tides will bring me back to you

Sylus's bedroom is dim, the thick velvet blackout curtains holding back the sleepless N109 zone night, the dark, gauzy curtains around his bed further layers of protection against his sensitive eyes. When he wakes, sweaty but refreshed from a good night's sleep—so rare more than a year ago, but these days, the norm instead of the exception—slow consciousness brings him the awareness of an unfamiliar weight pressing down onto him. It doesn't even occur to him, anymore, to move in order to throw open open either set of curtains. It doesn't occur to him to listen to the needs of his body and go to the toilet, or check his phone or tablet.

But this morning, the reason for his utter stillness is something he had almost given up hope in ever happening.

Why would he ever consider moving, when finally, finally, after over a year of patience, restraint, and questioning his own sanity, he finally has everything he's waited for in his arms.

He isn't lying, when he says that he expected no less than the magnificently beautiful creature now glaring, defiant eyes bright, from where she is draped over his body in his bed. Her skin is delicious along his own—soft, silk, glorious. Her chest presses against his own, and he must pointedly ignore its curves, the softness between her legs where his thigh is wedged.

Luckily, Sylus Qin is a master of restraint. He is not surprised by his body's reaction to his kitten's human form. Her personality in her feline form is intriguing enough to have had his full attention for over a year now. And though her feline form is adorable, sleek and wild, her human form is simply a masterwork of perfect proportions, a sculpture in lively motion. As if she was designed to his exact specifications by a master artisan, without his ever knowing that he had such preferences before seeing her in the flesh.

He lets himself look his fill in the silence that follows his genuine declaration that seeing her other form was worth the wait. Lustrous hair, with two black, furred-feline ears shifting agitatedly from those beautiful locks, the little tufts of fur at each tip as tantalizing to him as a feather toy to a cat. It's as if she's straining to hear every single sound in the building while she contemplates the meaning of what he just said. Her eyes, luminous even in the dark like the little predator she is, are narrowed and calculating as they observe his face. He must once again restrain his excitement, the excitement of being seen in a way that he is rarely, if ever seen, and never before by her in particular. Her human eyes are shrewd in an entirely different manner than her cat eyes as they gleam, watching him in the dark. She flares the nostrils of her perfect nose as if desperate to read a scent that she can no longer detect. It must be jarring for her to experience the limitation of human senses after being in her animal form for so long. It will likely take her awhile to adjust. Of course, her human mind makes up for the loss of the acute senses required for animal survival, but Sylus knows from experience that the longer one remains in one's animal form, the more time it often takes to re-adapt to the gifts and restrictions of the human body. Her mouth, her soft lips are slightly parted as her breathing grows more shallow, further testing his restraint.

But he is no animal, after all. She finally feels safe enough to shift, and he's not going to ruin it with his own base instincts in response to her proximity, her beauty, the affection he already feels for her after a year spent watching and waiting for her to reveal herself to him.

Her indignant glare following his request to call him Sylus since she has been a little voyeur in his home for the past year fades, her lovely brows furrowing, lips tightening.

He doesn't have to be an animal to sense the dawning comprehension, and with it, the fear now surging through her.

"What do you mean, worth the wait?" she whispers, vocal cords rasping with lack of use. He wonders how long exactly it has actually been since she shifted. "Did you… Did you know?"

Sylus Qin, if nothing else, is a very thorough man. It's a point of pride. His enemies may call it arrogance. But is it really arrogance, if it's true? And the opinions of others have never bothered him, anyway. Not in any way that mattered.

Admittedly, he didn't know. Not for sure. But he's a thorough man, and when he went into business with his kitten's former captor, he had gathered a file with sufficient detail on that cockroach to know that he was likely illegally keeping two cat hybrid evolvers prisoner. The illegality was hardly surprising, considering the nature of both his and Sylus's business. The cruelty of this particular flavor of illegality, however, was distasteful. Unfortunately, the cretin's skill, sufficient to draw Sylus's attention for a business relationship in the first place, meant he was skilled enough to evade Sylus's curiosity-driven efforts to concretely confirm the truth of the rumors.

Ultimately, it was simply a stroke of luck that the fool decided to try to extort Sylus first, giving him all the excuse he needed to torpedo the business relationship that he had only ever considered temporary to begin with, as he worked his way back through the idiot's contacts in order to cut the useless middle man loose. When the simpleton finally invited Sylus into his own territory, and Sylus saw the cat, crouched tense and miserable in her 'owner's' lap, he was both infuriated and pleased. He wouldn't have to go hunting for her after obliterating the pathetic, human-shaped excrement subjugating her to such cruelty. The final meeting with the imbecile was a stroke of efficiency. He could wind down the useless business relationship and satisfy his curiosity—he hadn't met many other hybrids aside from the twins. Freeing her was just another way to rub salt into the wound before dealing her captor the final blow.

That was all it was. Curiosity. A little spite, driven by a personal distaste for seeing gorgeous, unique, wild things handled and caged by men undeserving of their lethal beauty.

He had no expectations, when he removed her collar. It was the collar, really, that convinced him that she was indeed the rumored, priceless hybrid in this shambling moron's clutches. Why would an ordinary housecat require a shock collar with an evol-suppressing protocore embedded in its unwieldy clasp?

He had no expectations, when she sat staring at him with those uncannily intelligent golden eyes instead of running as far and as fast as her little legs could take her, now that she was free.

He had no expectations as he propped open the base's basement exit door with an open can of tuna, nor when he casually left one of his own custom-made Berluti biker boots to prop open the emergency exit leading directly into his penthouse in the base.

He had no expectations as he plucked a raw steak from the fridge, originally destined to be cooked by his personal chef, and began grilling it himself.

His heart didn't knock against his ribs in the same way she didn't knock on his door when a little shadow slipped into the kitchen, nor did a deep satisfaction soak warmly into his chest like fine wine as the little shadow crept under the chaise lounge at the end of the living area and fell right asleep without further ado.

It was just curiosity, after all.

But then the first night passed. And the second. And though he did his best to convey that he knew, that he knew and that she was finally safe, his little kitten remained a kitten. His reputation took hit after hit as he told himself that it was for her sake, and not his own, that he refused to be parted from her if at all possible as he conducted his business within his empire. She ignored his provocations, never giving any truly convincing indication that his little kitten was in fact a human being.

But just as he truly despaired, wondering if the rumors about him and his grip on his own sanity were correct, he passed the heavy wooden doors of his home gallery and noticed that they were slightly ajar, just wide enough for a kitten to slip through. He paused, moving silent as a raptor, glancing through the doors.

His art gallery is not extravagantly large, but it does have a vaulted ceiling with murals in a Renaissance style depicting mythological beasts in flight across a night sky. The midnight marble floors depict the points of golden compasses in repeating patterns, gleaming under the spotlights highlighting his most favored paintings in his possession. Benches with crimson velvet cushions dot the expansive space, waiting for him to sit in quiet contemplation before whatever art he's in the mood to admire at any given moment. As with his weapons, and his jewelry, antiques and cars, he loves collecting fine art. Art, a manifestation of human creativity, a reminder that not all humanity is worthless on nights when he wonders why he doesn't simply pull down the sky, raze everything to the ground, and move on from this wretched planet. Art, a reason to pause the apocalypse.

That night, he spotted her sitting with unnatural stillness in front of one of the particularly dramatic painting in his collection. Still silent, he melted along the wall in the shadows behind her to observe her unnoticed, just a little black form sitting precisely on the northern point of one compass-star, gazing up with her wide golden eyes, tail flicking, flicking, flicking across the stone. She admired the behemoth of a painting, depicting a battlefield in which a tyrant is being beheaded with a guillotine by the successful revolting forces. A woman, hair wild, cloak billowing in the wind of an oncoming storm, pulls the cord with a ferocious grin on her face.

It was one of his favorite paintings too.

Then, one evening, he quietly watched her very deliberately knock a heavy art history coffee table book onto the floor and then bat at the pages with studied determination to turn each one, and then would stare at the page for several minutes before moving to the next one.

And sometimes, she'd make the most heart-wrenching, excruciating sound in her little throat, a sort of high keening mewl—and in those moments, he would recall the intel in his files indicating that the walking amoeba he had eradicated was supposed to have had two cat hybrids.

He told himself it was out of curiosity when he ordered the twins to look into that particular matter.

But the nights passed, and then the months, until it was over a year later, and she still showed no interest—or capacity—in shifting.

Until tonight.

Sylus is a thorough man. He had his suspicions. And the opinions of others have never bothered him, anyway. Not in any way that matters.

But as his laughter fades, and that terrified, hollow panic creeps over his kitten's face as she asks him, "Did you know?" he finally understands for the first time what it means to care about someone else's thoughts in a way that matters.

As she begins to shake again, he's slammed with the understanding of what it feels like to be willing to do anything—anything and everything—to keep that fear from ever dimming those bright eyes again.

Mr Qin's—

no, Sylus's, bedroom is dim, but even in your human form, you can see him clearly in the dark. His eyes, steady and focused, glint like a nocturnal predator's in the shadows. The only sounds are the shift of Mephisto's wings on his perch beyond the curtained bed, the fading of Sylus's laughter, and the agony of your racing heart.

It was worth the wait.

What does that mean?

Your mind sharpens, awakening after too many years in a simple animal state. The pools of your feelings, the puddles of your comprehension, deepen, deepen, opening below down into the yawning depths, underwater caves, tunneling into a bottomless void.

All at once, you must see the truth that your kitten heart dismissed, driven by the illusion of safety, his gentle hands, his easy acceptance of your presence at his side, in his life, in his bed.

He knew? All this time? He knew and he said nothing?

It was worth the wait.

Is that why he left his base wide open the night he killed your owner? Because let's face it, that man owned you. He crushed you and Caleb under his boots by twisting the bond you shared, keeping you each in line with threats to the other. Caleb would absorb anything on your behalf. But you? You didn't conform to the rules, even when you knew the risk. You kept fighting instead of resigning yourself to the reality that you were just a caged animal, fit only to fulfill the whims of a bad man.

It was worth the wait.

And what did you do?

The first taste of freedom, and you followed another bad man home.

He knew. He knew, and he said nothing.

Why didn't he say anything?

Is that why he spoiled you, petted you, carried you everywhere with him? Not because of friendly affection, genuine care, but to keep you always under his supervision, lying in wait for you to shift?

It was worth the wait.

Self hatred you haven't felt in years—not really, with your muted cat's emotions, your instincts overriding complex emotions contrary to survival—for why would a wild cat have need of the feeling of guilt? Of self-recrimination? A cat acts according to its nature, unapologetically.

But you, your faulty, human self—you should be groveling before the universe for your existence every day you still draw breath.

And if not the universe—then at least to Caleb.

You went from one villain's lap to another, without even a question. What an insult to your brother's sacrifice.

You hate yourself, and you're terrified of the cost of your accidental shift.

You should have seen it coming. But you wanted to believe that such simple bliss could last forever.

You needed to rest, so, so badly, after the long years, scared and lonely and enraged in your owner's cruel cage.

But all that's over now.

You have to hear him say it.

He knew.

And then you have to figure out what he wants.

What's the price you'll pay this time?

"Did you know?" you grind out, throat still so raw with disuse. More of an accusation than a question. You should be cautious. Roll over, show your belly. Or, now that you're naked against him in human form, rub your chest lasciviously against his, roll your hips a little, hope that he'll feel generous if he thinks you'll do your utmost to please him.

But you've never known how to play it safe.

As he just stares at you, those maddening, glowing eyes narrowing a little in thought, you lose your patience.

"Did you fucking know? This entire time? Without saying a word?"

Heat, under your skin. Nausea, in your belly. Animal sensations in your human body. Your lips are trembling as your nervous system can't decide whether you want to scream in rage or cry in despair.

"Such accusations from a little intruder who waltzed in and made herself at home," he marvels, unruffled by your meltdown right on top of him. He continues cupping your cheeks, stroking his thumbs along your skin. You hate yourself for not wanting to jerk away from his gentle touch. But he's touched you so tenderly for over a year now—how can you be blamed for having grown dependent on its soothing reassurance? "I didn't know know for sure." He shrugs, big, bare shoulders lifting a fraction. Shoulders you've spent the last year curling around like a scarf. "But I hoped."

Now you do pull away.

He hoped?

What was he hoping for?

What does he want from you? How will he hurt you now that he knows what you are?

You pull away, away from his hands caressing you, the silk sheets slithering down your back, pooling around your waist. Straddling him, bare before him, you steady yourself by placing your hands on his massive chest. It's not much, but it's better than sliding along the length of him, skin to skin, slightly slick with sweat. You can always just shift back. You can shift back, claw him, and flee. If all else fails, you'll use your evol. Something you haven't risked in… a long time, even before the collar.

"What do you want?" You tense, preparing for violence. For last resorts.

"To piss."

You tilt your head, utterly confused.

"I see your ears twitching, so I know you heard me, Kitten. Care to stop crushing me under your massive weight?"

Indignant, you slide off his lap, plopping onto the bed next to him. "A rhino couldn't crush you, let alone me whether in human or cat form."

"Is that so? Tell that to my bladder. It took you so long to wake up I thought I'd be forced into watersports without the proper preliminaries, as is polite." Rolling to the side, he gracefully rises to his feet, throwing open the dark, gauzy curtains around his bed and heading to the bathroom. The blackout curtains pull themselves back at the touch of his fingertips against the wall next to the bathroom door before he disappears.

You stare after him, alone in your puddle of sheets, absolutely confused. "I'm not into watersports!" is all you can think to yell after him.

"No? Just voyeurism then?" His voice, drifting from the bathroom, is filled with mirth.

"If you didn't want company while you were—"

"Who said anything about not wanting company while I'm pissing, or anything else for that matter? The door's wide open. According to your rules, that's an engraved invitation, so what are you waiting for?"

Hesitating, you sit very still, not understanding what game he's playing.

The resounding sound of a big man peeing ricochets out of the bathroom, followed by the flushing of the toilet. Water begins to run.

You don't know what game he is playing, but you're determined to find out.

Curiosity and the cat and all that blah blah blah, with all that entails for you and the unwise decisions you've made your whole life.

After all, what's the worst that can happen?

Caleb's already dead.

You follow him.

It's strange—your bare, delicate, human feet against the cool marble floor. Your height, your slightly dulled senses, your human body in space. You'll adjust quickly, but it's still strange, after so long. Silently, you pad across the room and march into the bathroom like you own it. He basically handed you an engraved invitation, after all.

Steam billows from the walk-in shower and then scent of some fancy, citrus, bergamot shower gel wafts through the air, pungent even to your human nose.

Planting your ass on one of the fancy benches he has scattered about the unnecessarily large bathroom, you stare at his massive ass partially visible through the steam. It's so round. It's so big. You should have bitten it while you were a cat. You want to bite it now.

Your tail puffs at the thought.

Sylus 's off-tune humming envelopes you like the steam, and it takes you a second to realize it's What's new, Pussycat?

How did you never realize how obnoxious he is while you were a cat?

You wait, but he says nothing. He's using the same tactics on you that he does during negotiations. Some spiteful part of you wants to wait him out, force him to speak first, to lose. But fuck it, you're no businessman and you've never had much patience to begin with. "What do you really want?"

"How long has it been since you've taken a shower?" Ignoring your question, he lathers his hair, a dark pewter now that it's wet.

"What, do I smell?" you demand, scoffing. Impossible. You keep your fur very clean, and always have, thank you very much.

"Yes."

Bristling, you pull your bare feet up on the bench, wrapping your arms around your knees, your tail wrapping around your ankles. "I do not—"

"You smell incredible. But let me rephrase: how long has it been since you were in human form, and thus had a shower?"

With every question and response, with every unexpected reaction to your questions, your fear, your demands, Sylus Qin sends you reeling faster and further, the disorientation of your unexpected shift and his unpredictable responses making you question your sanity. You're confused, deflated, disarmed.

You should be cautious. You should persist in divining his true intentions, give nothing away, get out of here as quickly as possible.

But where will you go?

Caleb is dead. Your owner is dead. You have no education, no job, no source of income.

And now that he knows you're not actually a cat, there's no way he'll let you stay and live out the rest of your days peacefully as his pet like you had dreamed of doing for the past year.

You're so scared, and lost. You've been so scared and lost for so, so long.

You tell yourself that all you can do is give him what he wants, and see what he'll do once he gets it. You refuse to consider the possibility that he had tamed you, long ago.

"What year is it?"

Pausing with his hands in his hair, he turns his head, his profile severe and achingly beautiful. He tells you the year.

When you don't immediately answer, he thrusts his head under the water, rinses the shampoo out of his darkened hair, and then turns to fully face you.

He really is just like a sculpture, except unlike the statue of David, his dick is huge. You stare at it, at the soft silver hair surrounding it and arrowing up to his navel, instead of meeting his eyes. Your mouth waters.

"How long have you been living shifted as a cat, Kitten?"

"Ten years."

Your lips are shaking again, eyes hot, throat thick.

Ten years.

Almost a third of your entire life.

As the fall of the shower's water shushes any other sounds and the quiet stretches, you lift your eyes to Sylus's. His right eye flares hot. "I should have taken my time with him."

Once again, you're left confused. "What?"

He looks away, throat bobbing as he swallows, before glancing back at you, eyes now their customary soft ruby glow. "Time for a shower then. Care to join me?"

He's asked this so many times over the past year. You always thought it was a private joke, a silly man doting on his pet and asking her questions he already knew the answer to, an answer she could never actually give.

"You knew, but you said nothing."

As he runs his long middle finger thoughtfully over his lower lip, you can't help but watch its trajectory across the wet softness of his mouth. "No. I suspected, and you're lying to us both if you didn't notice the very loud hints that I've spent the last year trailing behind me like bait."

"You bait a trap. So what now?" You clear your own throat now. "Now that I've finally walked into your trap."

The water pounds over his shoulders, streams over his broad chest, the slick fur around his nipples. He looks both stronger and more vulnerable, naked and wet like this. Glorious. It hurts you to look at him, knowing that he's looking at the real you now, naked and vulnerable in turn, and not your disarming, soft little cat form.

He stands, hands easy at his sides, as if to drive home the point that he's unarmed. At least physically. The heart beating in his chest may be his most powerful weapon, though. At least against yours. "What do you think I want?"

You look away, unable to bear how much you care about him, even as a human, when you know nothing about him. Not really. Just how he takes his coffee, his preferred wine, his soft-hard hands, his favorite records, the scent of his sweat right after he's done boxing, his tuneless humming, his ruthless efficiency in killing and signing contracts.

You know him in all the ways that don't matter.

"To use me."

He laughs, low and intrigued. "Are you useful?"

You glance back at him. Maybe he doesn't know how you're useful. You refused to perform for your owner, after all. And he put the evol suppressor collar on and left it, after he resigned himself to never earning your trust. Maybe Sylus is so easy-going because he has no idea what you're really capable of.

"Not at all."

He smirks, eyes flashing red only for an instant, only an imagined beast circling the firelight. "Then what use have I for a useless cat, other than to spoil her rotten?"

You watch him, a beast yourself. "None at all, I suppose," you agree, carefully. "What now, then?"

"Come join me."

You tilt your head again, confused.

"Join you?"

He lifts his hand, bicep bulging, water dripping, and beckons you with a flick of his fingers.

"Join me in the shower, since you've spent the last year refusing my offers, and we can talk about what's next."

Through the hot steam, Sylus watches every single emotion flit across his kitten's face with increasing fascination. Having been so long in cat form, it's no wonder that you have lost the art of schooling your expressions, shielding your emotions from anyone with eyes to see. He wants to teach you again, or for the first time, if you never learned, because he wants to be the only one who gets to see the unveiled beauty of your confusion, indignation, sorrow, cunning and now, outrage.

Black tufted, velvety cat ears swivel, flatten against your lovely hair. Bright eyes narrowed, fists clenched, the appealing, bared curves of your body tense—fight or flight, you clearly haven't decided yet. Sylus forces his eyes to keep moving, not lingering on your pretty nipples, the dip of your belly button, the shadow between your legs. Instead, he admires your tail, long and fluffy, puffed wide as it whips behind you in agitation.

You're so mad at him, and it's the cutest thing he's ever seen. He wants to eat you.

He's very, very pleased with himself. The fear is nowhere to be seen, and you haven't run yet. His tactics, since the beginning up till now by acting like nothing was extraordinary about your shifting to your hauntingly beautiful human form, continue to pay off. You walked into his life of your own accord, and the only way he'll accept your continued presence by his side is if you continue to choose to stay with him, as a human and not just as his pet.

He thought it was just curiosity at first.

Simple intrigue. A puzzle to be solved, a riddle to unravel. A novelty to turn in his hands for his amusement until she slipped away again, on silent paws into the neon night.

But now, seeing the truth of you?

If nothing else, Sylus is an honest man. More honest than most, in fact.

And he's honest with himself as he admits that perhaps, it's never just been curiosity.

Maybe, fate already had plans for him the moment his eyes met your golden gaze, and for once, such plans weren't cruel.

He wants to eat you. He wants to keep you.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.

But he's never been one to sit back and let fate decide the course of his life. He'll take its machinations into his own hands now that the gears are in motion, tinkering with an engineer's agility to ensure that it runs exactly how he wants.

"I'm not doing anything until you give me a serious answer! What now?" you demand, and Sylus can perfectly picture the bristle of your raised hackles if you were still in your cat form.

Sighing, he turns, twists the handle of the faucet, and the water stops abruptly, the silence a relief after its steady pounding. It was worth the attempt. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and so forth. He pads to the towel rack, chooses the smallest one that can still wrap around his waist, and proceeds to dry himself with it. "Whatever you want."

He can't help the twitch of his lips as your tail continues to whip wildly in agitation.

Agitation, but not fear. As long as you're confused, or indignant, or mad at him, you're not scared. That's enough for him, for now.

"What do you mean, whatever I want?" Ducking your head, resting your chin on your knees, your voice is heavy with suspicion and doubt.

"What do you mean, what do I mean? What's not clear about that, Kitten?" He wraps the towel around his waist so that his muscular thigh will be revealed with each step.

He likes it when you stare at his body and the tips of your human ears turn pink, and the saliva pools in your mouth so much so that you have to swallow. He feels the same way, looking at the curve of your hips, your rounded shoulder, your parted lips. All the places he wants to bite, and they're not even typically understood to be erogenous zones.

"You'd let me leave, just like that?"

He turns abruptly, disliking the smallness of your voice.

Striding over to where you sit curled over your knees on a little vanity stool, he takes another gamble. He gives in to the desire to run his fingers through your lustrous hair, rubbing gently at the base of your kitten's ear. "Let you leave? Who was the intruder who barged her way into my home in the first place? You've always been free to go. Why would that change just because you're not just a cat?" As you don't pull away, he pushes his luck, "Then what, do you think I'm broke, and can't keep a human in the same state of luxury that I can keep a kitten?"

His heart hitches, starts again, as you lean into, instead of away from his touch.

Snorting, you mutter. "You should be guillotined, your wealth is so obscene. The least you can do is re-distribute it to me." Glaring up at him, your defiant gaze is a gunshot straight to his heart. "Even if I wasn't invited, I'm not leaving. You can't make me leave."

Over a year in the waiting. One short morning fraught with possible missteps, possibly undoing it all. Sylus Qin will never tire of the taste of triumph. Of successful schemes. Of plays with giant payoffs.

"Okay." He gazes down at you, satisfaction surging through his tense muscles, relaxing as you meet his gaze with renewed confidence.

The shower drips, but the steam is slowly dissipating. You're crystal clear in his hungry gaze.

You don't shy away from whatever you see on his face. "Okay. So what now? Like, right now?"

"What do you want?" he shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

"I have a choice?"

He scoffs. "Again, when have you not had a choice?"

"Fine, I get it."

"Do you?" he mocks, laughing.

Over the giant bathtub, your bright eyes track the city beyond the windows as it glitters, beckons as the condensation from the shower fades.

"I guess I need some clothes."

Eyes flicking to the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass against the bench, the idea of you hiding yourself from him is… displeasing. "No one said that."

You laugh. "I said that."

It's the first time he's heard you laugh.

The reality, once again, exceeds his wildest expectations.

"As you wish, sweetheart."

Oops i lied about finishing it in this part. I'm going to try to finish it in the next part. and no, i will not be addressing sylus's hypercapitalist war profiteering in any signficant way, because i've written other fics that address that. but yes, i am posting this after wine time on a friday afternoon, so please excuse the typos, I edited it more than once but i only see glaring mistakes after sharing stories publicly. if you have thoughts to share, i love to see them in comments and tags! if you leave tags, i will assume you don't want a response so if you want one, just @ me and i will come out of your walls thanking you for every thought you shared.

I hope this tag list is better than the last. tumblr is a confusing labyrinth of dysfunction:

1. Crossing the Line

Summary:

In the aftermath of letting Sidonis go, Garrus is struggling.

But his guilt goes deeper than he realizes, and it takes a much-needed conversation at a bar with Shepard for him to realize some things that may have been there all along, and wondering if he's willing to cross that line.

Rated E for sexual content

Snippet:

“I told you from the start what the plan was,” Garrus interrupted, defensiveness rising in his chest. “I told you I was going to find him and make him pay.” “I know that.” “So how can you say that I wasn’t in control?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Was trying to shoot Harkin in the knee part of being in control?” Damn, she had him there. Garrus downed his drink, holding the empty glass in his hand. “I’m not going to apologize for that. Harkin isn’t exactly innocent in all of this.” “I’m not asking you to. But that was the Garrus I saw last night. Someone so blinded by his pursuit of revenge that he was willing to do it by any means necessary.” Shepard polished off her beer and waved to their waitress for another round. “Killing Sidonis wasn’t going to bring your men back,” she said, her tone softer than before. “All it was going to do was push you over a line that’s damn hard to come back from. I didn’t want that for you. So I interfered. I figured I’d rather have you hate me forever than live with his blood on your hands.” “I don’t hate you.” Shepard gave a small smile. “That’s good to know.”

2. Snug as a Bug

Summary:

(T, no content warnings apply) Two tired soldiers cling to each other amidst the swelling dread of the coming Reapers, and Garrus keeps forgetting to wash this blanket that smells like Shepard. Oh well, he IS very busy, lately.

Snippet:

Garrus doesn’t even pretend to try to sleep that night. Shepard doesn’t either. They just sit up in the main battery, Garrus trying desperately to bury himself in tasks (he’s already done everything he can, there’s nothing left to perfect), Shepard simply tucked out of his way and watching with sad, tired eyes. She’s started keeping a blanket down here to wrap up in. Garrus won’t deny, he’s wrapped it around his own shoulders a few times, comforted by her warm, organic scent on the fibers. Eventually, he stops dead in the middle of the room, turns to Shepard, and just says it: “I don’t know if I did the right thing.” Shepard stands and comes over to lean heavily against Garrus’s chest. She’s heavy and warm and trusts him implicitly. “You did,” she murmurs. “You showed him mercy. That’s always the right choice.” Garrus sighs. “I… I’ll choose to believe you, Shepard.” Do humans… know anything about turian affection? Probably not. So maybe… maybe… fuck it. She’s his best friend. He fell apart without her. She’s trusted him since the beginning. Garrus bends his neck and presses his forehead to Shepard’s. Immediately, he can feel himself relax, like a child cuddling their parent; this is safe. This is good. Shepard is trustworthy. If she says it was the right choice, then it must be.

3. Operation Fire Cobra Claw

Summary:

After dealing with the clone, Garrus and Shepard attempt to have another date night on the Citadel while the Normandy is in dry dock after curing the Genophage…but the spot Garrus picked out recently fell through with a Shepard sized hole and they seem to be trailing behind some mayhem. Or – Garrus and Shepard are accidentally on the trail of Grunt’s Noodle Incident.

Rated E.

Snippet:

Garrus had planned it – it was perfect. They served dextro and amino friendly foods, he had managed to sweet talk his way to the front of the substantial wait list for Shepard (okay name dropping Shepard), and no one was going to bother them. Turns out someone did bother Shepard, and Shepard? Well…there was a Shepard shaped hole in the floor and a minor water leak. Very minor. Shepard tapped her foot impatiently at the kiosk. Garrus watched her, amused, as she tried to appear nonchalant. He pulled up his omni-tool and did a quick scan, “Something is happening in the Presidium near the Council chambers.” She craned her neck to see his report but he shrugged, “Not a lot of details but skycars seems to be suspended.” “Not for me they’re not.” She fiddled with her omni-tool for a moment and the kiosk unlocked.

4. Rubicon

Summary:

Set near the end of Mass Effect 3; Shepard and Garrus go on one last date before the inevitable happens. Mostly bittersweet and not very dialogue-heavy: this is just them choosing to spend what could be one of their last days alive on just being together. Rated T or M for canon-typical themes and language.

Snippet:

"So much for keeping appearances," Garrus murmurs. She can't tell what he's actually feeling: a part of her senses a joke, but there's also an undeniable longing sadness washing up on his every word. Like a wave crashing against the same ship over and over, it spills on board a little more with each time; Shepard can't help some underlying concern for when it inevitably takes him over. She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't have any more platitudes in her: she's already given him every single one and they did exactly what it said on the tin. All she does is just place her hand on his forearm, warm and real. Not reassuring, not comforting, just acknowledging the pain and grief he can't express out loud. "Want to… hit the range?" she suggests even though her heart is very audibly not in it. "Some last-minute target practice couldn't hurt." Garrus doesn't answer — not with his words, at least. His eyes glisten as though he is about to defy biology and let the tidal wave from before spill over through tear ducts he doesn't have. And when he opens his mouth, no words come out to accompany the singular high-pitched note he stifles as soon as it rings out in the air between them. Mandibles flutter when he looks away quickly but not quickly enough for Shepard to miss the deep blue veins striking the corners of his eyes. So this is where they're at now. Nothing left to say that won't break the illusion.

5. Through Hell on Living Feet (For You)

Summary:

Grieving Commander Shepard turned Garrus into someone else, and now he's haunted by a ghost wearing her face. This Shepard, he's convinced, is a spirit, or a figment of his dying brain--because he's sure he's dying, lying in a pool of his own blood on Omega, and she's here to help him live through a final act of vengeance before he's gone.

Shepard, too, is tormented by memory and doubt, unsure that she's the person she--and everyone else--remembers. But she's trapped where she is, and more important to her is making sure that Garrus remembers himself before it's too late. As they each face their own struggles with identity, they find a new kind of kinship and intimacy in the wreckage of their former selves.

Explicit (eventually lol). ME2-centric.

Snippet:

“Don’t move,” she says, and it’s a tone he knows well, one that echoes in his memory when he tries to sleep, like she’s furious to be taking responsibility for someone else’s life again, but wouldn’t have it any other way. Saint Shepard, Butler called her once, and most of the team chuckled grimly, then toasted to her memory. It was complicated. They didn’t know her, didn’t know he knew her. But she was a legend. They remembered her as the hero of the Citadel, a Spectre, and a menace. For anyone in her way, she was a natural disaster in human skin, and they were all acutely aware that they could easily have been on the wrong side of Commander Shepard, had they crossed paths. She was unerringly good in a way that was more dangerous than annoying, an unstoppable force—until she wasn’t. And all of that was true, but she was so much more than that, so many little things beneath the vast shadow of her fame. Little things like that tone. For a second, he’s choking on his own tongue, and he’s on Omega, drowning in blood. It’s real. It’s not. It’s real. It’s not. He’s dying. She’s alive. When she grabs Sidonis’ arm, Garrus feels her taking his wrist, stopping him from shooting Harkin, strong and sure and—and real. “I’m the only thing standing between you and a hole in the head,” she says. And she is. She is. She—is. Sidonis freezes. “Fuck,” he says. “Look—I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t have a choice.” “Everyone has a choice,” Garrus breathes, and he isn’t sure whether he’s talking about Sidonis or himself.

6. Be Between Me and Thee

Summary:

On multiple occasions in the years they've known each other, Shepard and Garrus have been kept apart by space, time, commitments, and on one memorable occasion, death. That has never stopped them from keeping in touch, however. Be Between Me and Thee records the messages sent between Shepard and Garrus (or from Garrus to Shepard) on four occasions in their lives: after Garrus leaves the SR-1, while Garrus is alone on Omega, during Shepard's house arrest after the destruction of the Alpha Relay, and after the Battle for London. It explores their evolving relationship and what they mean to one another through these significant milestones. The tone varies from casual conversation to heavy depression and hopelessness. Rating: T for implications of suicidal ideation and mentions of death.

Snippet:

Shepard, What I wouldn’t give to be back on the SR-1. I swear, I’d never complain about you driving over a nest of rachni again. At least I felt like fixing the Mako every day was accomplishing something! By which I mean I’m having a great time. Public service is my calling. I'm making my father proud. Garrus ---- Never thought I’d end up on Omega. Hive of scum and villainy. My body count’s already one, not that I was planning it that way. The owner of this… I don’t even think I can charitably call it a hotel… said all the rooms were full, but I could argue with someone and try to buy them off. I tried, but the guy either didn’t like my offer or just wanted a fight. Or he was on something, maybe. None of his eyes looked right. I guess that one sort of counts as self-defence, but I know you would’ve handled it differently, so… I’m sorry. ---- (I would never stop liking you. Writing to you is the only thing keeping me sane at this point. I was holding onto the action reports Hackett was sending me, and the refurbishment records for the Normandy, but now those are just depressing. I’m gonna be stuck in here until the Reapers blow us all to hell, Garrus. I am going insane.) S ---- This message won’t even leave the system. Reapers took out all the comm nodes. I’m coming, Garrus. I’ll find you. I love you. [Message not delivered. System unresponsive.] ---- Why does it always end up like this, Shep? With me writing letters into the void, wondering if you’re on the other side? Are you there? Can you hear me? Spirits. What would I do if you answered?

7. Stretches for Emotional Reach and Mental Flexibility

Summary:

Explicit - Graphic sexual content, strong language.

Jane and Garrus agreed to have sex. That's all it is, right? Well, they're not really sure. If only one of them could draw up the courage to ask. Who would have thought it's easier to talk about sex than romance?

But maybe it's better this way. Less likely to interrupt the crew without any feelings.

After all, it's not like the crew has been betting on when they'll get together, right?

...Right?

Snippet:

It was inappropriate. It was inconvenient. Most of all, it was unfair. By her count, there were two people on this ship that were actively trying to sleep with her. She could barely make her rounds without hearing a 'siha,' or more about Jacob's complex morals. There were at least two more people that would probably be down if she asked. But no, none of them would do. She only wanted the stupid turian who spent half his time making fun of her and the other half looking passively suicidal. Neither of those halves seemed interested in sleeping with her at all. It wasn't for lack of trying, because she'd tried every trick in the Shepard Book of Flirting. When she beat him at arm wrestling, he just spent the next hour reading about arm wrestling techniques on the extranet. When she kicked his foot playfully under the table, he just kicked her back and they ended up in a kick fight in the mess hall. Once, in a fit of true desperation, she'd even batted her lashes up at him. He asked her if she had something in her eye and she had to backtrack quickly before he tried putting his (soft, gentle, so-very-big) hands on her face again. All of these attempts had succeeded in riling up one person: her. It had been a lot of nights spent with her hand and her vibrator, and even then she was unsatisfied. She was horny in her heart. An absolute disgrace. Meanwhile, he seemed absolutely unaffected by the entire thing.

8. Shotgun Wedding

Summary:

(Rated Teen) To celebrate their last day of shore leave, Shepard and Garrus go out to drink on the Silversun Strip. They have a wild night–or at least, they think they did. Shepard and Garrus wake up in bed together the next morning with no memories of the night before and a trashed apartment to boot. The hazy couple in question retraces their steps in a race against time. With lives on the line, will Shepard and Garrus be able to unpack their feelings about each other along the way?

Snippet:

Rose petals, champagne, and confetti… A memory flashes in Shepard’s mind. A scene of Garrus and her at a bar. More people are there, but she can’t quite make out who. They’re celebrating something, someone? As Shepard struggles to remember more details, something falls out of the couch cushions. A ring. It was simple, yet elegant. Clearly an engagement ring, the diamond sitting atop the silver band a dead giveaway. Shepard flipped it over in her hand, but there was no engraving that gave a hint as to who it belonged to. A ring, rose petals, champagne, and confetti. Shepard stands to her feet, and in the motion she catches sight of herself in a broken mirror on the wall. In her bird’s nest of hair, lay a delicate draping of lace. A ring, rose petals, champagne, confetti, and… a veil. Her headache throbbed and Shepard keeled over in pain. Another memory flashed in her mind: a lively scene of partygoers toasting the happy couple–toasting her. Garrus raised his glass subtly in Shepard’s direction, a small teasing smile on his lips as she drank. Garrus moves to stand at her side, and when she looks up at him he’s distracted talking to a man she can’t identify, glass in hand. The men laugh, and upon noticing Shepard’s gaze, they smile at her.

9. Priorities

Summary:

A routine planetary mission to collect a few caches goes awry when Shepard and Garrus encounter an old—but unfortunately still functional—AA tower. The Hammerhead’s shields don’t stand a chance, and Shepard finds herself falling back on her N7 training to get herself and Garrus through their new predicament, with more than a few bones to pick with Cerberus about their idea of “field-ready.” Set during ME2 post-game side mission cleanup (after the Collector base but before Arrival). A short story structured as survival priorities, Shepard POV. Rated T, 6563 words, non-graphic descriptions of injuries.

Snippet:

The walls of the cargo space were ripped apart, but the reinforced storage compartments remained intact, though several had been fused shut by the engine rupture. Shepard booted up her omni-tool again, sitting through two false, flickering starts and three failed attempts for the self-diagnostics to send error reports back to the manufacturer for feedback—failed, of course, due to a lack of signal boosters and the electrical interference in the planet’s atmosphere—and then a quickly fabricated omni-blade and she was able to cut through the latches of the worst-mangled supply compartments. Slowly, a pile of supplies formed near the cabin. Less than Shepard would have liked, of course, but better than nothing. Better than being dropped on a remote asteroid with nothing more than a base-issue omni-tool and two ration injections, at least. Here, she actually had thermal blankets. Ground cloths. Signal flares and a first aid kit. Spare rations, though all of them levo, of course, because why would the human supremacist group supply anything else? Once she was done scavenging, and while her body was still riding high on the adrenaline and focus of survival, she prowled around the crash site examining each loose exterior panel of the Hammerhead for the largest ones she could actually move one-armed, dragged them over to the cabin, and started jamming them as walls around the breach that had once been the secondary row of seats. The Hammerhead’s rocket launcher hung like dead weight from the upper nose of the wreck, and Shepard spared a brief grunt of irritation at the useless thing. If it had worked properly—if any of this hunk of junk had been as good as the Mako—they wouldn’t be in this mess.

10. I Just Need You…

Summary:

[Explicit Rating - Panic Attacks, mentions of death, hints at PTSD, explicit sexual content]

The suicide mission was a success, but not without tapping into a suppressed fear. The mission reminded Garrus how closely death is hovering over them, and how much he stands to lose if it catches up. It quietly and quickly eats at him until it spills out, something that hasn’t happened in years. It’s terrifying, knowing you could lose someone you love at any moment, and stress relief can only help so much. He just needs her to live.

Snippet:

Something forcefully slid into the slight gap that separated Garrus from his station. His upper half lurched back, surprised into stillness when a palm smoothed against the unscarred plates of his cheek. For a moment, it wasn’t Commander Shepard he saw. In that moment, they were back in her cabin again, making the most of what little time they assumed they had left with each other. The collector base hadn’t happened. There weren’t things reaching from the shadows, no one screaming as some monster tore them apart. He wasn’t racing a clock while trying to keep the fireteam she had put him in charge of alive. He wasn’t constantly reminding himself that he had to stop worrying about her and focus on what was in front of him. He didn’t know when he had lifted his hand to mirror her gesture, but the second he touched her skin, he felt everything hit him at once. He should have been dead. They all should have been dead. She should be dead. She had been dead. Yet, here she was. She was real. Spirits, he had almost lost her again. “Jane…” He saw her brows knit together even further when her name came out as a half-broken whisper. “I’m here, big guy,” she assured him, her eyes becoming glassy. “Take deep breaths, okay?”

11. proof of life

Summary:

M / body horror, brief depictions of how Cerberus put Shepard back together

You are: Commander Shepard (in name).

You are: human (mostly).

You are: real (enough).

Commander Shepard storms back into the galaxy; Cerberus just keeps a closer eye on her than she thought. She finds herself a little more hyperaware of the moving pieces, the ones of her left to string back together. The ones that don’t seem to exist in the exact way she remembers, if she remembers correctly. Good thing Garrus is patient and good with puzzles.

Snippet:

“Are you sure this is something you want to do, Shepard?” he asks. The package is too big to send in a simple message, and she wouldn’t be surprised if it was blocked, if it sent at all. “No,” she says, because she’s never lied to him. He holds his hand under hers, thumb gracing her scaphoid, and as she drops the OSD into his palm she thinks of grabbing his wrist and pulling. Keel to sternum, muscle and kevlar, reconstructed tendons and cybernetics, the scent of medi-gel and ozone. Garrus is real, familiar, and the only one she has found herself not struggling to school herself around. Not overthinking how the muscles shift when she smiles, the way she splays her fingers as they talk. How many teeth show. “I don’t think I’m going to find any answers that I want to,” she says. “And I’m sorry to make you look.” “Don’t. Not for this.” She knows, of course, no matter what she does, Cerberus has imprinted itself into her very DNA. The ship can get a new paint job, fatigues and armor replaced, but Cerberus has laid claim to her down to the marrow. Shepard is her, but only so much as they will allow. “Thank you,” she says, because she means it. “This doesn’t change anything,” he says after a moment, and she finds herself bristling. “I’m still me,” she says. Neither of them comment how it sounds more like she’s convincing herself. Garrus tilts his head and forces her to meet his eye. The glow of his visor only obscures the one, and she feels like she’s been chasing his contrail, reaching out for something she wasn’t meant to take but has been holding her hand out toward anyway. “I know,” he says. “Never thought otherwise.”

12. The Storm on Ontarom

Summary:

Set during the events of Mass Effect 1 following the aftermath of the Akuze mission on Ontarom. As Shepard confronts the horrors of Cerberus experimentation and the ghosts of the past she narrowly escaped, Garrus begins to realize his feelings for her run far deeper than admiration. Beneath gathering storms and mounting pressure from Saren’s pursuit, the two forge a quiet emotional connection built on trust, grief, and shared determination. Spans Ontarom, Virmire, and the flight to Ilos.

Snippet:

“I remember the first time I ever saw a thunderstorm.” Shepard smiled faintly as she spoke, the expression more thoughtful than happy. Garrus glanced toward her before looking back at the dark clouds gathering across the horizon. He knew Shepard hadn’t grown up on Earth. She’d spent most of her childhood aboard Alliance ships, drifting from posting to posting with her mother. During one of their late-night talks in the cargo bay she had once described a storm that made her realize just how indifferent the galaxy could be. They had been passing Mars after a supply drop when a sudden coronal mass ejection rippled across the system, the eruption so abrupt that the weather officers hadn’t even caught it on LiDAR before it was already upon them. Shepard had told him the ship shook hard enough to make the crew think they were going to come apart at the seams, and all they could do was brace for impact and pray the shields held. She had called space “beautiful, right up until it wanted you dead.” But Earth storms were different. “Boot camp in Macapá,” Shepard continued softly, eyes fixed on the distant flashes of lightning. Wind rolled across the plains in uneven gusts now, tugging loose strands of red hair across her face. “Storms rolled in almost every afternoon.” Garrus listened quietly beside her as thunder rumbled low across the horizon. “That first day, we were halfway through drills and suddenly the sky just…” She gestured vaguely upward, searching for the words before giving a quiet huff of amusement. “Opened.” The corner of her mouth twitched faintly. “Everyone else hated it. I loved it.” Another crack of thunder echoed in the distance, closer this time. “It felt like home.” Suddenly, the clouds broke, releasing a barrage of rain upon them. The droplets were slow to fall at first, but soon fat droplets began pelting them, landing upon her freckled cheeks and his silvery crest, and drenching them both within minutes

13. Split Memory

Summary:

(Rating: T Tags: Major Character Death; Minor Character Death)

Shepard is back and Garrus is ecstatic. After nearly losing his life on Omega, he races up to the briefing room only to learn Shepard’s memory is gone. She only has access to her memories during high adrenaline moments. Chakwas says she needs time to heal. As Garrus tells her their history, she is unhappy to learn about some of her choices from the past. While Shepard learns what it takes to appease the rest of her crew, she asks Garrus what will help him work through his demons. This leads to an infamous discussion of how turians deal with high stress missions. One half of Shepard asks him to spar, while the other suggests a tiebreaker.

Snippet:

“It was your case. I let you handle it the way you wanted. I got to see what you would do when given the chance. You went for the execution instead of the arrest. You pulled the trigger, not me.” She shrugs her shoulders and unfortunately what she says is true. Garrus starts angrily pacing next to Shepard as she continues watching Jack tossing bodies around. “I can’t believe you would agree with her.” “I was there, Garrus. I know what happened. You need to figure out a better way to control your temper, blow off steam, whatever you need. Jack wants to blow stuff up. What will calm you down?” She turns to look at him and his shoulders sag under her scrutiny. The two are interrupted by Jack’s cackles ahead of them where they can no longer see her. Shepard double times it to catch up, leaving Garrus to get his head on straight. That night back on board the ship, Garrus finds Shepard in the mess hall again. She is drinking something and humming in enjoyment. He grabs his ration and heads to her table. As he sits down he asks, “Find the alcohol?” Jane chuckles, shaking her head. “Nah. Chawkas suggested hot chocolate. It’s pretty good. I can honestly say I don’t remember the last time I had some.” Garrus snorts and huffs a laugh as he begins to eat his rations. “Had an interesting conversation with, well, you during the mission. She knew about what happened between us last night.” “Hmm? Oh, yeah, EDI compiles highlight reels for us to review. I read an email, I think she listened to an audio file during the mission. It’s how ‘we’ keep up to date with our team.” Jane stares into her cup swirling the liquid inside.

14. where do we begin?

Summary:

5+1 - 5 times Garrus could consider the point where their relationship started, and the 1 time that Shepard does. It is a collection of scenes from ME 1 & 2, either entirely fictional following in-game events or a continuation of in-game conversations/cutscenes, followed by a post-ME 3 scene featuring a Shepard that lived after the Destroy ending. Rated Teen and up - canon-typical language and violence.

Snippet:

“You heard what Toombs had to say. If this group, Cerberus, was responsible for creating the trap that killed your marines, the blame would never lie with you, even if there were other soldiers captured.” A heavy swallow and another sniffle precedes her next words. “I let him die on my watch, Garrus. Twice.” She tries to pull her head away, angling so he can’t see her tears, but he pulls her in tighter against him anyway. “Someone very wise told me, ‘You can’t predict how people will act, but you can control how you’ll respond.’ I think, in this case, you had very little to do with it; you just happened to be there to witness. He would have pulled that trigger regardless.” “And Akuze?” He gives in to the temptation and rolls his neck down to press a mandible against her hair. It’s soft, much like the way her body gives under his hand, reminding him just how different they are. “Shepard, I have seen you ruthlessly take down a single thresher maw while I drove circles around it in the Mako, but I’m pretty sure you would have been powerless against a nest of them in only your pyjamas.” From somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, he hears an amused snort, and he’s immediately pleased with himself for getting her to make that noise. “I was not in my pjs,” she protests. “I don’t know, the reports seem pretty conclusive on the matter.” He glances down at her dull blue uniform and makes something up on the spot. “Fuzzy pink ones, covered with hearts. Matching slippers.”

15. Digging Up Stones

Summary:

While on a long-term ground mission post-war, Shepard finds herself frustrated and exhausted, plagued by negative feelings. Garrus and her have far too many walls up between them and communication feels muddy when everything feels like a pointless goose chase. That is until they find a pair of husks in an old house in the middle of nowhere, with no one else around. They have to figure out where they came from—and make sure no more are made.

Snippet:

“Just a few hours,” he says. As his hand clasps round hers, he presses her fingers once to his mouth before murmuring a quiet “Good night.” Shepard leans her head against her knees, meeting his tired eyes with a small smile. Her fingers squeeze his. “Night,” she says quietly. Garrus, always one to fall asleep quickly by nature, shuts his eyes in a scattering of blinks, and his breathing evens out soon after. Shepard still remembers the first night out of the hospital for the both of them: Garrus had curled around her, dragged her into his breastbone until he could tuck his face into her hair. Every slow breath in and out traced up her neck in tingling goosebumps. She’d felt as though she was steaming in a sauna against his body temperature, but he didn’t mind—not the smell, not the sweat. They stayed like that, twisted together tight enough that she woke up with her arms numb and imprinted by his plates. Every night, every day of the week, just like that. No matter how hot, no matter how tired. They stayed together. It’s hard to remember when that started to change. She imagines, just for a second, saying to hell with her watch and just sinking into his arms again. Feeling every press of his keel and his spurs and scutes. Her senses flooding with his scent: oil and wax, petrichor and Garrus. With a swallow, she untangles her fingers from his and heaves herself out of the trunk. If his breathing changes at all as she does it, she doesn’t want to know.

16. Signed, Sealed, Delivered, and One Hell of a Bad Idea

Summary:

Rated: Teen (mild language and suggestive themes)

A distraction. A bet. A fake engagement. And nothing more?

Set just after Shepard kills her clone, the Normandy crew is still on shore leave and finding ways to entertain themselves. What starts out as a means of helping Kasumi with a simple little heist turns into a fake engagement story and a Normandy-wide bet. Determined to keep Garrus from catching on too quickly, Shepard takes them on a wild goose chase around the Citadel. But when her ruse is discovered, she finds out she’s not the only one playing games. There’s twists and turns and a double agent.

Snippet:

Garrus considered himself to be observant, and, in recent years, somewhat of an expert on human behavior. Or, at the very least, an expert on one particular human. He knew a few things with certainty, this human was not fond of crowds, strangers, or crowds full of strangers. And she most definitely did not stand in crowds of strangers smiling and shaking hands with them. And yet, there she was, posted up against a table in the Purgatory Lower Bar, surrounded by a veritable mob, signing autographs. She claimed once, back before the Reaper War started and back before she died, that autographs were something you asked for from real people who played fake people. “And I’m real people playing real people, Garrus, I don’t do autographs.” But the thing that froze him in place just inside the cacophony of the bar was that Commander Shepard was laughing. Head tilted back, hand to her chest, eyes glowing in the roving lights of the dance floor. A laugh usually reserved for her closest confidants. Had it really been two weeks since he had last been granted a private audience to that laugh? Two weeks since he drove her to the top of the Presidium and told her that he loved her? She had been so happy, crowing her heart out about being the best shot in the galaxy. Then she killed her own clone and it was like someone had shuttered the curtains to the noon day sun. Everyday he chased that afterglow, wondering how to bring just a hint of light back to her eyes. He would not have guessed ‘Meet and Greet at the Bar’ would do it.

17. Hypothesis Testing (also known as: Humans and Turians and Blowjobs, Oh My!)

Summary:

When Mordin gives Shepard a very dubious piece of medical advice regarding the ingestion of turian bodily fluids, Shepard immediately calls bullshit — and Garrus is more than happy to help her prove the hypothesis wrong.

In sum: I’m firmly of the opinion that there’s no scientific logic to the idea of levo and dextro species being incompatible and that Mordin was pranking Shepard when he told her not to swallow Garrus’s cum. So here’s my take on how that whole interaction would play out. Fluff and banter, smut, a pinch of pining, and a healthy dose of humour (I hope!) — with cameos from Mordin and Tali! Rated E for smut, no triggers or AO3 warnings apply.

Snippet:

“I want to prove Mordin wrong.” Garrus stared at her. She was offering to give him a blowjob? Woah. The thought alone was… woah. He’d seen pictures and vids of what a blowjob looked like between two humans, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t fantasized about Shepard doing that to him. But fantasizing about it was very different from having her stand here in front of him and propose it in such a matter-of-fact way. She tilted her head. “What do you say, Garrus? Can I go down on you?” “Yes,” he blurted. “Yes, absolutely. But, um…” Feeling a little awkward now, he scratched his mandible again. “I hate to say this, Shepard, but you’re kind of making it sound like a business proposition.” Her eyebrows rose. Then her face broke into a grin: one of her rare, broad-lipped smiles that lifted Garrus’s spirits every time he saw it. “I’m sorry, am I not being seductive enough for you?” He gave her a wry look and folded his arms in a mirroring of her pose. “It’s not very seductive to proposition me by mentioning a conversation you had with Mordin, no.” Her smile widened even more. “Oh, Garrus. Is that a hint of jealousy I hear?” He tsked. “Jealous? Of Mordin?” He paused and gave her a cautious look. “Wait. Would you ever…? With Mordin?” She laughed. It was a husky, rolling sound that Garrus didn’t get to hear nearly often enough, and it felt so good to hear it now — especially when she sidled closer to him and rested her palms on his abs. “For what it’s worth, the only cock I’m interested in having in my mouth is yours.” Oh spirits, her blunt-and-dirty words, he liked that. “That’s, uh, worth quite a lot. Thank you.” Her catlike eyes crinkled again. “Anytime Vakarian. Can we get this ball rolling now?”

18. deeper well

Summary:

Omega was a blight on the galaxy— something Garrus knew all too well. But when Shepard gets strung into Aria T'Loak's coup, he insists to return to the place he swore off for good. Except the ghosts of his past are loud, his mistakes louder. And after a year, he comes to realize that maybe Aria shouldn't be in charge after all.

Not a novelization of the Omega DLC, but an introspective look at Garrus's perspective if he were to join Shepard during the events of the mission. Rated M, TW: mild blood and gore, sexual themes, PTSD.

Snippet:

"Aria wants it to be solo," she said. Her hands were busy, not with his, but with a datapad she drummed her fingernails on. Pat-pat-pat, like rainfall. "You don't care what Aria has to say." "I don't." "I don't, either." It was what he meant to say, after all. Garrus had to work on that. It was a habit he formed somewhere between conception and birth that his true feelings ought to be masked deep beneath layers that only he could choose to peel back, and Garrus never chose to peel them back. But then he was standing on top of the world, and she told him that she was in love with him (yes: him!), and he couldn't even bring himself to say it back without first thinking he would bend over the edge and vomit before admitting to something that would most certainly come back to hurt him. This was a concession. As close to one as he would get. "When are you going?" he asked. Her face was all of the response he needed. As soon as they were back on the ship— now— she was like smoke he was trying to catch with his bare hands— right this instant— "Take me with you." "You think her merc army would take too kindly to Archangel joining their forces?" "He's dead," he said, flatter and a tad faster than he intended his voice on sounding. The truth was that he didn't flinch whenever Archangel was mentioned anymore. It left him with a cold feeling, little ice shards that had somehow replaced neurons, that he probably should feel something. He couldn't be bothered, he locked it away a long time ago and swallowed the key.

19. Bricolage

Summary:

Garrus understands fine dining, how to make a restaurant feel like a home, even if he’s still running from the only one he’s known. He understands how things should be run.

He doesn’t understand his new executive chef.

Rated M, themes of PTSD and references to an eating disorder. [Alternate Universe, m!Shakarian]

Snippet:

“It’s over.” Wes’s voice was quiet in the dark, smaller than when his words rang like a general over the orchestra of a full dinner service. Without the bright lights and rush of bodies and food it was almost a different world, one made of pools of shadows and the nom barely there glow of stainless steel in low light, and the chef was equally as alien without the trappings of his station. In the fullness of Normandy’s open hours he was Chef Shepard. But there, in the small hours, stripped down to the clean tank top from his car and scrub pants and the vulnerability that so few people ever got to see? He was only Wes. And Garrus, who had left the suit and the shield and the driving implacable duty of the front of house at the captains stand, loved him. It was a clean admission, and if it cut it was like clean. It didn’t matter what they’d both left on their paths before Normandy. The fire, the fall, and the low brutal fear that maybe they were too broken to trust? It couldn’t find them in the dark. Maybe they’d won a Michelin star that night. Maybe the fire in them, in their whole crew, was enough to ignite the beacons that would bring people to them. Maybe they had farther to go, more to do, one more summit to master. Either way, as Garrus reached forward in the dark and for the first time was not afraid? It didn’t matter. Wes’s hand found his, held his, and dir not let go. “I think we’re just getting started.”

20. The Stray

Summary:

When Garrus Vakarian, security expert and C-Sec detective, moves into his new apartment on the Citadel, the last thing he expects is an intruder. A stray, to be exact. She’s mysterious, aloof, and a little bedraggled. Oh, and she owns a cat. Can he find a way to get close to his neighbor before she slinks away into the darkness?

A Shakarian AU about an unfulfilled man, a mischievous cat, and the haunted woman who becomes attached to them both.

Fluff and angst, with themes of grief, depression, connection, and healing. Rated M.

Snippet:

Garrus is unsure how long he’s been asleep when he hears the frenetic ringing of his front door. Half-senseless and bleary-eyed, he stumbles out of bed and through the dark until he feels the cold carbon tiles of the vestibule beneath his feet and opens the door without checking the security screen. A blackish specter lingers in his doorway, its contours backlit by the dim sconces of the hallway; he's barely awake, and he can barely see, but he has a feeling it’s not his sister. He taps the light on. It’s Shepard—her face is pale and puffy, swallowed up by an oversized hood that shades her eyes. She slides the hood from her head with a trembling hand and braces the other against the door, and the light overhead reveals a haze of gray around her eyes—the smearing of her makeup he guesses—giving the impression she hasn’t slept for days. Her lips hardly move. “Can…can I stay here tonight?” She falters forward, and Garrus holds her by the shoulders, worried she may collapse right here and now. “What’s wrong?” She draws a long breath and hesitates. “I don’t think I can be alone right now.” Without a second thought, he gently leads her inside. “Take my bed. I’ll sleep here in the living room.” “No…no, no,” she mutters and gestures roughly with her arm before shaking off his grasp. “I’ll just sleep over here.” She collapses to the couch, limp as a coil of discarded rope. Garrus glances down at the cold, uninviting leather. “Let me at least grab a blanket for you.” He completes half a step before Shepard seizes his wrist. He starts at her touch. Her fingers are thick and rough—exactly the kind of fingers you’d expect to find on a laborer—but her grasp is tender, tentative even, as if holding back her weight out of consideration.