abraxaslogs | First Count The Cost ★ Closed

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First Count The Cost ★ Closed

Who: Commander Shepard and Garrus Vakarian
When: July/August
Where: Free Cities Badlands
What: Free Cities Quest: Restoring Foundations
Warnings: foul language, violence

She wasn't much given to jingoistic sentiment, these days.

Oh, as a child, she'd been as xenophobic as anyone, and well into her time in the Alliance that attitude has persevered. Shepard had been a reliable vote for the Terra Firma party right up until— Ha, it was funny to think of it now, but it hadn't been until she'd met Garrus. Not the first time she'd met him, of course; the second time. Coming up the stairs out from a shoot-out in a medical clinic, still smelling of Eezo and with a Turian's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head, she'd seen them campaigning in the commons and reevaluated a few things. Never let it be said she isn't a fast learner, nor willing to change her mind, when she's wrong.

Just like that day, those bought men waving guns at doctors, Shepard is on this day forced to admit that really it's her own damn species that's at the root of most of her problems.

"Bandits," Shepard sighs, trudging along. The sun is a high and heavy weight on her shoulders, not unlike the pack on her back; it's N-1 all over again, right down to the forced marches and rationing. Except she hadn't had to wear a stupid straw hat to keep off the heat stroke, during basic, "It's always bandits. And mercs. And slavers. You think they ever get tired of making people hate them for a living?"

Hate might be a strong word, for the mercs. At least they could argue to be offering an honest service, outside of council space. Sort of. Murder was still illegal, even on Noveria... Right?

"Garrus, you still with me?"

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"Hey, I didn't invite 'em," She raises a half-joking middle finger at him when he mentions snow. This is a dessert, asshole, "Take it up with the Singularity. Better yet, take it up with Tuchanka, for exporting their wildlife everywhere."

Ah, her fish. It's kind of a funny idea, really: imagining that stupid tank lining the wall of the barracks. The walls of the Free Cities fort were adobe and stone, cut and placed by hand, mortared with local soil. They weren't exactly "primitive" but there was a certain... oldness to them, an immovability. One day, when someone finally got around to rigging the place with electric lights, they'd have to put the wiring outside the walls, rather than in them.

"I think I've killed enough fish for one lifetime," She said, still smirking at the mental juxtaposition of it; the whole idea of the place seemed totally at-odds with those fish, the real ones at least, "At least the Horizon ones don't starve when I forget to go up there too many shifts in a row."

This is where a human would stick their tongue back out at that raised middle finger. Instead, he flutters his mandibles at her, as close a mimicry of a raspberry as he's going to get. "I should, sometime, shouldn't I? Waltz up there and demand to know why it hauled the most annoying creature off Tuchanka."

He won't, but it's amusing to picture.

If it were even possible to get a fish tank out here, he might have looked into it. The fish tank, while it could be tedious to take care of, seemed like it was relaxing. Seemed like a good thing, in the tension of all the missions. Especially once the auto-feeder - oh, right.

"Here's another spoiler for your future - we installed an auto-feeder for you. Significantly cut down on fish-related casualties."

"Well now I know how bad the Reapers really got, if I needed a VI just to keep my pets alive," Shepard says, and wonders even as she hears her own voice whether or not it's a step too far. The Reaper War was still, in a lot of ways, academic to her; something she had been bracing for, and building towards, and then...

Nothing. Two years in Cadens, marching around the Free Cities doing work that ultimately amounted to fuckall.

"Hey," She says, abruptly, "Come here. Sit with me."

It's grown chill enough that she's feeling it, and surely so is he. She remembers how he feels about the cold, and anyways... it's not as if privacy were easy to come by, back at base. This mission was a pleasant break in the pace, in more ways than one.

"How are you doing, these days? About all this. Abraxas... the Reapers. Any of it. Talk to me, Garrus."

Oops. The wince, he hopes, isn't as obvious as he feels like it is. There's not really a way to hide the way he scratches at the back of his neck. Uncertain. Maybe he shouldn't talk about it. Leave it alone and not keep poking at things. He'd been trying to keep things optimistic, but if it wasn't helping...

But the order (request) is easy to follow. To stand and shift across their makeshift little camp. Sit with her, she'd said. So surely she won't mind a long arm draped over her shoulders. In the interest of warmth. Yep.

He won't lie, though. Closeness is nice. Draped on her is nice.

"I don't know," he admits. "We need to get back. No question there. We're needed there." There's duty. There's people relying on them. "I don't like how out of my depth I am here. I'm learning, but... it never feels like enough to handle what gets thrown at us."

He doesn't like not knowing what's happening to him, physically.

It immediately feels safer, more secure, to have Garrus closer. Logically, that isn't true, and the analytical part of Shepard's mind that can never truly let go notes the open sight-lines of the planes, the potential of the sparse vegetation to provide visual cover, the...

Easy. Easy. Let it go.

"I agree," That they're needed, that they should get back in the fight, that Shepard should... or maybe that's selfish. Still, it doesn't change the fact that, for whatever reason, the galaxy really does seem to need the services of a mid-ranked Alliance CO, "...On both counts."

It's infuriating, really. She reads, does research, asks questions, and never really seems to get her head around it. And every time she does, it changes, or drops her in the middle of a weeks-long hallucinatory trip to the future, or... or something else. There has to be an underlying logic to this stupid planet, something to guide all the madness— but Shepard can't see it.

"Not exactly what I envisioned for a vacation-spot, I'll tell you that much."

That's never something that's easy to let go. He doesn't know how, either. Before relaxing, he shifts a bit more. Checks around for anyone staring. Anything that could possibly conceal an ambush. Nothing. Safe enough to lean into body heat and familiarity. Sometimes, even all this time later, he still wonders if he'll wake up. If this is some wild dream.

He makes a quiet hum of agreement, leaning slightly sideways to slot her head under his chin. Just for a second. It's not practical to go all out canoodling out here. One little one, though.

"Well... at least this one doesn't have the Council." That seems to be a nice, safe reference. Then he frowns, adding: "On the other hand, there's three whole factions worth of politics to deal with instead."

"So, what's three or four short-sighted idiots, more or less?" Shepard knows better than to hope for a war; wars are messy, and destructive, and almost never worth what they cost to pursue, but...

...Most days, it just feels like it'd be a relief if the other shoe were to drop, the three Factions finally stop screwing around, and get on with it.

"I'm tryin' to find reasons to give a shit about any it, honestly. I hate this planet— and the other Summoned aren't much better," She says it not with fire, but real anger, slow and hot, the same low dissatisfied way she's spoken in the past about Torfan, Horizon, and Aite, "For every decent person among them there's two I could waste a bullet on."

But he rests his head on hers and by degrees she relaxes again. It's getting colder, and the fire is crackling, the stew making quiet noises in its little tin pot. Garrus is a solid wall of warmth beside her, and there's a soft place just under his chin, where there's neither plate, nor scale, nor bone, nor even hide— just skin. Soft, where his pulse runs, and where all the joints need room to flex together. The kind of place only a lover gets to touch; not for passion, even, just... intimate. Private.

"...Sorry." She doesn't sound sorry. But she doesn't sound angry anymore, either. "Have I mentioned I'm not good at being out of the fight?"

"Could be three or four Udinas." Except he was dead, but. Still. That would be bad. In so many ways. Things probably would have exploded into war months ago.

Speaking of... he hums acknowledgment again. Quiet, not an affirmative, not a disagreement. He heard, he hears. Nothing about this has been easy. Almost exactly the opposite, really. "They're not that bad," he says instead, lightly. The first name to mind is Koby. One he viciously closes his jaw around. Hoping there's not an audible click when he does. "We just have to get you to run in my circles sometime. Meet the guy who smokes more than the Illusive Man. Or some more of Nadine's people."

If she wants it. He'll offer it to her any time she wants it. To try and bridge a gap, if it exists. To make things easier. That's what he's there for, isn't it?

"Really? Didn't notice." More amusement, affection. "I don't think you'll have to worry... way things are heading, we might be facing another blowup."

"You that eager to introduce your girlfriend around?" Shepard is more than willing to give up and let him draw her into the joke. And alright, it had been hyperbole.

Even if there were at least a few Summoned she really could have gladly strangled, lately.

"Yeah, I noticed. The Libertas situation's a disaster, and Free Cities is stealing research for weapons manufacture. It's like if Noveria weren't so cold," It's finally full dark, now, the last violet fingers of twilight losing their grip on the sunset, and the vault of night-time sky a rich, velvet dark above the fire-glare and smoke, "At least they're doing something more than sucking people off of their homeworlds and slapping them on the streets. That's... technically progress."

"What can I say? I'm really proud of the work she does. And I want the whole weird planet to know."

Garrus you big sap. Despite the teasing, part of him is absolutely serious. He would absolutely tell anyone how incredible she is. As many times as he had breath to say it.

"Weapons manufacture... in this age." He shakes his head, his eyes on desert beyond the fire, then the flames themselves. "I can't help thinking they're going to get in over their heads. Like Tuchanka." Like the krogan. One big arms race that ended in the planet a radioactive rubble pile. "Technically, sure. Let's go with that."

Despite the grim tone, he still pulls a smile out of her. It's always good to talk to someone who understands what you mean, without having to spell it out; that they work for these people, but don't respect them. That they follow orders not because they have to, but because they choose to. It's not a game, exactly, but it's like...

...It's like the Bandits. They know their worth, and it's better than this. The whole situation, as embedded in it as they are, still feels like it's happening to somewhere else, something outside their real sphere of concern.

Maybe that's not really the healthiest way of looking at things.

"Could be worse," she acknowledges, because that's always true. Even Tuchanka could be worse, bad as it is. Shepard tilts her head back, so she can look him in the eye, "Whatever happens, we've got each other, and we've got a goal."

"It could be," he agrees. "You could be stuck here with someone a lot less charming."

He does know what she means. If he were here alone, this would feel impossible. Insurmountable. Maybe he would still be able to make the connections he has, meet the people he has, but on the other hand... if he knew Shepard was somewhere else, someone who counted on him, and who he counted so much on in return?

This place would be hellish.

"Joker comes to mind."

Of course, though, he's going to make this more lighthearted than reflective. They're on a mission here. Reflections are for late nights at home base, and too many drinks.

"Ha."

That's a terrible thought; most of their crew would struggle to cope here, every bit as much as they have, or more, but none so much as Joker. This world was rough, and physical, and had nothing of flight or piloting in it; if you were missing a leg, or blind, or simply inhuman, there would be ways around that. The image of Joker limping around Cadens, or trying to convince the Free Cities that someone like him had a military career worth being damn proud of, despite his glass bones and acid disposition...

...It'd be funny, for about an hour. After that, it'd be... Well. Wouldn't be the first time Shepard had to defend Joker. The asshole. God, she missed him.

"Alright, time to turn in. Got places to be tomorrow— you take first watch?"

"I'm on it."

He'd been thinking only in the humorous sense. That Joker would spend the entire time bitching and complaining. If he actually were here, then it would be a whole other mess, and not one he'd actually wish on the man. Practicality would come if the situation presented itself.

Instead, he'll sit up. Take his watch with crossbow in hand. His attention fully devoted to the task. It's not ideal to track time by the stars, but hey, at least they're clearly visible. The time passes without more than a few scattered desert predators - nothing large enough to come close. He'll nudge her, at the appropriate time, and take his own rest.

... and hey, he didn't even complain about the cold desert air.

Shepard's long-used to early mornings, and rolls up and out of her bedroll without complaint. It's warm for him, then, as she swaps places, and sits out the dawn watch, the sky lightening to grey, then the white-blue just before dawn.

By the time the sun rises, they're up and packed-up, fire buried, and on their way.

The second leg of the journey is uneventful; the first outpost is barely staffed by one overworked medic and her assistant. Leaving half their burden there makes the day's walk to the next an easier way, and the only trouble they find is an encounter with a viper and a few curious predators. Shepard honestly isn't sure if they're native or not, and technically they didn't bother her, or indeed anyone, but that's not the job at hand: anything that prowls around the road is going to find it expedient to make a meal of someone at some point.

Half the pack goes down quick, and the rest vanishes into the distance. The second medical outpost is manned by a single tired-looking nurse with a shaved head under his hat, and a thousand-yard stare to match his isolation. They might've exchanged about four words between them, making the hand-off, but Shepard isn't concerned about social niceties— they're owed a water-ration and a resupply of food from the man's stores, and she takes it with gratitude. Biotics always overpack on the calories.

"Job done," She says, pack light and slack on her back, "Back to base."

Two days out, and if they make good time it'll be just one on the return, a pleasant walk in the countryside, despite the giant scorpions, the Varren, and the bandits. Shepard is more than willing to call it good.

There is, predictably, a token grumble when he has to crawl out from the warm space into the significantly cooler one. But that's it. Just a token complaint that doesn't last for more than a couple heartbeats. Then he's in motion, and everything is working smoothly - the machine of experience kicking in and making sure he has the steps all nailed down.

Just like before, he's got her back. Following in her footsteps. At some points during the hike, his shadow falls over her, and he likes to think somehow, that's helpful. He really doesn't mind the heat, doesn't mind the march. And during the checkpoints, the drop offs, he's lurking in the background, adding a polite nod here and there. It softens the blunt, sharp edges of Shepard's social interactions. Just a bit.

Not that he's complaining about that. He likes it. Likes the no-nonsense.

And maybe casually shoulder the majority of the extra food and water ration. It just makes sense. He's bigger, his stride is longer. Load him up.

"What, no lingering for a nice summer vacation? I thought you wanted to get tan."

Garrus Vakarian you shit.

"Piss off, I'm ginger," she laughs, half-turning as she walks, the better to flip him off about it, "Look at me, asshole."

Shepard's jaunty little sunhat has spared her face the worst of it, but she holds up her arms for inspection— the freckles are coming in thick, blossoming under the hazy layer of peeling sunburn, "I'm not gonna tan, I'm just gonna burn."

She doesn't sound particularly concerned. But then, Biotic that she is, skin cancer is the kind of death she never learned to fear. If radiation was going to kill her, it could take her brain from within, after all; no point in getting too fussed about a spotty complexion.

"Just because the sun loves you."

"Frankly, Shepard, I have a hard time taking my eyes off you." He'll let that sit for a second before adding: "Usually because you're doing something reckless... but..."

Yeah, he's looking. He's looking respectfully. But then curiously. He can't help it, reaching out to run a careful finger along her arm. The pad of it, minding the talon. It's fascinating. It's kind of attractive, in how unusual it is.

"This is a... red hair thing?" That's what ginger means, right? He's following. In theory.

Then a low, rusty laugh. "Sun likes me, snow hates me. It's a two-edged knife."

"Red hair, pale skin, green eyes," She gestures at herself, with the hand he isn't holding, "Kelly Chambers was the same, remember her? Solar radiation is our enemy."

She lets him have her hand, for as long as he wants it, turning over her wrist to give him better access. Garrus spends so much time around humans, and she spends so much time around him... It's funny, how easy it is to forget that he's an alien, despite his face. It's not that he isn't Turian, it's that... He's Garrus. Himself, before anything else.

"When I was a kid they'd make fun of me for it. Y'know, until I caught 'em, at least," She chuckles. Even as a girl, Shepard had been a poor choice of enemy, "Talk about Reckless..."

"Right, the... one who kept calling Thane and I 'damaged', I remember." That much, he'd only found out thanks to EDI informing him. He hadn't paid much attention to her at the time, given everything else going on.

The pad of his finger is absently trailing across the marks. The spots and pale in-between. Like he's making a map. He's learned so much about humans in his time, but there are still so many surprises. Like this one.

"I almost pity them," he mutters. Almost. "But if it happens to all humans like you... why is that weird?"

"Well, we're not exactly a common genetic group, for one," Shepard replies, amused; here they go, hand in hand. Very unprofessional— but nobody's there to see it, anyways, "Humans have a long history of fixating on minor differences in appearance: there's a lot of war and bigotry there. People can be real pieces of shit. Then we discovered people from other planets, and most of that got transferred in Palaven's direction— in case you're wondering if Shanxi is the only reason Alliance soldiers love to badmouth Turians."

Most being the key word, naturally. There would always be a mean little streak of discernment in the human race, in Shepard's opinion: that ugly, tribalistic urge to separate the world into Us and Them. Humans aren't unique there, either, and Shepard's not much of a fan of the attitude, though she doubts Garrus needs to be told that. Taking on alien crewmembers had not been a popular move, back on the SR-1.

"Anyways, it's not legal to comment on someone's skin-color like that, in the Alliance. You better believe Anderson would bust anybody who said something stupid right back down to Ensign, if not kicked 'em off the ship outright, and I ran my crew the same, ergo... you won't have encountered it. Not that anybody says shit about me, anyways— they've got better reasons to hate me, if they want 'em. That's all kid stuff."

"I wasn't. I figured it was actually jealousy over our stunning good looks." There is absolutely no seriousness there. He can figure out why. Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. But humanity isn't the only species out there with that kind of history. Maybe things like appearance differences, but differences in general. The Unification Wars, for example.

At length, he lets her hand go. If only to pick their way through a rocky patch in the interim. His feet are toughening up, he's noticed. Finding a boot he can work with is no easy task in this world - so more often than not, he's gone with leather wraps, leaving his toe talons free.

"Makes sense. You got that attitude from somewhere - " He's hilarious. "No, we just got the Cerberus backtalk." A beat and he shakes his head. "Which wasn't your fault in the least, but. I know what you're getting at. Happened plenty from other angles, before I even met you, too. Not the... skin thing. Other things." And if you didn't learn to shrug it off, eventually, you'd lose your mind.

Shepard gives him a long, pointed look. She knows why he'd sweep it under the rug; the same reason he hadn't said anything about Ash's grumbling, back in the day. No point in rocking the boat, kicking up a fuss where simply knuckling under and doing the work would suffice. Don't complain. Don't make a scene. And in the end, no point in insisting on lipservice when real respect would either come, or not, based on the merits.

Still, it makes her want to hit something, imagining Garrus in those dark days, wounds still fresh— literally, as well as metaphorically. And then someone, some memeber of her crew putting a little more weight on him, even by accident.

"If any member of my crew ever says anything like that to you again, Garrus, I want you to tell me. People here on Abraxas have an excuse; most of them have never even heard of Turians before. But I—" I love you isn't appropriate here, even if it's true. Emotional attachment isn't all, or even most, of the reason why it is so absolutely vital that her people show respect to her Turian, "—You're important to me, dammit."

He blinks. His head pulling back ever so slightly, expression baffled by the sudden vehemence in her tone, in her insistence. Maybe he shouldn't be so surprised. Shepard took care of her crew. No question about that. But the whole Cerberus thing had been...

... Hadn't been nearly as long ago for her as it was him.

He takes a couple long steps forward, up to her, and ducks his head. One quick, sappy little forehead bonk. One brief moment to murmur, "Yes ma'am." In tones of absolute affection, of wry amusement. Agreement is there too, but as an afterthought.

I love you, too.

Then he's stepped back, and her sunhat goes with him. Plopped precariously on top of his crest and wobbling. "But let's keep going, before you turn into one big speckle."

She lets him soothe her, deeply grudging, and then—

"Hey!" As usual, he has the reach, and that's enough for a temporary victory in this, and she chases him with an annoyance no less affectionate than it is genuine. He doesn't stand a chance.

Cadens is coming into view, a distant smudge among the heat-haze and dunes, and together they walk through her gates, all the lighter for having taken on the work.

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First Count The Cost ★ Closed

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Fin