Title: Cracked Faith (Part 1 of ?)
Author: skybound2
Rating: M
Characters: F!Shep, Garrus, and assorted squad and crew (Joker, EDI, and Jack are in this part)
Word Count: ~4400 (this part)
Warnings: This piece references NON-CON events in the past, and as such may be triggering for some. Please bear that in mind.
Summary: Not all wounds are easily healed, and some will always leave scars.
Spoilers: Just for Garrus' loyalty mission really.
Author's Note:This is a follow up to my fic "Broken Trust" and deals directly with the aftermath of the events in that story. (Specifically non-con between Garrus and F!Shep.) Please do NOT read any further if references to non-con situations bother you. This story will not be as physically visceral as "Broken Trust" but will attempt to delve into the emotional aspects a bit more. Also, there will be NO magic, healing sex in this story. So if that is what you are after, feel free to walk on by. I'm estimating 3 to 5 parts for this fic, but it is a WIP, so take that with a grain of salt.

Cracked Faith

The Citadel looks different at night.

Sure, the over-sized station may lack a distinct day/night cycle, but there are still periods of lower activity that coincide with the majority of the inhabitants internal clocks. Some of the shops and kiosks close and the number of people milling about is considerably less. For that, Shepard is thankful. It means that there are far fewer prying eyes to watch her as she scuttles from the bar, and out into the main corridors of the lower wards, torn jacket clutched tight around her in one hand, a death grip on her hand cannon with the other.

She presses forward, her back stiff, and doing her best to ignore the few sidelong stares she gets as she weaves her way through the wards. She makes her way towards one of the nearby med-clinics, and only feels moderately guilty when she hacks through the security system and enters the closed facility.

Swiftly, she pops open the medi-gel dispenser and grabs a few packs, mentally cursing herself for having changed out of her armor in the first place. She leans her back against the wall and slumps to the floor, the tension in her legs giving way to shaky exhaustion, and the medi-gel packet slipping from her grip.

"Damn it!" Shepard smacks an open palm against the floor, and bites back a string of curses as she grabs the packet up again and peels the remains of her damaged jacket back from the wound on her neck to rub the gel into her flesh.

Her head is throbbing, and her brain swimming – but she dumps her quickly darkening thoughts into a compartment to be examined later. For now, she knows that she has wounds – horrible scraping and raw wounds – in places that she'd rather attend to in the privacy of her own quarters.

Once the bleeding on her neck has subsided enough, she pushes back to her feet, and searches in the cabinets and drawers for a replacement coat. She finds one in the third drawer of the lab table. One similar in style to Dr. Chakwas' – only sized for a male – and shrugs it on.

It hangs on her like a shroud.

Shepard throws her bloodied one into a waste receptacle after she exits the facility, pointedly avoiding her reflection in the glass panes of the windows she passes on the way to her ship.

~~~\/~~~

There may not be a day/night cycle on the Citadel, but Shepard has made sure that they stay to one on the Normandy. Which is why when she enters the ship, the lights are dimmed to 65%, and the crew is skeletal. She immediately turns away from the airlock, and the cockpit behind it, and heads towards the CIC and the elevator beyond. Joker's voice makes her catch her step fifteen paces in, however.

"Commander, EDI and I were having a little disagreement about -"

She tosses a hand up to quiet him, but doesn't turn around. Uncertain what she looks like, and not in the mood to field any questions. "Joker. It's been a long night, and we're docked. Get some sleep." Her tone is curt, and she doesn't bother to wait for a response. Even so, the fading sound of Joker's next words send a shiver up her spine.

"Geez – touchy..." She can hear the tell-tale sign of his chair as he swivels back around. "Mission: retrieve the stick from Garrus' ass must not have gone as well as she hoped."

Shepard manages to make it out of earshot before EDI replies.

The elevator ride to her cabin is insufferably long, and the tension inside of her is coiling fast, and ready to snap. The scream of frustration is already building in her throat when the door opens with a ping. She exhales, long and shaky, and heads into her quarters.

"EDI: Security protocol 5, alpha 6-4. No one gets in this room without my express authorization. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Commander Shepard."

She nearly thanks the AI, but catches herself with only a nod, and moves towards the head, her hamster (the one Garrus got her during their first trip back to the Citadal following her resurrection) makes a squeaking noise, and scratches at the glass. She ignores it, and passes into the bathroom.

She swivels the water dial halfway to the left, and then slouches down fully clothed onto the toilet, avoiding the mirror hanging above the sink. She prods at the tender skin below her left eye, and knows that there will be a large bruise adorning her face by morning. The eye it is situated beneath feels swollen. Shepard has enough experience with injuries to be able to clearly visualize the broken capillaries bursting all around a bloodshot iris.

A flash of memory – of her head hitting the hard ground so unexpectedly; of being flipped; pressed; her face rubbing harshly against the unforgiving surface – darts through her mind, and the hand examining her face clenches into an instinctive fist.

She blinks, and pushes the thoughts away, releasing the fist and running loose fingers through the rats nest on her head. Her hair is a mess, matted down against her scalp and neck. There is a large knot throbbing at the back of her skull, and it sends little shots of pain into her nervous system every few seconds.

Reluctantly, she stands, and places her gun – the one that has remained clutched oh-so-tightly in her gun hand since she retrieved it – on the edge of the sink; a shudder racks her body when it clinks against the metal.

Slowly, she peels the stolen coat from her upper body, letting it drop with a thud to the ground. Next, is the practically useless piece of ripped skin-tight cloth that was once her undershirt. There had been a third layer when she left the Normandy earlier, but that got left behind.

She lets her eyes wander upward, far enough to lock on the reflection of the ragged – but healing – tear along her throat. Several medium-sized, evenly spaced teeth marks adorn the area around it. Trailing down over her clavicle, to stain the skin of her breast and abdomen, are dried tracks of blood. She can see their companions – the result of his claws – scratching up, down, and out from the waist of her pants. Some of them are already they are scabbing over, the result of Cerberus cybernetics at work. But others are deeper, and still bleeding. Those will need more medi-gel, but there is little point in applying it now, when the water will just wash it off. She unhooks her pants and allows them to join their discarded counterparts on the floor.

Steam is beginning to billow about the room, and fogging up the mirror – obscuring the view of the wounds she suddenly can't take her eyes from. Shepard reaches across the space, and wipes a dirty hand over the mirror's surface, leaving an uneven path by which to see herself.

The person before her is a murky reflection, the colors dimmed by the low light in the room, the humid air, and her own fogged mind. The mirror is not full length, but she can just make out a pattern of bruises and caked-on crimson around her hips. A quick flex of her shoulders reminds her that there is a similarly shaped set of wounds in the middle of her back.

If she were any less flexible, she'd have to worry about how she'd apply medi-gel to those.

Finally she turns away and shucks off her boots. One of the first items of clothing she had willing removed such a short time ago. Now she wishes to the gods that she hadn't.

A split second after she steps under the steaming spray of water she notices that her hand is trembling. Unthinking, Shepard balls it up, and pounds the fleshy part of it against the wall. Once. Twice. Again and again. Until the vibrations of the metal wall echo the ringing in her ears and the thrumming of blood in her veins, and her hand is perfectly still.

She moves under the nozzle, and is completely drenched in blistering heat for approximately ten seconds before the fail-safes kick in, and the water cools to a less damaging temperature. Shepard watches, detached, as warm rivulets of red seep from her myriad wounds, dripping down towards the drain, to be washed away. She leans her head forward, pressed against the paneled wall. If the water on her face is slightly more salty than the rest, well, it's not like anyone else will ever know.

~~~\/~~~

There is something broken inside of him. The result of too much weight pressing down on all of the most important parts; until it caves in, with an almost audible snap deep within his soul.

Garrus inhales a deep, lung-swelling breath; counting backwards from ten before opening his eyes, and taking in the wreckage that is now his life.

There is blood on his hands, in both the figurative and very literal sense. In the back of his mind, he can still see the carcasses of his crew, splayed out upon the floor in dizzying detail. Can still see the back of Sidonis' head as the bastard flees from his scope. That alone is nearly enough to make him snarl.

But it is the sight before him, the sight of shining red droplets caking the tips of his talons, and staining the skin of his palms – nearly dried now – that demands his attention. It cracks as he flexes his fingers, little dried bits flaking off and falling away in a crimson dust.

The still intact portions of his mind crack along a similar path, and he struggles to rein himself in, unsure of whether he'd ever be able to catch himself, should he drift away now.

By the Spirits, what have I done?

The room around him seems smaller with her gone. The floor beneath him, dirty; and the fabric of the couch that his back is pressed against is an unpleasant texture against his over-sensitized hide.

Another breath, and his nasal passages – always so highly attuned to the changes in air pressure, and fleeting odors – are assaulted with a variety of scents, but the lingering smell of sex is most prevalent. His. Shepard's. Even the asari from earlier.

The combination of odors makes the whiskey in his stomach go sour, and the urge to vomit is nearly uncontrollable. But he manages that much at least.

Music pounds a deep staccato against the door and walls surrounding him, and he recalls where he is; recalls with startling clarity the glare that Shepard gave him when she first crossed the threshold. Can still taste the disappointment – the concern – she showed once they were alone. But mostly, he remembers the lack of fear in her eyes when he first pressed close; when he first drew his now stained fingers across her soft skin. How her eyelids fluttered briefly shut, and the breathy gasp that she gave in response.

The bass rumbles loudly as the song in the bar changes, and with it, his synapses fire off in quick succession. He can still feel the beat of her hands, balled into fists, as they rained down on his shoulders, his chest, his back. Any part they could reach. Can finally pull the cries of fear and anger and nostopthisstopstopstop! from where they were shucked to…during, and hears them play out in an infinite loop.

He loses the battle with the whiskey, and lets it join the other stains marring the hideous floor.

It is some time before he is able to settle his stomach enough to pull himself as together as the chipped up pieces of his spirit will allow. It is longer still until he can force himself to stand, and put as much distance between the bar, the room, and himself as possible.

~~~\/~~~

The main battery is quiet, and warm. The gentle thrum of the ship's guns reverberates throughout the space, and he matches the pace of his breath to them – trying to cool his mind, and slow his still pounding heart.

But meditation has never been his strong suit, and he's doing as lousy of a job of it now as he has in the past.

Garrus knows that he shouldn't be here, shouldn't have come within fifty meters of the Normandy. This place is hers. And he has no right being on board. Not now. Not after…

He swallows uselessly, trying to dissolve the bitter, dry taste in his mouth. Absurdly, he wants another drink. Anything, anything at all to wash away the knowledge of what he did, even if only for a moment.

He'd considered tucking tail and running, as far and as fast as he could. Thought about getting passage on some nameless freighter and airlocking himself at the first available opportunity. He can practically hear his father's grating voice in his skull, telling him that he still can. That he should. Telling him, in that no-nonsense way of his, that any respectable turian would turn themselves in, or save the authorities the trouble by taking a more permanent course of action.

He's never wanted to be a good turian so much before in his life.

But he's not, and so he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he slipped as lightly as he could from the bar – cursing its continued existence – and made his way with heavy footsteps to the only place he's been able to think of as home since he was a child.

Tail tucked, but not exactly running.

He hadn't been certain what to expect when he arrived. Dimly, he'd thought Shepard might have barred his entry from the ship, or that there would be a security detail waiting to apprehend him. Or worse, that she'd be waiting – gun in hand – to sink a bullet in his brain like she should have hours before. But none of that happened.

Instead, Joker was at the helm – as per usual – rambling about something nonsensical (to Garrus at least) with EDI. The pilot had paid him little attention – save for a nod of acknowledgment, and an off-hand remark about spending the night in a bottle. Garrus had ignored him and made his way unhindered to the battery; in desperate need of a shower, and with no clue how he was ever going to face her again.

The thought of seeing her brings another wave of nausea to his stomach. But there is nothing left to empty from it, so instead it just rumbles at him.

Spending the night in the airlock is sounding like a better idea every minute. Maybe he'd accidentally get evac-ed with the morning trash. Of course, the Normandy being docked poses a bit of a problem. Being spaced tends to work better when you are actually in space after all.

Inevitably, this line of thinking leads him back to Shepard. How could it not? He's spent more hours than are healthy torturing himself with thoughts of what it was like for her to die that way. To have all of the air sucked from her lungs, and have her body freeze in the cold vacuum of space. The only benefit to such a death was probably how quick the actual death part was.

And after what happened…he's not so sure he deserves such an easy out. Maybe Shepard would disagree though. He really doesn't know, but he wouldn't blame her if she did.

The image of her bruised face and her bloodied flesh jumps into his vision, overlaid by the tactile recollection of her skin against his. He has to shake himself to break its hold on him. All the anger that had fueled him earlier is gone, replaced by layer upon layer of self-centered disgust.

"Stay away from me, Vakarian."

He clenches his eyes from the memory. From the image of her that is burned onto the back of his retinas. From the look of fury on her face.

From the look of pain.

A thought worms its way into Garrus' mind, and his heart stumbles in his chest. Did she even... "EDI? Has Shepard returned to the ship?"

"Commander Shepard returned to the Normandy approximately two and a half hours ago, Officer Vakarian. She has indicated that she does not wish to be disturbed, would you like me to deliver a message?"

Garrus flinches at the question, even while feeling relieved to learn that she was indeed back on board. He's not sure where else she might have gone, and he doesn't want to dwell on the possibilities either. "No. No. There's no need. That'll be all, EDI."

"Logging you out, Officer."

Garrus drops his body to the cot he has situated behind the stack of crates that serve as the makeshift walls of his sleeping area. He could have bunked in the crew quarters when he first came on board – but there was something distinctly uncomfortable about sleeping with Cerberus employees surrounding him on all sides. They claimed to be fine working beside a turian, but the looks in their eyes when he would linger too long in their space always put him on edge. Like they didn't think he could be trusted.

The breath freezes in his lungs when he realizes that they were right.

~~~\/~~~

The hours between her shower and 'morning' are wasted on Shepard. She spends at least two-thirds of the time simply staring out of her overhead window, watching the little blinking lights that adorn the arms of the citadel's docking clamps. The rest of the time is spent in a fitful slumber that is, in so many ways, worse than having gotten no sleep at all.

But all things come to an end, and her pitiful attempt at rest is interrupted by Joker's voice cheerfully blaring over the comm.

"Commander Shepard, this is your pilot speaking – it's 1150 Zulu, and a gorgeous afternoon here at the Citadel. Planning to join the living anytime today? Or should I let the crew know that they can remain on shore leave indefinitely?"

She sighs, and rubs the tips of her fingers into the corners of her eyes, swiping away the muck that has formed the last few hours. "Negative, Joker. Shore leave ends whether the boss gets her ass out of bed or not."

"Awww, pity! I was hoping to take some down time at the Dark Star. They got these drinks with little umbrellas? Very tasty. Buuut, at least you saved me the trouble of playing an AI in rock-paper-scissors to see who'd get the job of waking you in person – for the record? I'd have won. On account of the AI not having hands or anything."

"Joker." Normally she enjoys his back and forth, but this morning her patience is entirely too frayed to put up with it.

"Wanted to let you know that as of approximately fifteen minutes ago, all crew-members are present and accounted for; ready to leave port at your say-so, Commander."

Shepard chokes on the air in her lungs, seeing dots of light flicker in and out of her vision. "All crew members, Joker?"

"Yup, every last one. Don't think you want to know where some of 'em have been though – I think Donnelly had a particularly interesting evening, if the fact that Daniels had to practically carry him back on the ship is anything to go on. I gotta tell ya, EDI is going to have her work cut out for her when it comes to filtering our waste water. Just sayin'."

"Mr. Moreau, I always operate at optimum capacity. The filtration systems on-board the Normandy do not require any additional effort on my part as a result of recent crew activities."

"EDI, remember how we discussed the whole 'shush' concept? Now would be an excellent time to practice."

"Mr. Moreau, I fail to see -"

"Enough!" Shepard runs a heavy hand down her face, hissing in pain as she contacts the bruise that formed overnight – as suspected. "Alright, if...everyone" the word catches in her throat, but she works her tongue past it, "is on board, then let's get out of here. I've had enough of this damn station."

"Got it, Commander. Any particular coordinates you want me to follow, or is flying around aimlessly our goal for now?"

"While aimlessly sounds good, Joker, I know there's some business between here and the Valhallan Threshold that Miranda was going on about yesterday. Might be something for us to take care of on our way to the Migrant Fleet. Just...point us that way, and I'll get more specific coordinates to you once I've met with her. Later. After coffee."

"Yeah – about the coffee. Remember how I mentioned everyone was a little worse for wear today?"

"Yes?"

"Well, I see a coffee shortage in our very near future."

"Just drive, Joker." She sighs heavily, and lies down – gingerly – on her still sore back. "Just drive."

"Aye, aye, Commander. Joker out."

~~~\/~~~

Getting up and getting dressed takes more effort than Shepard likes. There are tears in areas that she doesn't want to think about, and bruising that makes her whole body throb. But her head hurts and her stomach aches though, so a trip to the mess hall is priority.

She does her best not to think about who she might run into down there.

She's barely rounded the corner into the mess when a mocking voice interrupts her quest for caffeine. "Damn, Shepard. You look like you've been chewed up by a Varren and shit out. What the hell happened, and why wasn't I invited?"

Shepard snorts. "Tell you what, Jack. The next time I decide to get up close and personal with a Varren, you'll be the first to know."

Shepard ignores the grating sound of the younger woman's laugh and instead digs through the mess cabinets looking for fresh coffee, with no success. She could probably locate Gardner, and have him pull a magic stockpile out of some secret cupboard, but it's easier to set the machine to run water through the already used grounds, so she does that instead. It'll taste like swill, but get the job done. And that's all that matters.

"Nah, boss. Don't do me any favors. Seriously, though, you look like shit."

Shepard folds her arms across her chest, trying to will the slowly percolating pot to brew faster. "It's the morning after shore leave, Jack. What do you expect?"

The younger woman arches a brow at Shepard, leaning back in her chair so that it rests against the bulkhead behind her. "Me personally? I'd expect you to look like the morning after shore leave. A hangover – maybe the tell-tale sign of good-old fashioned alcohol poisoning. I was here when you got drug back in from your little Ryncol adventure, remember? Now that's what you look like after you've cut loose. Right now you look like you've gone a few rounds with a krogan, or maybe a really pissy asari."

Shepard leans against the counter, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling and praying for patience. "Thanks, Jack. You do wonders for the old ego."

An ugly smile spreads across Jack's face, as she slowly lowers the chair back onto all fours. "So, what gives?"

"Nothing gives, Jack. Just...a rough night." A beeping from behind Shepard alerts her that the coffee is ready, and with more than a little relief, she turns to pour herself a cup; gratefully swallowing down the liquid, despite its relation to molten tar.

Lowering the mug, her eyes focus on the inky liquid, and her attention wanders unbidden: the slow stroke of a talon along her clavicle, the brush of a scarred mandible along the side of her throat. She feels her heart start to pound, a loud staccato in her ears as those soft, nearly pleasant memories quickly mutate, to be replaced by the phantom feeling of needle like teeth piercing the skin of her throat, and the foreign expression that overtook Garrus' face once he'd thrown her to the floor. Like he simultaneously hated her, and was completely unaware that she even existed.

Her hand clenches around the mug until she can feel little pinpricks of pain in her fingertips and knuckles as a result of the intensity of her grip. If the cup wasn't made out of metal, she's certain it would have shattered under the pressure by now. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, she's sure, but hell if she can tease it out right now.

Garrus was her friend. The one person that she could always count on. The one that she could always trust to have her six; but now…

The sound of fingers snapping in front her face brings her back to the present. She finds Jack standing two feet from her with an odd look on her face. If Shepard didn't know better, she'd label it as concern. "Just a rough night, huh?"

"Hmm? Oh – uh, yeah." Shepard shakes herself to clear her head, and tries to plaster a smile on her face, but it feels hollow. "Nothing a little coffee can't cure."

"Bullshit." Jack's in her face now and Shepard has to lean back a little to be able to focus her eyes on the biotic.

"Excuse me?"

"I call bullshit." A light trace of spittle hits Shepard in the eye, but she's frozen in place, and so doesn't bother to wipe it away. Several beats pass, with heavy-lined brown eyes boring into hers. Shepard's bruised eye twitches. She isn't sure what the biotic is trying to accomplish, but she finds that her voice has left her.

Another moment passes and Jack just shrugs and steps away from her. The fact that the distance makes it suddenly easier to breathe makes Shepard feel weak. "But hell, I don't really give a fuck, so feel free to keep lying to yourself."

And with that, Jack stomps from the room, combat boots clunking loudly against the deck. Tension Shepard hadn't even realized she was carrying drains from her as the biotic leaves, and she lets her body slump against the mess hall wall. Pain sears through her and she hisses at the reminder of the still open sore on her back. Her eyes flicker briefly in the direction of the main battery before snapping forward and locking on the med-bay across from her.

She eyes the empty viewing window of the med-bay warily, then dumps the remains of her coffee and squares her shoulders. Her back is screaming out for an application of medi-gel, and a fruitless search of her quarters last night proved that she needs to restock her armor's supply anyway. If she's lucky, Chakwas will be in her regular afternoon meeting with Mordin, and she won't have to deal with another inquisition.

One can only hope.

~TBC