Finding The Stars With You Again

by Hufflepuff_Geek

Summary:

Two years after the war, Commander Vesta Shepard awakens from a coma with no memory of the Reapers, the Normandy, or the crew who once followed her. Struggling with amnesia and the weight of a galaxy still in recovery, she must rediscover who she is—while facing the love she’s forgotten, the family she barely knows, and the legend everyone expects her to be.

Chapter 1: Awakened

The first thing she felt was pain—a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Then came panic, raw and consuming, followed swiftly by confusion. Her eyes snapped open, only to squeeze shut again as harsh light seared her vision. Her head felt like it was being pricked with a thousand tiny needles, every thought jagged and unfinished.

Shouldn’t I be dead?
Why should I be dead?
Where am I?
Why does it hurt?
Why does it feel like I’m missing someone?

A sudden clatter broke through the fog, something hard dropped onto the floor, followed by a gasp.

“Vesta! Oh, thank god!”

That voice—familiar, achingly so. Slowly, blinking against the light, Vesta forced her eyes open. She tried to speak, but all that escaped was a ragged cough. Immediately a warm hand steadied her shoulder, guiding her upright, while another pressed a glass of water into her trembling hands. It was Circe.

 

Vesta drank greedily, the water hitting her parched throat like salvation, as if she hadn’t had a drink in a lifetime. Her hands shook so badly that a few drops spilled onto the sheets, but she barely noticed. When she could finally breathe again, she lowered the glass and croaked, “W–where am I?” Circe set the cup on the bedside table, her smile soft but tired, as though relief had drained the strength out of her. “We’re in the Citadel. A private hospital.”

Vesta frowned, confusion settling deeper. “Why are we in the Citadel? Why not Earth?”

For the first time since she’d woken, Circe faltered. Her eyes widened, joy slipping away into a shock that chilled the room. “You don’t remember? The Reapers… they destroyed Earth. Or most of it. Rebuilding’s happening, but resources were stretched too thin there.”

Vesta’s body went rigid. A shiver crawled up her spine, leaving her skin cold. “Reapers destroyed Earth?”

Circe nodded slowly, her own brow furrowing. “Yes…”

Vesta looked down at her hands, clenched so tightly her knuckles had gone white. “What’s a Reaper?”

Circe sucked in a sharp breath. The silence that followed was heavier than any answer. Finally, she whispered, “Vesta, you almost died fighting them. Do you really not remember?”

Vesta bit down on her lip until it hurt, reaching desperately for something—anything—but her mind yielded only pain. A stabbing ache flared behind her eyes. She pressed a hand to her forehead. “No… I—” her breath caught in her throat, raw panic edging in, “Why can’t I remember?”

Circe’s hand closed firmly over hers, grounding her. “It’s okay. You just woke up from a coma. That’s all this is.”

“…Right.” Vesta swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

The room fell into an uneasy quiet. Machines hummed softly. Somewhere in the distance, muffled voices drifted through sterile hallways.

“How long has it been?” Vesta asked at last.

Circe looked away, her grip tightening slightly. When she spoke, her words were so soft Vesta almost didn’t hear them. “…Two years.”

The air seemed to thin around her. Vesta’s chest constricted, each breath a battle. “It’s been two years?” Her gaze darted around the room in disbelief, as if the sterile walls might give her a different answer.

The place was deceptively comfortable—clean white furniture, soft bedding, a view of the glittering Citadel skyline. But beneath it lingered the sharp sting of disinfectant and the faint metallic bite of recycled air. Too clean. Too artificial. Her stomach churned. She closed her eyes, willing the nausea back down.

Circe’s voice gently broke through. “Are you hungry? You haven’t had a real meal in two years. Not unless you count the Normandy’s rations as food.”

Vesta hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”

Circe’s smile returned, lighter now. “Good. I’ll order you soup. Steak might be a bit much for your stomach.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Vesta murmured, shifting up in bed.

Circe moved to the wall-mounted console, putting in the request. Vesta’s mind, however, kept circling back to one thought, persistent and unsettling. Why does it feel like I’m missing someone?

Her gaze drifted to the floor where Circe was crouched, gathering shards of a broken vase. So that was the sound earlier. Beyond her sister, the window dominated the wall, sunlight bathing the Citadel’s gleaming towers in a golden haze. Evening light shimmered across glass and steel, beautiful in its precision.

“Circe?” Vesta asked, eyes still fixed on the skyline.

Her sister only hummed in response.

“What’s the Normandy?”

Circe froze mid-motion, then stood and set the shards into a waste bin. She crossed back to the bed, her expression carefully measured. “It’s your ship.”

“…My ship?” Vesta blinked. “Last I checked, I was a first lieutenant. When did I get a ship?”

Circe tilted her head, dark hair slipping over her shoulder. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Vesta’s mind groped for memory. “I… I think I’d just gotten an assignment. Akuze. A colony investigation.”

Circe closed her eyes, breathing deeply. “That makes sense.”

When she looked back, her expression was heavy with something unspoken. “It’s been six and a half years since then. You were the only survivor on Akuze. That mission… it made you a Commander.”

A dull throb bloomed behind Vesta’s eyes again. Her stomach knotted. “What happened?”

“Thresher maws,” Circe said quietly. “You took acid burns—a scar on your side. You were missing for a week before they found you. Everyone else was gone. Except Toombs, but he didn’t resurface until years later.”

Vesta pressed trembling fingers to her temple. “So… I became a Commander. And that’s when I got the Normandy?”

Circe nodded, lips pressed in a thin line.

Before the weight of it could settle, the door hissed open. A broad-shouldered man stepped in, scar cutting across one eye. His expression softened when he saw Circe—until his gaze snapped to Vesta, awake and alert.

“Bloody hells.” His face broke into a snort. “Worried the lot of us, didn’t you? Couldn’t help yourself, eh?”

Circe stepped forward. “Zaeed…”

Vesta tilted her head, confused. “Do I know you?”

The mercenary blinked. “…What?”

“I mean, the way you’re talking—it’s like we know each other. But I don’t remember.”

Zaeed stared a beat before bursting into booming laughter. “Figures. Wake up from the dead, don’t remember a damn thing. Valkarien’s gonna love this.”

Valkarien. The name caught in Vesta’s chest like a hook. Familiar. Important. But why?

Circe shot Zaeed a sharp look, but Vesta barely noticed. “Who’s Valkarien?” she asked, her voice almost too casual.

“Your lost puppy,” Zaeed said with a smirk. “Been sniffin’ around since he found out you were alive. Friend of yours. Normandy crew.”

“…A friend?” Vesta echoed, the word tasting wrong in her mouth. Something about it didn’t sit right, but she pushed the unease down.

Circe nodded carefully. “He was with you all four years on the Normandy.”

Vesta hummed distractedly, stirring her soup. She let the warmth fill her as silence grew between them. Only when she finished eating did she glance back up. “So… how do you two know each other?”

Circe stiffened. Zaeed only grinned.

“I worked on the Normandy,” Circe said quickly, almost cautious. “He was part of your crew.”

“Damn right,” Zaeed cut in. “And she fell madly in love with me.”

Circe spun, smacking his arm. “ZAEED!”

“What? No point hiding it. She’ll figure it out eventually. A kid’s proof enough.”

Vesta froze. “You—what? You have a kid? With this douchebag?”

Zaeed smirked, unbothered. “Glad to see your opinion of me hasn’t changed.”

Circe sighed, shoulders sagging. “Yes. We have a son. His name is Alec.”

The name landed like a punch. Vesta’s stomach twisted. “You named him after father?”

Circe winced, eyes flicking away. “…Yes. He—”

“She’s not wrong,” Zaeed interjected, laying a steadying hand on Circe’s shoulder. “He's been there. The past two years. Helped her through it.”

Vesta studied her sister’s face for a long, heavy moment before sighing. “…I really hope you’re right.”

Circe’s hand squeezed Zaeed’s. “Me too.”

Vesta sank back against the pillows, exhaustion clawing at her. “Seems like I’ve missed a lot.”

Circe smiled faintly, returning to her side. “You have. But you’re here now.” She squeezed Vesta’s hand gently. “Why don’t you rest? I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“It feels like I’ve rested too long,” Vesta muttered.

Circe laughed softly. “You deserve it.”

“I don’t even know why I deserve it.”

Her sister stroked her hair, voice warm but firm. “I know. But you do.”

Vesta’s body relaxed against the sheets, though her mind rebelled. She had just woken up—why did sleep tug at her again like a riptide? Zaeed’s voice rumbled from somewhere close, words lost to the fog closing in.

 The last thought she clings to before unconsciousness takes her is how deeply unsettling it feels to fall back into darkness so soon after clawing her way free.

Chapter 2: Caged

Vesta hated the bed.

The sheets were too tight, tucked around her legs like restraints. The pillows sagged under her head in a way that made her neck ache. And the constant hum of the monitors—that steady reminder that even her heartbeat wasn’t entirely her own anymore—gnawed at her until she wanted to rip the wires off and throw them at the wall.

Her body wasn’t hers. Not anymore.

She shifted, trying to roll onto her side. Her arms trembled under the weight of the effort, muscles quivering like they belonged to someone else entirely. It was humiliating—how even moving a few inches left her chest heaving as if she’d just sprinted a mile.

Enough.

She braced her palms against the mattress, swung her legs off the side, and planted her bare feet against the cold tile. The floor shocked her awake, real in a way the bed never could be. For the first time since she opened her eyes, it almost felt like she was alive.

Almost.

She drew a sharp breath and pushed.

Her knees buckled instantly. The floor rushed up—

“Vesta!”

Circe was there in an instant, catching her dead weight and pulling her back up with surprising strength. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m standing,” Vesta rasped, clinging stubbornly to the IV pole for support. Sweat beaded at her hairline.

“You’re collapsing,” Circe shot back, hauling her upright again. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ve faced down thresher maws,” Vesta argued, voice rough with frustration. “I’ve survived things that eat tanks for breakfast, and now I can’t even stand on my own two damn feet?”

Circe guided her firmly back toward the bed. “You’ve also been unconscious for two years. Your body’s not going to listen to you right away, no matter how stubborn you are.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Vesta snapped, her voice rising sharper than she intended. “I don’t have time to lie here and—” She broke off, jaw tightening. She didn’t even know what she was missing. Just that the ache of absence clawed at her chest like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Circe hesitated, then spoke softly, “You think rushing this will help? You’ll just tear yourself apart again.”

“I’ve already been torn apart,” Vesta bit out. Her throat burned. “What’s a little more?”

Her sister’s face faltered at that. For a long moment, Circe didn’t say anything. She only helped ease Vesta back into bed, tucking the sheets with an infuriating tenderness that made Vesta want to scream.

When she was settled, Vesta turned her face toward the ceiling and muttered, “I survived Akuze. I survived the Reapers. And now I’m trapped by my own useless body. That’s a joke I don’t remember signing up for.”

Circe smoothed damp hair back from her sister’s forehead, her voice steady even as her eyes shone with a sharp, quiet fear. “You’ve done harder things, Ves. This is just another fight. And I’ve seen you win them before.”

Vesta scoffed, but the words rooted in her anyway.

The next morning, a tray arrived with breakfast—broth and something pale and gelatinous that claimed to be nutrient-balanced. Vesta scowled at it like it was an enemy combatant.

“What the hell is that?” she asked flatly.

“Breakfast,” Circe said, settling into the chair by the bed.

“That’s not breakfast. That’s… war crime rations.” She prodded the gelatin with the spoon, watching it jiggle. “Even krogan field kits had more dignity than this.”

Circe smirked faintly. “It’s this, or you get sick all over the sheets. Your choice.”

Vesta wrinkled her nose but grudgingly took a spoonful. The flavor was bland, but the warmth slid into her stomach like a reminder she was still human. She hated how grateful her body felt for it.

“You win this round,” she muttered, setting the spoon down.

“Of course I do,” Circe said, crossing her arms with mock triumph. “I’ve been winning arguments with you since we were five.”

“Only because you cheat,” Vesta shot back.

Circe smiled, and for a fleeting second, it felt almost normal.

By the third day, Vesta had decided she was done being a prisoner.

She waited until Circe left for a meeting with the doctors. Then, jaw set, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her body screamed in protest, but she ignored it. She gripped the IV pole like a lifeline, teeth gritted, and forced herself upright.

Her knees wobbled. Her chest heaved. But she was standing.

A shaky laugh broke out of her throat. “See? Still got it.”

She took one step.

Her legs gave out instantly, and she crashed to the floor in a graceless heap. The impact rattled her bones, the air knocked from her lungs.

For a long moment, she stayed there, cheek pressed against the cold tile. Then she laughed again—short, bitter, and sharp. “Figures.”

Dragging herself back into bed was hell. Every inch forward felt like a mile. By the time she clawed her way under the sheets, she was trembling and drenched in sweat.

When Circe returned, she paused in the doorway, eyes narrowing at the state of the room. “What did you do?”

“Don’t ask,” Vesta warned, voice hoarse.

Circe’s brow arched. “You fell, didn’t you?”

“I stood,” Vesta corrected, glaring at her with the last of her strength. “That’s the important part.”

Circe sighed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

Vesta smirked weakly, sinking deeper into the pillow. “Yeah. But impossible’s what kept me alive before.”

Circe didn’t argue. She only pulled the sheets up again, gentler this time.

When the lights dimmed and the room fell quiet, Vesta stared at the ceiling, fists clenched in the sheets.

She would stand again. And walk. And fight.

Because whoever it was she was missing—whoever that ache in her chest belonged to—she refused to meet them again like this.

Weak. Broken. Caged.

Chapter 3: At The Door

Garrus had imagined this moment for two years.

Every visit to her bedside, every one-sided conversation whispered into the quiet hum of medical machines, every small touch against her hand that never squeezed back—it had all been leading here. He’d pictured it over and over: Shepard waking, her eyes finding him, her voice rough but warm as she muttered some sarcastic remark about him “finally taking a break from calibrations.”

And in every version, he laughed, his chest loosening, because she remembered. Because she was her.

But Circe’s words shattered that illusion with brutal efficiency.

“She doesn’t remember you.”

The corridor outside Vesta’s room seemed to shrink around him. Garrus’ mandibles twitched, his throat working as though to speak—but nothing came. He just stood there, caught between the door at his back and Circe’s pitying gaze.

“She’s lost years,” Circe added softly, almost like she wished she could snatch the words back. “She doesn’t remember the Normandy. Or the crew. Or you.”

The words hit harder than a bullet. Garrus blinked, trying to find humor, anything to fill the silence. “Not the first time she’s had to put up with me earning her trust,” he almost said. But his voice betrayed him, a raw rasp breaking into nothing.

He turned slightly, as if that would keep the weight off his chest. “Spirits…” He gave a rough chuckle, brittle and short. “Feels like I’d rather take a missile to the face.”

Circe’s expression pinched with regret. “I shouldn’t have told you like this. I thought—no, I hoped it wouldn’t matter. That you’d go in there anyway.”

His gaze flicked to the door. Just beyond that thin barrier, she was alive. Awake. Breathing, speaking. Here. He could almost feel the warmth of her, hear the cadence of her laugh, see the tilt of her smile. His claws twitched toward the panel, aching to press it open.

But then his mind betrayed him—imagining her turning toward him with those bright lilac eyes, and not knowing. No spark of recognition. No warmth. Just polite confusion.

“Who are you?”

It gutted him, even as a phantom thought.

If she didn’t remember him, then who was he in her story? Not the partner who stood at her side through fire and ruin. Not the man who had held her hand before the end. Not the turian she’d once chosen, against every odd.

Just another soldier. Another visitor. Another stranger.

His chest ached. He pulled his hand back like the door might burn him.

Circe’s voice gentled. “She’ll remember in time. Maybe not everything, maybe not all at once—but you meant too much to her to vanish forever.”

He wanted to believe her. Spirits, he needed to believe her. But belief felt dangerous. Hope felt like stepping onto thin ice, and he wasn’t sure he could survive the plunge if it broke.

Instead, he shook his head, mandibles tight against his jaw. “Not yet.” The words came out hoarse.

“Garrus…” Circe’s hand touched his arm, warm, hesitant. She looked like she might argue—but she stopped, her expression softening with something closer to sorrow. She saw the truth in him, maybe clearer than he did himself.

He wasn’t ready.

So he stepped back. One slow, heavy step, then another. Circe didn’t move to block him. She only watched as he retreated down the corridor, her silence carrying more understanding than any protest.

At the far end, Garrus finally turned away. His chest felt hollow, like something had been carved out and left bleeding behind that closed door. His claws flexed at his sides, restless, desperate, but useless.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

She’d never even know he was there.

And maybe—for now—that was easier.

Chapter 4: Echoes in Steps

Recovery was a war of inches.

Vesta had thought waking from the coma was the hard part. But no—this was the hard part.

Her muscles rebelled at every command, shaking with effort just to carry her weight. Circe made her try standing every day, steadying her by the arms as if she were a child again, guiding her across the sterile floor. By the end, sweat plastered her hair to her temples, her legs quivering like glass about to shatter. Seven steps yesterday, eight today.

Eight.

It felt pathetic. This was Commander Shepard—someone who had once led squads against reapers and mercenaries, who had climbed out of craters and fought tooth and nail for survival. Now she was out of breath before she even crossed the room.

Back in bed, Vesta scowled at the ceiling. “I’ve seen half-drunk cadets at Arcturus walk straighter than me.”

Circe smiled softly. “Yes, but they usually try to punch me when I catch them. You didn’t. Progress.”

“Funny.” Vesta groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Watching you scowl at being mortal for once? A little,” Circe admitted, though her hand brushed Vesta’s hair back with sisterly care.

They sat in silence until the frustration burned too loud in Vesta’s chest. Finally, she pushed herself upright and asked, “Tell me about my crew.”

The question stilled Circe completely. “Your crew?”

“My ship. The Normandy.” Vesta’s jaw set stubbornly. “If I commanded, I had people under me. I want to know who they were.”

Circe exhaled slowly, then sat on the edge of the bed. “All right. But remember—it’s a long list.”

“I can handle it.”

Circe folded her hands. “Jeff Moreau—Joker—your pilot. Best in the Alliance. Fragile bones, but sharper reflexes than anyone else in a cockpit. And sarcasm that could rival a krogan headbutt. He lived in that pilot’s seat, and you trusted him with your life.”

“Joker.” The name tugged faintly at something, but the memory didn’t form.

“Doctor Karin Chakwas,” Circe continued. “Your medical officer. Steady, calm. She saw you through a hundred injuries and always kept a bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy hidden away in her office.”

“She sounds like the only sane one among us,” Vesta muttered.

“Sometimes she was.” Circe’s smile was small. Then her expression turned cautious. “Kaidan Alenko. One of your first squadmates. A biotic, principled, loyal. You… were close, for a while.”

Vesta blinked. “Close?”

“You were together, briefly. After Eden Prime. It didn’t last long, but…” Circe tilted her head. “He cared for you. Deeply.”

A hollow ache stirred in Vesta’s chest. “Do I… still know him?”

“You’ll see him again,” Circe said carefully. “But that’s his story to tell.”

Vesta’s throat tightened. She shifted, restless, and forced, “Who else?”

Circe let her continue. “Tali’Zorah nar Rayya. Quarian engineer. Bright, kind, endlessly curious. She thought the world of you—looked at you like you could hold the stars in your hand.”

Vesta swallowed, unsettled by the warmth that sparked in her chest at that.

“Then there was Garrus Vakarian,” Circe said, her tone softening.

The name hit like a stone dropped in a still pond. Something rippled deep inside Vesta. “I’ve… heard that name before.”

“Yes. Zaeed mentioned him.” Circe’s eyes searched her face. “He was… very close to you. A turian sharpshooter, dry humor, a habit of calibrating the ship’s guns at all hours. You teased each other, but you also… trusted him more than anyone.”

Vesta shifted, unsettled by the strange pull that name had. “…And?”

Circe smiled faintly, but said no more. Instead, she moved on. “Miranda Lawson. Biotic, gene-tailored. Cold at first, but she earned your trust. Jacob Taylor—solid soldier, steady. Grunt, a krogan you helped through his Rite of Passage. Jack—a biotic powerhouse with a filthy mouth and a wounded heart you somehow got through to. Samara, the Justicar. Legion, a geth who followed you despite everything. And Mordin Solus.”

Circe’s eyes softened in remembrance. “Salarian scientist. Eccentric. Brilliant. He’d sing while working—sometimes opera, sometimes silly songs about T-cell immunity. You loved him for it.”

Vesta almost smiled at that. Almost.

“And EDI,” Circe added finally.

“Edi?”

“The ship’s AI. Well—she was the Normandy. But eventually, she gained a body. A synthetic platform. Sharp-witted, curious, and a little unnerving. She had a tendency to ask… personal questions at the worst possible times.”

“An AI,” Vesta repeated slowly. “On my ship.”

“You treated her like a crew member. Not everyone did.” Circe’s smile softened. “She never forgot that.”

The silence stretched, heavy with names and ghosts. Finally Vesta whispered, “And where are they now? My crew.”

Circe hesitated, then said quietly, “Some are here. Some are scattered. Some… didn’t make it.”

Vesta nodded slowly, the weight of it pressing against her chest. “And Kaidan?” she asked, voice small.

Circe’s gaze softened further. “He’s alive. Stronger than before.”

“…And Garrus?”

Circe hesitated longer this time. “…He’s still here.”

The answer was careful, evasive, and Vesta felt her stomach twist. But she didn’t press. She didn’t know why she didn’t want to.

“Well,” she muttered finally, sinking back into her pillows. “When I can walk without looking like a drunk varren, I’ll track them all down. Make sure they lived up to your glowing reviews.”

Circe chuckled, brushing Vesta’s hair back from her face. “At this rate, you’ll be sprinting before long.”

“Damn right.” Vesta closed her eyes, though exhaustion already pulled at her. Her body was weak, her memories fractured. But names had faces now, faces she needed to find.

She always caught up.

Chapter 5: The Piloit and His Ship

The Citadel skyline glowed faint gold, sunset bleeding into the white of sterile hospital walls. Vesta sat propped up in bed, her muscles still trembling from the morning’s attempt at walking. She had managed ten full steps this time before her knees gave out, Circe catching her under the arms with a muttered curse.

Ten steps. A pitiful number for a soldier who had once led charges against armies. But it was better than yesterday. Better than lying still, useless.

She had just drifted into the restless haze between irritation and exhaustion when the door slid open with a cheerful chime.

“Permission to enter the recovery chamber of the illustrious, miraculous Commander Shepard?”

The voice was sardonic, playful—and it tugged at something deep in her, a familiarity her mind refused to surrender. A man limped through the doorway on crutches, grin sharp beneath the brim of his cap. Behind him came a tall, sleek figure of silver plating and luminous blue optics, movements graceful and deliberate.

“Jeff,” Circe said, one eyebrow arched though her lips twitched with a smirk. “You’re late.”

“Not late,” Joker corrected as he hobbled in. “Fashionably delayed. Builds suspense. Very cinematic.”

“Uh-huh,” Circe replied flatly, though Vesta caught the hint of affection beneath her tone.

Vesta blinked at the pair, unsure what to say. “…Hello?”

Joker’s grin widened instantly. “There she is. Sleeping Beauty. Though I gotta say, you look less ‘enchanted princess’ and more ‘somebody just told me they’re out of coffee.’”

“I hate coffee,” Vesta muttered before she could stop herself.

Joker barked a laugh. “Oh yeah. That’s our Shepard.”

Her brow furrowed. Our Shepard. The words felt too heavy, too intimate, for someone her mind insisted she barely knew. “You’re… Joker?”

“Pilot, extraordinaire,” he said with a mock bow, nearly losing his balance on the crutches. “And resident smartass, but that one you probably remembered instinctively.”

Vesta huffed softly, but the sound was almost a laugh. “I’m… trying.”

The silver-skinned figure stepped forward. “Commander. It is agreeable to see you conscious again.”

Vesta’s eyes widened. “And you are…?”

“EDI,” the synthetic replied, voice smooth and even. “Enhanced Defense Intelligence. Initially, I functioned solely as the Normandy’s shipboard AI. Later, I acquired this mobile platform, which increased efficiency in both communication and combat.”

“You… were the ship?”

“Yes.” EDI tilted her head in that uncanny, birdlike way. “Organic crew appeared to respond more positively when I possessed eyes and hands. Eye contact, in particular, improved compliance by 37.8%.”

Joker smirked. “Translation: people liked talking to a face more than a disembodied ceiling speaker.”

“Statistically accurate,” EDI confirmed.

Despite herself, Vesta let out a startled laugh. The sound was foreign and strange in her own ears, but warm. “You two sound like you’ve been… doing this a while.”

“Years,” Joker said. Then his smirk faltered, his gaze dropping briefly. “But it wasn’t the same without you, Shepard. The Normandy flew, but… it didn’t feel like she was alive.”

Her chest tightened at that, a pang of guilt stabbing through confusion. “…I wish I could remember.”

EDI spoke then, her tone even but somehow kind. “Your lack of memory does not negate your identity. You are still consistent with the Shepard we knew—resilient, defiant, and statistically likely to make unorthodox decisions that result in survival.”

“Wow.” Joker grinned sideways at her. “Did you just call Shepard stubborn like it was a compliment?”

“It is a compliment,” EDI replied.

The three of them laughed softly together. For a few minutes, the room felt warmer, less suffocating.

Joker leaned back in his chair, tapping a finger against his knee. “So what do you remember? Anything at all?”

“Fragments,” Vesta admitted, her throat tight. “Mostly before Akuze. And… pieces. Feelings. I know I hated broccoli. I know I once… cared for Kaidan. But it’s all scrambled. Everything after is just… gone.”

The air grew heavier. Joker glanced at Circe, then quickly back at Shepard. His voice, uncharacteristically careful, said: “Well, don’t force it. Brain’ll get there when it gets there. Besides, we can fill in the gaps. We’ve got stories.”

“That is true,” EDI agreed. “Although certain memories may be… emotionally impactful.”

“Emotionally impactful?” Joker snorted. “You mean awkward. Like when Grunt tried to ‘headbutt me into brotherhood.’ Or when Garrus—”

“Jeff.” EDI’s blue optics flickered.

“What?” he protested. “I didn’t even say it.”

“Your intention was evident.”

Vesta tilted her head. “Garrus?”

Both of them went quiet. Joker shifted in his seat, suddenly engrossed in fiddling with his cap.

EDI, however, answered without hesitation. “Lieutenant Garrus Vakarian. Turian. He was one of your closest comrades during your campaigns. He visited you frequently during your coma. Almost every day, in fact.”

The words landed like a blow. Vesta blinked, staring at EDI as if the AI had grown a second head. “Every day?”

“Yes,” EDI confirmed. “He appeared to derive comfort from proximity, even when conversation was impossible. His visits were consistent across the two years of your incapacitation.”

Joker made a face. “Smooth, EDI. Just dump that in her lap, why don’t you.”

“It is a fact,” EDI replied, tilting her head. “Would you prefer I withhold relevant data?”

Vesta’s chest tightened again. The name Vakarian stirred something jagged inside her, a ghost of warmth tangled with an ache of absence. She rubbed her temples, as if she could force the memory into focus. “I don’t… I don’t remember him.”

Neither Joker nor EDI spoke immediately. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

Finally, Joker leaned forward, his voice quieter than before. “That’s okay, Shepard. No pressure. You’ll get there—or you won’t, and that’s okay too. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re still you. And people—we—still give a damn.”

Her throat burned. She swallowed hard, nodding faintly. “…Thanks.”

For the first time since she’d woken, surrounded by jokes, calm logic, and awkward truths, Vesta felt something stir in her chest that wasn’t frustration or fear. It was faint, fragile. But it was hope.

Chapter 6: Ghost of a Name

After Joker and EDI left, the room seemed emptier than before. Their banter had filled the air with something almost normal, almost like she wasn’t broken. But the moment the door slid shut behind them, silence seeped in. Heavy. Unforgiving.

The machines hummed. The monitor beside her bed beeped at its steady pace. Beyond the walls, the muffled sounds of the hospital carried on—footsteps, murmured voices, the occasional rattle of a cart. Yet none of it filled the silence inside her.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her fingers twisting in the fabric as if it could anchor her.

Garrus Vakarian.

The name looped endlessly in her head, refusing to leave. It clung to her thoughts the way static clings to clothing, prickling against her skin.

EDI had said it so casually, like it was nothing. He visited you almost every day.

Every. Day.

Her lips parted, and she whispered it aloud: “Garrus Vakarian.” The syllables felt strange in her mouth. Turian, EDI had said. A comrade. Someone close.

Her stomach knotted. Close enough to visit me every single day for two years.

Her eyes darted to the door, half-expecting him to walk in at the sound of his name. He didn’t. The door stayed closed, the hall beyond quiet.

“Then why haven’t you come since I woke up?” she muttered, her voice sharp with an edge of hurt she didn’t want to admit.

She couldn’t remember his face. She couldn’t remember his voice. She couldn’t even remember if she had liked him. And yet the thought of him not being here now—after knowing he had been here all along—felt like something inside her was cracking.

Why? Why did it matter so much?

She shoved the blanket aside, swinging her legs over the bed. The floor was cold under her bare feet. She gripped the mattress with both hands and pushed herself upright. Her body trembled instantly, her knees locking awkwardly under her weight.

The walk this morning had nearly broken her—ten slow, agonizing steps to the door and back. But the name in her head wouldn’t stop echoing, wouldn’t let her sit still. She had to move, had to do something or she would drown in her own restless thoughts.

Step.

Her calf muscles screamed.

Step.

Her hand shot out, steadying herself against the wall.

Step.

Her breath was ragged already, sweat beading at her temple.

By the time she reached the window, her legs were shaking so badly she thought they might give out. She braced herself against the frame, staring out at the Citadel skyline. Towers of glass and steel glittered in the golden wash of the evening, orderly and pristine. Too perfect.

Her reflection in the glass looked back at her. Pale skin. Shadows under her eyes. Hair too long, unkempt compared to how she used to keep it. Lilac eyes that didn’t belong to the woman she remembered.

She raised a hand to the glass, touching the reflection as if testing whether the stranger staring back was real.

“…Did you know me, Garrus?” she whispered to the ghost in the window. Her voice cracked on the words. “Did I know you?”

No answer. Just her own tired face staring back.

Her chest ached, a hollow ache that spread outwards, threatening to unravel her. She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to the cool glass.

“You visited me for years,” she murmured, voice breaking into a whisper. “But now I’m awake… you’re gone. Why?”

Her fists curled against the windowpane. Why did it matter? She didn’t even know who he was. Didn’t remember his laugh, his voice, his scent, nothing. For all she knew, he was just a soldier, a colleague who felt guilty or responsible.

And yet… deep down, her heart refused to believe that was all.

The name pulsed through her like a heartbeat. Garrus Vakarian. Garrus Vakarian. It wouldn’t leave. It wouldn’t let her breathe.

She staggered back toward the bed, her body threatening collapse. Falling onto the mattress, she stared up at the sterile ceiling, fighting the sting in her eyes.

For the first time since waking, Vesta realized she didn’t want Circe, or Zaeed, or Joker and EDI.

She wanted someone else. Someone whose absence gnawed at her with every breath.

She whispered it one last time into the quiet, as if the sound of it alone could summon him:

“Garrus Vakarian.”

Chapter 7: The Sound of Home

The fork rattled faintly against the plate as Vesta set it down, her grip unsteady. It was only chicken and rice, nothing fancy, but the fact she could chew it, actually taste it, made her stomach flutter with something almost like victory. Her first proper solid food in two years. She hated how proud that made her feel.

Her muscles ached, hands trembling as though she’d just run a gauntlet. Weak. Pathetic. She tried to sit straighter, but the effort pulled a groan from her throat. Circe was quick to lean in, steadying the tray as she pulled it away.

“That’s a good start for today,” Circe said, voice warm but with that undertone of caution Vesta had grown used to hearing.

Vesta clenched her jaw. “I want to walk.”

Circe froze mid-step, then turned back with raised brows. “Vesta—”

“I’m not asking to run laps,” Vesta cut in. “I just… I need to remember what it feels like.” Her voice dipped lower, the honesty scraping at her throat. “I need to feel like I can do something again.”

Circe hesitated, weighing her sister’s stubbornness against her frailty. Finally, she sighed and slipped to her side. “Alright. But only a little.”

With Circe’s arm braced under hers, Vesta swung her legs carefully over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the floor with a jolt, the cool tile both steadying and strange. Her knees nearly buckled immediately, and shame scorched her cheeks when Circe caught her without effort.

“I’ve got you,” Circe murmured.

Vesta nodded stiffly, biting down on her frustration. One step. Another. Each felt like dragging through molasses, her body screaming in protest at being asked to move after two years of stillness. By the time she made it to the wide window, her chest heaved with exertion, sweat gathering along her hairline.

But she was standing. Upright. Her hands pressed against the sill as she leaned there, eyes glued to the sprawling skyline of the Citadel. Towers of glass and metal glittered in the waning sunlight, the whole station bathed in gold.

She let the silence linger, her breath evening out as her gaze roamed the shining expanse. But the quiet pressed on her chest until she finally spoke.

“Circe… why won’t anyone talk about him?”

Circe shifted beside her. “Who?”

Vesta didn’t look away from the view. “Garrus.”

Her sister’s silence was telling. Too long, too careful.

“Everyone else—Liara, Joker, even Zaeed—you all talk about them like they’re part of my life. But him?” Vesta’s hands curled into fists against the windowsill. “Every time I bring him up, it’s like I said something dangerous. Like I should stop asking.”

“Ves—” Circe started, but Vesta cut her off with a sharp laugh that wasn’t laughter at all.

“I don’t like being vulnerable, Circe. You know that.” Her voice wavered but stayed quiet, steady in its honesty. “But the thing is… I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t remember his face, not really, but his name—” she pressed her fist lightly to her chest, right over her heart, “—it feels like I’ve always known it. Like breathing. Like… like coming home.”

Her throat tightened. “And I can’t tell if that’s real. Or if my brain is just filling in gaps, making ghosts for me to chase.”

Circe’s lips parted, her expression soft with regret. She reached toward Vesta, then pulled her hand back. “Vesta…”

Vesta turned finally, meeting her eyes, and asked the one question that had been clawing at her since EDI had slipped his name into the open.

“Was he important? To me?”

Circe’s gaze faltered. The silence stretched unbearably until at last, she whispered, “…Yes.”

The word cracked something open inside Vesta. She pressed her forehead to the glass, the cool surface grounding her against the sudden heat behind her eyes.

“Then why hasn’t he come to see me?”

Circe’s voice was soft, fragile in a way Vesta wasn’t used to hearing from her. “Maybe… because he’s afraid. Afraid you won’t remember him the way he remembers you.”

The words sank deep, twisting hard. Vesta’s chest ached with a pressure she couldn’t name. She whispered, barely audible, “I don’t remember him. But it feels like I should.”

For a long time, they just stood there. Circe finally slipped her hand into Vesta’s, grounding her in silence instead of answers. Together, they made their slow way back to the bed, where Vesta collapsed against the pillows, her body trembling with exhaustion from even that short walk.

As Circe adjusted the blankets, Vesta kept staring at the ceiling, her mind circling endlessly. Garrus. Garrus Vakarian. The name pulsed through her like a drumbeat.

Why did the sound of him feel like home, when his face was still nothing but a stranger’s blur in her broken memory?

Chapter 8: Name on Her Tongue

The hallway outside her room was dim, lit only by the sterile glow of wall strips. Garrus leaned against the wall opposite the door, arms crossed, trying to steady the battle raging in his chest.

He’d told himself he wasn’t going in. Not yet. He wasn’t ready to see the look on her face if Circe had been right—if all he saw there was polite confusion. He wasn’t ready to be a stranger to the one person who had made him feel like more than just a soldier, more than just a survivor.

Still, he stayed.

Some part of him, stubborn and desperate, couldn’t make his feet carry him away.

From behind the door, the soft shuffle of sheets carried through, then silence. For a moment, he thought she’d fallen asleep again. He almost turned to leave—

“...Garrus.”

The name slipped from her lips, fragile, uncertain. His mandibles twitched, his chest going tight.

He froze.

Another pause, as if she were testing it, rolling it around in her head before letting it out again.

“Garrus… Vakarian.”

This time, slower. Clearer. Like she was trying the shape of it, tasting the syllables as though they were both foreign and familiar all at once.

Garrus pressed the heel of his hand against his brow, fighting the flood of emotions clawing through him. Spirits—he’d imagined her saying his name again a thousand times. But hearing it like this, stripped of memory, curiosity softening the edges… it nearly undid him.

Inside, her voice lifted once more. A little stronger now. “...Garrus Vakarian. Why does that sound so… familiar?”

He could almost see her—brows furrowed, lips moving around the name again, as if the very act of saying it might unlock the truth. The image made his throat ache.

Every part of him screamed to go inside. To answer her. To show her why the name felt familiar, to remind her of every scar, every laugh, every battle they’d survived side by side.

But fear held him fast.

What if she looked at him and saw no one? What if all that name stirred in her was a vague itch of recognition, nothing more? He’d faced Reapers without flinching, but that… that he couldn’t take.

So he stood there in the quiet, her voice carrying through the thin wall like a knife’s edge.

She whispered it one last time, soft, almost to herself.

“Garrus Vakarian…”

Something inside him cracked. He pressed a palm flat against the door as if the metal barrier could somehow let her feel he was there. His breath came shallow, mandibles tight against his jaw.

And then, like the coward he hated himself for being, he pulled his hand back and walked away.

He told himself it was better this way. That when—if—she remembered, it would mean more. That he wasn’t ready.

But as the door slid shut behind him, the sound of his name on her lips followed him into the dark, haunting him with every step.

Chapter 9: Home

The hospital room had become her prison.

Vesta glared at the ceiling, counting the panels for what had to be the hundredth time. Every inch of the place was sterile, tidy, designed for comfort without ever truly achieving it. The sheets were too crisp, the air recycled until it had no smell at all, the walls so white they almost hummed. She hated it.

Her body betrayed her at every turn—legs trembling when she tried to stand, arms shaking even after holding a spoon for too long. Everyone told her to be patient, to let her muscles relearn what her mind had forgotten, but patience was never her strong suit. Lying in bed, trapped in silence, felt more like dying than healing.

The moment the night nurse left, she threw the blankets back. Pain stabbed through her thighs as her feet hit the floor, but she clenched her jaw and ignored it. A robe waited at the foot of the bed; she dragged it on, tugging the hood up over her hair. Her reflection in the room’s window startled her for a moment—pale, thinner than she remembered, but the eyes staring back were still hers.

“Just a walk,” she whispered, as if the walls needed convincing. “Just a walk.”

The hallways were quiet, low-lit in the night cycle. She moved carefully, gripping the railing whenever her knees buckled, forcing herself into the kind of slow, deliberate gait she’d seen other patients use. To her surprise, no one stopped her. No nurses raised alarms. No guards asked questions. She slipped through the hospital’s doors and into the Citadel’s artery of lights and noise without a single challenge.

And once she was there, her body carried her forward.

She didn’t plan. She didn’t think. She just knew. Left at the junction, past a line of shops, up two lifts and across a bridge. Her mind scrambled to keep up, questioning how she knew where to turn, but her feet never faltered. The deeper she went into the Citadel’s residential district, the more certain she felt, as though invisible strings pulled her closer and closer to… something.

Finally, she stopped in front of a door. Her hand hesitated over the panel, a trembling uncertainty creeping into her chest. But before she could talk herself out of it, the lock clicked, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss.

The apartment smelled faintly of metal and oil, but beneath it lingered something softer—coffee, warm fabric, the faintest hint of citrus soap. She froze on the threshold, chest tight.

It was hers. She knew it instantly.

She stepped inside slowly, her heart hammering harder with every detail she recognized. A couch sat worn at the edges, one cushion more sunken than the rest, like someone had claimed it night after night. The counter held a mug, scrubbed clean but ringed with years of use. A wall in the corner bore faint grooves, almost invisible, as if some kind of calibration rig had once rested there, dismantled but not erased.

The living room alone had her chest aching with an ache she couldn’t name. But when she reached the bedroom, her knees nearly buckled.

The bed was wide, too wide for one person, though neatly made. The center of the mattress bore the soft indentations of bodies that had once shared the space. On the nightstand sat a picture frame facedown.

Her fingers shook as she picked it up. She turned it upright, but the faces swam in front of her eyes, unfocused, like her mind refused to let her recognize them. A laugh bubbled in her memory—hers?—clear and bright, gone too fast to hold.

Frustration burned in her throat as she set the photo back down.

She lowered herself onto the bed, ignoring how her muscles trembled from the effort. Curling onto her side, she pressed her face into the pillow. The smell there was different—alien, sharper, but soothing in a way that made her chest ache. It was as though someone had been here with her, someone important, someone she couldn’t reach no matter how hard she tried.

Her voice was small when it broke the silence. “Why does this feel like home?”

The room didn’t answer, but the sheets did, warm and familiar against her skin. For the first time since clawing her way out of the coma, sleep came easily.

And when she finally drifted off, her dreams weren’t empty. They were full of shadows she couldn’t quite see, voices she couldn’t quite hold, and a pair of steady blue eyes that made her feel safe without ever revealing their name.

Chapter 10: Missing

The morning should have been routine. Circe carried two steaming cups of tea down the corridor, already rehearsing the encouragement she’d use to coax Vesta through another round of steps. Ten yesterday. Maybe eleven today. Progress.

The moment she entered the room, her heart stopped.

The bed was empty.

Sheets tangled on the floor. Robe missing. Monitors dark.

The cups slipped from Circe’s hands, shattering against the tile, tea spreading in a dark pool.

“Vesta?” Her voice cracked, panic rising. She checked the bathroom. Empty. The closet. Nothing.

A nurse rushed in at the noise. “What—” She froze at the sight of the bed. “Where is she?”

“That’s what I want to know!” Circe snapped. “How does someone vanish from a hospital bed without anyone noticing?”

The nurse fumbled for her datapad, but Circe was already pulling out her comm.

The line clicked open.

“Vakarian.” Garrus’ voice was low, gravel-rough.

“She’s gone,” Circe blurted. “Vesta—she’s not in her room, she’s not anywhere in the ward. No one saw her leave. She’s just—spirits, Garrus, she’s gone.”

Silence. Then his voice came steady, sharper. “When?”

“I don’t know. Sometime during the night cycle. The monitors were off. She could barely walk yesterday—if she collapses out there—” Circe’s breath hitched. “I should’ve stayed. I shouldn’t have left her alone.”

“Circe.” His tone cut through her spiraling. Not harsh—measured. “This isn’t on you. Shepard… she never stayed caged if she could help it. If that room was suffocating her, I’m not surprised she found a way out.”

Circe blinked, thrown by the certainty in his voice. “You’re saying she—what? Just decided to go for a walk?”

“I’m saying,” Garrus replied, quieter now, “even weak, even half-broken, she’s still Shepard. She’s survived worse than stumbling down a Citadel corridor. If she walked out of that room, then she knew where she was going. And she’ll keep herself alive until we find her.”

The conviction in his tone both soothed and unsettled Circe. “But you don’t know where she’d go?”

A pause, longer this time. She could almost hear the scrape of his mandibles against his jaw. “No,” he admitted. “Not yet. Not if she doesn’t remember us. But if she followed instinct…” His voice trailed, heavy with something unspoken. “We’ll find her. We have to.”

Circe pressed a hand to her brow, her pulse still frantic. “Then we start now.”

“Agreed.” His voice hardened into command. “I’ll search the wards near Zakera first. You work the Presidium side. Someone’s seen her. They’ll remember.”

The comm cut, leaving Circe trembling in the sterile, empty room, the smell of spilled tea sharp in the air.

Vesta was out there—fragile, stubborn, walking on legs that could barely carry her.

And Garrus was right. If she’d chosen to leave, then she’d chosen for a reason.

Circe only hoped they found her before her strength gave out.

Chapter 11: Found

The Citadel had never felt so wide. Garrus stalked through Zakera’s lower wards with his collar drawn high, scanning every crowd, every alley. His eyes caught on every flash of red hair, every figure in a hospital robe—but each time it wasn’t her. Each time, his chest squeezed tighter.

He questioned shopkeepers, loitering mechanics, even a pair of C-Sec rookies leaning against a kiosk. Most only shook their heads. One swore they’d seen a woman in white stumble toward a lift, but when Garrus followed the lead, the trail ended in nothing but more strangers.

Hours slipped by, his legs carrying him further and further from where logic said she should have been. He cursed himself for every false lead, for every second lost. Spirits—if she fell somewhere, if she collapsed where no one noticed—

He stopped, leaning against a railing overlooking the ward’s traffic streams. His claws tapped a frustrated staccato against the metal. He could feel it—that tight, gnawing certainty that she was out there, stubborn as ever, refusing to lie down even if her body begged her to. He almost laughed at the thought; weak or not, Shepard didn’t surrender. She never had.

The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. If she’d run from the hospital, it wasn’t to vanish—it was to breathe. To find space that felt like hers.

And suddenly he knew.

His feet carried him back, faster now, heart hammering as he left the neon glow of the wards behind. By the time he reached his own door, he already half-expected what he’d find.

The lock slid open with a hiss.

Inside, the apartment was quiet, shadows stretching long across the walls. His gaze caught on the small details instantly—the faint trail of hospital-issued slippers near the couch, the blanket pulled crooked, the door to the bedroom left ajar. His throat went tight.

He stepped inside, moving slow despite the thundering of his pulse.

And there she was.

Curled on his bed, pale against the dark sheets, her breathing steady in the rise and fall of sleep. A hospital robe hung loose on her frame, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. For the first time in years, she looked at peace.

Garrus froze in the doorway, every muscle locked. His mandibles twitched, throat working soundlessly as he tried to take it in. The smell of her, faint but real, tangled with his own. The sight of her in their space, even if she didn’t remember it, cracked something open inside him.

He moved closer, silent, until he stood at her bedside. His hand lifted, trembling, wanting to reach out—just a brush of her hair, a touch of her shoulder—but he stopped himself, claws curling tight against his palm.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, whispering something he couldn’t catch. The sound almost undid him.

For a long moment, Garrus just stood there, staring down at her like he could memorize every line, every breath, every fragile proof that she was alive.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a low rasp, barely above a whisper.

“Welcome home, Shepard.”

Chapter 12: Echoes in a Dream

The world swam into shape around her like paint bleeding across paper.

A mess hall, gleaming metal and humming lights. She knew it instantly, even though it was strange and unfamiliar. The Normandy. Of course it was the Normandy—though she couldn’t have said how she knew the name, only that it wrapped around her like an anchor.

Voices blurred in the din, laughing, warm. She sat among them, a half-eaten tray in front of her, the smell of something bland and processed clinging to the air. Across the table—two men, one sharp-angled, one human and steady. Kaidan, her mind supplied, though for a moment his features swam, flickering between shadow and smile. And Garrus. Garrus was clearer—his voice low and rough, his posture tilted back in the easy slouch of someone comfortable, though she thought she saw no scar cutting across his face.

“You’re staring,” someone teased.

Her head snapped toward the sound. Tali—masked, gloved, eyes glowing faintly through the glass of her helmet. She was certain it was Tali, though her name felt like a borrowed word, too small to fit the warmth she felt when she looked at her.

“What?” Vesta asked, startled.

“You’re staring,” Tali repeated, smiling through her voice. “The only reason he hasn’t noticed is because he’s too busy talking.”

“I don’t think I was staring,” Vesta said, trying to straighten in her seat.

“You were,” Liara cut in gently, sitting just beyond Tali. Her voice was melodic, amused. “Why don’t you ask him out already?”

Vesta flushed, heart lurching. She risked a glance toward the men at the other table—toward Garrus and Kaidan. Their heads were bent together, voices low, laughter spilling easy between them. She looked away quickly. “Liara!”

“She’s got a point,” Tali murmured. “Why aren’t you?”

“Because he’s probably interested in someone else,” Vesta sighed, scrubbing her hands over her face. “And because he definitely doesn’t want to date his superior officer.”

“You won’t know if you don’t ask,” Liara said, matter-of-fact, sipping at her tea.

“Ask what?”

The voice came from just behind her. Garrus.

She startled so hard she thought her heart had stopped. The others jumped too, Liara pressing her hand to her chest.

“Spirits—sorry,” Garrus said quickly, blinking at them. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Kaidan chuckled, sliding into the seat beside her. His arm brushed against her chair, warm and steady. “You ladies alright? Looked like you jumped a couple of feet.”

The warmth of him at her side grounded her. She leaned toward it without thinking.

Tali’s voice chimed again, bright and mischievous. “We were talking about our types. Romantic attractions. What about you two?”

Vesta froze. The room tilted a little, the lights too sharp, the sound of her pulse filling her ears. Both men looked toward her, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

Kaidan smiled, soft, reliable. “A woman who’s thoughtful. Someone who can always rely on me.”

And then Garrus, tilting back in his chair, mandibles twitching as if considering the words. “She has to be reliable. And a good shot.”

Tali muttered, “That’s not a type, that’s a rifle.” Liara chuckled, and Vesta found herself laughing too, the sound spilling out of her before she realized it.

Garrus shrugged. “Whoever she is—she needs to have my back. Always. Just like my gun.”

“You’re an idiot,” Vesta said, ducking her head with a smile.

“What? You asked for my opinion.” His tone was teasing, familiar.

“Who would be crazy enough to, Garrus?”

“Last time I checked, Commander… you.”

Her breath hitched, the words striking somewhere deep, stirring warmth and something sharper she couldn’t name.

“Damn,” she murmured, laughter curling through her chest. “Then I must be insane.”

Everyone laughed, even Kaidan, who shifted closer, his arm settling more firmly along her chair. She looked at him—steady, kind—and for a moment she smiled back. But then her gaze slid to Garrus, and her chest tightened in a different way, something lighter and sharper all at once.

The conversation went on, the words echoing strangely, like ripples across water. Tali’s snicker about bullying. Liara’s thoughtful musings. Garrus leaning back, asking how the topic even came up. Laughter filling the galley.

It should have been ordinary. It felt like home.

And yet, the faces blurred. The voices warped. The table stretched impossibly long. Her heart pulled in two directions—Kaidan’s warmth at her side, Garrus’ banter sparking in her chest.

Two paths. Two lights.

But the feeling that lingered strongest wasn’t confusion. It was the security of being surrounded by them all, the unshakable sense that whoever she was in this moment, she was loved.

The dream began to dissolve, edges unraveling into haze. The laughter grew faint, slipping from her grasp. She reached out, desperate to hold onto it—onto them.

“Vesta,” someone said. Garrus’ voice.

Her eyes snapped open. The apartment ceiling stretched above her, the blanket tangled at her waist. The warmth of the dream still clung to her chest, her heart aching with the echo of a moment she couldn’t quite name.

Was it real? A memory? Or just a dream?

Chapter 13: Overheard

Vesta lay awake in the wide bed, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep had abandoned her, leaving behind only the remnants of a dream she couldn’t shake: laughter, the blur of faces, a warm feeling of belonging that dissolved the harder she tried to hold onto it. Now, awake, she felt the absence of that warmth like a hollow ache.

The room around her was dim but not unfamiliar. A dresser rested against one wall, its surface cluttered with small, utilitarian tools—precision instruments she didn’t recognize but knew had a purpose. A set of datapads lay stacked unevenly on the nightstand, one with the faint glow of a message icon. The bed itself dipped slightly at the center, worn into a shape that spoke of more than one occupant.

It was not just her room. That much was obvious. The lived-in comfort of it stirred something she couldn’t name, as if she had spent countless nights here and simply forgotten.

She clutched the blanket tighter around her shoulders, grounding herself in the faint scent clinging to the fabric. Metal. Oil. Something sharper, almost like citrus. It wasn’t antiseptic. It wasn’t sterile. It was real.

Then she heard him.

“…She’s here. Safe.”

Her breath caught. Garrus.

The voice carried easily through the apartment, rough-edged but steady. He must have been downstairs. She turned her head toward the door, eyes narrowing, straining to listen.

Circe’s voice filtered faintly through the comm, urgent and tight: “Safe? Spirits, Garrus—where? Is she awake?”

“She’s asleep,” Garrus answered. The scrape of claws against ceramic punctuated his words, followed by the soft clatter of a pan on the counter. “Exhausted. But she’s here. That’s enough.”

Vesta’s chest loosened and tightened all at once. Relief, guilt, longing.

“I thought I’d lost her again,” Circe whispered. “I walked in and the bed was empty. For a moment I thought she was just—gone.”

“You don’t have to explain.” His voice softened, dropping lower, steadier. “I know what that feels like.” A pause, heavy. “But she made it here. Even when she shouldn’t have been able to, she did. That room was suffocating her, Circe. You know her. She doesn’t stay caged. Not ever.”

Vesta pressed her hand over her mouth, a trembling laugh escaping without sound. She didn’t know how he could speak so confidently about her when she felt like a stranger to herself. But the certainty in his tone made her chest ache.

Circe’s voice returned, quieter now, careful. “Does she… remember you?”

The silence stretched unbearably long.

“…I don’t know,” Garrus said at last, voice raw. “She hasn’t said my name. Not once. And until she does, I can’t be sure.”

Vesta squeezed her eyes shut, tears threatening. She had said it—whispered it into the quiet of the hospital, and again into this bed when she thought no one could hear. But not to him. Never to him.

“You’re more than that to her,” Circe insisted. “You always were.”

“Maybe.” His voice cracked, low and rough. “But she has to remember on her own. I can’t be the one to force it.”

The comm clicked off.

Silence fell again, broken only by the faint hiss of a stove and the scrape of utensils against metal. The smell of food drifted upward, warm and grounding.

Vesta lay back against the pillows, curling deeper into the blanket. She could picture him down there, scarred and steady, working over something simple just to keep his hands busy. She wanted to go to him, wanted to say his name and watch his face light up in recognition.

But fear pinned her in place. Fear that if she looked him in the eye, all she’d see was disappointment at what she’d forgotten.

So she stayed where she was.

Her lips shaped his name into the darkness, barely audible:

“Garrus.”

Downstairs, he worked on in silence, unaware that she was awake—listening, remembering, reaching for him through the fog of her fractured mind.

Chapter 14: Déjà Vu

The pan hissed softly as Garrus scraped the last of the eggs onto a plate. His claws clicked against ceramic, too loud in the stillness of the apartment. He exhaled through his mandibles, steadying himself, though the ache in his chest refused to ease.

He hadn’t lied to Circe. Vesta was here, safe, breathing. And that should have been enough. Spirits, it was enough. But the silence upstairs pressed on him like a weight.

She hadn’t said his name.

He stacked the dishes neatly, wiped down the counter just to give his hands something to do, then gathered the plates. For a long moment, he stood at the base of the stairs, staring up into the dim hallway.

Two years of walking into hospitals, of seeing her motionless, of speaking into the silence as though his voice alone could tether her back. Now she was here. Awake. And yet…

He started up the stairs before he could talk himself out of it.

The climb felt longer than it should have. Each step echoed with the memory of mornings long ago, when he’d carried a plate of food up the same path and heard her laugh at the sight of it.

“You? Cooking? That’s rich, Vakarian. What’s the occasion?”

She’d sat up in bed, hair a mess, grin wide as she teased him. He’d made some smart comment about spoiling her after missions, about ensuring his commander didn’t waste away. She’d snorted, shoved a forkful of food into her mouth, and told him he was hopeless.

That laugh still rang in his head. Bright. Unshaken. Alive.

Now, the hallway was silent. The weight of the plates in his hands felt heavier than any rifle.

When he reached the bedroom door, he hesitated, claws tightening on the tray. He drew a slow breath, mandibles pulling tight. Then he nudged the door open.

She was awake.

Vesta lay propped against the pillows, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her lilac eyes catching the dim light. She looked smaller than he remembered, thinner, fragile in her hospital gown. But her gaze was steady, following him as he stepped inside.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. The sense of déjà vu was almost unbearable — her in this bed, his hands full with a clumsy attempt at food, the memory of laughter tangled with the quiet reality before him.

“Breakfast,” he managed, setting the plates down on the nightstand. His voice came low, careful, reverent. “I thought you might be hungry.”

Her expression shifted — soft, unreadable. And though she said nothing, for a heartbeat, it was enough.

Chapter 15: Home

The smell of food lingered in the air as Garrus set the plates down beside her bed. The sound of ceramic on wood seemed to echo louder than it should, and for a moment, Vesta thought neither of them would speak.

She shifted slightly against the pillows, the blanket wrapped snug around her shoulders. He stood just at the edge of the bed, broad and scarred, his head tilted as though measuring the distance between them. His armor was gone, replaced by simple clothes, but he still carried himself like a soldier — straight-backed, careful, waiting for danger.

And yet… as her gaze lingered on him, she saw something else.

The rigid set of his shoulders eased. The line of tension down his neck loosened, just a little. He let out a slow breath, not loud but enough to fog the stillness between them. It was subtle, so subtle she might have missed it if she hadn’t been watching him so closely.

He relaxed simply because she was here.

Her chest tightened. She couldn’t place the scar that cut across his face, couldn’t recall the cadence of his voice beyond these last few days. She didn’t know what private jokes they had shared, what battles they had fought, what nights they had filled in this very room. Her mind was a blank slate where he was concerned.

And yet, she belonged in this room with him. That much her body knew, even if her memory didn’t.

She studied him in silence, trying to trace the edges of recognition, but instead she found herself cataloging details. The faint groove worn into the plating above his right brow. The way his mandibles flexed, not in irritation, but in something like restraint. His claws, careful and precise, as though he feared breaking the simplest of gestures.

He wasn’t a stranger, not to her heart. She could feel it in the way her pulse slowed instead of racing, in the warmth that spread through her chest instead of fear.

Vesta drew the blanket tighter, her lilac eyes never leaving him. She didn’t remember Garrus Vakarian.

But she saw the way he softened just because she was awake. And for the first time since opening her eyes on the Citadel, she felt like she was home.

Chapter 16: Whispered Feeling

The silence stretched until she couldn’t bear it. His presence filled the room — steady, careful, yet fragile in a way that made her chest ache.

“...Garrus.”

His name left her lips softly, but this time it wasn’t a question. Not the curious repetition she’d whispered in the hospital. It fit. The face, the voice, the pull she felt every time she looked at him — the name settled into place like it had always belonged.

Garrus froze. His mandibles flared wide, eyes snapping up to hers with raw shock. For a heartbeat, he looked like someone who had just been struck.

“You… remember me?” His voice came low, almost disbelieving.

Vesta hesitated, fingers curling into the blanket. “Not… the way I should.” She swallowed hard. “Not the way I want to. But I know your name. And it feels like it’s supposed to be yours.”

The tension drained from his frame all at once, his shoulders sagging as though he’d been holding himself too tightly for too long. A breath escaped him — shaky, unguarded — and for the first time since she’d woken, he looked less like a soldier waiting for battle and more like a man simply standing still.

Vesta studied him quietly, lilac eyes tracing the scar that cut across his face, the way his mandibles flexed like he wasn’t sure if he could believe her. The sight stirred something deeper than recognition. It was a pull she couldn’t explain, and it made her voice tremble when she spoke again.

“Everyone keeps saying we were friends.”

Garrus blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “…We were.” His tone was cautious, as if testing the word.

She shook her head, the blanket slipping loose around her shoulders. “No. That doesn’t sound right. Not when I look at you.” Her voice lowered, hesitant but honest. “Friends don’t… feel like this.”

His mandibles drew tight against his jaw, his eyes searching hers with something sharp and vulnerable all at once.

Vesta’s throat tightened. “So… what were we, Garrus?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavier than anything either of them had said. She didn’t have the memories, but she had the ache in her chest, the sense of belonging that tethered her to him even in the silence. And she needed to know if it was real — or just her fractured mind filling in the gaps.

Chapter 17: The Hard Question

What were we, Garrus?

The words hit harder than a sniper round.

Garrus had rehearsed so many conversations in his head during those long hours in the hospital: how he’d tell her stories until she laughed again, how he’d tease her about calibrations, how he’d remind her that she’d once trusted him with more than her life. But none of those practiced lines prepared him for the blunt honesty of her question.

She wasn’t asking lightly. He could see it in the way her fingers clutched the blanket at her shoulders, white-knuckled, like she was bracing for an impact she couldn’t name.

Spirits. She deserved an answer. But what kind of answer could he give?

He could tell her the truth. That she’d been his anchor when the war nearly swallowed him whole. That she’d been his partner in more ways than just command. That they’d shared laughter and banter in the middle of firefights, and quiet nights where just being near each other was enough.

But if he told her all that now — with her staring at him like a stranger she wanted desperately to know — would it be too much? Would it crush her under the weight of something she couldn’t remember?

He leaned back slightly, mandibles flexing as he bought himself time. Humor. That had always been his armor. And if there was one thing he knew, it was how to deflect tension before it strangled him.

“Well,” he started slowly, voice low but deliberately light, “we were coworkers. You know, the kind who make questionable life choices together, and somehow don’t get each other killed in the process.”

Her brows drew together, unimpressed. He let the corner of his mouthplates twitch upward, adding, “I’d say we had a very professional working relationship. The kind where your boss constantly drags you into impossible firefights, and you stick around because… well, calibrations weren’t going to do themselves.”

A faint huff slipped from her — almost a laugh, and his chest loosened. Just a little. He’d missed that sound more than he dared admit.

Her gaze softened but stayed steady. “Everyone keeps saying we were friends,” she murmured.

He felt the word stick in his throat. Friends. It was true — but it was never the whole truth. He shifted in his chair, mandibles pulling tight. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “We were that. Friends.” He let the word linger, then tipped his head, voice quieter. “And more.”

Her eyes sharpened at that, catching on the unspoken weight.

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that, not when those lilac eyes pinned him down the way her grey ones once had.

“What kind of more?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper.

His breath hitched. The question twisted through him, tearing open places he’d kept locked. He thought of the way she used to laugh at his terrible jokes, the way her hand had felt in his, steady even when the galaxy burned. He thought of all the nights they’d sat side by side in silence, the comfort of her shoulder brushing his.

Spirits, he wanted to tell her everything.

But he saw the tremor in her fingers, the exhaustion tugging at her frame. She wasn’t ready for everything. Not yet.

So he leaned back, forcing a lopsided shrug. “The complicated kind,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant. “We were… terrible at keeping things simple.”

Her lips twitched, caught between a frown and a smile. He knew that look — the one that meant she wasn’t done pressing, even if she held back for now.

Garrus dropped his gaze, claws tapping lightly against his thigh to keep his restlessness in check. He’d never been good at silence, not with her. But this was different. This wasn’t about what he needed.

So he sat there, steady and close, giving her the space to reach for the truth in her own time.

And if his chest ached with everything he hadn’t said, well… that was nothing new.

Chapter 18: Breakable

The silence stretched after Garrus’ words, heavy enough to press on her chest.

Friends. More. Complicated.

It wasn’t enough. None of it was enough. She wanted someone to tell her, to stop circling the truth like it might shatter her if they said it too loud.

Her hands tightened on the blanket. Everyone—Circe, Joker, even Garrus now—spoke to her like she was glass. As if one wrong word, one too-honest memory, would splinter her into pieces.

She hated it.

She forced herself to sit straighter, her muscles trembling with the effort. “Why does everyone think I’ll break?”

Garrus’ mandibles twitched, his gaze flicking sharply to hers.

“I mean it,” she pressed, heat creeping into her voice. “Circe, Joker, even you. You talk around me like I can’t handle the truth. Like if you’re not careful I’ll just… fall apart.” Her throat tightened, but she pushed on. “But if what you all say is true—if I fought the Reapers, if I saved the galaxy—then why the hell does everyone treat me like I’m made of glass?”

The words spilled out faster than she could stop them, frustration hot and sharp under her ribs. “I’ve survived thresher maws. I’ve stared down mercenaries and pirates and whatever else the universe decided to throw at me. But now—now I’m supposed to believe a few holes in my memory make me too fragile to hear the truth?”

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn’t look away.

Garrus didn’t interrupt. He just watched her, steady and silent, his shoulders drawn tight. And for the first time since she’d woken, she didn’t feel like he was pitying her. He was listening.

She drew a shaky breath, clutching the blanket tighter around herself. “I don’t want to be protected. I don’t want the edges smoothed down. If I’m strong enough to save the galaxy, then I’m strong enough to hear who the hell I was to you.”

The room went quiet again. Her heart hammered in her chest, but the fire in her voice lingered, daring him to tell her.

Chapter 19: Not breakable

The silence after her outburst was heavy, the kind that pressed into her lungs and made every breath feel sharp. She expected him to argue, to soothe, to wrap her in another layer of careful words.

Instead, Garrus chuckled.

The sound was quiet, low, but it caught her completely off guard. She blinked at him, her frustration hitching sideways into confusion. “What?”

He shook his head slowly, mandibles twitching with a small, unmistakable grin. “You. You lose six years of memories, nearly die saving the galaxy, and the first thing you do when someone tries to shield you is chew them out like you’re about to drag us all into another impossible firefight.”

Her cheeks warmed despite herself. “…That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he said, tilting his head. His eyes softened in a way she hadn’t seen before, something unguarded slipping past the soldier’s mask. “Because it’s you. No matter what you’ve lost, no matter how much you think you’ve changed—you’re still the same stubborn woman who made me wonder if you were fearless… or just insane.”

Her breath caught. The words weren’t pity. They weren’t cautious. They were certain, solid, and they rooted deep.

Vesta looked down at her hands, gripping the blanket. “…I don’t feel like me.”

“Maybe not yet,” Garrus said, quieter now. He leaned forward, claws braced loosely against his knees. “But I see her. She’s right there.”

The warmth in his tone spread through her chest, sharper than any comfort she’d been given since waking. And yet, it only made the question inside her burn hotter.

Her head lifted, lilac eyes locking on him. “Then tell me. What were we? Don’t give me the polished version. Don’t call it friendship if it was more. Just… be honest with me.”

Garrus hesitated. His mandibles drew tight, his eyes flicking away as if weighing the risk. For a moment, she thought he might deflect again with humor, another joke to keep things simple.

But then he sighed, shoulders lowering with the weight of surrender. “We were… a lot of things, Vesta. Comrades. Friends. Partners. We fought side by side long enough to know each other’s rhythms better than we knew our own.” His voice softened, rough but steady. “And somewhere in all that… we stopped being just teammates.”

Her heart stumbled. “So we…”

He held her gaze now, unflinching. “You were more than my Commander. You were the one person I trusted when everything else burned. And… you chose me. Against every odd, against every reason not to.”

Vesta’s breath shook. She didn’t remember the choosing, or the bond he spoke of, but hearing it said aloud felt like a missing piece sliding into place.

For the first time, the word friends felt small.

And though she still couldn’t recall the memories, in that moment she believed him.

Chapter 20: The weight of Truth

The words lingered between them, heavier than anything she’d heard since waking.

You were more than my Commander. You were the one person I trusted when everything else burned. And… you chose me.

Vesta sat motionless, every muscle tense beneath the blanket pulled around her shoulders. The room seemed to shrink, pressing closer, but not in the suffocating way the hospital walls had. This was different. This was the weight of something real.

She didn’t remember choosing him. She didn’t remember the war, or the trust forged in fire. But for the first time, she believed it could be true.

Her eyes flicked to him. Garrus hadn’t moved, though she saw the way his claws flexed against his knees, restless. His gaze was steady, but not demanding. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t pleading for her to say the right thing. He had simply given her the truth and let it rest between them.

No one else had done that.

Circe had spoken gently, as though the truth might wound her. Joker had joked around the edges of things but never cut through them. Even Liara, careful and kind, had looked at her with that pitying softness Vesta hated.

They all acted like she might break if they were too honest.

But Garrus… Garrus had looked her in the eye and spoken plainly. Not softened, not smoothed down, not wrapped in pity. Just truth.

Her throat tightened. “…I’m glad you told me.”

He shifted, mandibles twitching faintly. Surprise flickered across his features. “Vesta…”

“No,” she pressed, her voice steadier this time. “Don’t take it back. Don’t soften it. Everyone else talks around me like I’m fragile, like if they say the wrong thing I’ll splinter into pieces. But this—” she gestured at him, at the words still hanging thick in the air “—this feels solid. Like something I can hold onto.”

For a long moment, he was silent. Then his posture eased, shoulders lowering as if a weight had slipped free. His eyes softened, and in that look she saw something she couldn’t name but felt deep in her chest.

She swallowed hard, the question that had haunted her since waking rising again, but this time with less fear. “Maybe… maybe that’s why I chose you. Because you tell me the truth, even when it’s heavy. Because you don’t treat me like glass.”

Garrus’ mandibles twitched again, but this time it wasn’t surprise. It was something warmer, almost a smile. “It’s one of the things you liked to remind me of. That I didn’t let you get away with half the things you tried to.”

Her lips curved, unbidden, into the faintest smile. She didn’t remember the arguments, or the moments of banter, or the nights spent side by side. But she could almost feel them — like shadows brushing the edge of her mind, just out of reach.

And maybe that was enough. For now.

She leaned back against the pillows, clutching the blanket but keeping her gaze fixed on him. “Then don’t stop. Don’t protect me with silence. If you were more than my friend, if I chose you, then let me understand why.”

The weight in her voice surprised even her, but she didn’t take it back. She needed this. She needed him.

For the first time since opening her eyes in the Citadel, she felt the sharp edge of panic give way to something steadier. Something closer to belonging.

She didn’t remember Garrus Vakarian.

But she understood, at least a little, why she might have loved him.

And that was a start.

Chapter 21: Lighter Ground

The air between them still hummed with the weight of what he’d said, but Garrus seemed to notice when it threatened to tip too far. His gaze slid to the untouched plate of food on the nightstand, and his mandibles twitched faintly.

“Well,” he said, settling back in his chair, “if you’re not going to eat that soon, I should probably warn you… turians have a strict rule about unattended meals.”

Vesta blinked at him, startled. “…What rule?”

He leaned back further, crossing his arms with deliberate nonchalance. “Finders keepers. You fall asleep again, and I can’t be held responsible if all you’ve got left is crumbs.”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut as a laugh escaped her before she could stop it. The sound surprised her as much as it seemed to surprise him. She shook her head, tugging the blanket higher. “You’d steal food from someone who just woke up from a coma?”

“Not steal,” he corrected, mandibles twitching with amusement. “Rescue. You wouldn’t want it to go to waste, would you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Pretty sure I’d want it in my stomach, Vakarian.”

He tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “Bold claim for someone who hasn’t touched a single bite yet. Honestly, I’m starting to think you’re bluffing.”

“Bluffing?” she repeated, incredulous.

“Mm-hm,” he said, tapping a claw lightly on the arm of the chair. “Classic Shepard move. Pretend you’re interested, lure your opponent in, then steal the high ground when they least expect it.” His eyes glinted in the low light. “Works fine in firefights. Doesn’t work on breakfast.”

Her jaw dropped, and she couldn’t stop the grin tugging at her lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah.” His tone was light, but there was something steady beneath it. “But impossible’s what kept me alive.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for the plate, pulling it closer onto her lap. Her arms trembled slightly with the effort, and she hated that he noticed, but he didn’t move to help — not this time. He just sat back, watching her with an ease that felt like trust.

She took a bite, the eggs still warm. Her stomach tightened, both with hunger and with the sudden realization that she hadn’t eaten in his presence before — not that she remembered. And yet, it didn’t feel strange. It felt… natural.

She glanced up at him over the rim of the plate. “Satisfied?”

“For now,” Garrus said, leaning forward slightly. His mandibles flexed with something like a smile. “But don’t think you’re off the hook. Leave even a scrap, and I’ll invoke turian salvage rights.”

Her laugh came easier this time, and she surprised herself with how much lighter the room felt. The heaviness was still there, unspoken between them — but it no longer weighed her down.

For the first time since waking, she wasn’t just surviving the silence. She was sharing it.

Chapter 22: The Shape of Normal

The food was gone before she realized how much she’d eaten. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was warm and seasoned, and it tasted more like living than anything she’d had since waking. Her arms trembled with the effort of holding the fork, her chest heaved a little too hard for something as simple as breakfast, but she didn’t care. She finished every bite.

When she set the fork down, she glanced up to find Garrus watching her. Not staring like the doctors had in the hospital, waiting for her to fail, but simply watching, as if being here — alive, awake, eating — was enough to make him content.

“You’re staring,” she muttered, self-conscious.

His mandibles twitched. “Old habit.”

Her brow rose. “Of watching people chew?”

“Of watching you,” he corrected without hesitation.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She ducked her head, tugging the blanket tighter around her shoulders, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the hint of a smile.

Before she could find an answer, he leaned forward, tapping the empty plate with a claw. “Not bad. For someone who insisted she wasn’t hungry.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not bad. For someone who threatened to steal food from a coma patient.”

That earned her a low chuckle, one that filled the room with warmth she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

He stood then, stacking the dishes with precise care, every motion measured. When he straightened, he gestured casually toward a door off to the side of the bedroom. “There’s a shower through there. I’ll grab you some clothes.” His voice carried a touch of formality, like he was trying not to make the offer sound loaded.

Her gaze flicked to the door, then back to him. “You’re kicking me into the shower already?”

He tilted his head, mandibles twitching. “It’s either that, or you keep rocking the blanket-and-hospital-gown look. And while I’d hate to stifle your bold new fashion statement, I think the Council might fine us both if you step outside like that.”

She blinked, then barked a laugh. “Bold? Please. I make this look good.”

“Spirits,” Garrus muttered, shaking his head as though to hide the way his mandibles pulled wide in amusement. “You’d say that even if you were covered in mud after a mission.”

Her smirk grew. “Did I say that often?”

“More than once.” His voice softened with memory. “And usually after you’d dragged the rest of us through hell and somehow walked out on top.”

Vesta stilled at that, the humor caught somewhere between her ribs. She didn’t remember those moments, but the way he said it made them real. Made her believe they’d happened, that she had been that woman.

She cleared her throat, pushing the weight of it aside. “Well, get me the clothes then. Can’t keep setting trends in just a blanket. Someone might mistake you for my stylist.”

He snorted, shaking his head as he turned toward the dresser. “Yeah. Not exactly my skill set.”

The banter felt easy. Natural. Like a language they both knew, even if her memory didn’t.

For the first time since she’d woken, Vesta didn’t feel like she was trying to force her way into someone else’s life. Sitting here with him, teasing about hospital gowns and mud, she felt like she’d slipped back into her own.

Chapter 23: Steam and Shadows

The bathroom light flickered on with a soft hum as Vesta pushed the door open.

It was larger than she expected — not the sterile white of the hospital, but tiled in muted slate with faint scratches along the counter’s edge, signs of a space well-used. Towels were folded neatly on the rack. A bottle of turian cleaning solution sat on the counter beside human shampoo and conditioner, the mix oddly domestic, oddly… theirs.

Her eyes caught on the mirror above the sink.

She froze.

The woman staring back at her looked thinner than she remembered. Her cheeks were hollow, her collarbone sharp under the hospital gown still draped across her frame. Her hair, dark red once kept cropped and neat, tumbled in uneven waves past her shoulders. And her eyes — lilac, not grey. Strange. Unfamiliar.

She raised a hand, fingers brushing the mirror’s cool surface as though testing if it was really her.

“I don’t know you,” she whispered to the reflection.

Steam hissed faintly as she turned the shower on. Warmth curled through the room, fogging the edges of the mirror, blurring the stranger’s face until all that was left were two bright, searching eyes.

She let the hospital gown slip from her shoulders. Pale scars mapped her skin — ridges, burns, healed-over wounds that spoke of battles she couldn’t remember. She traced one at her side with tentative fingers, as though it might give up its story if she pressed hard enough.

But the stories stayed silent.

She stepped into the shower.

Water cascaded over her, hot enough to sting, but she welcomed the bite. The hospital’s careful sponging, the sterile cloth wipes — none of it compared to this. Heat sank into her muscles, easing aches she hadn’t realized she carried. For a moment, her eyes fluttered shut, and she imagined the water rinsing away the emptiness clawing at her mind.

A laugh ghosted through her memory — low, warm. Her own? No, deeper. Garrus? It faded too quickly to hold onto, but it left her chest tight.

Through the muffled rush of water, she thought she heard the faint scrape of claws on tile, the shift of weight just outside the door. Not intruding. Just there. Waiting.

And for reasons she couldn’t name, that presence grounded her more than the water ever could.

When she finally stepped out, steam curled around her in heavy waves. She wrapped a towel tight, the warmth clinging to her skin, and for the first time since she’d woken, she didn’t feel quite so breakable.

Chapter 24: Waiting

The hiss of water echoed faintly through the bathroom door, muffled by steam and tile. Garrus leaned against the frame, one shoulder pressed to the cool wall, a bundle of clothes clutched carefully in his claws.

He knew he shouldn’t be standing here. She deserved space. Spirits, after everything, she deserved normal. Not him hovering like a nervous recruit outside the locker room. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. Not when the sound of water running, the soft movements inside, meant she was alive and moving on her own.

The fabric in his hand grounded him. A pair of sweats — hers, the seams a little frayed, the knees worn in from use. Something soft she used to pad around the apartment in after long days. And one of his hooded shirts, the hem hanging longer on her frame when she wore it, sleeves rolled until her hands were free. He hadn’t thought much when he grabbed it. Now, standing here, he realized maybe he had. Something of hers. Something of his. Something that felt like both of them.

Steam curled under the crack of the door, warm and damp. The faint scent of soap drifted with it, sharp citrus mixed with something sweeter — hers, or maybe just memory filling in what he wanted to believe. His mandibles flexed as he shifted his weight, claws tapping lightly against the fabric he carried.

He closed his eyes briefly. Spirits, he remembered mornings like this. Not this exact one — no, those carried her laugh, bright and mocking, when he burned toast trying to surprise her with breakfast. Or her teasing him for complaining about her shampoo scent sticking to his plates. But the rhythm was the same. The easy intimacy of life lived together.

That was what he’d missed most. Not the battles. Not the war. The ordinary.

The sound of the shower cut off. Silence filled the space, broken only by the faint squeak of her feet against tile. He straightened unconsciously, claws tightening around the clothes. A towel rustled. Something dropped against the counter. Another pause.

He let out a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. He couldn’t rush this. Couldn’t barge in, couldn’t demand anything of her. That wasn’t what she needed.

But he could be here. Waiting.

Because if there was one thing he’d learned in all their years together — in firefights, in missions gone sideways, in the quiet moments after — it was that Vesta Shepard never liked to feel alone.

He glanced down at the bundle in his hands. Something of hers. Something of his. A reminder, maybe, that even if she didn’t remember yet, some things could still belong to them both.

And maybe when she opened that door, when she stepped back into the world outside the sterile halls of the hospital, she’d see him waiting and know:

She wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t broken.

She was home.

Chapter 25: The door in-between

Steam curled around her as she reached for the handle, condensation sliding down the tiled walls. The towel wrapped around her shoulders was warm, damp at the edges, and her hair clung in heavy strands down her back.

For a moment, Vesta hesitated. It would be easy to stay inside this fogged glass-and-tile sanctuary, where her reflection blurred and the world beyond the door couldn’t ask questions she didn’t have answers to. But hiding had never been in her nature. Even if she couldn’t remember the battles she had fought, she could feel that truth in her bones.

She opened the door.

Cool air swept in instantly, brushing gooseflesh over her arms. And there he was.

Garrus stood just outside, leaning against the wall, a bundle of folded clothes balanced carefully in his claws. He straightened slightly when she appeared, his posture still soldier-stiff, but his eyes softened in a way that told her he’d been waiting. For her.

For a heartbeat, they both froze. Neither spoke. The silence was filled only by the faint hiss of cooling steam and the steady hum of the apartment.

Her gaze flicked down to what he held: soft sweatpants she recognized without knowing how, a hoodie too big for her frame, worn at the cuffs and faintly frayed. They smelled faintly of oil, metal, and something sharper she couldn’t place. They weren’t sterile. They weren’t new. They were hers. The certainty of it rang through her like an echo, even if her mind refused to show her why.

“You waited,” she said at last, her voice soft, almost uncertain.

His mandibles twitched faintly, amusement cutting through the raw edges of his posture. “What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t?” He lifted the bundle slightly. “Figured you’d want something better than hospital gowns. Unless you’re going for the ‘escaped patient on the run’ look. Could start a trend.”

A startled laugh slipped out before she could stop it. It was small, fragile, but real. “Not exactly my style.”

He stepped closer, careful, and extended the clothes toward her. She reached out, their hands brushing in the exchange. The touch was brief, barely more than a whisper of contact, but it sent a jolt through her chest. Recognition without memory. Instinct without reason.

She looked down at the bundle, her fingers curling into the fabric. “…These are mine?”

“And mine,” Garrus admitted. His voice softened. “We… shared. You never seemed to mind stealing my things.”

Her throat tightened. She didn’t remember. Not the laughter, not the easy theft of clothes, not the way his voice softened on words like we. But she believed him.

And maybe that was enough.

She looked back at him then, studying the way his shoulders relaxed just because she was there, the faint shift of tension easing out of his frame. For the first time since she’d opened her eyes in the Citadel hospital, she didn’t feel like she was staring at a stranger.

She felt like she was staring at home.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Stars With You