-Garrus-

"Why, Officer, I must say I've never quite been treated in such a way," Jane says with a smirk pulling at her flushed lips.

Garrus chuckles tiredly and nuzzles against her jaw. "I would hope not." He unlocks the cuffs around her wrists and tosses them aside to message the light pink ring in her skin. "Is this what you meant about humans 'role-playing'?"

She laughs at that and cups his mandibles. "How the hell would I know?" She kisses him along his mandible and he purrs in response, resting his weight on his forearms, too comfortable over her to move. "Besides, I think it turned out quite well."

He snorts and nudges her chin up to lick against the salty-sweet taste of her after-sex sweat. "I'll admit that when you said we should celebrate our first year of marriage by reenacting our first meeting, I was skeptical, but this turned out better than expected." He lifts his head and licks lightly at her lips. "Though, I'm glad we just skipped the Presidium and did everything in the privacy of the little courtyard of our hotel room."

She chuckles lightly and nods. "Could you imagine? You're expected back to C-Sec in a week." Her green eyes gaze off as she imagines. "I wonder how many regulations are against using cuffs for that purpose."

He rumbles in mock admonishment and kisses her, letting his tongue tangle with her softly. "Let's not talk about C-Sec," he scolds with a lowered brow plate. "I can think of much more entertaining ways to spend our two days together before the Normandy leaves."

Her eyes brighten at his lowered thrum and she smiles, her flat teeth holding her lip in that look of mischief that always manages to make her look younger – despite the fact that she's stark naked and surrounded by the smells of their shared exertions. "That so, Vakarian?" she purrs and wraps her arms around his neck, stroking softly along the underside of his center crest and making his breath pick up. "Well then, I happen to know this hotel room has a very nice hot tub. What do you say we try that out next?"

He growls in response and moves to stand, lifting her with her hold around his neck and his hands wrapping around her waist. "Just so long as you're aware our thoughts on water." She smirks, her legs folding over his hips as he carries her, and he runs his tongue along the sensitive span of her neck, making her expression falter with a gasp. "I guess I'll just have to cling to you to keep from going under," he whispers into her ear and smirks at the tightening of her hold.

"I can think of too many reasons for you to go under," she whispers back with a quick swipe of her tongue along the inside of his mandible. "But I think we can manage."

Vakarian.

Vakarian, wake up.

Spirits damn it. Wake the hell up, Garrus!

Garrus jerks awake from sleep at the sound of a distinctly Turian voice and he blinks away the fog of sleep to see a young officer fidgeting at the doorway of their shared office as if unsure whether to enter.

He'd been assigned with Corporal Crux under the guise that the younger man under shadow him in Investigations and learn before taking his own case, but Garrus knew the truth was really an attempt at trying to temper his usual determination to 'go against regulations'. Though young, Crux had a tendency to constantly remind him of when his methods were falling outside usual C-Sec protocol and it grated on his usually calm nerves.

The only thing that kept Garrus from just ignoring the man was the fact that running his cases with another gave him the time to attend his Spectre training almost immediately after his wife had returned to duty a little over a Standard month ago. He sure didn't like coming back to this place after nearly six months working at Jane's side and under the command of someone who wasn't as restricted as C-Sec's face-less protocols, but he at least had a horizon to look to, a 'light at the end of the tunnel' as he mate would say.

Barely clamping down on the sub-harmonic rumble of irritation in his voice, Garrus stands from his chair, giving up hopes on getting back to sleep. "Any reason why you're bothering me during break?" he asks with narrowed eyes. "Or did C-Sec pass some new rule while I was gone that says we can't tend to our natural biological processes?"

Crux crosses his arms over his chest, but actually chirrups an apology in his vocals. "Apologies, but I thought you'd want to know that Brecht is being released-"

"What?!" He walks around his desk with a low growl. "Under whose orders?"

The younger man actually drops his eyes away from his aggravated partner and his arms drop. "Your father ordered he be released." His mandible flutters before quickly snapping back into place. "Our only suspect is going to walk."

"Not if I can help it."

Forgetting his rude awakening earlier and his body completely energized, Garrus pushes past his younger colleague and makes for his father's office, his mandibles tightened against his jaw in both anger and to keep a tight hold on his harmonics. He can't let Brecht go, can't let the man get an opportunity to cover his tracks or hire someone to clean up any trace of his involvement in Garrus' case.

A case that had started with the order to look into instances of missing, middle to lower class human citizens who have suddenly fallen off the radar shortly after docking on the station to possibly look for work under any number of the various companies offering off-shore employment. Once that connection was established, it didn't take long for Garrus and his partner to find discrepancies in the victims' activities that eventually led the detectives to various companies all owned by a single man, William Brecht.

It had turned out that said companies didn't actually exist outside of electronic paperwork – which was shoddy, at best – and that was enough for Garrus to bring Brecht in for questioning. From there, it wasn't long before the pathetic excuse of a man admitted to tricking, kidnapping, and trafficking all the poor souls outside of Citadel space to be traded on Omega to Batarian slavers.

Garrus could care less the man's reasons or trade-off. The only thing that mattered now is making sure the bastard doesn't get the chance to slip through his talons and get a chance to slip into the shadows to disappear. He let that happen with Saleon – and only managed to fix that problem thanks to Jane – and he'd be damned to let it happen here.

He storms into the small room that overlooks the out-processing center, making sure to ignore the sight of Brecht filling out paperwork with a bag of possessions under his arm in order to keep his little bit of control intact, and stops to stare straight into the impassive mask of his father's plates.

"How the hell can you let Brecht go?" Garrus just barely manages to say without the growl that's threatening to burst from his throat. "Do you realize the case we built against him?" A short growl escapes his chest.

His father raises one brow plate, unimpressed by the show of aggression, and crosses his arms behind his back while turning to the window to overlook Out-Processing. "You think you have a case against him once his lawyer catches wind of how you gained his confession? I don't know how your Spectre did things, but C-Sec gains evidence properly." He turns his head slightly and Garrus sees one stark blue eye glance in his direction. "Or have you completely forgotten how to do things right?"

At that, Garrus growls and walks towards his father, causing the older Turian to turn his attention back to his son. "And you just circumvented my request for action? I barely put the order in less than six hours ago."

His dad waves dismissively. "I removed your request from the systems. You know C-Sec has no control outside of Citadel space, so your request to carry your case into Omega would just waste time and take the place of a legitimate request from another Officer."

Tightening his fists as his sides, Garrus twitches his mandibles in agitation that's slowly starting to push against his efforts of restraint with the older Turian. "So you'll just let this go on… Brecht will go out, lure more people in, and sell them off to slavers." He scoffs and tosses his head, the clear sign of insubordinate disregard actually managing to get narrowed eyes out of his usually emotionless father. "You may be able to live with that, but I won't."

"Remember your place, Garrus." A low thrum of reprimand hits Garrus' ears, yet it doesn't hold as much pull as it once did when he was a child. Perhaps because the younger man is already too angry to fall in line. "If you had done things right, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Brecht would still be under arrest and you'd still have a case. You may not have had your opportunity to place disillusioned hero on Omega, but you'd stop your human trafficking on the Citadel." He drops his hands to his side and two sets of ice-blue eyes lock. "I knew it was a mistake for you to get approval to serve under that Spectre. Not only do you think you can circumvent the rules to fit your agenda like one of them, but apparently you share the human's arrogant view-"

"Enough," Garrus growls as he steps into his father's personal space, his vocals humming in threat and his mandible shifted lower against his jaw, and the older Turian blinks in confusion before quickly regaining composure. "Insult me all you want, but don't say a word about her."

His father's face hardens as he stares intently into his son's eyes. A moment of silence passes between the two, not enough for Garrus' vibrating vocals and harmonics to steady, but enough for him to realize the aggressive posture he's taken against his own father and he takes a step back in the most acquiescence he's willing to offer. The older Turian doesn't remark on the remaining cues, instead turning his back in his typical dismissal that Garrus has come to know all too well over his life with the unmoving man.

"Though I can't fault your for actually supporting your commanding officer, which is actually an action I would have never expected from you, you no longer serve under the Spectre while at C-Sec." Garrus drops his gaze to the floor to keep himself from telling the man just how much he'd rather serve on the Normandy, fixing the Mako and all, than here in the endless loop of paperwork. "Perhaps you aren't cut out for this, Garrus. Take the rest of the day. You aren't in a mindset to get anything done."

Garrus clamps his mandibles tight to keep from making the situation worse – Jane's smart mouth has really rubbed off on me if I struggle just to hold my tongue – and, instead, turns to leave the observatory. With a quick glance at his father's unmoving back, he steps out into the brightly lit hallway and rests his forehead against the cool wall to collect himself. No use storming through C-Sec growling like a maniac, he admits.

Despite the uncomfortable feeling that the conversation with his father will most likely lead to some very difficult postings from now until the day he finally manages to get out of the force- not to mention the fact that Brecht walked, which he will never forget – Garrus can't help but think that at least he can use the rest of the day for his training. He certainly needs to calm his nerves with something more engaging than paperwork and, since Jane isn't around to ease that tension, he isn't going to disregard some beneficial violence, even it's mostly simulated target practice or VI sparring.

V.v.V.v.V

His shot echoes in the large room of the shooting range and he doesn't have to retrieve the target or use his visor to enhance the distant image to know his aim is off. Again. Just like every other shot he's taken the past three hours.

He sighs and sets his rifle down, the black metal of its surface gleaming in the bright lights without reflecting back, almost as if absorbing the light. The Widow was a gift from his wife during their hunt for Saren – though, if anyone asked, it was merely a means to give the crew the best weaponry – and he had taken to using it during his Spectre training since there was no restrictions against it. Sure, team exercises called for him to use standard equipment, which wasn't surprising and had never caused much issue for him, but, right now, he was alone and taking full advantage of feeling the weight and the kick of the heavy rifle.

If only he could hit the stupid target today.

The problem isn't even what had happened earlier today, either. Of course he was still angry at his father for releasing Brecht and for talking to him like a damn child, but he's gotten used to that over the years. Losing a suspect still pissed him off, but it never interfered with his work and arguing with his dad was such a usual occurrence that he mostly just lets the older Turian's words slide over his plates now because he has better things to look forward to than approval he's never going to get.

No, something was different. Something he couldn't quite place, yet it made his muscles tense and his mind constantly drift away from his task. What the hell is going on?

He's pulled from his thoughts by the pinging on his Omni-Tool and he looks to it with a confused head tilt, not really knowing who would be messaging him at this time of the day. It's too early in the Normandy's day cycle for Jane to be off duty or in a position where she'd have the privacy to message him, he's already at the Spectre facilities so he wouldn't need electronic hails concerning his training, and he doubts C-Sec would want anything to do with him until tomorrow considering his father all but kicked him out for the remainder of his day.

Pulling the message up onto the interface of his visor to read in case it's private, he quickly reads a hail to report at the human Embassies and make his way to the office of the newly appointed Councilor. Odd, but he doesn't really question it, thinking it probably has to do with the Council wanting more information on the Reaper threat.

Took them long enough to follow up, he thinks as he packs up his rifle. He can't remove it from the Spectre premises due a restriction disallowing him to transport it through the Citadel without the presence of a Spectre, despite the fact that it's coded to his DNA. Though it's strange to find a Spectre like his mate that willingly offers the best weapons to her subordinates – which she did to the entire ship, not just himself – he's sure that someone should take a second consideration of the flawed logic, but he'll settle with keeping the Widow here in the meantime. He still has his modified Mantis, after all.

After packing his things up in his designation station in the Spectre training facilities, he takes a cab to the Presidium. It doesn't take long reach the only place on the entire station that looks as it once did before Sovereign, the Wards still littered with debris and currently undergoing critical repairs in order to become entirely livable again. To Garrus, that isn't much of a surprise to see as it seems that most on the Citadel are too preoccupied with the overall image of what the station represents than its actual ability to function properly or provide homes to all its residents.

The Embassy is bustling with activity of all kinds, people of every race seeming to rush to some destination as if the Geth were rushing through the relay all over again, and he has to struggle to get through. The crowd clears exponentially once he manages to make it to the doors that lead into the more private offices of the higher officials, their closure at his back successfully cutting off the din of scuffling feet and jumbled voices.

The entrance to the Councilor's office is fenced by two C-Sec officers in the crisp uniforms of the diplomatic guards and Garrus gives a nod as he passes, surprised at the fact that they don't question the seemingly random Turian approaches without prompt as if even they know of his expected arrival. It's certainly strange, knowing that even usual meetings with Councilors are questioned for security purposes, but he lets it go as maybe just the usual strictness is a reflection on the Councilor's preferences themselves and not protocol.

In the office is the human Councilor, Anderson, who Garrus knows was once a superior officer for Jane and remembers as helping them get out of the Citadel lock-down at the possible cost of his position and reputation, and Joker, the Normandy's pilot.

That makes him stop in his tracks. If the pilot is here, then, surely, the Normandy must be docked, but he hadn't heard anything from Jane. Sure, she was known to surprise him, but those instances were always the result of sudden sparks of inspiration as she was never any good at keeping any long term secrets, the excitement and expectation getting the best of her.

He's always had a good idea on how to deduce things from the clues before him, and he usually came to the correct conclusions, but, right now, he doesn't think that ability is quite the boon he once thought. He forces himself not to jump to conclusions, silently demanding to control himself until someone just says something, dammit!, and ignores the sudden sharp ache under his keel that promises otherwise.

"Garrus…," Joker says weakly, he hands ringing the hat that Garrus just realizes isn't on his head as usual.

The Councilor, seeming to see the way the pilot can't force his eyes up to the Turian or his lips to continue, steps forward with a weird expression on his face that Garrus can't quite place. "Officer Vakarian. You may want to take a seat."

He motions to a chair before his desk, but Garrus' eyes snap to the standing figures of the two Alliance men and he thinks that no, he'd rather stand when they only confirm what his body is silently urging him is true. He clenches his suddenly numb hands and nods his head in understanding at the new diplomat, dropping his head to try and clamp down on his soon-to-be-telling vocals that are clawing at his chest and throat.

The words of the older man are barely heard, let alone registered, over the loud nothingness in his ears, like he is hearing everything, yet stuck in an isolation chamber at the same time. He doesn't need to hear the tightly kept voice try to maintain composure as he relays the tales with words like attacked and Normandy lost and didn't make it to know what that sick lurching in his gizzard says without real words.

Jane, his wife, his bondmate, his second half, his life, is gone.

He closes his eyes, his lungs burning as if he can't breathe – much like she couldn't – and he can't help it - he keens, high and cutting in his own ears, as he grips the sides of his head in his hands. A warm hand lands on his shoulder in unwanted sympathy, but he doesn't shrug it off, doesn't react until a single voice cuts through the haze.

"I should have listened to her… I should have just let the Normandy go and gotten to an escape pod." Garrus' keen cuts off like a knife, but he doesn't look up, hoping for the brittle human's sake that he isn't hearing what he thinks he is.

It's the whispered confession of "She'd be alive if it wasn't for me" from the pilot that has the Turian moving with a speed no one would have expected in full, medium armor, grabbing Joker's shirt in his gloved hands and slamming him against the window of the office with a loud crack. Even his mandibles flick in satisfaction at the loud wail of pain that erupts around the sudden movement of the other occupants in the room to restrain the angered alien.

He waits until the scream dies down enough for the man to hear and he lowers his lip plates closer to the pilot's ear. "You let her die because you were too concerned about your damn ship?" he growls, his voice nearly untranslatable over the erratic harmonics. "Do you know what would happen if you were Turian?"

His instincts are roaring to maim, kill, torture the useless human, only lamenting that the satisfaction would be greatly lessened because he was nothing more than invalid. Why a respectable military would ever let such a pathetic excuse in their midst is pitiful- disgusting- and does nothing to prove humans as the intelligent species they claim. His mate is dead for what? A useless waste of flesh and oxygen to live another day to be coddled by his people?

He growls and moves to slam the broken man against the window, just to see if he can make a louder crack this time, when he hears the whir of a weapon. His attention snapping to the source and sees a pistol pointed in his direction, but cares little for the threat it's trying to pose. His blood is pumping in anticipation of action, listing out all the possible ways to incapacitate those in his way to the little bit of satisfaction, his only way to feed the impossible burning that's coursing through his suddenly numb and empty self.

"Put him down, son," Anderson calmly intones, his face loose and open in attempts to try and get through to the frantic Turian. His grip is firm on his weapon, but he shifts his stance to seem less threatening against the tension that courses off the near-animalistic alien. "She wouldn't want this."

"No she wouldn't" Garrus agrees with a growl, the unusual cadence of his dual voice causing the humans to flinch, though the Councilor manages to keep it to a slight twitch of his eyes. "She would want to live."

With that, Garrus shoves away from the frail pilot, not caring as the man falls to the ground with a whimper and watery eyes. "It should have been you," he says to the worthless waste at his feet before turning to the former Captain.

The man doesn't drop his weapon, moving to stand beside Joker and offering a hand up, but he also doesn't try to stop Garrus when he turns and shoves past the two weary C-Sec officers. He vaguely hears the older human tell them to let him go, but doesn't care to know his reason, the deep ache of nothingness and burning pain starting to overtake the rush of adrenaline to pump through his veins.