Shepard makes a helpless, strangled sound as she tries not to laugh at that. Just the image of it, so at odds with the harrowing, dire little problem they've suddenly found themselves dealing with here; Doctor Chakwas, hands on hips, demanding to know what damn fool thing Shepard had done to herself this time.
Damn, but she misses her. It's been so long.
But even if it's a shit joke, Garrus still manages to get the laugh. She can breathe again, stupid as it is; be a damned cold galaxy, without someone around here to put a crack in the tension, and she can always count on him for it.
"Right, we should..." She puts her hand over his, a comforting confirmation, gratitude and returned sentiment all in one gesture; we got this. But it doesn't work out that way. Just for a moment, barely enough time to blink, she feels his hand under hers, dry and warm and welcome. And then— And then it happens again.
Or rather, it doesn't. Shepard stiffens, eyes going unfocused, and it's different this time. No gasping breaths, no flailing limbs, or at least not at first. Her mind is far away in another galaxy, staring down the barrel of n asteroid strike from the wrong end— not that there's a right end at which to be.
She's caught in that moment of horror, staring at the number, hearing the pronunciation. Three hundred thousand deaths, and her hand on the trigger, her voice defending it, her soul bearing the weight. It takes eleven minutes to die in vacuum, brain death by lack of oxygen, but this is a different vision of death. It doesn't take nearly so long.
When Shepard comes to, she's staring up at the ceiling again, her vision blurry with unshed tears and all she has to say for it is, "Goddammit."
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Damn, but she misses her. It's been so long.
But even if it's a shit joke, Garrus still manages to get the laugh. She can breathe again, stupid as it is; be a damned cold galaxy, without someone around here to put a crack in the tension, and she can always count on him for it.
"Right, we should..." She puts her hand over his, a comforting confirmation, gratitude and returned sentiment all in one gesture; we got this. But it doesn't work out that way. Just for a moment, barely enough time to blink, she feels his hand under hers, dry and warm and welcome. And then— And then it happens again.
Or rather, it doesn't. Shepard stiffens, eyes going unfocused, and it's different this time. No gasping breaths, no flailing limbs, or at least not at first. Her mind is far away in another galaxy, staring down the barrel of n asteroid strike from the wrong end— not that there's a right end at which to be.
She's caught in that moment of horror, staring at the number, hearing the pronunciation. Three hundred thousand deaths, and her hand on the trigger, her voice defending it, her soul bearing the weight. It takes eleven minutes to die in vacuum, brain death by lack of oxygen, but this is a different vision of death. It doesn't take nearly so long.
When Shepard comes to, she's staring up at the ceiling again, her vision blurry with unshed tears and all she has to say for it is, "Goddammit."