softly.

Liara’s voice joined quietly, her tone gentle but certain, as though she’d studied long enough to understand. “In the human Christian religion, it’s also tied to a figure named Christ. He gave his life on such a cross to save the world—or at least, the world as his people knew it. His sacrifice was meant to carry them forward, to give them another chance. To many, the cross is a symbol of that: suffering turned to salvation. Death turned to renewal.”

She looked at Shepard then, her expression softening. “It’s not unlike you. You fell, and you rose again. You’ve carried pain most would never survive, but in the ashes, you’ve built something greater. A future. Something the galaxy might believe in.”

Shepard’s throat tightened, the locket pressing into her palm like a ghost made solid. The little cross etched into its surface was more than metal, it was inheritance and promise both, carved by the sacrifices that had carried her here. It bore the silence of Anderson’s voice, the ache of all she had lost, and at the same time the fragile weight of tomorrow, of a child not yet born, of a future not yet written. Heavy and unrelenting, yet quietly alive, it marked her as both survivor and mother, tethered to grief and hope in the same breath.

And as she closed her eyes, she couldn’t help but taste the irony of it—her name, her path, the weight it had always carried like a prophecy whispered long before she was born. She had never shied from it. She liked being a hero, the fire in her veins, the gravity of being someone others could follow. But now… now she understood in a way she never had. She had become what her name had always promised, not merely a commander of soldiers, not merely a banner for the broken, but a true shepherd of life itself. Broken, yes. Remade. Scarred and sanctified, carrying both wounds and wonder, a cross etched across her soul. She walked the ancient path of sacrifice and resurrection, of peace tender as a vow and hope radiant as a star, bearing them like sacred offerings into a dawn that waited just beyond the horizon. 

•••

The ruins had been swept clean. The old London memorial grounds, just miles from where the Crucible’s shockwave had seared the sky, had been reborn into something that almost resembled peace. Grass had begun to grow again, patchy and stubborn. Stone pathways curved around freshly planted trees. The wind was still cold, but it no longer smelled of ash.

Rows of chairs lined the clearing, flanked by Alliance banners. A temporary stage had been erected under a steel awning. Stark. Simple. Honest. Cameras hovered just beyond the perimeter, drones and press teams, carefully corralled by Alliance guards. They didn’t shout. They didn’t swarm. Not today. Today, even the media knew better. This was Anderson’s memorial. And Shepard had come.

The Normandy crew arrived early, carefully placed along the stage. Each one in dress uniform or their closest approximation. Each one holding the weight of what they’d survived and who they’d lost.

Joker leaned on his cane near the front, EDI beside him in a sleek navy dress and black scarf—her synthetic eyes dimmed slightly in a show of mourning.

 Tali stood in the shade, her fingers nervously adjusting the beads that hung from her veil. Beside her, Garrus lingered in full armor, the blue and silver polished for once, but his posture tight with something unreadable.  Liara watched Shepard approach with a steady gaze and hands clasped before her, diplomatic as ever, but her lower lip trembled when no one was looking.

Miranda stood at the edge of the line, perfect and composed, eyes hidden behind sleek glasses. James was beside her in an Alliance uniform, that somehow still looked too tight across the chest, jaw locked, fists clenched. Like he was ready for a fight he couldn’t win. Jack wore black. But not formal. Just black. A cropped jacket and old boots, the tattoos she’d never covered, not even for the war. Grunt stood beside her, arms crossed, trying not to fidget. His ceremonial Krogan sash looked like it had been tied by a very annoyed salarian.

Kasumi still wore a hood to conceal her face, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the press drones. Jacob stood quietly near Chakwas, both of them watching the crowd, backs straight. Javik stood a bit apart, arms folded and saying nothing as a faint scowl carved into his features, but he was here. Even Samantha Traynor stood quietly among the officers, hands clasped, eyes red-rimmed, but proud.

The first to speak was Hackett. He stepped onto the stage with that same unshakable calm he always carried. His speech was brief, delivered with gravel and profound professionalism. 

“David Anderson was more than a soldier. More than a counselman. More than an Admiral. He was what humanity aspires to be—loyal, unflinching, compassionate in a galaxy that rarely gives you room to be.” He paused, his voice dropping. “He believed in people. Especially in one.” He glanced toward Shepard. Then stepped back.

Shepard stepped forward. No speech in hand. No datapad. Just the locket Liara had given her, tucked into her palm, hidden in the folds of her sleeve. She stood there for a breath. Then another. The wind moved through her hair. A breeze, not a storm. The kind of wind that carried voices and memories and ghosts. When she finally spoke, her words rang true.

“War takes. That’s all it does. It takes names. Faces. Futures. And sometimes it takes the people we never thought we’d lose. Captain Anderson was one of those people.” Shepard’s throat tightened, but she pressed on. “He fought for this planet long before the Reapers ever darkened its skies. He fought with his words, his integrity, and his unshakable belief that humanity—all of us—could be better than we were.”

She drew in a steadying breath. “He died in the place he loved most. Earth. Home. I’ve seen a lot of death, but Anderson’s… that one stays with me. Because grief means love. And love means legacy. So we carry him forward—in what we rebuild, in what we protect, in every quiet moment this galaxy is allowed to breathe because of what he gave.”

Her gaze lifted, eyes finding the horizon. “If we want to honor him, we don’t just survive. We live. We live so the future he believed in has a chance to exist. We build so that no child grows up in the shadow of the fires we knew. We remember, not just in silence, but in what we create. Something worthy of the sacrifice. Something that says Anderson was right to believe in us.”

She let the stillness stretch, the silence bending into reverence. Then, with a voice low but unshakable, she left them with words meant to be carried: “He didn’t just help us survive. He reminded us why we had to. And we will remember him. We will carry him. We will not forget.”

A raw burn grew in Shepard’s chest. Grief never came all at once. It came in layers—shock, numbness, guilt, rage, love—and then circled back again like some cruel orbit. Right now, it was quiet. Dull. A burn, not a blaze. But it was still there. 

Hackett returned to the podium and stood next to Shepard. He cleared his throat, voice amplified across the field.

“We honor Admiral Anderson today for the legacy he leaves behind. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the crew that helped forge that legacy in fire.”

He looked over at them all. Normandy’s survivors. Warriors. Ghosts.

“Some of you were strangers once. Some of you joined the fight late. But you stood shoulder to shoulder against annihilation. You followed Commander Shepard into hell, and somehow, you came back.”

There was a pause. A shift in his tone. Then he turned his gaze back to Shepard. 

“I think there’s only one person who can speak for the Normandy. Commander Shepard?”

The wind stirred, lifting strands of her hair as the crowd held its breath. Cameras pivoted to follow, lenses narrowing, every eye fixed on her. No datapad. No script. No warning. Just the silence of expectation and the weight of so many faces turned her way.

Shepard blinked once, steadying herself, then stepped forward into the center as Hackett eased back. For a heartbeat she simply looked at them, her crew, her ghosts, her survivors. And then, with nothing but truth left to give, she began.

“I don’t think any of us came back from the war ready to explain what it did to us. But Hackett’s right. We didn’t get through this alone. None of us did.” She let the silence hold for a breath, the weight of her words settling. “The Normandy crew… we weren’t just soldiers. We were the ones who stood between the galaxy and extinction. And we didn’t just do it once, we kept showing up. Mission after mission. Loss after loss. Every impossible choice. We stood our ground.”

Her eyes softened as they found familiar faces in the crowd. “I’ve seen my crew bend, nearly break. I’ve seen them bleed. But I’ve also seen them love. I’ve heard them laugh when there was nothing left to laugh about. I’ve watched them carry each other through hell when no one else could.” Her voice caught, then steadied. “I may have led them, but they saved me, more times than I could ever count.”

She drew in a long breath. “Some of us came back. Some didn’t. But every single one of them… every single name and face… they are part of this victory. If the galaxy wants to remember heroes, then remember them. Not just for what they did, but for who they were.”

Her gaze swept the gathering, her voice lowering but carrying farther for it. “And if I can ask one thing now… it’s this: don’t forget the living while you mourn the dead. We are still here. Still healing. Still standing. Do not let that be in vain.”

The hush deepened, heavy with grief and pride, until Shepard gave them the words to carry forward: “We stood together. We bled together. We survived together. And together… we will live.”

Applause followed—loud, respectful, even moved. Cameras clicked. Alliance officers nodded with tight approval. Hackett gave her a measured look that said “well done” and “you’re still useful” all at once.

And for a moment… that was all she could feel. Useful. A tool. A symbol, sharp-edged and clean. Something they could lift like a banner and wave at a galaxy desperate for hope. Wielded when convenient. Silenced when not.

The war had taken almost everything, and now, they wanted to reforge her into something palatable. Safe. Inspirational. As if they hadn’t tried to throw her away more than once. Shepard looked to the left, just past the brass and the reporters and the rows of uniforms lined up like decoration.

Joker was crying. Not loud, not messy, just a single tear slipping beneath his aviators as EDI leaned into his side with impossible gentleness. Tali’s fingers were clasped tightly and the quarian’s head bowed just slightly as if whispering prayers to gods old and new. Liara stood, hands folded neatly in front of her, her jaw set with the kind of quiet resolve that only grief could carve. Miranda stood tall, formal and precise as always, but when their gazes met, she gave the smallest nod. Not protocol. Something personal. Kaidan, beside her, looked like he wanted to step forward and catch her if she stumbled.  Garrus… His eyes never left hers. Not once. He stood straight-backed, battle-scarred, the sun catching the edges of his plates like silver fire.

And that’s when it cracked. Not her composure. Not her mask. But something beneath it. The hollow space that had grown since the war ended. The feeling that she was more ghost than woman, more weapon than person. It didn’t matter what the Alliance wanted her to be. Not here. Not with them. Because whatever else the galaxy saw… These people knew her. And they chose her. Again and again. Not as a legend. Not as a savior. But as Shepard.

The wind shifted again, gentler now. As if even the world itself was exhaling with her. Hackett stepped forward to officially close the service, but his words were few. There was nothing left to embellish. No eulogy more honest than the ones already spoken. A bell tolled, deep and resonant. Once for Anderson. Once for each crew member lost. And a final, lingering note that rang out like a heartbeat, one that refused to stop.

One by one, the crowd began to disperse. Some lingered to lay down flowers. Others just stood, silent and unmoving, letting the moment anchor itself into memory. Shepard didn’t move right away. The podium behind her. The ache in her back. The press of her hand against her coat, instinctively curled around the life inside her.

Faces blurred in the crowd until the ones that mattered rose to the surface.

Wrex clapped Grunt on the back with enough force to rattle armor. Jack lit a cigarette no one dared ask her to put out. Tali and Liara shared a quiet word, heads bowed together. Joker’s laughter cracked mid-sentence as EDI caught him before the sob could finish forming.

Kaidan approached, giving her a smile—soft, hesitant. The kind you gave someone you once thought you loved. Without asking, he pulled her into a side-hug. Familiar. Friendly. Supportive. And for the briefest second, her heart stuttered. The contact was too close, too casual. His arm brushed the side of her coat, and though she shifted just slightly, it was enough. Enough to keep the gentle curve of her stomach hidden beneath thick black fabric. She pulled away quickly, patting his arm in thanks, careful not to meet his eyes for too long.

Then, Garrus. He hadn’t moved. Just waited. A steady silhouette in the sun, scarred and quiet and hers. She turned toward him, her steps slow but sure. Garrus opened his arms, and she stepped into them like a tide returning home. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hand settled at the small of her back, protective and firm. She let herself lean in, into the warmth, the solidity, the future they’d carved out in blood and flame.

Behind them, the last of the cameras powered down. The light shifted. The field cleared. But even as the ceremony ended, something else remained. Not just the grief. Not just the ghosts. But the unshakable truth of survival. And the impossible, beautiful promise of what might come next.

The walk back from the ceremony was slower than Shepard liked, but she didn’t complain. Garrus stayed close, one hand just shy of her lower back, guiding, not hovering. He didn’t speak, not really. Just let the rhythm of their steps speak for them. As they neared the docking corridor, she glanced around, brows tightening.

“This isn’t the way to our apartment,” she questioned.

Garrus shrugged, tapping something on his omnitool with a casual flick of his claw. “Nope. It’s something better.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Garrus…”

“Relax. You’ll like it.” His mandibles twitched, the barest hint of a grin. “Just don’t make that face when we get there.”

She didn’t press, mostly because walking hurt, and breathing wasn’t much easier.

As they rounded the corner into the Alliance docking terminal, a familiar voice called out.

“Jane.”

She turned, just in time to feel her mother’s arms wrap tightly around her, less like a soldier’s formality and more like something desperate that had been held back for too long.

Hannah held her close, one hand pressing gently at the back of her coat. “You were incredible up there,” she whispered. “You did him proud. You did me proud.”

Shepard blinked hard but said nothing, just leaned in.

When Hannah finally pulled back, her eyes softened on Garrus.

“I just got word,” she said. “Your father and Solana are arriving tomorrow. The relay that brings them to Earth is operational again. Engineers managed to reroute the residual damage.”

Garrus straightened, surprise flickering through his expression. “They’re coming here?”

Hannah nodded. “They wanted to be here. To see you alive for themselves.”

She hesitated for a breath before continuing. “The path back to Palaven’s still fractured—they’ll be grounded here a while. Might be weeks before a safe corridor opens again.”

Garrus didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, mandibles flexing once, then twice, like his body needed a few seconds longer than his brain to catch up.

“My father and Solana,” he echoed, quieter than Shepard had ever heard him.

He wasn’t the type to get stunned. Not easily. Not after the war, not after everything they’d survived. But this, this hit him sideways. Not like a bullet. More like a gravity shift.

Hannah tilted her head. “I figured you’d want to know before they landed.”

He nodded slowly, gaze dropping as his claws curled slightly at his side.

“I wasn’t sure they made it through the war,” he said, voice low. “Comms were down. Palaven’s sky was on fire. Last message I got was… weeks before Earth.”

“They’ve been trying to reach you,” Hannah added gently. “As soon as the relays stabilized, they sent word.”

Garrus looked up again, toward the docking windows, where the stars hung still and patient beyond the hull. He could already picture it: his father stepping off the shuttle, as rigid and judgmental as ever, hiding concern behind protocol. Solana trying to bridge them. Trying, always. And now—now there was Shepard. Now there was a baby. A new reality that didn’t fit inside the old one.

He felt Shepard’s hand graze his. She didn’t speak. Didn’t prod. Just stood beside him, a warm and steady presence in his peripheral vision. And that grounded him more than anything.

“I should’ve known he’d outlive the Reapers,” Garrus groaned, lips twitching into a half-smile. “Stubbornness is genetic.”

But the moment the words left his mouth, the humor bled out, quiet and thin. Beneath the smirk and the sarcasm, something coiled tight in his chest. He hadn’t expected this. Not now. Not like this. For months, he’d prepared himself to mourn them. His father, his sister, gone in the silence between stars, like so many others. He’d made peace with it, or so he thought. Filed it away in the part of his brain labeled unconfirmed casualties, where grief could go to rot without tearing holes through his spine.

What would his father say? What would Solana and his father think when they saw Shepard—too thin, too pale, wrapped in grief and wrapped in him? What would they see when they looked at her stomach, at the growing evidence of everything he hadn’t been able to explain in any transmission?

“Guess we’re having that family reunion after all,” Shepard sighed. 

Garrus let his hand find Shepard’s. Not because she needed support. But because he did. Garrus exhaled and turned his focus forward, away from ghosts of Palaven and toward something he could face, something waiting just a few steps ahead. The Normandy.

The Normandy stood tall on her docking struts, gleaming like she had no right to after what she’d survived. The hull had been patched and buffed, re-sealed in midnight black and burnished silver. Not a scratch visible. As if she’d never been through hell. As if she’d never been dragged down through atmosphere and flame and landed teeth-bared on a broken Earth. But Garrus could still see it. The old scars beneath the new skin. The memories sealed in every bulkhead and airlock. The ghosts in her corridors. She was beautiful, sleek, quiet and waiting.

Floodlights caught the slope of her bow, the shimmer of her wings, the faint blue pulse of her engines on standby. The name, SR-2 NORMANDY, shone clean across her side in stark white, no longer smoke-stained. No longer cracked. The Normandy was still hers. Still Shepard’s. Still theirs.

He offered his arm. “You ready to see what they’ve done with the ole girl?”

Shepard hesitated. Not from nerves, but fatigue. The kind that lived in her bones now. Still, she smirked—tired, but real—and took his arm like she always had. Not for balance. For solidarity. 

They stepped onto the boarding ramp together. As the airlock cycled open, a hush fell over the interior. Not silence, just a stillness, like the ship had been holding its breath. The lights came up in slow sequence: corridor by corridor, soft and golden. Warmer than before. Warmer than it had ever been, like even the ship knew its crew was coming home different now. The walls were spotless. No more emergency welds. No more Reaper soot in the vents. The floors had been re-polished, steel gleaming underfoot. Someone had taken the time to re-hang the crew plaques in the CIC. EDI’s core pulsed with soft cerulean light, steady and alive.

Everything smelled faintly of polish, coolant, and something floral. Garrus made a mental note to ask Tali about that later. 

Shepard let out a breath like she hadn’t realized she was holding it. Her eyes moved from console to bulkhead to the slow pulse of the lights and softened. She reached out, fingertips grazing the edge of a support beam near the CIC, like she was grounding herself in the bones of the ship.

“This feels… different,” she murmured.

Garrus nodded, voice low. “Tali and the engineers fought to keep the layout mostly the same. Said you’d want it familiar. But they made some improvements.”

He nudged her gently forward. “Come on.”

They passed the medbay. The tech lab. The mess hall—And then the observation deck doors slid open. Lights flicked on. And the voices broke through: “SURPRISE!”

A wave of sound. Applause. Laughter. Faces, everywhere. Tali waving both hands in the air. Joker grinning like a bastard from behind his sunglasses. EDI next to him, James with a beer already in hand. Liara smiling warmly. Wrex in the back, arms crossed and snorting. Jack flipping someone off for yelling too loud. Miranda, Chakwas, Javik, Kaidan, Kasumi, Jacob, Samantha, Steve, all of them. Even Grunt had a party hat. Upside down.

Shepard blinked, stunned.

Someone had hung a banner across the far wall, made from scavenged fabric and soldered brackets.

“WELCOME HOME, SHEPARD.”

And underneath it, in slightly smaller font, scrawled in red marker:

“AND TRY NOT TO BREAK ANYTHING THIS TIME.”

She turned to Garrus, half-laughing, half-overwhelmed.

“You set this up?”

He lifted a brow. “Me? No. But I might’ve sent one or two messages. Maybe rallied a few old friends.”

She rolled her eyes. And stepped inside.

The lights were dimmed just enough to feel like home, not command. Soft music pulsed through the speakers, nothing dramatic, just something low and easy, like the heartbeat of a ship finally exhaling. The smell of real food mingled with worn leather and recycled air. Someone had found time to clean the place to a shine. Even the walls seemed brighter. And at the center of it all, the crew of the Normandy, her crew.

Joker leaned against a couch, arms crossed, grin sharp. EDI stood beside him, her gaze scanning the room like she was mapping out joy in real time. Jack slouched near the bar, boots on the bench, drink in hand, smirk barely masking the shine in her eyes. Kaidan stood off to the side, trading old stories with James and Steve, the three of them laughing like the war hadn’t swallowed them whole.

Grunt was already three drinks in, slamming his cup down and declaring it a “celebration fit for warriors.” Javik didn’t argue, but he did correct Grunt’s pronunciation. Twice. Even Kasumi had appeared, how or when was anyone’s guess, with a bottle of something glowing blue and a grin that spelled trouble.

Shepard paused just inside the threshold, her uniform, fitting a little snugly, made her stiffer than she’d prefer. Most of the others hadn’t changed since the ceremony. Military formals. Pressed suits. The Krogan still wore their armor. Garrus stood beside her, no different, armored and unmoved by the shift in setting, his hand steady at the small of her back. Guiding. Grounding. Her anchor in a sea of familiar faces.

Joker raised his glass. “To the only commander who’s ever made me wish I had a manual for surviving a hug.”

“To Shepard!” Steve Cortez added.

“To the one who got us through it all,” Tali grinned, raising her glowing bottle.

“She dragged us through it,” Jack corrected. “Let’s be honest.”

The laughter was real. The kind that settled deep.

Shepard smiled, slow and stunned. “This… is a setup.”

Garrus shrugged, mandibles twitching. “But it’s the good kind. No one’s getting shot. Probably.”

They made the rounds slowly. Shepard greeted each of them, her movements deliberate, her voice warm, even when fatigue crept in. Every few minutes she’d glance toward Garrus, and he’d already be there, steady as ever.

Eventually, the inevitable happened.

Tali tilted her head, helmet flickering in the low light. “So… not to be weird, but… are you drinking water?”

Shepard tensed. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” Tali said. “It’s just… you always take a shot when Joker makes a toast. Always.” 

Shepard blinked. Once.

“Tali,” Garrus warned, too late.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a second… you always look so squished in that uniform? You’ve lost weight in your ass, but thicker in the gut. And everywhere else you’re nothing but bone. That’s not post-war weight.” She leaned forward, squinting like she was lining up a shot. Her voice dropped to a mutter. “Oh my god.” Then louder, triumphant: “You’re knocked up.”

“Jack,” Shepard said flatly.

James glanced between Shepard and Garrus, eyes wide. “Wait—seriously? Is she—?”

“No,” Shepard said.

“Yes,” Garrus said at the same time.

Shepard’s head snapped toward him, her glare sharp enough to cut through armor. Garrus only gave the faintest shrug, mandibles twitching like he knew exactly what he’d just done.

Joker nearly sprayed his drink across the table. “You’re pregnant?!”

Grunt snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Knew it. She smelled off.”

Shepard groaned. “I was going to tell you all later. At a normal time. Like after dessert. Or never.”

Samantha’s jaw hung open. “How far—”

“Far enough,” Jack cut in, her voice softer now, strangely reverent despite the grin tugging at her mouth.

Kasumi tilted her head, her tone sly. “Is it… his?”

“Who else’s would it be?” Garrus deadpanned, sliding an arm around Shepard’s shoulders with theatrical flourish.

Wrex let out a booming laugh, the kind that rattled glasses on the table. “Of course it’s his. Garrus is the only turian I know stubborn enough to manage a pup with someone like Shepard. About time you told everyone, too. Proud of you, Vakarian—finally becoming a man.”

Tali’s head snapped toward them, her tone sharp with mock offense. “Wait—you told Wrex before you told me? I don’t believe this.” She crossed her arms, her veil tilting just enough to look wounded. “Some best friend I am.”

The table broke into laughter, shocked, disbelieving, and more than a little ecstatic.

Javik folded his arms, unimpressed. “This child will be… historically inconvenient.”

Steve grinned, raising his glass. “Then they’ll fit right in.”

Kaidan didn’t move in right away. Instead, he extended his hand, steady and formal, the kind of gesture that held more weight than words. Shepard took it, and he clasped Garrus’s next, his grip firm, respectful.

“Congratulations,” he said, voice low, even. “I’m happy for you. For both of you.”

The words came out clean, but his thoughts tangled in silence. For a flicker of a heartbeat, he saw another life, one where it might’ve been him standing at Shepard’s side, hand resting over a future they’d made together. The ache was sharp, but fleeting. He shoved it down, pushed it to the farthest corner of his mind. This wasn’t about him.

He met Shepard’s gaze again and forced himself to remember what mattered: he was happy for her. For them. Truly.

“Do you… know what you’re having?” he asked.

The room went still. Tali’s head tilted. Grunt leaned in. Even Jack paused mid-sip. Shepard glanced at Garrus, who shrugged like this was entirely her moment to lead. So she did.

“A girl,” she said softly.

And that was when Joker let out a dramatic gasp, clutched his chest, and declared, “She’s gonna be born knowing how to disarm a bomb and emotionally ruin a Salarian in under five minutes.”

Laughter broke like a dam. Even Javik looked vaguely amused, in a Prothean kind of way. Miranda muttered something under her breath. 

“She’ll be perfect,” Liara said warmly, and it was the kind of tone that quieted everyone.

Joker leaned forward, squinting suspiciously. “Speaking of perfect, does this mean Miranda knew all along? And Dr. Chakwas?! You’ve all been keeping secrets? I thought we were closer than that!”

Chakwas arched a brow over her glass. “Maybe you’re just not as charming as you think.”

Across the table, Miranda smirked, the kind of small, knowing curve of her lips that made it clear she agreed, and enjoyed watching Joker squirm.

The crew carried on, breaking off in smaller groups of conversation and the night bloomed loud. Javik was arguing with Jack over evolutionary superiority. Tali had somehow convinced Grunt to try something called “quarian brandy,” and now the Krogan was either drunk or pretending not to be just to win the bet. Wrex was teaching James how to arm wrestle over the remains of a shattered table. EDI and Joker were on their third heated debate about AI ethics and board games.

Shepard sat curled against the arm of the couch, barefoot now, legs tucked up under her dress blues. Her cheeks were flushed. From laughter, mostly. From living. And the sound of it, her crew alive, surviving, bickering and drinking and laughing, it settled over her like a blanket she hadn’t realized she missed. But eventually, the noise got softer. One by one, the crew tapped out, either collapsing in unused bunks or catching shuttles back to temporary housing on Earth. Even Tali, wrapped in a borrowed throw blanket, waved groggily before heading off with Liara.

Garrus leaned over, voice low, private. “You up for one more thing?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not planning to show me where the medbay keeps the emergency wine, are you?”

He smirked. “Not tonight. I want to show you something upstairs. Your cabin.”

Her breath caught, just a little. She hadn’t set foot inside it since… before. Since everything.

She nodded once. He guided her with careful steadiness up the familiar elevator. The Normandy was quiet now, humming low beneath them. When the cabin doors opened, it hit her. It wasn’t just clean. It was preserved. Restored with precision and reverence. Her model ships sat exactly where she left them. Her music system was wired and waiting. The lights were dimmed to the soft glow she preferred before bed. Her old N7 armor, mended and polished. 

She blinked. Slowly. Stepped in. And then the noise, the softest little chirp. A familiar squeak. 

She turned. “No way.”

The space hamster. He poked his little head out from his nesting corner, eyes blinking up at her like he hadn’t been a casualty of war but just… waiting. Shepard laughed, the sound catching in her throat halfway between disbelief and wonder. “You found him?”

Garrus shrugged. “He bit Kaidan. But… yeah.”

She turned toward him, ready to say something else. when she saw it. By the bed, tucked in near the viewport, was something completely out of place. Not military. Not sleek. Not standard-issue.

A bassinet. Old-fashioned. Human. Hand-carved from pale wood, dressed with soft lace and quilted fabric that looked worn but lovingly kept. A tiny blanket inside was stitched with faded stars and a ribbon trim that had definitely seen generations. Her hand hovered over it. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“Your mom helped me pick it out,” Garrus said quietly behind her. “Said it was the kind she used. Figured… you deserved something real. Something that wasn’t touched by war.”

She turned to him slowly, eyes glassy now. “This is…” she tried. But the words broke apart in her throat.

Garrus stepped closer. His hand found hers, claws gentle as they laced between her fingers. “This is yours, Shepard. Yours and hers.” 

She didn’t cry. Not fully. But something in her did. Something deeper than tears. She stood there, beside the cradle, wrapped in silence and the hum of a ship that still remembered her name.

The blue glow of the fish tank spilled across the walls like moonlight underwater, painting them both in shifting shades of ocean and memory. The models stood silent on their shelf. The cradle waited in stillness. And in the soft warmth of the cabin, she turned to face him. Garrus stood behind her, close but not touching. Not yet. Shepard’s hands rested at the hem of her snug uniform. Her breath rose slow and steady, until it didn’t.

“Help me?” she asked, her voice no louder than the thrum of the engines beneath them.

He stepped forward. Wordless. Reverent. His talons brushed the fabric at her shoulder, slow and deliberate, undoing the delicate clasp with a gentleness that felt almost sacred. The coat slid down her back like silk over stone, catching briefly at her hips before falling away. She stood in the soft dark in nothing but skin, old scars and new curves. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. He just looked.

The stretch of her belly. The curve of her thighs. The scars that whispered stories across her skin, some his eyes had memorized, others newly etched by war and resurrection and everything they’d survived to get here.

“You’re still the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, voice low and raw. “And the most beautiful.”

Their mouths met halfway between hunger and ache, soft at first, then deeper. He kissed her like she was still fire in his hands. She kissed him like he was the only thing anchoring her to earth.

He moved carefully, reverently, guiding her back toward the bed. One hand at her waist. The other sliding up to trace the line of her spine with the back of his knuckles. Her skin shivered beneath his touch, nerves still waking up, still remembering pleasure after all the pain.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, letting him kneel between her knees, claws tracing the inside of her thigh in slow, teasing spirals. But his gaze never left hers.

“I missed you,” Garrus said quietly. No performative growl. No cocky smirk. Just truth. 

Her fingers slipped into the curve of his plates, just above the ridge of his mandible, the spot that always made him sigh. He leaned in. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling between them like something ancient and sacred. And when he touched her, when they moved together, it wasn’t rushed or frenzied. It was deliberate. Slow. Every motion made to remind her she was alive. That this body, marked by war and swollen with new life, was still hers. Still wanted. Still powerful in every way that mattered.

She arched against him, gasping when his mouth found the hollow of her throat, when his hands traced every inch of her like she might vanish again if he didn’t memorize it all.

The tank cast them in a shifting dance of light and shadow. Blue across skin. Across plates. Across the sheets as they twisted and curled into one another like they hadn’t been parted by death. Like they’d never burned. Shepard cried out once, his name, low and rough, when he moved just right, when the ache inside her turned to heat, to hunger, to fire again. And he held her. All of her. The commander. The woman. The mother. The myth. The miracle. 

Together, they carved a new kind of memory into that room. One that had nothing to do with war, and everything to do with what came after.

Chapter Text

The Normandy was quiet in the early hours, the kind of quiet that only came after laughter had burned itself out. No music. No clinking glasses. Just the hum of life support and the faint groan of metal settling. Like the ship was exhaling too.

Shepard blinked against the soft, low light in her cabin. The overheads had dimmed on a timer, but something about the Normandy’s silence always felt like a presence instead of an absence. Familiar. Protective.

Her head throbbed, not with pain, exactly. Just pressure. Too many voices the night before. Too many hugs. Too many eyes. She groaned and rolled slowly to her side. Beneath the blanket, her body ached. Not from battle, but from the sheer effort of being. Her muscles pulled strangely in her lower back. Her stomach, once tight and hard from years of training, felt foreign. There was a weight there now. A softness. Something alive. Someone. She laid a hand over it. Just long enough to feel the slight tautness beneath her skin. Just long enough to remember.

Then she moved. It wasn’t graceful. She slid out of bed like a soldier recovering from shore leave, wincing as her bare feet hit the cold floor. No armor. No pistol. Just a woman and a body still mending from the inside out. She stole a glance over her shoulder. Garrus lay stretched across the other side of the bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting, light and instinctive, on the pillow where her body had just been. His plates caught the low ambient light, soft reflections ghosting across the curve of his mandibles. Peaceful. As close to at ease as she’d seen him since before Earth fell.

She held her breath as she moved, careful not to disturb the quiet. One creak in the floorboards. One misstep, and he’d be up, half-alert, scanning the room like a sniper waiting for a shot. He didn’t stir. Shepard let the silence stretch around them like a cocoon. Just this once, she wanted to let him rest. He’d been her anchor through the storm, but he’d earned this calm. They both had.

She opened the old storage locker near the cabin entrance and rummaged through what little hadn’t been packed away or destroyed.

Half a bottle of heat paste. An unopened pack of ration bars. A hoodie she hadn’t seen since Horizon. It was black, oversized and blessedly soft. She slipped it on. It swallowed her in faded fabric and old memories. A small stain on the sleeve near the wrist, she couldn’t remember if it was blood or coffee. Probably both. Leggings, next. Stretchy. They complained audibly as she pulled them up, the waistband tight over her stomach. They used to fit.

Not exactly N7 shape anymore, she thought, tugging the hem of the hoodie lower. It did the job, mostly. The fabric draped over her frame, but she could still feel the stretch of the leggings across her hips, the quiet pressure over her stomach. Not armor-tight. Just… different.

Her omni-tool flickered to life with a soft chime. One message.

      [Miranda Lawson | Subject: Follow-Up    Required]

Commander—please report to the Alliance med wing for a final post-release scan. I’ve secured a private window. Your clearance remains high, your stubbornness higher. Don’t be late.

—

Shepard snorted, then sighed. “Morning, Miranda.”

She padded into the small private bathroom off her cabin, flicking on the light with a groggy swipe. It was too bright at first, white and clinical, with that faint metallic tang in the recycled air that never quite went away. But it was familiar. Still hers.

          [To: Garrus Vakarian]

Didn’t want to wake you. Miranda pinged for a follow-up. Shouldn’t be long.

She hesitated. Then added:

PS: you looked peaceful. I didn’t want to steal that, too.

—

She sent it and powered the tool down, tucking her hands into the hoodie pocket like she could stuff the nerves down, too. She finished her morning routine and headed to see Miranda.  The halls of the Normandy were waiting. And so was Miranda.

The walk through the Normandy was mercifully empty. Most of the crew had either left the night before or were still asleep, the aftermath of celebration leaving the ship in a rare state of stillness. Shepard moved through it like a ghost in borrowed skin, head down just enough to avoid eye contact with her own memories

The docking ramp flowed seamlessly into the Alliance compound, which was already awake and alive with motion.

Construction drones floated overhead beyond the walls, their shadows cutting across the early morning light like mechanical birds. Marines jogged in formation down the far end of the path, and somewhere nearby, someone barked orders over a too-loud comm. It felt like peace, forced into motion before it had time to settle.

Shepard kept her hood up and her pace steady. The walk from the docking wing to the Alliance medical center wasn’t long, but every step felt exposed. People didn’t stop and gawk anymore. They saluted, nodded, whispered just out of earshot. The kind of reverence that was meant to be respectful, but carried the weight of expectation like a lead blanket.

The med center was sleek, new, too polished for comfort. Shepard stepped into the lobby, pressed her ID chip to the panel, and the glass doors slid open with a sound like an exhale.

Miranda was waiting. Same stance. Arms folded. Impeccable posture. Expression somewhere between disapproval and subtle concern.

“Commander,” she greeted, gesturing her toward the private exam wing. “Long night?” 

Shepard huffed, the corner of her mouth twitching. “They don’t really make short ones anymore.”

Miranda’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer, then she turned and strode down the hall, heels clicking like punctuation. Shepard followed, each step swallowed by sound-dampened floors and walls too white to feel human. The private scan room was already prepped. Shepard eased onto the padded table with a quiet grunt, lifting her hoodie and pulling the waistband of her leggings down just enough for the scan field.

“She’s been active,” Shepard said, before Miranda even asked. 

Miranda nodded without looking away from the console. “Good sign. High activity levels indicate strong motor function and healthy cardiovascular development.”

“So she’s doing better than I am.”

“Arguably,” Miranda said, dryly. “But you’re improving. Slowly. Your muscle tone is rebuilding at an above-average rate, considering the trauma. Liver and kidney function have normalized. No signs of neural degradation or systemic rejection. The Leviathan-induced cellular fusion remains… stable.” Miranda finally looked at her. “Have you been resting?”

Shepard raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘resting.’”

“Sleeping. Hydrating. Not throwing yourself into battle simulations or existential political debates.”

“No battle sims,” Shepard admitted. “But Hackett might bring up the latter.”

Miranda’s fingers paused over the screen. “You should be conserving energy.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not.”

Shepard didn’t argue. Just turned her head slightly, eyes on the glowing blue halo of the scan interface.

“I don’t know how to,” she said finally. “Everything in me wants to move. Fight. Plan. This… waiting? It’s the part that scares me.”

Miranda didn’t soften. But her voice shifted.

“She’s strong,” she said. “And so are you. But you need to stop pretending that surviving didn’t cost you anything.”

The words hit harder than Shepard expected. She blinked once, slow. Said nothing. The scan ended with a soft chime. Miranda powered it down, reached for a tablet, and delivered it into Shepard’s hand.

Miranda’s gaze softened just enough to let the formality slip. “How’s it holding up? The apartment, Settling in?”

Shepard adjusted the hem of her hoodie, lips quirking faintly. “Good. Garrus likes it better than I do. Bit slow for my liking.”

Miranda’s brow arched, her voice sharpening with just enough bite to be teasing. “So the Commander preferred her stay on the Normandy last night over the several days she’s had in a perfectly secure apartment?”

Shepard laughed, low and warm, but didn’t bother to deny it.

Miranda paused in the doorway before stepping out. “Shepard, I know you think you owe the galaxy your last breath, but you don’t. Let the galaxy knock. You’ve earned the right to answer it on your terms.”

•••

Garrus woke to absence. He blinked blearily at the ceiling of Shepard’s cabin. The lights were still dimmed to pre-dawn levels, casting soft shadows across the metal bulkheads. The bed beside him was empty, but not cold. She hadn’t been gone long.

He sat up slowly, mandibles flexing as a dozen small aches reminded him he wasn’t quite in post-war shape either. His plates clicked quietly as he stretched, the familiar tension in his lower back flaring before settling. His omni-tool chirped to life as he activated it, the soft orange glow casting fractured shadows across his scarred hands. Two messages waited.

The first was from her.

              [From: J. Shepard]

Didn’t want to wake you. Miranda pinged for a follow-up. Shouldn’t be long.
PS: you looked peaceful. I didn’t want to steal that, too.

—

He huffed a breath through his nose. The closest he’d come to laughing before food.

The second message stopped him mid-swipe.

          [From: Solana Vakarian]

We’re scheduled to land on Earth in three hours. Dad insisted on wearing full dress blues. I’m already regretting this. But I’m excited to see you.

—

Garrus groaned and ran a hand down his face.

“Shit.”

He glanced around the room, took quick stock of the chaos. One half-empty water bottle, Shepard’s uniform on the floor and three datapads in various stages of death. No signs of preparation for company, diplomatic or otherwise. His mandibles clicked once, then flared in exasperation. He hadn’t even warned Shepard yet. Three hours.

Three hours until his sister arrived with every bit of blunt observation she’d inherited from their mother, and his father, with questions, expectations, and enough military scrutiny to make even Hannah sweat.

He stood, shaking off the last dregs of sleep, and started gathering his gear. If Shepard wasn’t back soon, he’d meet her at the apartment, and maybe warn her in time to fake a diplomatic emergency.

Garrus barely made it three steps off the elevator before the ambush hit.

Tali was perched on the edge of the railing in the CIC, legs swinging like a kid waiting for dessert. Liara stood nearby, arms crossed and expression caught somewhere between amusement and subtle conspiracy. Joker leaned against the bulkhead like he lived there, grinning like a man who’d just detonated a glitter bomb and was waiting for the fallout. Kaidan—poor Kaidan—just looked like he’d walked in on something he couldn’t unsee.

“Hey, Vakarian!” Joker called out, pointing dramatically. “Congratulations, Daddy.”

Garrus stopped dead. “Please tell me you’re not going to call me that.”

“I am absolutely going to call you that,” Joker said proudly. “You knocked up the Commander! Our Commander. Do you know how many systems are betting against her ever settling down?”

“I didn’t settle her down,” Garrus muttered. “She’s still more likely to headbutt a krogan than knit booties.”

Joker nodded like this was an even greater achievement. “Exactly! You tamed the beast without declawing her. And for that, I humbly accept partial credit.”

Garrus narrowed his eyes. “Partial—what?”

Joker’s grin widened. “You remember the human-Turian vids I slipped to you during Cerberus shenanigans? The one labeled ‘Intergalactic Entanglements Vol. 3’? You’re welcome.”

Liara sighed audibly. “I was trying to repress that memory, thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” Tali added helpfully. “We all know Garrus didn’t need help. Shepard practically drools when he calibrates things. Honestly, I’m a little jealous.”

Kaidan coughed. Loudly. “Okay, well, while we’re on the subject of cross-species bonding, do you guys have names picked out yet?”

Garrus froze for half a second too long. “…No,” he said. “Not yet. Haven’t really had the talk. Been a little busy surviving.”

Liara stepped forward then, placing a hand gently on his arm. “Shepard will want something that means something. To both of you.”

Garrus nodded, the heat of banter cooling into something steadier.

Kaidan shifted awkwardly, then gave a small shrug. “I always figured if I had a kid, it’d be a son. So I only ever thought about boy names.”

Tali leaned in, voice playful. “That’s because you’re unimaginative. Girls are smarter anyway.”

Liara’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “It makes sense. Shepard has always carried the strength of every woman who came before her. Of course her child would be a daughter.”

Joker raised his glass with a smirk. “Yeah, well, one Shepard was enough to unite the galaxy. Another one running around? We’ll have peace for decades. No one will dare start a war again.”

Kaidan let out a soft chuckle, half to himself. “Figures—even pregnant, Shepard makes it look effortless.”

The group went quiet just long enough for him to realize he’d actually said it out loud.

“Right…” Garrus said, his tone flat, mandibles twitching with something unspoken. He straightened, smoothing the edge of his armor as if shaking off the moment. “I should check in with the docks anyway. My father and Solana are due to arrive soon.”

Tali shifted, her fingers fidgeting at the edge of her gloves. “Isn’t your father… very by the book?” she asked carefully.

Garrus let out a low breath, mandibles flexing. “That’s one way of putting it. He’s… not easy to impress. And I haven’t exactly given him the simplest news to process.” His gaze flicked to Tali, then away again. “So yeah. I’m nervous.”

Joker smirked over the rim of his glass. “Well, piece of advice—don’t kick off a hard conversation by being late.” 

Garrus nodded and turned to leave. 

“See you around, Dad.” Joker dragged the last word out with all the smugness of a man who knew exactly how far he could push it.

•••

The Alliance apartment sat on the edge of the compound’s secure residential wing, surrounded by walls of reinforced glass and subtle security drones that hummed like bees in the distance. From the outside, it looked… bland. Concrete and gray steel. Functional. Another box in a world built on triage and trauma. But inside, it felt different.

Warm light spilled through wide windows that overlooked the rebuilt skyline of London at the distance, where cranes clawed at shattered towers and construction mechs moved like silent titans below. The layout was open, modern by military standards. A central living room with clean lines and soft earth-tone furniture broke the sterile mold. Walls of pale gray had been softened with navy blue blankets thrown across the couch and a few wall hangings, nothing extravagant, just enough to feel lived in. One corner held a kitchenette with polished steel counters and a small fruit bowl that was, for some reason, already stocked.

Three bedrooms. Two baths. More space than either of them needed, really. But it gave them breathing room. He stepped inside and let the door hiss shut behind him. The scent of fresh linens mixed with something earthy, maybe tea? The kind of scent that didn’t come from Alliance-issue anything. His eyes scanned the space: throw blankets folded neatly on the couch, soft lighting already adjusted, a pair of slip-on boots by the door that definitely weren’t his or Shepard’s.Then, soft movement. A drawer sliding. Hangers clinking.

Garrus followed the sound, his boots padded by the rug underfoot, and found the door to the primary bedroom ajar. Light spilled through in golden slants from the ceiling panel. And there she was. Hannah Shepard.

Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and her hair was pinned back in a no-nonsense twist. She was unpacking a small duffel onto the bed, methodically laying out clothes with the kind of efficiency only a soldier, or a mother, could master. Folded leggings. Two oversized tunics in dark neutrals. A long cardigan with deep pockets. A soft-looking pair of slip-on boots. Comfortable. Stylish. Practical. Like she knew exactly what Shepard would need before Shepard  even admitted she needed it.

Garrus leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “You come with every Alliance apartment now?” he asked dryly.

Hannah glanced over her shoulder. Her expression was tired, but not unkind. “If they’re housing my daughter and my future grandchild, you’re damn right I do.”

He stepped into the room, eyeing the neat stack of clothing. Everything stretchy. Breathable. Comfortable.

“Good call,” he said. “She keeps trying to pretend she still fits into her old gear.”

“She doesn’t,” Hannah said. “And she knows it.”

“She doesn’t want anyone to see it yet.”

“I know.”

She closed the drawer and turned to face him fully. Her gaze wasn’t sharp like it had been during the confrontation. It was steady. Familiar. Fierce in a different way.

“I didn’t come here to rehash what we already screamed at each other,” she said. “And I didn’t come to babysit. I came to make sure she has something ready. Something that doesn’t make her feel like a broken soldier trying to dress like she’s still invincible.”

Garrus nodded, slow. “She’ll appreciate it. Even if she pretends not to.”

“I don’t care if she appreciates it,” Hannah said, but there was a faint curve to her lips. “I care that it’s here.”

They stood in silence a moment, both looking around the room, not at what it was, but what it was becoming. A home. Or something like one.

“She’s scared,” Garrus said finally. “But she’s trying.”

“She’s always been scared,” Hannah replied. “That’s what makes her brave.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let the words settle like dust in the quiet. Then: “I think I need some of that bravery now.”

Hannah looked at him then. Not like a soldier. Not like a subordinate. Just a man. One who’d watched the woman he loved die. One who’d crawled through the wreckage after her. One who now had so much more to lose.

“They’ll be here in two hours,” he said finally, voice low. “My father. My sister. Landing at the compound.”

Hannah’s brows rose slightly. “You told them about Jane?”

Garrus let out a breath that was part laugh, part groan. “About dating her? No. Not directly. I mean, I assume they’ve seen the vids. The paparazzi photos.  That one photo of her kissing my mandible on the Citadel.”

Hannah smirked. “That was a good one.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “For galactic gossip. Not for easing into a conversation with your very traditional military father.”

Hannah crossed her arms. “And the pregnancy?”

“They don’t know,” he said, bluntly. “Not a clue.”

Her expression shifted, no judgment, just that quiet ‘Oh, Garrus’ look she’d perfected over the last few weeks.

“You planning to tell them before or after they comment on her stomach?”

“I was hoping for a miracle distraction,” he said. “Maybe a Reaper rises from the ocean. Steals the spotlight.”

Hannah’s lips twitched, but she stepped forward, laying a steady hand on his arm.

“You love her,” she said. “That’ll show before any speech does.”

“She’s not the one I’m worried about,” he muttered.

“No,” Hannah said, “but she’s the reason you’ll get through it.”

Garrus had always thought bravery meant stepping into fire without hesitation, walking the edge of a battlefield with steady hands and calculated aim. Bravery was bleeding through armor and still pulling the trigger. But this? This felt different. It was waiting for a door to open with no cover. No helmet. No script. It was wondering if his father, General Vakarian, pillar of honor and discipline and—what will the Hierarchy think—would look at Shepard and only see a human soldier, not the woman who carved out a space in Garrus’s ribcage and decided to stay.

Would he see her at all, or just the headlines? The war. The chaos. The fact that she was now carrying a child, his child, and didn’t quite fit into anyone’s tidy expectations. Solana would be better. She always was. Smarter than him, sharper in the quiet ways. She’d figure it out the second she looked at Shepard’s face, and her stomach. And she wouldn’t say anything. Not at first. But his father? Garrus could already hear the edge in his voice. The way he’d start with protocol. “Is this serious, son?” Like it wasn’t already carved into the damn bones of him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, plates flexing with the tension he couldn’t shake. Garrus didn’t know how to explain that it was serious. That it had always been serious. That from the second he saw Shepard standing in that Cerberus armor on Omega, eyes too haunted for resurrection, his heart hadn’t belonged to him anymore.

And now… now she was still recovering. Still scarred. Still trying to pretend like the world didn’t see the weight she carried, like it hadn’t nearly torn her apart. And he loved her. So much it hurt. So yeah. He needed some of her bravery right now. Because his father and sister were about to step onto Earth. Garrus had two hours left to figure out how to introduce them to the woman he loved, and the daughter they hadn’t even met yet.

•••

The sky over the compound was pale gray, the kind of muted morning light that couldn’t decide whether to burn off the clouds or bury the day beneath them. The wind was sharp and dry, tugging at Garrus’s coat as he walked across the landing pad with hands buried deep in his pockets.

The compound’s upper deck had been rebuilt since the Crucible—reinforced, expanded. Where once it held the scars of war and debris, now there were shuttle lanes, clear corridors and docking crews moving like clockwork in crisp navy uniforms. Life was creeping back in, stubborn as ever.

Garrus stood just past the security checkpoint, flanked by two Alliance guards who gave him a polite nod but didn’t speak. They knew who he was. Everyone did.

He checked his omni-tool for the tenth time. Two minutes.

He hadn’t seen Solana since he left their home planet to join the efforts on Palaven’s moon. Hadn’t seen his father in longer. Time and war had a way of eroding proximity, especially when your last conversation ended in orders and silence. He knew they were alive during the war, kept tabs when he could. But this… this would be the first time they’d see who he was now. Not Archangel. Not C-Sec. Not just Garrus Vakarian, son of a decorated general. Now he was the man who survived a war and fell in love with the human who saved entire civilizations. 

The shuttle engines hit the air before he saw it, low thrumming that vibrated in his plates. A diplomatic model: sleek, gunmetal gray, bearing the insignia of the Turian Hierarchy etched in chrome. It touched down with precision. The ramp hissed open. First off was Solana. Tall. Clean-cut. Her crest a mirror of his but smoother, more refined. She wore civilian diplomat attire but walked like a soldier, head up, eyes scanning. And the moment she saw him, her face broke into a grin.

“About time,” he called.

Solana smiled, mandibles flaring in relief. “You’re early.”

“I’m efficient.”

She reached him first and pulled him into a tight embrace, mandibles brushing his cheek, arms strong around his shoulders. No words, just that familiar weight. Home, in a way he didn’t know he missed. Then came Castis Vakarian. He descended the ramp like he was inspecting a perimeter—eyes sharp, shoulders squared in full military dress blues. His face was unreadable as ever. His steps deliberate. When he reached Garrus, he paused.

There was a beat of silence.

“Son,” he said.

“Dad,” Garrus answered, with a nod.

Castis looked him up and down, nostrils flaring slightly.

“You’ve changed.”

Garrus shrugged. “War’ll do that.”

Another beat. Then Castis gave a single, approving nod, barely there, but it was something.

Solana stepped back and glanced over Garrus’s shoulder, eyes scanning the skyline like she was looking for something, someone.

“So… where is she?”

Garrus blinked. “Who?”

Solana arched a brow, unimpressed. “Commander Shepard. Come on, baby brother. I know what it looks like when you’ve got a crush on your superior officer.”

His mandibles twitched. “You saw that vid on—”

“I saw that vid on the Citadel,” she cut in, deadpan. “Mandible kiss. Fireworks in the background. Subtle.”

Garrus sighed. “She had a medical checkup this morning. She’s meeting us at the apartment.”

“Convenient,” Castis said flatly behind them.

Garrus didn’t turn. “She nearly died stopping the Reapers, Dad. She’s allowed to be a little late.”

Castis gave a soft grunt, unreadable as ever, but said nothing more.

Garrus ignored the jab and turned toward the exit corridor. “Come on. We’ll talk inside. I figured you wouldn’t want to have a family reunion on a helipad.”

As they followed him off the platform, Garrus felt it again, that creeping weight in his chest. Heavy. Tight. It settled just beneath his breastplate and made his stride falter for half a second.

They didn’t know about the baby. Not yet. They knew about Shepard now. At least, the idea of her. The rumors. The footage. The kiss. Fine. That part was… out. A low-stakes explosion. Manageable fallout. Shepard would meet them. Would crack a dry joke and shake his father’s hand like they were both sizing up the room for exits. She’d charm Solana without meaning to. He could already see it. It would be fine.

 Right? Except— Wait.

His eyes flicked to his omni-tool. Three hours. She’d left the Normandy over three hours ago. The scan wasn’t supposed to take long. Maybe an hour, tops. Miranda was efficient, brutally so. And Shepard would’ve messaged if it ran over. Or if something changed. Or if something was wrong.

shit. 

He stopped walking. Just for a moment. The hallway around them was quiet. Castis and Solana were a few steps ahead now, talking in low tones. Garrus stared down at the blank glow of his interface. Had he really been so caught up in this reunion—this quiet storm of nerves and pride and dread—that he forgot to check in? His stomach coiled. He couldn’t just leave. Not with his father and sister freshly landed, dragging Hierarchy expectations behind them like armor. But the silence from Shepard was sharp now. Like static in his ear. Like something just slightly off.

He opened a private comm line and typed quickly.

                  [To: J. Shepard]

Hey. Just landed with my father and          Solana. I should’ve checked sooner, I know—are you okay? You’re not back yet. Everything alright?

We’re heading to the apartment now. Just… let me know.

—

He stared at it for half a second longer than necessary. Then hit send. It blinked. Delivered. Not read. Mandibles flexing, he powered the interface down and fell back into step. She’s fine, he told himself. But the knot in his chest didn’t loosen.

Chapter Text

The war room wasn’t really a war room anymore. There were no tactical maps, no blinking warnings, no projections of enemy fleet movements. Just a desk. A window. A single plant that looked like it had survived the Reaper invasion out of spite.

Hackett sat behind the desk, posture perfect as always, but there were shadows under his eyes. Less war admiral, more tired man holding the line between aftermath and rebuilding.

Shepard held a mug of something pretending to be coffee. It was too bitter, too hot, and tasted vaguely like burned patriotism.

“The mass relays are being rebuilt,” Hackett said, getting straight to it. “Salarians and Quarians are leading the charge. Engineering marvels, that lot. They’ll stabilize traffic lanes within the year if projections hold.”

She nodded once, letting him talk.

“Earth’s healing faster than expected. Everyone who could came back here when the Reapers fell, they’re staying. Rebuilding. We’re seeing cities light up again. Farms coming online. Civilian traffic. People laughing.” He paused. “It’s surreal.”

“It’s what we fought for, sir,” Shepard said.

Hackett’s lips twitched, just short of a smile. “The Alliance has already begun preliminary planning for a new Citadel. Different orbit. New location. Stronger infrastructure. A few more security vulnerabilities. It’ll be slower—careful this time.”

She raised an eyebrow over her mug. “Citadel 2.0: Now With Fewer Explosions.”

Hackett chuckled. “Working title.”

Then: the pivot.

“We want you on the Council.”

She blinked. The mug paused halfway to her lips. “I’m sorry?”

“We’ve already submitted the nomination,” Hackett said. “The deliberations are ongoing, but unofficially? It’s yours. If you want it.”

She stared. “You want me to be the Human Councilor?”

“You’re the face of survival,” Hackett said. “The first name people chant when peace is mentioned. And, if I may be blunt—humanity hasn’t exactly earned a spotless record during this war. But you did. You earned something better.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then: “And if I say no?”

“Then you’ll still be their hero,” Hackett said. “But someone else will be their voice.”

She looked down at the mug. Still too hot. Still too bitter.

Then he added, almost too casually, “You’d keep the Normandy, of course. It would fall under diplomatic classification. Symbol of humanity’s strength and survival. You’d take her when you needed to visit border worlds, mediate disputes. Make peace happen—like you do.”

Her grip tightened just slightly on the mug. He noticed.

“Let’s not pretend you were ever meant to sit in a room and shuffle datapads,” Hackett said. “We need a Councilor who can move. Who understands the edge of things. Someone who can make peace stick.”

Shepard exhaled slowly.

Hackett didn’t ask. Just watched her with the same patient intensity he always had.

“I need time,” she said finally. “To think.”

“Take what you need,” Hackett said. “But not forever. They’re already watching you, Shepard. Listening. Deciding what your silence means.”

“I’m used to that.” Shepard stood, “I should go, Admiral.”

He nodded. “Good luck, Commander.”

She turned and walked toward the exit, the Normandy’s name still echoing in her mind. Her hand drifted low, unconscious, settling over the curve of her stomach.

The hallway was too bright. It was always too bright. The lights weren’t designed to feel like walking beneath a spotlight, but to Shepard, it had. Every step echoed louder than it should’ve. Her boots sounded wrong against the sterile flooring, too heavy for someone who wasn’t technically cleared for combat. But she walked anyway. What else was she supposed to do?

Her hand stayed tucked inside the front pocket of her hoodie, fingers absently pressing into the curve of her stomach like she could hold everything still from the outside.

The Normandy.

Of course Hackett would dangle that in front of her like a carrot tied to a stick made of legacy and obligation. ‘You’d get to keep the Normandy.’ As if the ship was just a vehicle. As if it wasn’t the only place she’d ever really felt like herself. Could she be a Councilor and still fly her ship? Could she walk into a room full of dignitaries while trying not to throw up from morning sickness? Could she give peace speeches with a child on her hip and Garrus in the back row pretending not to make a joke about it later? What if she said no? Would they stop listening to her? Would the next war be harder to stop because she wasn’t the one standing at the podium? Would she matter less once she stopped bleeding for them?

She exhaled, shaky and quiet. She wanted time. She needed time. But time was a luxury she hadn’t been able to afford in years. But still… The Normandy. The Council. The baby. Garrus. Hackett. Her mother. Too many people waiting for a version of her she wasn’t sure existed anymore. And all she wanted, in that moment, was David Anderson.

Her mind drifted to the first time she’d opened her eyes after Cerberus rebuilt her. No parade. No speeches. Just fluorescent light and the weight of a body that no longer felt like hers. She hadn’t even had a breath to take before she was running again—missions, politics, saving a galaxy that never stopped asking for more. It was only in Anderson’s office, in those rare, quiet visits, that she’d found a pocket of stillness. A place where his voice could cut through the noise, where she could see herself again instead of the armor.

Now, standing in the aftermath of war, she felt the same ache, sharper for its familiarity. Her mind slipped back to that room on the Crucible, the weight of the galaxy pressing down as Anderson’s voice had cut through it all. He spoke of retirement then, of quiet days and simple living, of children and futures he’d never see. He’d told her she would be a great mother, his last gift, his last belief in her before the light took him. He said it like a promise he couldn’t keep himself, planting those words in her hands as though he knew she’d carry them forward. And now, they rose again, warm and aching, a thread of hope woven through the ruin.

Maybe that was the answer. Miranda’s words from earlier echoed in her head, let the galaxy knock. Maybe it was time to stop answering the way she always had. Hang it up. Find a new purpose. She was tired, after all.

She wished, ache-deep in her chest, that he were here. That he could sit across from her with that same quiet weight he always carried, and tell her what mattered. Not the titles. Not the optics. Just… what mattered. He’d always had a way of distilling chaos into clarity.

She didn’t realize where her feet had taken her until the sounds of foot traffic faded and she looked up, blinking against sunlight. And there it was. The memorial site. Clean stone pillars stretched upward from a garden of native flora, still young, still healing. The centerpiece was Anderson’s statue: strong, solemn, hands at his back, gaze fixed on a sky he could no longer see. Flowers lay at the base. A carved quote beneath him read:

“Survival is not enough. We must choose who we become after.”

She stared at it, heart thudding in her throat. Not a hero’s thrum. Not a warrior’s pulse. Just the fragile beat of a woman who missed someone she would never stop needing. The breeze shifted. It smelled like sun-warmed metal and grass and ghosts. She didn’t move. Not for a while. There was no one around to rush her. No battle waiting. No command to give. Just the silence of a man carved in stone, and the space he’d once filled so completely.

She sat on the low edge of the memorial base, hands in her lap, eyes on the horizon. Long enough for the shadows to shift. Long enough for the ache to settle into something quiet and familiar. Shepard never said goodbye. Not really. But maybe this was close enough.

Her omni-tool chirped, breaking the stillness. She tapped it open, expecting a reminder. What she found was worse, and better.

            [From: Garrus Vakarian]

Hey. Just landed with my father and Solana. I should’ve checked sooner, I know—are you okay? You’re not back yet. Everything alright?

We’re heading to the apartment now. Just… let me know.

—

•••

The elevator doors hissed open onto the residential wing. Everything was too quiet. Too clean.

The hallway stretched out in soft grays and faux-wood trim—Alliance-issued comfort. It didn’t smell like the Normandy. Didn’t hum with EDI’s presence or Joker’s sarcasm through the comms. Just dry air and fresh floor wax and pressure-silent footsteps.

Shepard drew in a breath, fingers hovering over the door chime. You’ve fought Reapers, she told herself. You can do in-laws. She hit the button. A chime rang through the panel. Soft, polite. It felt absurdly small for the scale of what was about to happen. The door slid open. Warm air drifted out. Light. Familiar voices, low and indistinct. The scent of tea. And there, standing just past the kitchen counter, was Garrus.

His head turned the second the door opened, mandibles twitching like a reflex. And then: his eyes. They softened immediately. Not the look of a soldier checking for threat vectors. The look of someone who had been holding his breath and could finally exhale.

“You’re late,” he said, voice rough but quiet.

She stepped inside.

“Had a stop to make,” she replied.

He crossed the room in three long strides, but didn’t touch her right away, just looked. Took her in like she might vanish again. Then, carefully, he reached out and brushed a knuckle over the side of her jaw.

 “You okay?”

She nodded. “Never better.”

“Good,” Garrus ignored the sarcasm. “They’re here.”

Her breath caught. He stepped aside, and there they were. Solana, standing beside the couch, looking curious but kind. And Castis Vakarian, arms folded, posture rigid, gaze sharp as glass. Shepard straightened—out of instinct, not protocol—and let the door hiss shut behind her.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged. Like a biotic field pressed low against the walls. Shepard stepped fully inside, boots whispering against the polished floor, and let her gaze scan the room the same way it always had, like it was a combat zone she hadn’t quite cleared yet.

Solana Vakarian stood nearest the far corner of the room, one hip leaning casually against the back of the couch. She was tall, but slightly shorter than Garrus, and carried herself with a diplomat’s balance: sharp eyes, relaxed limbs, but ready to spring if needed. Her plates were smooth, polished with a faint blue shimmer in the light, and her gaze was observant without being cold. Curious. Assessing. A mirror of Garrus in some ways, only quieter. More precise.

Shepard gave her a nod, professional but measured.

Castis Vakarian was near the window, half-silhouetted against the  light from outside. He didn’t stand. He didn’t smile. His entire body radiated authority. Some earned. Some inherited. Some demanded. His formal dresses were sharp, but ceremonial, gleamed in subtle silver tones. The ridges of his face were deeper than Garrus’s, etched by time and war, but his posture hadn’t bent an inch. He looked like the kind of man who made soldiers stand straighter just by breathing.

His gaze was pointed. Not hostile, but full of unspoken questions. She met it. Didn’t flinch. Then her eyes fell on Garrus. He stood beside her now, close but not crowding, like a shadow that knew how to shield without casting one. His plates caught the light differently here—softer, somehow—and his eyes… his eyes were the only part of the room that didn’t ask anything of her.

Garrus cleared his throat. “Shepard,” he said, voice steady but a little lower than usual. “This is… well. My family.”

He stepped just a half-step closer to her, not possessive, just anchoring.

“This is my sister, Solana, and my father, Castis.”

There was a moment of hesitation, just a beat, and then he added, “And this is Jane Shepard. My… girlfriend.”

Castis tilted his head, slow and assessing. “Yes,” he said flatly. “The savior of the galaxy. Hard to miss. You’re something of a… known quantity.”

His tone was clipped, his expression unreadable, but the edge of it wasn’t disrespectful, just sharp. Measured. The way a career officer handles a weapon he didn’t request but knows not to underestimate.

Shepard gave him the barest incline of her head. “And you’re the father of the only sniper I’d trust at my back. So we’re even.”

A flicker passed through Castis’s eyes—approval, maybe. Or surprise. Hard to tell.

Solana stepped forward before the moment could curdle. “It’s good to finally meet you,” she said, her voice was smooth, gentle in that diplomatic way that felt practiced but not false. “You’ve been part of our stories for a long time.”

She extended a hand, open-palmed, Turian style. Shepard didn’t hesitate. She mirrored the gesture, her fingers grazing Solana’s in the subtle, respectful way Garrus had once taught her.

Solana smiled, mandibles flaring slightly. “You’re shorter than I expected.”

Shepard huffed a soft laugh. “People keep saying that.”

Solana’s eyes flicked down and back up again, quick, casual, but not careless. Shepard caught it. That sharp glint of recognition, of something filed away for later. Not hostility. Just… curiosity. Or maybe intuition.

Shepard straightened subtly, untucking her hoodie from around her midsection, suddenly aware of the slight stretch in the fabric across her abdomen. She wasn’t showing, not really, not if you weren’t looking. But Solana was clearly someone who looked. Before the silence could grow teeth, Garrus spoke.

“The food’s almost done,” he said, his voice a little louder than necessary as he turned toward the kitchen. “Figured I’d cook while you were out.”

Castis made a quiet sound that might’ve been a grunt. “You cook human food now?”

“Survival skill,” Garrus replied without missing a beat. “Turns out the Reapers didn’t target seasoning. Small mercies.”

Solana’s mandibles twitched with a half-smile, but Shepard could feel her gaze still skimming the edges of her clothing.

Garrus glanced at Shepard over his shoulder. “Made that lemon-chicken thing you like. It’s not the Normandy galley, but figured you could use something familiar.”

Her chest tightened, just a little. Of course he remembered. “Thanks,” she said, and let her hand brush against his wrist as she moved past him toward the table. It wasn’t armor. Wasn’t battle. But this, somehow, felt just as dangerous.

The chair creaked softly beneath her as she sat, hands folding in her lap like she’d forgotten what to do with them.

The table was set. The lights were warm. The smell of roasted citrus and savory herbs drifted from the kitchen, comforting and grounding. Garrus moved easily around the counter, plating food, saying something to Solana that made her chuckle under her breath.

And yet Shepard felt… unreal. Not like a ghost. Not anymore. But like a prop in a scene she hadn’t rehearsed for. This wasn’t a war table. There were no mission briefings, no schematics, no guns within arm’s reach. Just a dining set with three plates of food safe for Turians and one carefully prepared dish of lemon chicken, steam curling from it like a peace offering.

She looked at the plate in front of her, then at the hands folded in her lap. Steady. Too steady. Like she was trying to fool herself.

You’ve faced Thresher maws, she told herself. You survived Harbinger. This is just dinner.

But this wasn’t about dinner. This was about the way Castis hadn’t stopped watching her, even when he pretended to. About the way Solana’s eyes had lingered on her middle, not in judgment—worse. In understanding. This was about the future. About whether she deserved to have one.

She was sitting at a dinner table like someone normal. Someone who didn’t have blood under her nails and planets in her wake. Like someone who hadn’t barely crawled out of death with a second heartbeat inside her. Then movement. Low, just beneath her ribs. She stilled. The baby was moving again. Not kicking, just shifting, like the stir of wings against silk. Restless. Like she could feel the tension coiled in her mother’s gut. Shepard let one hand drift beneath the table, settling over the soft curve of her stomach. Easy, she thought. I know.

It was just dinner. Just introductions. But her body didn’t care. Her nerves had already gone tactical, preparing for impact. And she realized, painfully, that the baby didn’t have that luxury. Whatever she felt, her daughter felt too. Her thumb traced a small, slow circle against the fabric of her hoodie. Reassuring. Calming. It’s okay, she whispered in her mind, not sure if it was for the baby or herself. We’ve survived worse. She took a breath. Not deep, not steady, but enough to hold the mask in place. She could do this. For Garrus. For the little life growing inside her. For the version of herself that maybe, just maybe, deserved more than war stories and sealed orders.

A familiar hand slid beneath the table, fingers brushing hers. Shepard blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t pull away. Garrus found her hand where it rested on her stomach and curled his talons gently around it, anchoring it there. His thumb pressed lightly over the fabric, as if trying to feel what she had. And then, he did. The smallest shift. A flutter. Faint, but there. He looked at her. Not surprised. Not startled. Moved.

His eyes found hers across the space between their bodies, quiet, reverent, as if they were the only two people in the room for a breathless second.

Then the world crashed back in.

“Tell me,” Castis said, voice crisp as a snapped rifle bolt, “how long this has been going on?”

Garrus didn’t move his hand. Shepard didn’t look away.

Castis continued, tone as neutral as a debriefing report. “You and Garrus. I assume this wasn’t… Alliance-regulated fraternization protocol.”

Shepard finally turned her gaze toward him. Calm. Controlled. Ice over heat.

Castis tilted his head slightly, unreadable. “I seem to recall there was another officer in your command team—Alenko, was it? First Lieutenant. There were rumors then, too. Does Commander Shepard make a habit of collecting her crew as personal interests?”

Garrus’s mandibles flexed, slow and tight. Shepard let the silence stretch just long enough to hurt.

Shepard didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact. She just lifted her chin, barely, and let the quiet carry her words.

“I don’t ‘collect’ anyone,” she said, voice low and even.

Castis blinked once. Slow. Assessing.

She kept going.

“Yes, Kaidan and I were involved. Briefly. And when that ended, it ended. Respectfully. Cleanly. There was no overlap, and no violations of protocol.” Her tone sharpened, just slightly. “Not that it’s anyone’s business but ours.”

Garrus’s hand was still wrapped around hers beneath the table, grounding her like a pressure point.

Shepard’s gaze stayed locked on Castis. Not hostile. Not defensive. Just unshakable. “If this line of questioning is about professional conduct,” she said, “you’re welcome to review my record.” 

She added, leaning back just enough to signal she wasn’t afraid of tension, “or if it’s about whether I’m worthy of your son, then let’s not waste time pretending otherwise.”

Solana shifted in her seat but said nothing.

Castis tilted his head again, birdlike. Still unreadable. Still measuring. But Shepard didn’t back down. Castis’s mandibles twitched, barely. A movement too small to read unless you were looking for it. He didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Just studied her like he was adjusting some internal calculation.

“A thorough answer,” he said finally, voice as smooth and cool as polished metal. “And expected, I suppose.” His gaze flicked down. “And yet,” he continued, “the battlefield teaches us that clean reports don’t always reflect messy realities. People make… impulsive choices. Especially in war. In grief.”

He looked back up, and this time, the words carried something colder beneath the surface.

“I’ve seen what happens when soldiers confuse connection with dependency. When they build homes on battlefields and call it peace.”

Another pause. Not long. Just enough to sting.

“But I also know my son,” he added, a fraction quieter. “And I know he doesn’t give himself easily. If he’s standing here with you now… then I assume he’s already considered the consequences.” His eyes sharpened again. “My question isn’t whether you’re worthy of him, Commander. My question is whether you’re ready for what comes after survival.”

Shepard held his gaze, not with defiance, with calm, measured steadiness. 

“I’ve been asking myself that same question every day,” she said. “What comes after survival.” Her voice didn’t waver. It didn’t need to. “I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know what kind of future I’m walking into. But I know what I won’t do, I won’t waste it. Not the second chance. Not the peace we bled for. And not the people I’ve chosen to build it with.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Garrus, then back. “I didn’t survive the war to stand still,” she said. “And I didn’t come back to Garrus because I needed someone. I came back because I chose him.” She drew a quiet breath. “And I know what that choice means.”

There was a weight behind her words. Something unshakable. Not a plea for approval, but a statement of truth.

Solana shifted in her seat from across the table, just a little softer now. Castis didn’t reply right away. But he didn’t interrupt her, either. And that, somehow, felt like a beginning.

“Well,” Solana said, breaking the silence with a wry tilt of her head, “glad we got the hard stuff out of the way first.”

Shepard looked over, catching the dry glint in her eyes.

Solana leaned in, folding her arms lightly across her chest. “But, I do have one question. Not trying to stir anything, just curious.”

She glanced at Garrus, mandibles twitching in amusement. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

Garrus opened his mouth, but Solana held up a hand. “Wait—actually, follow-up. Shepard, you still haven’t said how long this has been going on.”

There was no bite in her words, only open curiosity and the kind of knowing smirk only a sibling could get away with.

“I mean, no offense,” she added, looking back and forth between them, “but you two weren’t exactly subtle on the Citadel. The vid of that bottle-shooting stunt made it halfway across Palaven before the week was out.”

Shepard snorted despite herself, leaning back slightly in her chair. “That footage was not supposed to be public.”

Solana reached for her drink, something warm and amber, steam curling from the rim, and took a small sip. The quiet clink of ceramic on wood filled the space like punctuation.

Solana’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I’m not complaining. Turian HR used it in a ‘Know Your Allies’ training vid. You’re now officially considered a ‘high-risk bonding unit.’”

Garrus groaned. “Please stop talking.”

Shepard smiled faintly, then said, “It’s been… a while. It started when I came back. We didn’t exactly get time for anniversaries.”

Solana nodded slowly. “That tracks. You both looked like people trying really hard not to look like they’re in love.” Her tone softened. “I’m not upset you didn’t tell us. I just… it would’ve been nice to know sooner. Especially now.”

Her eyes flicked again, not obviously, but enough to let Shepard know she knew. She wasn’t judging. She was adjusting.

Garrus shifted in his seat. Not to flee the moment, just to get it right.

“There’s no one I respect more in this galaxy than Shepard,” he said. Quiet, but firm. 

He looked up at his father, then Solana. “She’s my best friend.”

There was no dramatics in the way he said it. Just truth. Plain and unshakable.

“I’ve had a crush on her since the beginning. Back on the Citadel. Back when I was with C-Sec. Short little human with a bad attitude and a smart-ass mouth. Walked into C-Sec like she owned the place and tore through regulations like they were made of wet paper.”

Shepard made a soft scoffing sound, but didn’t interrupt.

“I kept flirting. Some of it was harmless. Some of it… wasn’t. And eventually…” he glanced at Shepard, a spark of humor in his eye, “she flirted back.”

He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t tell you,” he said, looking at his father now, “because I didn’t want to hear all the reasons why I shouldn’t. I know them already. I’ve had them in my head from the start.”

He paused. Let it sit. “But I chose her anyway.”

His voice softened, dropped to something low and resolute. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want this to feel like something I had to defend. Not when it’s the only thing in the universe that’s ever felt right.”

Solana gave a quiet, crooked smile. “Well. That answers that.”

Even Castis… didn’t argue. Didn’t nod. But didn’t pull away either.

Shepard hadn’t expected him to say all that. Hell, she hadn’t expected him to say anything. Not like that. Not with that kind of reverence in his voice. That kind of certainty.

She’d spent so long being the voice in the room, the one who made the calls, who stood in front of the fire and said “Follow me.” But here, in this quiet little apartment on a scarred Earth surrounded by ghosts and judgment and too many unknowns… He stood for her. No apologies. No shame. Just truth. He didn’t call her perfect. Didn’t pretend it had been easy. He called her his. And that… that was enough to make her chest tighten with something dangerously close to tears.

He didn’t flinch when people looked. He didn’t shrink when his father stared down his nose or when his sister pried too close. He said she was his best friend. And she realized, with a blink and a breath and a barely-there tremble in her fingers, he was hers too. Not just her lover. Not just her second in command. He was the voice in the dark when everything else went quiet. The hand that always reached back. The one person in the galaxy who’d seen her broken, bloodied, burned out and never once asked her to be anything but herself. Shepard let herself lean just a little closer. Just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for herself to believe it.

The conversation stayed light after that. Mostly old stories. Solana recounting a mission gone sideways. Garrus groaning at every embarrassing detail she refused to leave out. Even Castis offered a sharp-edged anecdote or two, most involving high command, less laughter, more measured critique, but he didn’t bristle. Not exactly.

Still, Shepard couldn’t shake the feeling that his gaze lingered a little too long when she laughed. That his silences held a weight she wasn’t quite invited to lift. She smiled where she should. Nodded in the right places. But under it all, there was a prickle of awareness she couldn’t quite name. A sense that Castis Vakarian still wasn’t sure who, or what, she was to his son. A phase? A liability? A threat wrapped in legacy?

When the plates were finally empty and the conversation began to taper into comfortable fatigue, Garrus stood, gathering the dishes with the ease of someone who’d done this before. Shepard moved to rise with him, but he gave her a soft nudge toward her seat. She didn’t sit. Instead, she turned to Castis and Solana with a small, practiced smile. “Feel free to make yourselves comfortable. The couch is yours.”

She followed Garrus into the kitchen. The sink hissed to life, warm water spilling over plates as he rinsed. Shepard grabbed a towel, ready to dry, standing beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Their shoulders brushed. He glanced at her, mandibles twitching just slightly.

“That went good, right?” he asked, low.

She looked at him, studied the line of his jaw, the small tension still tucked into the slope of his brow. Then she turned back to the plate in her hands.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Good enough to count.”

But inside, she wasn’t so sure. She could still feel Castis’s eyes. Still feel the unspoken measurements he hadn’t voiced. The way a man trained in war didn’t need to raise his voice to deliver his doubts.

Still, she was here. Helping with dishes after dinner like it meant something. And maybe it did. She handed him the plate, their fingers brushing again. When he looked at her, truly looked at her, there was no doubt there. So maybe it didn’t matter if Castis liked her. Maybe this wasn’t about approval or tradition. Maybe survival had bought them more than time.

After joining his family in the living room, conversation tapered off naturally, the way embers dim when there’s no more air to feed them. But before it could vanish completely, Solana leaned forward, mandibles twitching with a sly grin.

“So, Garrus,” she said, glancing sideways at Shepard, “did you ever tell her about the time you tried to sneak into Dad’s office with a hacked passcode and got caught by the VI system? Ended up locked inside for six hours with nothing but a copy of the Palaven tax code and a crash course in administrative discipline.”

Garrus groaned. “I was twelve. It was a formative experience.”

Castis didn’t look up from his cup, but Shepard swore she saw the smallest flicker of mandible amusement.

Solana turned to Shepard. “He used to recite random subsections in his sleep for months. I still remember Article 4.3 about interdepartmental resource requisition limits.”

“Thrilling,” Shepard deadpanned. “So this explains the law-abiding, straight-edge, by-the-book Turian I met at C-Sec?”

Garrus gave her a look that could only be described as wounded. “I was trying to impress you.”

She laughed softly, curling her fingers around her tea. “I figured that out. Eventually.”

There was a pause—then, without meaning to, she offered something in return.

“I once got grounded for a week for punching a school administrator’s son in the nose,” she said, shrugging. “He made a crack about a quiet girl who never bothered anyone. He wouldn’t leave her alone, no matter how many times I warned him.”

Solana let out a low whistle. “Bet that earned you points.”

Shepard smirked. “From the principal? No. But my mom left a commendation sticker on my bunk. Said it was for ‘quick tactical response.’”

Even Castis looked up at that, something unreadable in his eyes. Not disapproval. Maybe something quieter. Respect in disguise.

The moment hung just long enough to feel real, like something shared, not performed. Eventually, the conversation dimmed for good. Not awkward, just… settled. Content. Garrus stood, collecting the last of the cups, and Shepard followed his lead with a polite smile.

“It was good to finally meet you,” she said, directing the words at both Castis and Solana. Her tone was warm, genuine, carefully balanced.

Solana returned it with an easy nod. “You too. Next time, we’ll skip the war talk and dive straight into embarrassing childhood stories.”

Castis only inclined his head. Not approval. Not dismissal. Just… acknowledgment. Shepard didn’t expect more.

Garrus pressed his hand lightly to the small of her back as they made their way to the primary bedroom, a temporary sanctuary with neutral walls and clean linens. When the door clicked shut behind them, it felt like exhaling after holding her breath for hours.

She toed off her boots, letting them thud quietly against the wall, and shrugged off her hoodie, revealing the stretch in her undershirt that clung just a little too closely to the curve of her abdomen.

Garrus set a datapad on the dresser but didn’t move farther into the room. He stood there a moment, still. Quiet.

“She barely stopped smiling,” Shepard said, softly. “Your sister, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Garrus murmured. “She’s good like that.”

“But your dad…”

“Was too quiet,” he finished for her. “I noticed.”

She turned to him fully. “You okay?”

He let out a low breath and stepped forward, close enough for their foreheads to nearly touch.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “He didn’t say anything I didn’t expect. But it still… it sits wrong. Like he was cataloging everything instead of being part of it.” His mandibles flexed, jaw tightening just slightly. “I don’t know what he’s thinking. And that’s not usually a good sign.”

She reached up, fingers brushing lightly against his plating. “You think he’s going to cause problems?”

“I don’t care if he does.” His voice was firmer now. “I’ve made up my mind.”

She nodded once. Quiet. Steady. Without another word, she stepped past him and into the fresher, fingers already tugging at the hem of her shirt. The water hissed on a second later, warm steam beginning to curl around the doorway. Garrus didn’t follow right away. He stood there a moment longer, eyes fixed on the door she’d just passed through, as if collecting himself. Then he moved.

Chapter Text

The first thing Garrus noticed was the silence. Not the sharp, ready kind he’d trained for, but the kind thick with early morning stillness, warm, heavy, distant. The kind that wrapped around you and made the world feel a little farther away.

The second thing he noticed was Shepard. She was on her back.

She never slept on her back. Not if she could help it. She was a stomach sleeper, always had been, arms tucked beneath her pillow like she was ready to throw a punch in her dreams. Or curled on her side like she was bracing for impact. But now… flat on her back, one arm stretched toward him, the other draped low across her abdomen like she was guarding something.

Garrus exhaled through his nose, mandibles flexing as he blinked up at the ceiling. The light edging through the blinds was barely there, a hint of sun bleeding into a steel-blue sky. Early. Too early for answers. But the question wouldn’t stop pressing into his skull. How am I going to tell them?

Last night had gone better than expected. Which, in Vakarian terms, meant nobody yelled and nothing exploded. Castis hadn’t stormed out. Solana didn’t interrogate Shepard like a tribunal officer. And yet, the silence still echoed louder than any argument might’ve. His father had said all the right things, and none of the real ones. And now, here they were. Morning after. No war, no Reapers, no excuses. Just a son, a father, and a secret.

He rolled onto his side slowly, careful not to shift the mattress. Shepard didn’t stir. His eyes tracked the rise and fall of her chest. Slow. Steady. Peaceful in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. And lower, the gentle swell that hadn’t been there a few months ago. Small. Subtle. Real.

He reached out, fingers tracing the line of her breasts and abdomen. Down her side. Over her hip. Back up again. Slow, reverent, as if moving quietly enough might keep the universe from noticing how out of his depth he was.

Shepard made a soft sound in her sleep. Not pain. Not distress. Just a shift. Her legs curled slightly inward, one hand drifting across her belly again, protective even in unconsciousness. Garrus swallowed hard. He wasn’t scared of the baby, not exactly. He wasn’t scared of Shepard, or being with her, or what it meant. But this space between what they knew and what they hadn’t said out loud yet, scared the hell out of him.

They had survived a war together. Hell, they’d survived each other. But now they were building something without armor, without orders, without backup plans. And he still had to tell his father. Garrus dragged his hand gently up the center of her stomach, pausing where her hand already rested. He slipped his fingers beneath hers and held them there, just long enough to feel the faintest shift beneath the surface, as if the galaxy was stirring inside her. He had no idea how to explain that to his father over breakfast.

Then Shepard stirred beneath his hand. Subtle at first, the shift of breath, the faint twitch of muscle under his touch. Her head turned, a soft exhale breaking the stillness. Her lashes fluttered, and her hand slid further up to meet his.

“Mm,” she hummed, not quite awake but not fully gone either. “You’re staring again.”

Garrus murmured, voice low and rough with morning. “Hard not to.”

His fingers resumed their slow path across her skin, trailing over the gentle curve of her belly, then up again, brushing beneath her chest, warm from sleep and softer than he remembered. He traced her ribs with reverence, then let his palm settle over one breast, thumb grazing across the curve like a question he already knew the answer to.

Shepard inhaled, sharp and quiet, hips shifting beneath the covers. “I thought you were stressing about your dad,” she said, eyes still closed, voice husky.

“I am,” he said, dipping his head closer, mandibles brushing her jaw. “That’s why I need a distraction.”

“Mm.” Shepard smirked without opening her eyes. “So I’m a stress reliever now?”

Garrus huffed a laugh. “If you’d rather, I could go calibrate something instead. Always works for stress relief.”

Her eyes opened then, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “Tempting… but I was hoping to test your reach. And my flexibility.”

Her laugh was low and delicious, cut short when his mouth found the hollow of her neck. She arched instinctively, back lifting off the bed, drawing him closer. Her hands slid up to his arms, gripping tight as his touch became more confident, more claiming.

The sheets tangled around them as Garrus moved above her, one knee nudging hers apart with practiced ease. His hand slipped lower again, this time with intention, tracing the line where her skin stretched and changed. She was still hers, but also becoming something new. And spirits, he wanted her more than ever.

“You sure you’ve got time?” she whispered, pulling his face to hers.

“I’d make time,” he rumbled, mouth brushing against hers. “For this? For you? Always.”

And just like that, the distance between them disappeared. The slow burn became a spark. Her fingers found the plates of his back and pulled him down. His hips pressed flush against hers, careful, eager and the room filled with the sounds of breath and want and something deeper than either of them would name out loud.

It wasn’t gentle. It was real. And in that moment, tangled in sheets and heartbeats and the weight of what was coming, it was exactly what they needed.

The room settled again. Shepard drifted back into a light doze, a soft smile still curling at the edge of her lips, hand resting over the place he’d kissed her belly last. Garrus stood at the door, already dressed—well, mostly. His collar was a little crooked, but it would do.

He glanced back once more. She looked peaceful. And after everything, war, loss, rebuilding, confessions over dinner, peace was rare currency. He stepped out, letting the door slide shut behind him with a soft hydraulic hiss. Smooth. Automatic. No witnesses.

Or so he thought.

The moment he turned around, he nearly walked straight into Solana.

“Spirits—!”

He stepped back, bumping the closed bedroom door with a dull thud. Solana blinked at him, arms folded, brow raised, mandibles cocked in pure older-sister judgment.

“Good morning,” she said sweetly. Too sweetly.

Garrus cleared his throat, straightening. “You’re up early.”

“So are you,” she said, eyes dropping to his slightly rumpled shirt. “Late night? Or early start?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Opted for: “Both.”

Solana gave a slow nod. “Uh-huh.”

A beat. She tapped a clawed finger against her elbow, unreadable, then leaned in just slightly. “For the record,” she said, “your room doesn’t have soundproofing.”

Garrus made a low noise somewhere between a groan and a prayer to disappear.

Solana grinned and breezed past him toward the kitchen like nothing happened. “I’m making dextro tea. You want some, or do you need to… hydrate first?”

The kitchen sat in early gray, the kind that blurred edges and made everything feel softer than it was. Garrus leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Solana study the unfamiliar human appliances like she was disarming a bomb.

“Is your back okay?” he asked, tilting his head. “Chairs here aren’t exactly designed for dextro-friendly spines.”

Solana gave him a flat look. “I’ve only dislocated one joint since landing. I consider that a diplomatic success.”

Garrus chuckled. “You always were the resilient one.”

She sipped the tea, if it could be called that, then set the mug down with exaggerated care.

“Speaking of resilience…” she said, offhand as weather talk, “whose baby is Shepard carrying?”

Garrus blinked.

Solana didn’t flinch. She held his gaze like she was scanning for truth beneath his plates. No malice. No judgment. Just that cool, clinical insight she wielded like a blade.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she added. “But I’d rather not find out from Dad mid-existential-crisis.”

Garrus rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s mine.”

Solana blinked. Tilted her head. “Seriously?”

He nodded once. Silence stretched.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “That wasn’t the answer I expected. But alright.” Then, more carefully: “How?”

Garrus hesitated. The answer was wrapped in ancient secrets and strange powers neither of them fully understood. “I’m not totally sure,” he admitted. “We think it has something to do with Leviathan.”

Solana blinked again. “The ancient reaper-slaying sea gods?”

“Yeah. Those,” Garrus said dryly. “They… got inside her head. Changed her. Maybe her body, too. After that mission, the headaches started. Then the symptoms. And then the scans.”

Solana said nothing, brow furrowing the way it did when she was building ten theories at once.

“She shouldn’t have survived that final blast,” Garrus said quietly, the words catching. “No one else did. But she was still breathing when they pulled her out. Barely. Every account says she should be dead.”

Solana’s voice softened. “But she wasn’t.”

He shook his head. “She wasn’t.”

“And now…” She let the sentence trail off, gesturing lightly toward the bedroom. “There’s a baby.”

“Now there’s a baby,” Garrus echoed. “Some kind of miracle. Or… consequence. I don’t know which.”

Solana reached for her tea, didn’t drink. “Well,” she said after a long silence, “you sure know how to pick your chaos, little brother.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

A pause.

“But Dad’s going to lose his damn mind.”

•••

The water had gone cold ten minutes ago. Maybe longer. But she stood there anyway, head bowed, palms flat to the tile, letting the last drops run down her spine like they might rinse away whatever still clung to her. Shepard wasn’t sure what that was. The war, maybe. The silence. The weight. The idea of after.

Steam clung to the mirror when she stepped out, blurring her reflection into a shape she didn’t quite recognize. Her scars were still there, traced in faint pink and red. So was the curve of her belly, subtle, impossible to ignore when her arms wrapped around it out of habit. Or instinct.

She toweled off slowly, dragging fabric down her limbs like she was relearning their shape. Relearning herself. When she stepped into the bedroom, the light had shifted, blue-grey morning in soft beams. She moved to the closet, bracing for disappointment, certain nothing would fit the way it once had. Instead, she found the opposite. Shirts she’d never seen before, folded with care, laid out like a peace offering. Black stretchy pants that didn’t scream uniform. Not her usual style—too soft, too deliberate—but warm. Clean. Thoughtful. Her fingers brushed the fabric, thumb tracing a sleeve seam. Her mother had been here. She didn’t need a note to know it.

She let out a breath through her nose. Half-laugh, half-sigh. “Thanks, Mom.”

She dressed slowly. No armor. No straps. No sidearm. Just fabric, skin, and the quiet, persistent beat of the life inside her. The top stretched slightly over her stomach, enough to remind her this was real. Not memory or hope or a ghost left in London’s rubble. She was alive. And so was something more.

Her omni-tool blinked steadily from the nightstand.

One message from Hackett: “Following up. Your terms can be discussed. But the Council will expect a response.”

Two newsfeeds, mostly noise. Politics. Cleanup. Mourning and medals. A thousand people trying to make sense of a galaxy that didn’t stop just because the Reapers did.

One message from Joker: “Remind Vakarian to eat something that doesn’t glow in the dark. And maybe you too. Love ya, Commander.”

Her lips curved in a ghost of a smile. Each word from the Normandy crew a thread binding her back to life. She eased onto the bed, palm gliding down the front of her top as if steadying the heartbeat beneath. They had survived the impossible, together. Now the question remained: how to live in the quiet after thunder; how to tell Garrus she was thinking of saying yes to Hackett’s offer; how to be something more than a weapon, more than sacrifice in human form. Her gaze lingered on the door, the space between them humming with unsaid words. Time to find him.

She stepped out, damp hair curling faintly at the edges, hand smoothing over her abdomen, still getting used to the shape of herself now.

Garrus looked up from the armchair, mandibles twitching at her steps. Solana lounged on the edge of the sofa, cradling a mug, eyes keen and searching even in casual ease. Across from her, seated with practiced posture, was Castis Vakarian, composed, as always. Their conversation stilled as Shepard entered.

Garrus rose slightly, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “Morning,” he said, low but warm. He gestured toward an empty chair. “You want something to eat?”

Shepard’s lips curved as she crossed the room. Her hand brushed Garrus’s arm in passing, lingering. “Morning,” she murmured to him before glancing at the others. “Good morning, Solana. Castis.”

Solana gave a small nod over the rim of her mug, eyes bright with something between amusement and curiosity. Castis’s reply was clipped, almost mechanical. “Good morning.” His mandibles twitched, the barest show of disapproval, if not at her, then at the fact she hadn’t risen with the dawn.

Shepard squeezed Garrus’s arm, then stepped toward the kitchen. “I’ll just grab a protein bar. I’m already late meeting Liara and Miranda,” she said, throwing him a look that was half-apology, half-promise.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she added gently.

She had just reached for the door when it irised open on its own.

“Hi, sweetheart. Sorry to intrude,” came the composed, unmistakable voice of Hannah Shepard as she stepped into the apartment.

She paused, a dry smile curving her mouth as her gaze swept over her daughter. “You look nice. That color suits you.”

Shepard blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks.”

Already Hannah’s eyes were cataloguing the room, sharp and efficient, as though she’d walked into a briefing.

Garrus, never missing a chance to stir things, lifted a brow. “Congratulations on the promotion, Admiral Shepard.”

Hannah arched one herself. “Thank you. Pity my daughter didn’t think to mention it.”

Shepard rolled her eyes. “I was going to.”

“I’m sure you were.”

Without missing a beat, Hannah turned deeper into the room. “Castis Vakarian. It’s good to see you again. Forgive the intrusion.”

Castis inclined his head, silence carrying as much weight as words.

Then Hannah’s attention pinned Solana. “And you must be Solana. Good to finally meet you.” She extended a hand with crisp formality.

Solana slid gracefully from the couch, mandibles twitching with amusement. “I am. And you’re taller than I imagined.”

“I get that a lot,” Hannah replied dryly, shaking her hand. “You favor your brother.”

She flicked a sly glance toward Garrus as she said it; sure enough, he was already glaring, mandibles drawn in silent protest.

At last, Hannah turned back to her daughter. “We should get moving, Jane. Miranda asked me to collect you. You’re late, and I have updates from Hackett we can go over on the way.”

Shepard exhaled through her nose, resigned but wry. “Of course she did.” She grabbed her jacket. “Let’s go.”

The door sealed behind them with a soft hiss, muting the weight in the living room. The corridor stretched ahead, sunlight spearing through duraglass panels, bright against muted steel and stone.

Hannah fell into step beside her daughter, stride even, gaze forward, but Shepard knew that look, the one that meant the Admiral was also the mother, prying without apology.

“So,” Hannah said at last, tone deceptively casual. “How has it been since they got in yesterday? Comfortable enough? Settling in?”

Shepard’s brow ticked, wary. “It’s fine. Everyone’s been nice enough.”

“Mm.” Hands clasped neatly behind her back. “And has any big news been shared yet?”

Shepard cut her a sidelong glance. “Big news?”

“Yes, Jane,” Hannah replied, dry warmth threading her words. “The kind of news that makes families sit a little straighter, that makes fathers go quiet and sisters watch more closely.” Her eyes slid toward her daughter, sharp but not unkind. “Should I take it from their silence that you haven’t said a word?”

Shepard exhaled slowly, eyes forward. “Not yet,” she said at last. “It’s his family. His news to share. I’ll follow his lead, when he’s ready.”

Hannah’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Diplomatic answer.”

“Practical one,” Shepard countered quietly.

Silence stretched, Hannah weighing whether to press further. For now, she didn’t.

Irritation coiled inside Shepard. Since when did Admiral Hannah Shepard pry into her personal life? Their conversations had always been tidy, impersonal, duty and orders. Now suddenly there were questions. About Garrus. About family. About things she wasn’t ready to lay bare.

She tightened her jaw and let silence answer, matching her mother’s stride and refusing to give more.

Hannah’s tone shifted, more business than maternal. “Hackett told me you’ve been offered a Council seat.”

Shepard felt a breath leave her she hadn’t realized she was holding. Relief, oddly sharp. Work was safer ground. This she could handle. Mission reports and strategy briefs were their language.

“Yeah,” Shepard said, steadier now. “He brought it up yesterday.”

Hannah’s brow lifted, measured. “And?”

Shepard hesitated. Garrus had joked about the quiet life, half-joking, half-aching. To live off the royalties. Fade into something like peace. They both deserved it. And yet the pull remained, not back into fire, but into the room where choices could prevent the next fire. She could be a voice that made survival mean more than a reprieve. Politics had never been her strength; maybe that was the point. Anderson had carried honesty into a space where it was rare. Perhaps she didn’t need to be polished, only steadfast.

Her throat tightened. “I haven’t decided yet. Garrus deserves the quiet he’s been dreaming of. But part of me… part of me wants to make sure peace doesn’t slip through our fingers.”

Hannah studied her daughter, unreadable as ever, then softened a fraction. “That sounds a lot like Anderson.”

The name caught like a spark in Shepard’s chest. She swallowed, memory filling the silence like benediction.

Hannah saw it, the way her daughter’s energy shifted at Anderson’s name, a current running beneath the armor. Jane carried so much, and that weight cut deep. Anderson had been what Hannah couldn’t: steady, present. She’d respected him, even envied him. And then he was gone. Another father lost. Another void she could not protect her daughter from. The knowledge gnawed.

She wished she could fill that space, step into it with ease, but knew better. Their bond was built from salutes and comm calls and the brittle affection of soldiers who happened to be blood. It had been enough, for years.

But watching her daughter’s throat tighten, seeing her swallow grief like an order, Hannah felt something crack, not wide, not bleeding, but enough. Enough to remember even victories left scars.

She drew a breath, steadied her voice. “For what it’s worth, Jane, I think you’d be perfect for the role. If you choose to accept it.”

The silence between them lingered—heavy, not unkind—carrying shared regrets down the sterile corridor.

By the time they stepped into the medbay, the weight had shifted, not lifted. The room was quiet, the hush broken only by the hum of equipment and soft monitor chimes. Sterile light fell in white sheets, cutting sharp edges across chrome and glass. The air smelled of antiseptic and something sharper, precise, unyielding.

Liara stood near a console, posture elegant but restless, fingers moving over a holographic display as data flickered to life. The glow painted her in cool sapphire; her eyes, intent, softened the instant she saw Shepard.

Across the room, Miranda was already in motion, heels clicking with metronomic precision, datapad tucked against her arm. Composed. Immaculate. Commanding.

Two different worlds of science and control, meeting here in the same room.

Hannah’s stride didn’t falter as she followed her daughter in, gaze scanning with quick calculation. Shepard felt the shift, from family eyes to something heavier. Professional. Expectant.

She had faced battlefields slick with blood and Reaper fire tearing sky, and somehow this room made her want to turn back more than any of that. She knew why she was here. It mattered. And still, each step felt reluctant, as if her body were rebelling against the summons.

Liara and Miranda had turned the ward into a command post for questions with no easy answers. For weeks, they’d circled her survival, the miracle and the threat in the same breath.

Liara worked the console in silence, hands moving with practiced grace through drifting data: scans, neural imprints, energy readings that made no human or asari sense. Blue light framed her like a priestess over sacred texts.

Miranda, by contrast, stood at a bench with military precision, eyes flicking over stolen research from the Illusive Man’s archive: indoctrination studies, biotic anomalies, genetic manipulations, every forbidden file bent toward understanding what Leviathan had done, what it left inside Shepard.

Liara was first to turn. The data stream stilled beneath her fingers. “Shepard,” she said softly, reverent like the name itself required caution. “Hannah, it’s good to see you.” Then, with visible relief: “You came.”

Miranda didn’t look up immediately; her heel ticked once against the floor as she finished a notation. “Of course she did,” she said crisply, raising her eyes. “This concerns her more than anyone.”

Hannah stayed by her daughter’s side, posture straight, patient as a soldier awaiting a briefing.

Shepard exhaled, caught between Liara’s softness and Miranda’s severity. “Alright,” she said, steady. “What have you found?”

Liara glanced at Miranda; Miranda tipped her chin, conceding the floor. Liara’s voice was careful. “There’s a residual neural resonance we can’t account for—twenty-one point seven hertz, persistent during sleep and under stress. It matches the low-frequency component of the Leviathan signal. Humans don’t present sustained activity there.” Her gaze flicked to Shepard’s abdomen, gentle. “Except you do.”

Miranda slid a datapad across. “And we’re seeing transient expression in a cluster of immune-regulatory genes—short pulses, not stable edits. It looks more like an adaptive overlay than a rewrite. It could explain… compatibility.” Her eyes lifted. “We’re still testing.”

The words landed like a weight Shepard had already felt in her bones. She nodded once. “Go on.”

•••

The door hissed shut behind the Shepard women, leaving a hollow quiet in its wake. Solana sipped her tea, steam curling soft against her face, eyes flicking between her father and her brother.

Garrus looked unsettled, more than he thought he was showing, mandibles tight, posture stiff, talons drumming a restless beat against the chair’s arm. Typical. He’d always been transparent to her, even when he thought he wasn’t.

Castis, though, was carved from stone. Straight-backed, still, the kind of silence that filled a room. Solana knew that silence. It was judgment waiting to be spoken.

She leaned back, cradling her mug. Humans were louder, messier, warmer than turians. She had expected that. What she hadn’t expected was how human her brother had become in Shepard’s presence, the brush of her hand against his arm, the softening of his mandibles, the way his voice lost the edge of soldier and slipped into something warmer. It made her curious. It made her protective, too.

Her father finally broke the silence. “She sleeps late,” he said, flat, almost dismissive.

Garrus bristled. “She needs rest. After everything she’s been through—spirits, after everything we’ve all been through—”

Solana hid a smile behind her cup. There it was. Father and son circling, too stubborn to yield.

“Rest is one thing. Discipline is another,” Castis replied, calm but edged.

The same old dance, her father with his rules, Garrus with his rebellion. If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe they were back home, Garrus sneaking in late, Castis waiting up with a lecture ready.

“She’s not one of your recruits,” Garrus shot back. “She doesn’t need your approval.”

“Approval?” Castis’s tone sharpened, posture unchanged. “What she needs is clarity. You expect me to ignore the fact that she walks into this family with—” He cut himself off, mandibles flexing.

Ah. There it was. The shadow behind his silence. Solana glanced at Garrus, jaw taut, talons curled tight. Whatever storm was brewing, her brother was ready to stand in it.

The silence stretched taut as wire. Solana set her mug down with a deliberate clink. “Father,” she said evenly, “you drilled discipline into us our whole lives. If anyone understands readiness, it’s Garrus. And Shepard—well, she’s not exactly unproven, is she?”

Castis’s gaze flicked to her. He wasn’t doubting Shepard’s record, spirits, no one could, but the thought of her woven into his family unsettled him more than any battlefield.

“You’re not worried about her discipline,” Solana said, calm but threaded with steel. “You’re worried about her with Garrus.”

The silence that followed was sharp. Garrus’s head snapped toward her, mandibles flaring slightly, caught between gratitude and alarm.

“She’s not perfect,” Solana pressed softly. “None of us are. But she makes him different. Better. And I think you see that, whether you want to admit it or not.”

Castis’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. Garrus exhaled, shoulders loosening a fraction. Solana reclaimed her mug, letting the steam curl against her face like a shield.

But her father wasn’t finished. His gaze lingered on Garrus, heavy as stone. “You defend her like a soldier defends his post. But are you protecting her… or yourself?”

Garrus’s mandibles twitched, but Castis pressed on, voice low and deliberate.

“You’ve always been loyal, Garrus. Loyal to your post, to your people, to the rules drilled into you since childhood. And when those rules failed you, you bent them. I know that. I know you. What I want to understand is, why her? Is it because she was the first to let you cross the line without consequence? To encourage you when you broke expectation? Was it born of choice, or of circumstance? Of who she is… or what the war made of you both?”

Garrus froze. Solana saw the flicker of unease, the storm gathering behind his composure. He was a soldier, a sharpshooter, but under their father’s gaze, he looked cornered.

And still Castis pressed. “Or perhaps Shepard was the shield. The excuse. The name you hid behind when you disappeared to chase Saren or run off to Omega. Was it her cause you served, or the reason you gave yourself for leaving everything else behind? Your loyalty to her is undeniable. But is hers to you? Shepard isn’t just a soldier, Garrus. She isn’t just a woman. She’s a banner the galaxy rallies behind. And banners don’t belong to those who carry them. They belong to those who bleed for them.”

His mandibles flexed, the faintest flicker of regret. “Stand too close to her, and you paint a target on your chest. That’s the truth of it. She is not the right one to love. Not because she isn’t remarkable, but because she is. And that kind of weight doesn’t let go. One way or another, it ends in heartbreak. That foot will find your windpipe. It always does.”

The words struck like a blade. This time Garrus didn’t swallow them down. He surged forward, voice sharp and raw, echoing off the walls.

“She gave me the courage to be the man I am today! Shepard trusted me when I didn’t even trust myself. She believed in me, spirits, she always has. She’s more than a soldier, she’s the best leader this galaxy has ever had. An N7—the sharpest humanity has to offer. She built bridges no one else could: peace between turians, krogan, salarians. Between quarians and geth after three centuries of blood and hate. And then she stopped the Reapers! She saved every species alive.”

His talons gouged the chair’s armrest. His voice cracked with fury. “Most parents would be over Menae and back if their son brought home a woman like that. But not you. You always find the flaw, the fault, the problem in everything I do. Who I am. What I choose.”

The air vibrated with his anger. Solana’s pulse quickened, mandibles twitching.

Garrus’s voice dropped to a guttural rasp. “For once, I found someone who challenges me, who accepts me, who loves me. And all I ask is why you can’t find joy in the fact that your son is finally—finally—happy.”

The silence after was suffocating. Garrus’s chest heaved, heat filling the room.

Castis remained still. Only his eyes moved, fixed unblinking on his son. When he spoke, his voice was low, measured, cutting all the same.

“Are you trying to convince me… or yourself? I warn you, Garrus, no path is darker than when your eyes are shut.”

The words landed like iron. Garrus’s breath caught, fury colliding with doubt in a flicker across his face.

Solana sat very still, tea long cold in her hands. Her chest ached for Garrus, but beneath it she felt the truth in their father’s fear. Shepard carried the weight of worlds. Anyone close enough to touch her would feel that weight press back.

She didn’t speak. Garrus and Castis had needed this. Nothing she could’ve said would have stopped it.

When Garrus finally snapped, the scrape of his chair was sharp across the floor. He didn’t look at her as he stormed out, footsteps heavy, the apartment’s main door hissing shut, sealing his absence like an open wound.

She turned to her father. His gaze stayed forward, hard as stone. Only after a long pause did he rise, precise as ever, and cross to the balcony. The doors sighed open, and he stepped into the air, leaving her alone in the silence.

Solana’s mandibles twitched. She replayed every word, every sharp edge and raw nerve, a cold certainty coiling in her gut. This was bad. Worse than she’d thought. Sad, too, because she could see both sides. And spirits, Shepard had no idea what she was about to walk into when that door opened again

Chapter Text

The city was learning how to live again. Sunlight spilled across glass and steel, catching on the mirrored edges of new construction like scattered stars. The air hummed with life, chatter, laughter, the faint whine of repair drones tracing their paths overhead. For the first time in a long time, Tali could walk a human street and smell fresh bread instead of burnt ozone, could feel warmth radiating from café windows instead of the flicker of plasma fire.

The part of London she was in, the newly rebuilt district along the river, looked almost normal. Clean, alive, full of people desperate to reclaim what they’d lost. Children ran between planters overflowing with imported greenery, vendors called out their daily specials, and soldiers on leave sat outside in uniforms sun-bleached and loose at the seams, laughing like they were trying to remember how. It would take years to rebuild what was gone, but this was a good start.

Tali paused outside a café called Solaris Brew, a modest corner shop made from recycled alloys and glass salvaged from the old city. The sign blinked in soft amber, flickering in and out like it hadn’t yet decided to stay. She smiled under her mask, it reminded her of the Flotilla’s patchwork charm, where nothing matched but everything worked because people made it work.

When she stepped inside, warmth wrapped around her like a held breath. The air smelled faintly of roasted grain and cinnamon, and something sweet she couldn’t quite name,  human comfort food, she guessed. A low murmur filled the room, punctuated by the clink of glass and the soft static of a radio playing an old Earth song.

She spotted the booth right away, tucked in the far corner, half-shielded by a hanging plant and the curve of the wall. It was quiet there, with just enough shadow to make it feel private. She liked that. Shepard deserved quiet.

Sliding into the booth, Tali ran a gloved hand across the table’s smooth surface, tracing a small scratch in the metal before signaling the server.

“One reconstituted citrus tea, please,” she said, voice gentle through her helmet. “And… a water.”

The server nodded and left, and Tali let out a small, private laugh. “She’ll probably complain,” she murmured to herself, “but she never drinks enough water. Humans forget they’re mostly made of it.”

Outside the window, the afternoon light caught the river, fractured gold dancing across calm water. A reflection of something old made new again.

She tapped her fingers against the tabletop, a quiet rhythm of nerves and affection. This lunch had been her idea, something she’d been asking for since Shepard left the medbay. No mission briefings, no strategy reports, no ghosts standing in the corner. Just two friends, sitting down like ordinary people in a world still learning how to be normal. 

The door chimed softly, and Tali looked up before she even realized she’d been waiting for it. Shepard stepped in like sunlight through a crack in the clouds, hesitant at first, then steady, sure. She wasn’t wearing her uniform today; instead, a fitted jacket of soft gray-blue draped over her shoulders, sleeves rolled just enough to show the faint freckles on her forearms. Her hair was tied back, a little uneven, as if she’d done it herself in a hurry. Even tired, she looked alive in a way Tali hadn’t seen since before the war, color in her cheeks, light in her eyes, a weight lifted if only slightly from her shoulders.

The café quieted for a heartbeat. People noticed her, of course they did, but no one spoke. Respect had a sound, and it was silence. Shepard gave a polite nod, just enough to acknowledge the glances without inviting more.

When her gaze found Tali, though, the Commander’s composure softened instantly. She smiled, small, genuine, the kind that reached her eyes.

Tali stood halfway, hands fidgeting before she caught herself. “Over here,” she said, her voice coming out higher than she meant. “I ordered for you.”

Shepard slid into the booth across from her, the movement fluid, practiced, though Tali could tell she was favoring one side. Old injuries, or maybe new ones not yet healed. She didn’t comment. Shepard’s pride didn’t need her pity.

“A water?” Shepard asked, amused, as the server placed the glass in front of her.

“You need it,” Tali said, sitting straighter. “You run on coffee, adrenaline, and sheer defiance. That can’t be sustainable.”

Shepard laughed, a low, warm sound that filled the space between them like gravity. “You sound like Miranda,” she said, taking a slow sip anyway. “But I’ll give you this, you’re less condescending about it.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The radio hummed in the background, the city beyond the windows alive with motion and warmth. Shepard’s reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, haloed by sunlight and smoke from a nearby vendor stand.

“You look good,” Tali said. “Better than I expected.”

Shepard’s brow lifted. “You expected me to look worse?”

Tali tilted her head, the faint glow of her visor reflecting Shepard’s face. “After everything Liara’s been saying… I wasn’t sure what to expect.”

She stopped there, realizing how that sounded, how it felt. The last thing she wanted was to sound like the rest of them, whispering about Shepard like she was a myth come back wrong. “I mean—” she started, voice quickening, “not in a bad way. Just… you’ve been through so much, and Liara’s reports, well, they make it sound like you’re still—”

Shepard reached across the table before she could finish, her fingers curling lightly around Tali’s gloved hand. The touch was warm and gentle in that way Shepard rarely was. 

“Tali,” she said softly, eyes steady, “I’m okay.”

For a heartbeat, it was easy to believe her. Shepard’s voice had that quiet steadiness that had once carried through gunfire and chaos and somehow still could. It was the voice that had told Tali to keep breathing when the air was poison, to keep moving when her legs shook. The same voice that had always sounded like safety.

Tali’s shoulders relaxed, and she nodded once. “Okay,” she said, because she wanted to believe it. Needed to.

Shepard’s thumb brushed once over the back of her hand before she let go, settling back in her seat.

For a few seconds, the noise of the café filled the space, the clink of dishes, the hum of the radio, laughter from another table. Life, happening all around them.

Then Tali’s voice came again, smaller now. “And the baby?”

Shepard looked down at her water, the light catching the rim like liquid silver. For a moment, her expression softened in that distant way Tali had seen before, the kind that meant her thoughts had drifted somewhere tender and private.

“She’s strong,” Shepard said finally, a faint smile curving her lips. “Stronger than I deserve, probably. Miranda says she’s healthy. Liara keeps trying to measure her for biotic potential, and Garrus nearly had a coronary about it.”

Tali laughed quietly, the sound warm through her filters. “That sounds like both of them.”

Tali tilted her head, curiosity bright in her voice. “And Garrus? How’s he doing? Or should I ask how you’re doing, meeting the Vakarian family and all.”

Shepard huffed a quiet laugh, resting her elbow on the table. “Oh, you know. Garrus is… Garrus. Overprotective. Thought I was going to trip over the curb this morning and nearly had a heart attack. His sister’s lovely, though. Solana. She’s sharp, like him, but less prone to shooting sarcasm as a coping mechanism.”

Tali chuckled. “That’s a Vakarian trait. Comes standard with the plating.”

Shepard smiled, the corner of her mouth curving. “His family’s good people. The first night was… surprisingly easy, actually. No arguments that I know of.”

“No explosions? No awkward silences?”

“Not yet,” Shepard said, amused. “But I’m sure Garrus is keeping the tension defused behind the scenes. He’s good at that when he wants to be.”

Tali leaned back, crossing her arms. “Still, that’s brave of you. Meeting Castis Vakarian? I’ve only seen him once, through a comm feed, and he still made me stand straighter.”

Shepard’s smirk softened. “Yeah, he has that effect. Garrus told me their relationship was… strained.”

“Strained is one word,” Tali said, the filters in her voice buzzing faintly with humor. “More like trying to plug a reactor leak with duct tape and prayer.”

That earned a real laugh from Shepard. “You paint a vivid picture.”

Tali shrugged playfully. “I’m an engineer. I see everything in systems. And from what Garrus told me back on the Normandy, he and his father were operating on completely different circuits for years. So, yes, if I were in your shoes, I’d be… a little nervous.”

Shepard’s laughter faded into something quieter, thoughtful. She swirled the water in her glass, watching the light ripple across the surface. “Maybe I would’ve been,” she said softly, “a long time ago. But after losing so much, after almost losing everything, it kind of… changes how you measure people. You stop looking for the cracks. You start noticing who’s still standing beside you.”

Tali tilted her head, studying her. “That’s either the most profound thing you’ve ever said, or you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Shepard met her gaze, a smile tugging at her lips. “Can’t it be both?”

“Maybe,” Tali said, her tone teasing again. “Just make sure you tell Garrus’s dad that next time he looks at you like you’ve smuggled contraband into his house.”

Shepard grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

A waiter appeared beside them, datapad poised. They both paused as he took their orders, Shepard choosing something light and familiar, Tali carefully specifying the dextro-safe variant of the house meal. When he left, the quiet hum of the restaurant returned, soft and steady.

Tali adjusted her posture, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “So,” she said, her tone casual but her visor tilting with something more deliberate, “have you thought about having a baby shower?”

Shepard blinked, caught off guard. “A what?”

“A baby shower,” Tali repeated, a hint of amusement threading through her voice. “It’s a human thing, right? A celebration before the baby arrives? I’ve read about it.”

She leaned in, her voice softening. “If you wanted one… I’d love to host it. You’ve done so much for everyone else, Shepard. Let someone do something for you this time.”

For a heartbeat, Shepard didn’t answer. The light caught in her glass again, rippling across her fingers. Then she smiled, small, surprised, but real. “You’d really want to do that?”

“Of course,” Tali said, her tone brightening. “It’s either that or I start knitting tiny pressure-suit booties, and no one wants that.”

Shepard laughed, shaking her head. “No, I think I do.”

When they parted ways outside the café, Shepard heading back toward her apartment, Tali toward the medbay, an ache unfurled quietly in Tali’s chest. The kind that wasn’t born of loss but of tenderness. The kind that came from watching someone finally step into the peace they’d spent their whole life fighting for.

She was glad for Shepard. Glad for Garrus, too. It had been obvious, even back on the SR1, those stolen glances over Mako reports, those arguments that hummed with something too alive to be purely tactical. Shepard would wander down to the battery under the flimsiest excuses, and Garrus, somehow, always had time to be found. Their connection had started like a spark caught between armor plates, small, defiant, impossible to ignore.

Tali smiled under her visor at the memory. They’d been a mess, really, two broken souls orbiting each other like debris around a dying star, pulled together by gravity they never stood a chance of resisting. And somehow, through war and ruin and resurrection, they’d made it here. To something soft. Something whole.

Now Shepard had more than survival waiting for her. She had a family. A future. A life not defined by the next mission, but by the next heartbeat.

The thought filled Tali with something gentle and unsteady, warmth blooming in the hollow where grief used to live. Maybe this was what victory truly meant, not parades or medals that gathered dust, but this quiet aftermath. The sound of laughter over lunch. The promise of new life. The small, ordinary peace that heroes rarely got to keep.

The medbay smelled faintly of antiseptic, clean, sharp, and just a little too bright. Even now, long after the chaos had settled, the hum of machinery still carried that old rhythm of triage and crisis. Tali followed it down the corridor until the light from Liara’s office spilled across the floor, cool and blue, like the heart of a star.

Inside, Liara sat at her desk, surrounded by the soft glow of holo-screens. Streams of data cascaded around her like translucent curtains, the flicker of code reflected in her calm, focused eyes. Across the room, Miranda occupied the smaller desk, apparently on a late lunch, though her fork sat untouched beside a glowing datapad she was still typing into. Even on break, Miranda Lawson never truly stopped moving.

Tali stepped in quietly, the door sighing closed behind her. “Working hard, or hardly working?” she teased, voice light through her mask.

Liara looked up, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Hardly either,” she said, turning back to her screens. “I’m re-establishing my Shadow Broker channels. Most were destroyed when the Crucible fired, and what’s left is… fragmented. But if I can rebuild even part of the network, it could help us all.”

Tali tilted her head. “Still chasing secrets, then?”

“Not just for me,” Liara said softly, eyes narrowing as she adjusted a stream of text. “For Shepard. And for the galaxy. The Reapers may be gone, but the echoes of what they left behind aren’t. The Leviathan in particular still concerns me. I need to know if there’s anything… lingering. Anything that could still touch her.”

For a moment, the hum of the medbay seemed to fade beneath that word—her.

Tali stepped closer, drawn by the quiet intensity in Liara’s voice. Shepard’s name had that effect on all of them still.

She smiled beneath her mask, gently breaking the silence. “Well, funny you should say that. Because I might have something a little less ominous to talk about.”

Liara blinked, her gaze softening. “Oh?”

Tali clasped her hands behind her back, trying, and failing, to contain her excitement. “A baby shower.”

Liara stared for a beat, clearly processing. “A… what?”

“A celebration,” Tali said, laughter in her tone. “For Shepard. For the baby. Something happy, something normal. I was hoping you’d help me plan it.”

Tali had barely finished the word when Miranda looked up from her datapad, fork still untouched beside the neatly arranged lunch. “That would be a lovely idea,” she said, crisp and assured.

Tali hid a smile. Of all the human accents she’d heard, Miranda’s still struck her as one of the stranger ones. 

Across the room, Liara’s expression softened into something bright and almost childlike. “A party,” she echoed, as if testing the shape of it. “For Shepard. For the baby.” Her eyes flicked between them, the glow of her holo-screens catching in the blue. “I’ve read about the human tradition, of course, but I’ve never actually been to one.”

“Then we’ll make it a proper first,” Tali said, warmth blooming in her chest again. 

Miranda set the datapad down, already in motion despite the words still hanging in the air. “Venue, guest list, supplies. I can handle logistics.” She paused, a rare softness threading through her voice. “She deserves something beautiful.”

Liara nodded, almost solemn in her excitement. “I’ll take decor, and themes. Meaningful ones. Something that feels like her.”

“And I’ll start the invitations,” Tali said, feeling the plan take shape like a ship under her hands, frames locking, systems humming, purpose aligning. “The Normandy crew first. Family, too.”

For a heartbeat, the medbay’s hum seemed to shift, less like recovery and more like readiness. Not for battle this time, for celebration. For a future they’d fought to give her.

Tali had claimed a spot at the center table in Liara’s office, surrounded by datapads, half-empty mugs, and the low hum of overlapping holo-displays. Somehow, what had started as a simple idea, a small celebration for Shepard, had turned into a full-scale operation.

Liara leaned over one of the screens, scrolling through images of Earth’s newly restored landmarks. “There’s a garden here in London,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “The Royal Terrace Conservatory. It’s been mostly rebuilt, half glass, half open-air courtyard. Flowers from half a dozen worlds have taken root there. It’s… beautiful.”

Miranda nodded, making notes on her datapad. “That’s perfect. It’s local, easy for the guests, and we won’t have to coordinate with the Council for security.” She paused, lips curving slightly. “And if it rains, which it will, the indoor space will keep us covered.”

Tali smiled under her visor. “You sound like you’ve planned this before.”

“Not quite,” Miranda said smoothly, “but I know how to plan for unpredictability. Shepard deserves something that feels alive. A place that breathes.”

Liara’s expression softened. “A celebration of new life in a garden reborn from war. I can’t think of anything more fitting.”

The room hummed with quiet energy, that rare, gentle kind they hadn’t known in years. No one was talking about battles or losses or what needed fixing. They were creating something instead. Something warm, human, and bright.

Tali straightened, opening a new document on her datapad. “Alright,” she said, her tone brisk but bubbling with excitement. “Guest list. Let’s make this official.”

The first names came easily, like muscle memory. Joker and EDI— the soul of the Normandy. Wrex and Grunt, who’d turn any party into chaos and somehow make it perfect. Kaidan, James, Steve, Traynor, Chakwas— the heart of the crew. Then Kenneth and Gabriella, because what’s a celebration without noise and banter? Kasumi, Jack, Samara, Jacob, Javik— the ones who’d seen Shepard at her fiercest and still followed her into fire.

Liara watched her type, then added softly, “Hannah Shepard, of course.”

“Obviously,” Tali said, adding the name with a fond hum. “She’ll bring order to the chaos. Or maybe start it.”

That earned small laughter around the table. The two other women jumped into a deeper conversation about planning.

Tali nodded along, half-listening, her fingers already moving. The air around her felt soft, buoyant, the kind of light that came only after darkness. She was caught in the moment, the motion of it, typing names and smiling beneath her mask as Liara and Miranda continued trading ideas about flowers, music, food.

Her stylus flicked once through the list of contacts. Solana Vakarian. Castis Vakarian. She added them both without thinking, barely glancing at the screen before moving on.

Liara was talking about lighting now, stringed lanterns that mimicked the constellations seen from Earth and Palaven, while Miranda outlined a list of caterers rebuilding their services in London. It all blurred together into something that felt almost sacred.

Tali sat back, reviewing the invitation. The title blinked softly at the top of the screen:

Shepard-Vakarian Baby Shower

Tali smiled, warmth filling her chest before she could second-guess the thought,  before she could notice the small, fateful detail hidden in her guest list, she pressed send. The datapad chimed. Message delivered. And somewhere across London, beyond the hum of reconstruction and renewal, the smallest ripple of consequence began to unfold. 

•••

The apartment was quiet again, but not in the peaceful way. Not the kind of quiet that came from rest or understanding, this was the heavy kind, thick and uneven, clinging to the walls like smoke.

Solana sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded in her lap, the faint hum of the city below bleeding through the glass doors. Somewhere out there, London was alive, rebuilding, celebrating, moving on. But inside, it felt like time had stopped the moment Garrus walked out.

She could still hear the echo of the door sliding shut, still see the way his mandibles had flexed in that sharp, wounded way before he left. And now, their father was sitting on the balcony, shoulders tense, staring out at the skyline like he could make sense of it if he just looked long enough.

Solana didn’t know what to say. She’d always been good at seeing both sides, but that gift now felt like a curse. She glanced toward the balcony again. The soft blue light from the city spilled across Castis’s plating, turning his silhouette pale and distant. He wasn’t angry anymore. Not outwardly. The quiet was worse.

The living room was tidy, almost painfully so. Not a speck of dust on the dark wood shelves, not a cushion out of place. Earth tones warmed the space, soft browns, muted greens, grounded colors that spoke to comfort, to stability. But here and there, a splash of vibrant color in the patterned pillows, a throw blanket of deep rust and gold draped neatly over the couch. A woven rug stretched beneath her feet, its geometric design catching the sunlight in soft hues of yellow and cream. Everything looked composed, as if order could keep the chaos outside from finding its way in.

Solana’s almost empty mug rested on the coffee table beside a datapad. She reached for it absently, fingers brushing the rim before she stood and carried it toward the kitchen. The water from the tap was warm, running clear now that Earth’s infrastructure was finally recovering. She rinsed the cup, watching the swirl of tea vanish down the drain, the motion oddly soothing.

For a brief moment, she considered sending Garrus a message, just a short one. Something to break the silence. To remind him she was still here, even if she hadn’t taken sides. But when she activated her omni-tool, her fingers hovered above the display and froze.

What would she even say? I’m sorry? Father didn’t mean it?

None of it felt right. None of it felt enough. She exhaled softly through her nose, closing the interface with a faint chime. He needed space. So did their father. So did she. 

Beyond the glass doors, her father hadn’t moved. The faint glow from the city cast his profile in pale blue, reflections tracing the edges of his clothes like thin lines of frost. He looked smaller somehow, hunched against the rail, his gaze fixed on something far away,  maybe the horizon, maybe a memory.

Solana dried her hands on a cloth and lingered in the doorway for a long moment, watching him. He needed time. They both did. So she let him sit there, alone with the skyline and his thoughts, and turned instead toward her room. 

Solana’s room was small but warm, a quiet retreat tucked down the short hallway from the living area. She’d spent the last hour keeping herself busy, answering messages, sorting through Fleet correspondence, skimming reconstruction reports from the colonies. Anything to keep her hands moving, her mind occupied.

It was a familiar trick, to work instead of feel, to drown unease beneath the hum of productivity. The pale glow of her terminal cast soft light across the walls, and the low murmur of the apartment’s temperature controls filled the silence her family had left behind.

Outside, London glimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, a city reborn, all glass and steel veins stitched with gold. The muted thrum of distant air traffic drifted faintly through the balcony glass.

She almost didn’t notice the front door open. A soft hiss, the shuffle of cautious footsteps, and then a quiet thud, the sound of something being set down on the counter. Her head lifted. Solana pushed back her chair and stepped into the hallway, pausing at the corner where it met the living space. Shepard stood by the kitchen counter, setting down a small satchel, rubbing at the bridge of her nose like she’d only just remembered to breathe.

The light caught her face, tired, but composed. Her jacket still carried faint creases from travel, and her hair was pulled back in that practical way she always wore it. There was calmness in her posture, but not the easy kind. The kind that had been earned the hard way, through storms that still lingered behind the eyes.

“Shepard,” Solana said softly, stepping out fully.

Shepard looked up, surprise flickering across her expression before it softened into a small, genuine smile. “Hey.”

Solana hesitated, then glanced toward the balcony. Through the glass, her father was still out there, the faint blue glow of his omni-tool reflecting against the railing. He looked absorbed in whatever he was doing, deliberate, precise. The kind of focus that masked what words couldn’t.

“Garrus isn’t home,” Solana said quietly.

Shepard’s hand stilled where it rested on the counter. “I figured.”

“They had a… disagreement,” Solana added carefully. The word felt too thin for what it had been. “It got a little heated.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the city filled the stillness between them, soft, constant, the kind of background noise that made grief and frustration sound almost gentle.

Shepard nodded once, slowly. “Yeah,” she murmured. “That sounds like them.”

Solana folded her arms, unsure what to do with them. “Have you heard from him? He left not long ago.”

Shepard shook her head. “No, not yet. But I’m sure I will.” Her tone was steady, but there was something beneath it, worry, or maybe that old ache of waiting for someone you knew too well.

Solana nodded, gaze falling to her hands. “He’s… he’s just angry,” she said softly. “Mostly at himself, I think. And father—”

“I know,” Shepard said, cutting in gently. Not sharp, not defensive. Just understanding. “They both mean well. They just… speak different languages.”

That drew a faint, reluctant smile from Solana. “You’re not wrong.”

Shepard exhaled, leaning back against the counter, her gaze flicking once toward the balcony before returning to Solana. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she said quietly.

“You didn’t,” Solana said quickly. “This isn’t your fault. If anything, you’ve just… stirred up old ghosts that were already haunting the place.”

That earned a small chuckle from Shepard, tired, but warm. “Story of my life.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t tense anymore, just thoughtful. Solana found herself studying her, how human she looked like this. No armor, no authority, just weary eyes and a quiet steadiness, and something softer beneath it all.

Outside, Castis’s omni-tool flickered again, casting faint ribbons of light across the glass. Shepard’s gaze lingered on it, thoughtful, unreadable.

“Should I say something to him?” she asked finally.

Solana shook her head. “Not tonight. Let him think he’s still winning the argument. It’ll help him sleep.”

That pulled a real smile from Shepard, small, crooked, almost shy. “Good advice.”

Solana tilted her head, half teasing, half sincere. “You get used to it in this family.”

Shepard smiled faintly, pushing herself off the counter. “I’m gonna make a protein smoothie for dinner—want one?” she asked, opening the fridge.

Solana huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. “No thanks. Not huge on the green powder stuff.”

She watched as Shepard rummaged through the few supplies they’d managed to stock earlier that week, ration fruit, protein pouches, and a half-bottle of something labeled ‘Earth-Pressed Veggie Blend.’ It looked vaguely radioactive. Shepard poured it into a glass anyway, giving it a cautious sniff.

“Definitely smells healthy,” she murmured.

Solana’s mandibles twitched in amusement, but before she could reply, her omni-tool chimed softly at her wrist. The orange light bloomed against her, painting faint reflections over the walls. She almost ignored it, another reconstruction notice, another logistical ping,  until the subject line flickered into focus.

Shepard-Vakarian Baby Shower

Her brow furrowed. She tapped it open. Golden text unfolded across the holographic screen, soft and inviting, carrying the warmth of someone who had written it with love. Tali’Zorah vas Normandy. The name glowed at the bottom, beneath a message full of tenderness and celebration, an invitation to a gathering in honor of a child.

Her brother’s child. The baby their father knew nothing about. The baby she herself had only learned of that morning.

Solana’s breath caught. Her gaze lifted slowly from the light of the message to the woman just a few meters away, standing at the counter, still stirring something suspiciously green. Shepard was completely unaware. She moved with that easy, absent grace of someone who didn’t know her whole world had just been quietly, innocently exposed.

Shepard didn’t know that Solana knew. And Solana didn’t know what to do with the weight of that knowing.

Her stomach fluttered with a dozen tangled things —awe, worry, affection, disbelief— emotions crashing into one another like waves. It wasn’t judgment that filled her chest. It was something deeper, something trembling at the edge of wonder and fear. Shepard wasn’t just a name whispered across war stories anymore. She wasn’t myth or miracle. She was family. The woman Garrus had fought for, the one who had brought him home. His future, their future.

It was beautifu, and utterly, devastatingly real. But the timing— Maybe Tali hadnt sent an invite to their father, only her.. Maybe Garrus had mentioned something, or the list had carried over by mistake. Solana’s pulse climbed as she scrolled through the recipients, her breath catching when the truth glowed back at her in quiet betrayal.

Castis Vakarian. There it was. His name, unmistakable, shining in soft orange light.

Solana froze. Her pulse stumbled, then quickened. Slowly, she turned toward the balcony. Through the glass, she could see her father’s reflection. It was still, silent, bathed in pale blue light. His omni-tool glowed against the dark, the text mirrored faintly across the glass. His hands had gone still, his posture rigid.

Her mandibles parted slightly, a quiet, helpless sound catching in her throat. Oh no.

He sat unmoving, eyes locked on the same message she’d just opened. The glow from the screen bled across his features, casting deep shadows into the lines of his face. A tremor rippled through his hand.

Inside, Shepard tapped her spoon against the rim of the glass — clink, clink, clink — the sound absurdly mundane, echoing like a heartbeat through the charged air. It made the rest of the moment feel unreal, fragile, paper-thin.

Solana’s gaze darted between them. Shepard, unknowing and calm in the soft kitchen light, and Castis, frozen in revelation just beyond the glass. The space between them suddenly felt like a gulf, a stretch of air too delicate to survive the next breath.

Tali’Zorah. The name sank like a stone through her chest. Garrus had spoken of her before, fondly, with that quiet affection reserved for those who had earned his absolute trust. Shepard’s friend. His comrade. Her brother’s history. Of course it would be her. Of course this was how it would happen.

Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the hum of the city. Her father hadn’t moved. Not yet. But Solana could feel the storm gathering beneath that stillness, the sharp, silent kind that came before words that could never be unsaid.

And Shepard, steady and unaware, took a sip of her smoothie, winced, and made a face. “Ugh. Too much powder,” she muttered.

Solana just stared, breath tight in her throat, as the ordinary moment stretched thin around them. She didn’t know what would break first, the glass, the quiet, or the fragile peace that had just barely begun to settle. And somewhere between one sip and the next, Tali’Zorah vas Normandy had just dropped a bomb in their living room, and Shepard hadn’t even heard it fall.

Chapter Text

The drink was awful. It looked like grass, smelled like punishment, and tasted like regret. Shepard grimaced as the thick, green liquid hit her tongue, forcing herself to swallow before her body could reject it outright. Miranda swore by this “nutrient blend,” but Miranda also used words like optimized digestion and cellular efficiency, so clearly, her standards were different.

Eating was worse anyway. Just thinking about food made her stomach twist in ways that felt cruel for someone supposedly growing another life. The smoothie was easier, mindless, mechanical, drink and forget. Quick meant less time to think, and lately, even choosing what to eat felt like another decision she didn’t have the energy for.

Shepard caught her reflection in the glass door, brow furrowed, nose wrinkled, expression somewhere between soldier and sulking child. She sighed and forced herself to smooth it out. No point in looking irritated at her own kitchen counter. She’d had worse meals. 

The door slid open.

“Hey,” came the familiar voice. Garrus stepped inside, shoulders a little hunched like he’d been carrying the weight of an apology the whole way home. The sight of him made something in her chest loosen.

“Garrus,” she said softly, setting the glass down.

He crossed the space quickly, mandibles flicking with relief. “I’m sorry,” he said before she could speak. “For not telling you I left.” His eyes flicked toward Solana, apologizing to her as well. 

Shepard opened her mouth to speak, but Solana got there first. Her voice wavered. “If you need time to think,” she said from her seat at the counter, “maybe try doing it somewhere else.”

Garrus froze. “What?”

Solana stood, crossing her arms. “Because Father just got an invitation to your baby shower.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The hum of the city outside seemed to fall away, leaving only silence and the soft clink of Shepard’s unfinished glass against the counter.

Shepard blinked. “He—what?”

Her mind scrambled to catch up. That was fast, too fast. It had only been this morning when Tali had asked, all shy enthusiasm and genuine warmth, about throwing a baby shower. Shepard hadn’t even considered this being a possibility. She hadn’t asked about guest lists, hadn’t thought to. The idea had felt small, harmless, distant—something that could wait. Apparently, it couldn’t.

Solana nodded grimly. “Tali sent out the invites. I don’t think she meant to, but his name was on the list. He knows.”

Mortification hit Shepard like a sucker punch. 

Garrus groaned quietly, pressing a hand over his face. “Tali,” he muttered, exhaling hard through his mandibles. “Damn-it.” 

Shepard leaned her weight against the counter, staring down at the green sludge in her glass as if it might hold the answer to this particular disaster. “So… what’s the plan?”

Garrus looked at Solana, who just raised a hand, already walking toward her room. “My plan,” she said dryly, “is to pretend I didn’t witness any of this and suggest you both come up with something fast. Because he’s still out on the balcony. And he hasn’t moved.”

She took another step back, mandibles twitching in a grimace that was halfway between pity and amusement. “Good luck,” she added, disappearing down the hall with a look that made it clear she didn’t envy them in the slightest.

Shepard turned slowly toward the window. Through the faint reflection, she could still see the outline of Castis Vakarian, rigid, motionless, haloed by the blue glow of his omni-tool.

Her stomach twisted again, and this time it had nothing to do with the drink.

Garrus exhaled slowly, his gaze following hers toward the balcony. The reflection of his father’s still form wavered in the glass, the faint glow of the omni-tool painting the room in soft, uneasy light.

“Well,” he said finally, voice low, resigned. “Guess there’s no point in pretending we didn’t see that coming.”

Shepard turned to him, brow creased. “You’re not actually—”

“I am,” he said, already squaring his shoulders, that old soldier’s resolve clicking back into place. “Might as well get it over with before he starts drafting a report about my life choices.” He tried for levity, but his mandibles twitched, betraying the nerves he couldn’t quite hide.

“Garrus—” she started, but he cut her off gently, placing a hand on her arm.

“Go to bed,” he said softly. “I’ll be in there, hopefully sooner rather than later.” He hesitated, and a flicker of his old humor returned, dry and fragile. “And if I’m not… please don’t sing at my funeral.”

Shepard huffed a laugh despite herself, the sound caught somewhere between affection and worry. “No promises.”

“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, mandibles flexing into what almost passed for a smile.

He gave her hand a light squeeze, then turned toward the balcony. The soft hiss of the door sliding open filled the silence. Cold air drifted in, carrying the faint sounds of the city below, the hum of engines, the quiet pulse of life continuing as if the universe wasn’t about to tilt again. 

Shepard didn’t argue. When Garrus’s hand slipped from her hand and the balcony door hissed open behind him, she just stood there for a moment, staring at the faint shimmer of city light on the glass. Then she turned away. The apartment felt too big all of a sudden. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t peace but suspension, like the air before a detonation. She made her way down the short hall, closing their bedroom door behind her.

Routine. That was what she needed. Routine kept her human, kept her grounded.

She brushed her teeth, washed her face, tied her hair back. The shower was quick and hot, steam curling around her like fog as she moved through the motions. The water felt good on her skin, grounding, cleansing, almost enough to quiet the ache building behind her temples. Almost.

When she stepped out, she caught her reflection in the mirror: bare skin mapped with old scars, silver lines tracing a history she never asked to carry. She reached for the lotion on the counter and rubbed it over her arms, her stomach, her thighs. Just because she was covered in scars didn’t mean she needed to add stretch marks to the list of bodily imperfections. 

But guilt settled in not long after. Tali hadn’t meant harm. She’d meant kindness. Joy, even. Shepard had given her blessing, told her to plan it however she wanted. She just… forgot to add one small rule: don’t invite Garrus’s family.

Her reflection frowned back at her. And now, after the argument that had already blown open this morning, whatever the hell it had really been about,  this felt like pouring fuel on embers that hadn’t cooled. Shepard still didn’t have all the answers. She wasn’t sure Garrus did either.

She reached for the towel, pressing it gently to her face, and then froze. A dark smear stained the fabric. She lowered it slowly, watching as deep red dripped from her nose onto the counter, blooming against the pale surface like a warning. A dull ache followed, low at first, then tightening behind her eyes.

“Great,” she muttered, tilting her head back with a sigh. “Perfect timing.”

She grabbed a tissue, holding it under her nose as she sat on the edge of the bed. A faint metallic taste lingered in her throat. She knew the drill, low blood sugar, exhaustion, maybe stress. Or maybe not. Her eyes drifted toward the door, where faint voices hummed beyond the walls. She’d left her green sludge on the counter. Probably would’ve helped if she’d actually finished it,  or eaten something resembling real food. But if she was honest with herself, this had been happening long before London. Before the medbay. Since Leviathan.

The thought made her stomach twist again, this time with something colder than nausea. She swallowed hard, wiped her nose, and whispered to no one in particular, “You just had to make things interesting, didn’t you?”

The walls didn’t answer. Only the faint murmur of the city, and somewhere beyond it, Garrus’s low voice, steady but strained, trying to talk down a man who’d just learned his son was going to be a father.

•••

The air outside was colder than he expected. London’s nights always carried that faint metallic edge, like the city hadn’t quite scrubbed the war out of its lungs yet. Garrus stepped onto the balcony and let the door hiss shut behind him, sealing away the warmth of the apartment and the distant sound of Shepard moving through their room.

Castis didn’t turn. He was sitting in the same chair he’d been in all evening, elbows braced on his knees, omni-tool still glowing faintly against the dim skyline. The blue light pulsed once against his plating, steady, unreadable.

For a long moment, Garrus didn’t say anything. He just leaned on the railing beside him, the same way he used to when Shepard needed space, close, but not crowding. He could feel the old habits trying to take over. The instinct to analyze, to anticipate, to fix.

It didn’t help that he could practically feel the tension rolling off his father in quiet, heavy waves.

“Before you say anything,” Garrus started, voice low, “I already know it looks bad.”

Castis’s mandibles shifted slightly, but he didn’t look up. “Bad would be an understatement.” His tone was even, careful—the kind that meant he’d already had time to get angry and move past it, right into disappointment.

Garrus rubbed at the back of his neck. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“I imagine not.” Castis’s eyes flicked toward the skyline, the faint lights of reconstruction glimmering across the river. “A baby shower, Garrus. That’s quite the way to find out.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Garrus huffed a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’d have preferred something a little less… public.”

Castis finally turned his head, studying him. “Is it true?”

There it was, the question that somehow made everything else in the galaxy sound simple. Garrus nodded once. “It’s true.”

The older turian leaned back in his chair, the light from his omni-tool dimming as he shut it off. “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

Garrus bristled, instinctively defensive. “I was. Eventually. I just—” He stopped, exhaled, tried again. “I didn’t know how.”

Castis let out a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a low hum. “You always say that when it comes to things that matter.”

Garrus met his gaze. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” Castis admitted, voice softer now. “But I thought I raised you to face the hard things first.”

That landed heavier than Garrus wanted to admit. He turned his attention to the skyline, the human city still glittering with new light, fragile and raw. “You did,” he said quietly. “And then the war happened. And suddenly the hard things were… different.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The hum of passing shuttles filled the space between their silence.

Finally, Castis said, “And Shepard? She’s pregnant with someone else’s child that you intend to raise?” 

Garrus’s mandibles twitched once, a reflex of disbelief even though he’d been expecting the question. He’d rehearsed this moment before, a dozen times, in a dozen versions,  and still, standing there under the cold glow of the London skyline, the words felt impossible. How did you explain something that didn’t make sense even to you?

He exhaled slowly, watching the vapor curl into the night. “No,” he said finally, his voice low, deliberate. “She’s pregnant with my child.”

Castis didn’t respond right away. Just blinked, slow and skeptical, the way a man did when he wasn’t sure if he’d misheard or if his son had actually lost his mind.

Garrus rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that suddenly felt juvenile. “It’s… complicated.”

“That’s one word for it,” Castis said, leaning back slightly, studying him. “Because unless biology has rewritten itself since the war, I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Garrus gave a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. You and me both.”

He turned, bracing his elbows on the railing, staring out at the reflection of light on the Thames, fractured and restless, like his thoughts. “She shouldn’t have survived, you know. That last battle on Earth, the Crucible, the Reapers, the explosion. She should’ve died. We all thought she did.”

He paused, the memory pressing down like static in his chest. “But the Leviathan, one of the original creators of the Reapers, it… changed her. She made contact with it before the final fight. It did something to her, rewired her at a level even Liara can’t fully explain.”

He risked a glance at his father, who was watching him in that unreadable way he had when he was trying to decide whether to interrupt or let the madness unfold.

“Miranda and Liara are working on understanding it,” Garrus continued. “They think it was the only reason she survived at all. Whatever that thing did… it altered her physiology. Her blood, her cells. Made her something more than human.”

Castis tilted his head slightly. “And that’s why—”

“—why this is possible,” Garrus finished quietly. 

Castis didn’t respond. Not immediately, anyway. He just sat there, silent, eyes fixed on some far point in the skyline that probably had nothing to do with the view.

Garrus shifted his weight, the silence stretching long enough to feel dangerous. His father wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t lecturing. He wasn’t calling him reckless, delusional, or worse. 

That was good. Probably. Except Castis Vakarian didn’t go quiet when he was calm. He went quiet when he was calculating. Garrus had seen it before, during briefings, in arguments, in the split second before his father dismantled an opponent with nothing but reason and precision. Silence wasn’t peace; it was pressure building. He forced himself not to fidget, mandibles twitching once in reflex. James had a human phrase for this. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’d never quite understood it until now.

The silence broke at last.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Castis said, his voice low, controlled, the kind of calm that felt sharper than shouting. “Three years ago, she was the only one who knew what the Reapers were. The only one who saw what was coming. And you followed her then, too.”

Garrus straightened slightly, but Castis wasn’t looking at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the skyline, the faint glow of human lights painting his profile in fractured gold.

“I believed you,” he continued, tone steady. “Even when the others didn’t. When the Hierarchy called her unhinged, when they said she was chasing ghosts. You stood by her. I understood that.” His mandibles flexed once, slow, deliberate. “But this…”

He shook his head. Not in anger, not yet, but in disbelief so profound it almost sounded like grief.

“This is different. This isn’t war or loyalty. This is something you can’t fight your way out of, Garrus. Something you can’t fix with precision fire or clever aim.” He turned then, finally meeting his son’s gaze. “A child. With a human. Altered by something ancient and dangerous.”

The words landed heavy, each one deliberate, carved from a place deeper than pride.

“It’s wrong,” Castis said quietly, and the quiet made it worse. “This isn’t the life I wanted for you. For my son. For the grandchildren I never thought I’d live to see. But here it is anyway.”

His mandibles drew tight, and for a fleeting second, Garrus saw something like sorrow flash across his father’s face, gone as quickly as it came, buried beneath discipline and the kind of fear only parents knew how to carry.

Castis’s mandibles tightened, his voice dropping to something colder. “And now you plan to celebrate this… monstrosity.”

The word hung there between them, sharp as shrapnel.

“This is how I find out?” His tone cracked, not loud but shaking at the edges, the kind of anger that came from somewhere older than pride. “Through an invitation? Through a party?”

He stood then, slow, deliberate, his shadow falling long across the balcony tiles. The air between them felt thinner now, stretched tight.

“To say I’m disappointed is an understatement,” he said finally, each word measured, deliberate, merciless in its control. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this disappointed in you, Garrus.”

He exhaled, sharp and weary all at once. “And the truth is…” He shook his head, mandibles flaring and closing again. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

He turned away again, bracing his hands on the balcony rail, the light from the city catching in the etched lines of his clothing, old scars, old battles, none of which had ever seemed to wound him like this did.

Garrus flinched, the words hitting harder than any bullet ever had. Monstrosity. He’d heard plenty of people call Shepard worse, but never from someone whose voice actually mattered.

He swallowed the sting, tried to breathe through it, but something inside him cracked open anyway.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, but there was steel under it. “Don’t call her that.”

Castis turned, eyes narrowing. “You think I’m wrong?”

“I think you don’t understand,” Garrus shot back, voice low but trembling with restraint. “She didn’t ask for any of this. She didn’t choose what happened to her. The Leviathan didn’t give her a choice, it just made sure she lived when everyone else didn’t.”

Castis’s mandibles drew tight. “And you see that as a blessing?”

“I see it as survival,” Garrus said, stepping closer. “You taught me to fight for what’s left. To protect what matters. That’s what I’m doing.”

His voice cracked then, not from anger but from something rawer. “You think I haven’t asked myself if it’s right? If it makes sense? Every day since I found out, I’ve been asking. But you know what else I see when I look at her? Life. Hope. A future. Something that isn’t just rebuilding the same old hierarchy that already failed us.”

He exhaled hard, mandibles flicking with a frustrated twitch. “Call it what you want. Impossible. Wrong. But it’s ours. And I’ll defend it, her, with everything I have.”

Castis stared at him for a long moment, the city’s light flickering between them like heat off armor.

Finally, Garrus broke the silence again, quieter this time. “You can be disappointed. I get it. But don’t call what we have a mistake. Don’t call my daughter a mistake.”

Castis rose slowly from his chair, his movements deliberate, measured, the way he always moved when every word mattered. “You speak of the Leviathan like it’s some benevolent savior that decided to gift you a miracle. But you forget what it is. What it made. The Reapers didn’t simply destroy civilizations, they controlled them. Bent minds, rewrote wills. You think whatever power touched Shepard is incapable of the same?”

Garrus started to speak, but Castis didn’t give him the chance. “If that creature altered her at the level you claim, if it changed her blood, her body, then this child of yours isn’t a symbol of hope. It’s a variable. An unknown. You said yourself you don’t understand what the Leviathan did. None of you do.”

Garrus’s mandibles flicked in disbelief. “You’re saying my daughter’s a threat.”

“I’m saying,” Castis said, his voice dropping low, controlled, “you’d be a fool not to consider the possibility.”

The words landed like a punch, sharp and cold. Garrus looked away, jaw tightening, breath hitching in his chest.

Castis continued, softer now, but no less firm. “You’ve always been guided by your heart. I admire that more than you know. But this—” He gestured vaguely toward the city, toward the invisible weight of the galaxy they’d both fought to rebuild. “—this isn’t about what you feel. It’s about what you don’t know. If the Leviathan had the power to rewrite her, Garrus, to make her something new… then that child may be something more than a simple gift. Don’t mistake survival for purity.”

Garrus met his gaze, voice cracking with quiet defiance. “She’s my child.”

“And that’s exactly why you can’t afford to be naïve,” Castis said, his tone final. “Because love will blind you long before the truth ever will.”

•••

The world was water.

Endless. Dark. Vast. The kind of black that swallowed light whole and didn’t give it back. Shepard swam, arms aching, lungs tight, ocean pressing in from every angle. The current wasn’t rough or relentless. It was slow, steady, inevitable.

Ahead, the shore gleamed pale and distant. It didn’t look far. It never looked far. But the more she swam toward it, the more it receded. Her limbs moved slower now. Like they weren’t hers. Like the water had thickened around her, turning to syrup, the water stung like broken glass. Her feet dragged, but she could hear it now, cutting through the silence like a wire: A baby crying. High, thin, desperate.

She tried to scream, but saltwater surged into her mouth. Her vision fractured. The ocean bloomed red for a moment, then black. And then it pulled her under, fast and violent. It was as if hands had gripped her ankles and yanked. Her body snapped downward, pressure collapsing in from all sides. No air. No light. Just the roar of blood in her ears and the growing certainty that she was too late. Then—impact.

~

Shepard jolted awake.

Her body snapped upright before her mind could catch up, breath tearing through her throat like she’d been drowning for real. The room was dark, lit only by the city’s faint blue and gold glow bleeding through the curtains. The sound of her pulse filled the space, loud, uneven, relentless. 

For a second, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The weight of the dream still clung to her skin, heavy and cold, as if she’d brought the ocean back with her. Then she felt it, warm liquid slipping down the curve of her upper lip. Metallic and Sharp. Blood. Her hand came up automatically, fingertips brushing her nose. They came away red. Not much, just enough to catch the light, but enough to be familiar. Too familiar. The taste of iron hit the back of her throat, and with it, the old ache of recognition. Of course.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the sheets sticking faintly to her skin. Garrus wasn’t back yet. The room felt bigger without him, emptier, colder, quieter in the wrong way.

She pushed herself to stand, but pain surged low in her abdomen, sharp and deep. It stole the air from her lungs. She gritted her teeth, one hand clutching her stomach, the other steadying herself on the edge of the nightstand. The world tilted. Her breath came in shallow bursts. She tried again, forcing herself upright, one careful step at a time. Her vision blurred at the edges, the ache blooming and twisting inside her. Then, another sensation, something slower, trickling down her thigh.

She moved faster this time, the urgency overtaking the pain. The bathroom light flared harsh and sterile as the door slid open. She caught herself on the counter, head spinning. Her reflection stared back, pale and hollow-eyed, as if the woman in the mirror already knew what she was about to see.

Her gaze dropped. Dark red traced the inside of her legs, thin at first, then pooling in uneven streaks against her skin. Drops hit the tile, sharp, deliberate and unforgiving. The sound echoed in her ears. For a moment, everything in her went still. No thoughts, no air, just the terrible, suspended quiet of realization. Then she reached for the counter again, knuckles white, heart hammering as the weight of it hit her all at once.

The Leviathan. The headaches. The blood. The whispers at the edge of sleep.

She had told herself she was fine. That she was strong enough to handle this. But now, staring down at the evidence, it didn’t feel like strength. It felt like a warning.

For a long moment, Shepard just stood there.

The light was too bright. It felt like it was humming, like it was alive, like it could see her standing there, broken open under its sterile glare. The air smelled of metal and soap, of something too clean to belong beside blood. It gathered on the floor in slow, deliberate drops, dark as ink against white porcelain.

Her mind wouldn’t move. It hung there, caught between disbelief and terror, unable to reconcile the impossible with the unbearable. She’d faced annihilation before the slow crush of reentry, the screaming light of the Crucible, the cold hands of death pulling her under. But this small, silent thing unraveling inside her felt infinitely worse.

“No,” she whispered, the word breaking before it left her lips.

She wasn’t reckless. She hadn’t been careless. She’d done everything right — or close enough to right that it should have counted. Rest, hydration, the bland meals Miranda insisted on. She’d obeyed every instruction, every caution. She’d been careful.

Her hand trembled as it drifted to her abdomen. The skin was warm, slick beneath, under her hand a pain curled tight—low, twisting, relentless, as if something deep inside her was struggling to hold on. The ache spread outward, filling her chest, her throat, until she could barely breathe.

“Come on,” she breathed, her voice cracking on the plea. 

The room tilted. Her vision burned white at the edges. The mirror caught her in a blur — a ghost with bloodied lips and hollow eyes. The woman who’d survived the Reapers looked nothing like the one staring back.

She looked like the aftermath.

Her breathing fractured, uneven, each inhale tasting of iron. She pressed both hands against the sink, the cold biting her palms, grounding her just enough to stay upright. She wasn’t supposed to look like this. Not now. Not after everything.

She’d clawed her way out of death, through fire and ruin and resurrection, and somehow this quiet undoing felt crueller than all of it. The blood pooled beneath her feet in slow, deliberate circles, reflecting the light like oil over water. It shimmered darkly, hypnotic, obscene. The silence roared in her ears, the sound of her pulse pounding against her skull like the echo of distant artillery.

She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, tasting salt and iron and something bitter she couldn’t name. The soldier in her screamed for movement, for order, assess, act, survive. But the woman beneath it all, the one who had dared to believe in softness, in life, in love, stood frozen. Frozen and  shaking, watching the red collect on the floor, as her mind fractured into too many thoughts to hold at once. The Leviathan’s whisper, that low, alien echo that had never really left her mind.

She closed her eyes, The silence roared in her ears. Denial gave way to something rawer, a quiet, gut-deep fear she hadn’t felt since the war. Because this wasn’t just her anymore. And if she was losing this, she wasn’t sure she could survive it.

For a long time, she didn’t move. The world had narrowed to the sound of her breathing—uneven, shallow, dragging through her teeth like it hurt to keep going. The light above her flickered once, a brief, trembling pulse, and it felt like the whole room exhaled with her.

She had to move. She couldn’t fall apart here, not yet. She reached for the nearest towel, her fingers slippery against the soft fabric. It wasn’t enough to stop the shaking. She pressed it to her thighs anyway, to the dark smears that refused to fade, to the bruised blue silk of her nightgown clinging damp against her skin. The towel came away red, heavy, soaked through before she even realized she’d pressed too hard.

Her reflection caught her again in the mirror’s edge. Blood streaked down her chin, along her collarbone, staining the fragile pale fabric like ink bleeding through paper. The sight was unbearable,  a slow unraveling of everything she’d fought to hold together. She blinked once, hard, forcing her vision to steady, and whispered to no one, “Not yet.” 

The soldier in her took over just enough to function. Step one: clean. Step two: breathe. Step three: walk.

Her movements were clumsy, fragile things, shaking fingers, shallow breaths, a face she couldn’t recognize in the reflection. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the towel, swiping at the streaks beneath her jaw until her skin burned. It didn’t matter. None of it did. The blood kept finding her anyway.

When she finally turned toward the door, her stomach clenched again, pain like a low current beneath her ribs. She gritted her teeth, swallowed a sound she didn’t trust, and reached for the lock pad. The metal was cool against her palm, grounding her, and the door hissed open. 

The hallway was dark. The air felt different out here, cooler, touched by the faint scent of Garrus’s armor polish and the sterile tang of human detergent. Somewhere beyond the corridor, she could hear the faint murmur of voices from the balcony. His and his father’s. The words were indistinct, low and sharp, carried on the pulse of night air that seeped through the glass.

She took one step forward. Then another. The soft brush of her bare feet against the floor sounded too loud, too human. Blood trailed faintly behind her, small drops against the pale floors, proof of her silence, her stubbornness, her unraveling strength.

Garrus was still on the balcony with his father, and for a heartbeat, his mind didn’t register what he was seeing, just the movement of light in the doorway, the pale shimmer of silk catching the dim glow of the apartment. Then his vision narrowed, the rest of the world falling away in an instant.

“Shepard—”

Her name left him like an exhale, quiet, broken.

She stood in the doorframe of the hallway, one hand braced against the wall, skin too pale beneath the flicker of the lights. Her nightgown, the soft, baby-blue silk one she’d teased him for liking,  clung damp to her thighs, streaked through with blood. It wasn’t much, not yet, but it was wrong. All of it was wrong.

Garrus didn’t think. He moved. The chair scraped against the tile as he shot to his feet, the sound sharp and sudden. Castis started to speak, confusion cutting through his tone, but Garrus was already past him, closing the space in long, deliberate strides.

“Shepard, hey—” His voice caught halfway between calm and panic, the kind of tone soldiers used when they needed to keep someone conscious. “What happened?”

Her lips parted, trembling around breath that wasn’t quite steady. “Garrus,” she whispered. 

Garrus was at her side now, his hands hovering, afraid to touch her, afraid not to. He could smell the faint metallic edge of blood now, too much to be nothing. His throat tightened.

Behind him, Castis had turned fully toward the doorway. The glow from inside spilled across the balcony, catching in his eyes. Whatever anger had been coiled in him moments ago faltered, replaced by something quieter, older, the cold realization of fragility.

“Shepard?” he said, the name awkward on his tongue, unfamiliar in its tenderness.

But Shepard wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was locked on Garrus, desperate and distant all at once. Her hand found his arm, trembling, slick with sweat and faint traces of red.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered. “I think—” Her words broke apart before they reached the end.

Garrus reached for her, but the world seemed to shift first, sounds dulling, light stretching thin like glass about to crack. Shepard swayed, her fingers tightening weakly around his arm.

The apartment tilted, or maybe she did. The colors around her blurred, the golds of the lamps, the deep blue spill from the city beyond the windows, all washing together in a soft, impossible haze. The air itself felt heavy, the kind that came before storms.

“Hey,” Garrus murmured, voice low, steady, but distant, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. His hands were on her shoulders now, careful, terrified. “Shepard, stay with me.”

Her eyes fluttered. For a moment, she looked up at him, that look she always gave before battle, before chaos, when words weren’t enough and trust had to carry the rest. But now it was something else entirely.