Author note: So, I'm getting back into writing after a huge mental breakdown that destroyed my confidence that made me delete all my stories. I'm also a huge depressive - so if you're looking for something fluffy, turn back now.

Disclaimer: Owned by BioWare, I just play with the characters in the hope that I can entertain and touch readers in some way.

Prologue

And Did I Tell You?

That the all the worlds shone in her eyes?

That the very moon of her earth stood ashamed at the glow on her cheeks when she smiled and said my name?

Did I tell you that, my friend?

Did I tell you that when she moved it was sunlight glimpsing around an eclipse, or that when she looked away I looked only at her?

Those words were bitter, hollow even as the eulogies were said, passing between old friends, new friends, and those who felt they had to say something. The words remained unsaid when he spoke his own, finding solace in the formal, bleak words he'd found on the extranet that had meant enough and not enough. They crumbled and twisted in the weak autumnal air that infiltrated the building, colder than it was even outside. And he pulled the coat closer around himself as he left the podium, cursing the weather for being like this. He cursed them for not finding her, for not being able to save her. He cursed himself for not being there.

But now, Iodine was gone. With it the colour drained, almost unnoticeable at first but now it was dull.

He always said she had a strange name. But without that name it was stranger. And she became as such. The words they said about her were about a stranger. Even his.

"Alright, Bird-face?" He snorted at the hushed acknowledgement as he sat back in the pews. The church, that was the name of the place, the church had some sort of meaning to her. Something about when she was a baby. He couldn't remember. Still, he looked at the person who spoke to him, the life she saved in giving up her own.

"Under the circumstances. Absolutely not." He muttered back blithely. He sighed. "And you, Joker?"

The pilot looked uncomfortable. "I've been a lot better. I could be much worse though." His arm was in thin splints wrapped with gauze, hand immobilised in plaster, his ribcage fatter with bandages, heavy metalwork adorned his hips and legs to help them set. They all heard the story of how she all but threw the brittle boned man into the escape pod and just about managed to slam the airlock closed before The Normandy was torn apart. How he felt his elbow shatter as he hit the chairs when the artificial gravity stopped working and he bumped into the most of the innards before getting buckled in. "I... yeah, I could be worse."

The meaning hung there and they shared a minute of grief that had the sussuration of half-word eulogies breaking their silence. "We could go for drinks after. If you want?" Joker asked. "Just like you know, when they made her Spectre. You can beat me in poker as many times as you're able."

"I know you mean best. But who will clear me out of all of the winnings?"

You know, without her there?

Without that straight face that told no lies or truths, that promised riches then robbed you blind?

Did I tell you, my friend?

Tell you of that night when she held my heart and played with it like those cards?

"Liara can play a mean hand." Joker tried.

He shrugged, this planet was too damn cold. "It would not be the same. But... thank you. I should probably go, have a bit of air. There is too many people here." Too many of them meaningless, they did not need to be there.

He left without a backward glance, just kept on going, and going, faster, as far as where his feet could take him.

Searched for purpose.

Time went on, but the wounds stayed open.

He tried to recreate that feeling, that glorious warmth of camaraderie that she inspired. That stance against all that was wrong. No looking for differentiating shades, all black and white with nothing in between.

Yet it was just grey. All one grey and nothing stood out.

Before he truly knew it, two years had come and gone. The anniversary marked of when she left. Not the last he saw of that unforgettable face, nor the first he laid eyes upon her. No, the day she would never come back, the day that hope had simply vanished. When what could be said could not.

He marked it, knew it in the back of his brain like a cruel omen. Each year it was more surreal, less tangible.

The way she moved like sunlight darting from behind a moon.

Did I ever tell you that, my friend?

The way the rifle swung in her grip, the careful aim, and savoured pull of the trigger.

She made it art, though it was not her medium.

For a brief moment it was white in the grey, black outlines and that so familiar yet so unattainable feeling. He saw it. Nobody moved like that.

Not any more.

He put his sniper rifle to his visor, searching down the scope for it again. Everything swore inside his head to not be so damned foolish, but everything else moved his body into action, made him search.

And she lifted her head and looked up at him. She could not see him, not from the dark cubby where he hid and shot from. Not from that distance.

The ghost of that stranger whose funeral had no words that were for her. But she looked at him.

And colour returned for a while. Hope blossomed and vigour started pounding in his veins. Because she was coming up. He watched for a while as she fought against the mercenaries coming for him. Knew that it had to be her.

And did I ever tell you, that of all the worlds,

Across all the star systems,

There was nobody like you?

If you could hear it, I would whisper it in the hopes that it was understood.

And when she stood in front of him again, it was vibrant. Iodine water streaming out of a helmet before settling about her face in an ethereal fog, the eyes that saw too many worlds and mirrored them back.

There had been no hesitation, but all remorse as he saw that rocket come toward them. As he stood up and knew what to do.

And when he collapsed, dark blue blood pooling in his vision, and she removed her gloves, wiping it away. Calling for medigel and swabs, shouting into the comms on her omnitool for help.

His head was in her arms. He could see her through that bloody haze, as clear as anything. The furrow of worry that pinched her brows, the way her bottom lip quivered when she dabbed more blood away.

And there had never been a safer place.

And will I ever tell you that, my friend?

How no place could match being with you, wherever that may be?