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werdlewrites · 1 month ago

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summary: The Spectre simply ignores the panic as she begins to drown in old memories against her will. The hands of her past were at her throat to force her deeper down and swallow the truth. She had died that day, and so did they. warnings: ptsd, fire, blood, grief/loss, self-doubt, depression, femshep, shakarian wc: 2,687

It could be the color.

The brilliance of red, orange, and white. It is an elegant dance of destruction as it spreads like a virus. It consumes the world. Bit by bit. Devouring and leaving only a dying light in its wake and the blackness of the end. But she can't see the structure she stands within as it crumbles or the beautiful greenery beyond the platform. There are only the sparks of torn wiring and a damaged hull. A deep crimson staining the once pristine and shining metal palettes—dripping—spreading.

It could be the heat.

Zora was disgustingly humid. If it weren't for the regulators within the suit, she'd be standing in her sweat. Weighed down by the lack of energy as the air pulled every shred of water from her pores, draining her dry. But this was something different—this heat. It radiates from the shifting hues—pulsating and digging deep into the flesh without mercy, stealing your breath, and filling the empty spaces with its silent death. She can feel the quickening of her heart rate, thinking of the last time fire kissed her skin and what followed.

It could be the smell.

It's not long after the gunshot that it assaults her senses. It stings her eyes and claws at her nose. The smell of something horrid and putrid. She could only compare it to leather—to flesh as it reaches the sun's surface, scorched. The workers aren't there with them, their pain unseen and unheard. But, at her feet, all she finds are the bodies of good men and women who died in her name. It was just another day of searching through the galaxy in desperation. A cure for this oncoming plague known as Reapers—and it all ends in fire.

Her fist meets the side of his face without warning. Armored knuckles against his smug and prideful expression. He was ready for the hunt, and she was prepared to put him down. “Are you insane?” There's anger in the woman's tone—maybe a touch of disbelief. She had worked alongside every creature, from Rosetta to Aethon. Some good, others bad. But never one so willing to sacrifice the lives of others. The only crime they had been guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“You're endangering lives—and the mission—for your own selfish revenge!”

“You really want to do this, Shepard?” Zaeed bites back. Finger eager on the trigger and ready to gain closure for his trauma, no matter the costs. No matter the civilians or his commander's life.

It could mean nothing at all, but Garrus doubts it. Her lips twist in a snarl as she turns her back on him, pretending not to care about the flames as they climb higher and spread further. It's all business with her. The Spectre simply ignores the panic as she begins to drown in old memories against her will. The hands of her past were at her throat to force her deeper down and swallow the truth.

She had died that day, and so did they.

A stern finger points, nearly jabbing at his plated chest, and the Turian can see it then—the mask. It’s the face of a woman burdened to save the galaxy. Placing herself high above little things like trauma and the night terrors she won’t speak of. However, if you listen closely, you can hear whimpered pleas for the pain to stop. Begging the heavens above for a moment of peace. But there was work to be done. No amount of tears could repair the damage in her mind.

“You were out of line! Now, thanks to you, I've got a burning refinery to save.”

Between the gunfire, he can see her squirming beneath the armor. Shaking out the tremors as the fear creeps in the hotter their surroundings become. It's starting to feel claustrophobic. Her body reacted without thought, sending out warning signs of an approaching doom. Her soul is suffocating by the grip of flickering light, and she can’t escape it.

But Shepard moves forward until the job is done and Zaeed is crushed under debris. He thinks for a moment that his commander—his new special something—was willing to leave the merc behind to rot like the people he condemned. He would have stood by her side as she abandoned him in the rubble. But it's no surprise that she lingers. She was putting her own troubles aside to reprimand a madman as he demanded her help despite spitting in her face.

“How am I supposed to trust you?” She questions with a steady pace. The soldier focuses on the sound of her steps and the groan of agony on his tongue—the aggression. She was locked in on anything to douse the crack of fire whipping through the sky.

“I’ll do what I was goddamn paid to do!”

Sooner than Garrus would like, Zaeed is pulled from the fallen pillar, and the pair seem to come to an understanding. It's all too easy for his liking. Wishing he could shoot out the man's knees as punishment for being so careless and disrespectful to the woman between them. But her mind is elsewhere, and the Turian follows where she goes.

But he can only go so far.

He can't go there.

She's more quiet in the shuttle. Fingers interlocked as they hung between parted knees. After a mission, the space is typically filled with laughter or sarcastic remarks on poor aim or some other slipup. Sometimes a word or two was spared in kindness when things ended on a more sour, bloodied note. She's different this time. Lively eyes are now dark and empty, face expressionless as she falls further into the depths. That place he can't reach.

No matter how hard he tries.

Shepard is a silent storm the moment they settle back on the Normandy. The door slides open with a hiss, and she’s stepped from the platform before anyone even stands from their seats. Her body moves with ease, weaving through the maze of people she can't bear to look at. New faces smiling in place of where Charles Pressly once was. Hector Emerson, Addison Chase, Amina, Carlton—gone. The list of her fallen crew plays on a loop, plucking at old memories to piece together voices she was beginning to forget.

Garrus follows her.

He provides polite and hushed excuses as he aggressively brushes past the crew. Large hands cast them aside in desperation to simply touch the chill of her armor. But she was always steps ahead. Somehow predicting his shadow and the need to rescue her from a cell she had placed herself within. A prison of punishment and guilt. He watches with saddened eyes as Shepard slips away and stands alone in the elevator, focus cast downward as the doors close, separating the two.

It could have been on purpose.

She could lock the cabin to spare her crew the destruction of what's meant to be the savior of the galaxy. The Reaper Killer—the hero. The woman who came back from the dead after her body was pulled and stitched back together by the manipulative hands of Cerberus. A soldier with a second chance, where others had been less fortunate. At least they would never know of what’s coming. This impending doom.

She's pacing again once she's isolated. Passing by the shimmering blue of a full aquarium and mindlessly kicking her discarded helmet across the floor. There's a silent war in her mind. Fighting against the tormented part of herself so she can continue on this journey without fear. Wars are not won with a broken resolve or a broken spirit.

It's a losing battle.

Her armor feels heavier and all too tight. It’s constricting and forcing the air from her lungs, threatening to crush her entirely. Her fingers act without thought, fumbling and trembling as they sloppily rip at the clasps to loosen the plating. Bit by bit, it begins to fall away with a crash at her feet, and yet it's not enough. Aching arms struggle to pull away the chest plate, unable to flip the latches. Shepard begins to panic.

Her feet are skating along the flooring, scuffing in her haste. She can feel the flicker of fire linger and flay her skin, digging deep through tissue and bone. It's hot enough to burn up the oxygen in her lungs, leaving her face red as she pushes her new modifications to the limit. But the desperation forces her to fumble and spin on her heels. For someone made of wires and machinery, Shepard feels painfully human. Her vision fills only with the black and speckled view of the galaxy as she drifts into nothingness—like she had done two years ago. Death was approaching, and she couldn’t stop it.

Blue eyes find her swept up in a fury of her own making. Eyes clenched shut, expression full of agony with gritted teeth. Shepard can't see the Turian, but knows he's there by instinct, calling out his name blindly.

“I can't get—I can't-”

Garrus is quick to jump into action. Dismissing the shock of seeing someone he cared for so deeply unsettled, and unlike anything she offers up for the public eye. Shepard was only a woman placed high on the pedestal when some days she preferred to be forgotten. In the quiet of the ship when all others have gone for rest, he can faintly hear the murmurs of self-doubt and questioning. “Why didn’t Liara leave me behind?”

He pries her hands away from her suit with force, and she fights back out of fear. The pair was equally desperate to pull her corpse from the fire, breathing life into her soul again. It's frustrating and clumsy. Fingers jamming into one another while he continues to swat her hands away, but she doesn't seem to understand in the madness. First come the gauntlets, falling to their feet in a pile.

“I can't breathe. Garrus, I can't-”

Her cheeks are dampened by fresh tears, and though the site breaks his heart into two, he can't pause to give comfort. Instead, her trembling words encourage him to move faster. Long talons worked diligently to undo the clasps, leaving the chest plate to fall with a loud thud. Her hands are finally still, and her torso expands with relief, yet her mind is elsewhere. The endless expanse of space filled with pieces of the SSV Normandy, drifting aimlessly.

Neither of them realizes she’s moving. Working on autopilot to escape the fire she felt kiss along her scarred flesh, with him effortlessly chasing after her to pull at the armor. The backs of her knees meet the edge of the bed with force, and she stumbles back into it, lying flat with attention on the window above, providing a once beautiful view of a universe well-traveled. Now, those twinkling stars remind her of something more grim. Bodies—the bodies of her friends. Lifeless and cast out into the abyss. They stare back at Shepard, gaining distance as gravity pulls her into orbit, all shifting to darkness shortly after.

“I failed,” Shepard states in a whisper, and the force against her legs stills momentarily, drinking in her grief like a poison and sharing in her agony. He begins to undress her again with hurried fingers, waiting for a sign of relief that never comes. Her eyes simply close to block out the light, but all she can see are the smiles of friends now gone and the families they’ve left behind. Teeth clamp onto a trembling lip, holding back the sobs that ache and beg to wreak havoc over her exhausted body.

Shepard is so lost in it that she doesn’t register the dip of the mattress as a familiar figure joins her. It only sinks in when his chilled skin reaches out to touch her fire, dousing the flames enough for her body to still. Goosebumps travel along her skin, mindlessly leaning into the palm that caresses her cheek, brushing away her sorrow.

She sees an ocean before her. His eyes are full of glistening light, endless and serene. She can’t help but raise a weakened arm, fingers tracing along the scars of Archangel. There had been such joy—such momentary bliss—in their reunion before he dropped to her feet, lifeless. Knowing she could have lost him then was torment enough. Shepard wasn’t entirely sure she could survive it a second time.

“I don’t want t’fail you.”

Her partner seems to deflate at the sound of her inner torment. Envisioning the horrors that play out in her mind on a near-constant loop—a painful similarity to his own. The loss of the ones you trusted—your friends, allies—maybe even family. And they entrusted you with their safety—their life, and it all ends in blood and loneliness in the vacuum of space.

But they weren’t alone anymore.

Elongated fingers reach to entangle with hers, hoping to soothe and comfort. A reminder that through all of the battles, aching hearts, and broken bones—he was still with her. He was still here. “When you found me on the Citadel,” he begins with a low tone. “I had pictured hundreds of different scenarios—what we would be up against. Fighting Geth, finding Vigil and Sovereign—who would be crazy enough to take it all on? One hit after the next?”

Shepard doesn’t speak, hiding the quiver of her lip between clamped teeth, struggling to will away the sadness. Garrus becomes a hazy vision in tired eyes, letting them close to instead focus on his touch—his voice as it speaks nothing but kindness. Something she never spared a moment of for herself as she worked this mechanical body to death.

“I’ve seen failure, and you don’t fit the description. You died just to do what was right. You saved them-”

“I didn’t save everyone,” she states in a weakened whisper.

“You can’t save everyone, Rae. But that doesn’t make you a failure. It doesn’t make you less.” He eases away her touch with care, cradling her hand as though she were made of glass to instead rest their entwined fingers against the center of her chest. No matter the amount of modifications, the real woman he loved was still there. Full of warmth and a beating heart—though aching. Proof of her humanity and every flaw and perfection that came with it. “It’s what you strive for that matters—what you live for. Hell, this moment proves what kind of person you are. You’re grieving over their loss and for your own.”

Her body stills, drinking in his words slowly—hesitantly. Part of her doesn’t want to believe she deserves the grace he provides. Families were now hollow and incomplete—left unfinished. Or there had been a stray soul that wandered into the Alliance, looking for their purpose with nothing to hold them back. Their existence is unknown to all others outside of the Normandy, making Shepard one of the few to carry on their name—to honor them.

With a heavy sigh, her head lolls to the side, immediately held in a trance by the crystal clear aquarium and the many colors that flickered across the glass. Garrus had once considered the idea of pet fish—calling them useless. As time passed, he had studied humanity. Maybe it was simple curiosity; maybe it was a newfound admiration of his commander, but he insisted their purpose could be calming and how right he had been.

“D’you think they’ll forgive me?” She mumbles. The woman is unaware of just how tightly she clings to him. Her knuckles paled from the grip, though he barely seemed to notice or care.

With the other arm embedded into the bed for support, his free hand maneuvers to come through sweat-matted hair. Brushing away the tangles with care and finding his heart soften at the sight of relaxation soon drifting over her features. A soldier's hold begins to loosen until she’s pliable, with eyes once more fallen shut. Though now, there’s a noticeable lack of wrinkles from a furrowed brow. There’s no sadness or frustration in the darkness—only peace in his embrace. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

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