spaced out

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 human she appears. 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 last cells. Shepard is her, but only so much as they will allow. “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.” “This doesn’t change anything,” he says after a moment, and she finds herself bristling. “I’m still me,” Shepard says. Neither of them comment on 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.”