Don't Go Where I Can't Follow, Part III
Femshep/Garrus
Artwork 3 of 3
This piece could probably use a little more work here and there, but it had been sitting in my folder long enough and I wanted to get out there already 😅
Part I here, Part II here
based on this scene from Taproot
Garrus’ finger throbbed as Shepard held it tight. Buoyant and eager, she was leading him down an alley of apple trees, so hastened that she was practically galloping. It wasn’t long into the night, but the waning summer sun was making its idle drift toward autumn, and Shepard was concerned it would be another seven to eight months before they had this chance again. “Come on,” she urged. “Where are we going?” “Just follow me.” “It’s too dark. I can’t see where the hell I’m going.” Garrus tripped on something small and hard, maybe a rock, and nearly tumbled into her. “Slow down, Shepard!” “The moon’s out, there’s plenty of light. Your eyes are just getting old.” “Need I remind you, you’re older than me.” “Older, schmolder!” she said dismissively. “This way. Watch your step.” They trekked along the the precipice and emerged from a thin stand of firs to reach the secluded beach. Garrus stopped at the treeline to appreciate the tranquil view. From here, the mountains were dark, jagged shapes against a cobalt dropcloth, and the lake their ward. Shepard continued to the edge of the water. Her puckish smile touched her eyes as she tugged her shoes off, then cast them away toward the trees. “What are you doing?” he asked. “What does it look like I’m doing?” “It looks like you’re taking your clothes off. All your clothes…” Garrus stared with his mandibles flapping. “You’re not going in like that, are you?” “Watch me!” Before stepping into the water, Shepard rummaged through her pants pocket and produced an elastic band. She bent over, throwing her hair forward, then combed her fingers through it to gather it into a rough ponytail. In the weak light, Garrus could make out the outer ring of her amp port; the connection at the base of her skull was covered with a standard soft plug, which had been in place for some time. He’d seen it so little since the end of the war, he’d almost forgotten it existed. The sight made him sad, and his shoulders fell as she finished tying the elastic around her ponytail. She stood up straight again. The moon cast a blue pall over her naked body; the raised scars on her shoulders seemed to throb at the edges, and the thinnest lines, where Cerberus had grafted new skin to her existing tissue, shone like the fine threads of a spider’s web. She stalked to the black lake and disappeared into it with ease. “Come on G, water’s fine!” Shepard’s smile was bold and bright as she looked over her shoulder, her body halfway into the water. “You’re kidding, right?” “What, not even a toe?” “You know turians and water don’t mix.” “Come on, Garrus, don’t be such a chicken!” The water had now come up to the undersides of her breasts. She cupped both hands and submerged them beneath the surface. She slowly brought them over her chest, letting the water fall and follow the curves of each mound, then did it again as if to make a point. “You’re a tease, Shepard!” he yelled after her. She grinned and dipped further down into the water. She was a ruthless crocodile, and through the darkness, Garrus could only see the whites of her teeth and the reflection of the moon across her forehead. She waved. Then she swam farther out, past the shallows and the buoys that demarcated the swimming area, and out of her lover’s sight. He listened for any indication she had turned around. “Shepard?” Garrus approached the lake’s edge and raised his chin as he strained to see what was happening. There was a faint splash. She was gone, and the water was still; only strokes of moonlight graced the glassy surface. Any evidence of Circe Shepard had plunged into the obscured depths with her. He listened again, and he began to grow nervous as the silence stretched on. A full minute passed, then another, and another. “Shepard?” he asked plaintively. “Shepard!”
His stomach churned—a rare feeling usually brought on by stones that had grown too smooth and useless in his gut. Garrus tore his boots off. He looked down at his feet as his talons gripped tight to the pebble-strewn beach. His breaths were short and nervous. As the water lapped over his toes, any hesitation he had washed away, and he trudged into the lake with clumsy steps, his thick soles pounding the rocky bottom. He continued until the water hit his spurs and wicked up the fabric of his pants.
“CIRCE!” he cried, the flange of his voice drawn high. The last vowel had hardly left his throat when a sudden splash rose and fell further from shore.
