Liara gave herself a week to share her findings. Not because it would take her that long to collect, cull, sort, and analyze the data – that would only take a day or two – but because she needed time to process. She had recognized her feelings for the Commander early on in their friendship, and Shepard had possessed the grace to gently turn the young asari down. Liara had always been grateful to Shepard for that, and for having continued their friendship to the point where the two were more like sisters than colleagues. Liara cherished that relationship, knowing that Shepard understood and respected her like no other, with the obvious exception of her mate, Garrus.
That's where it got a bit complicated. Liara, leaning her forehead on the cool windowpane in her quarters, knew her feelings for Shepard had never really gone away. It was the main reason she still hadn't pursued Feron at all, though of course the Reaper War had gotten in the way of most romantic pursuits where the participants didn't have a shared interest in what Shepard affectionately referred to as "blowing shit up."
Liara had noticed the Commander's interest in Garrus likely before Shepard had, noticing subtleties in her language, her movement, her expressions. She had talked with Tali about that night on the Citadel where they had gone after Sidonis, and though she had never had the chance to hear the full story about Omega, she could see the way Shepard still sometimes looked at the scars covering the right side of Garrus' face, and knew that Shepard blamed herself– blamed herself for her death, for his loss of hope, for his desperate flight to that goddess-forsaken heart of evil, for not having taken the missile herself. The awkward, naïve archæologist had learned much in her years as an information broker on Illium. Everyone halfway decent blames themselves. She was privately glad that Shepard had managed to convince Garrus not to shoot Sidonis, because Shepard blamed herself for enough already.
Her work in tracking down the previous Shadow Broker was not the only reason Liara had avoided contact with Shepard during her pursuit of the Collectors. Having seen the way Garrus had involuntarily twitched when Shepard had hugged Liara when they first saw each other on Illium, and the way they stood inches closer without realizing it, then working with them to take down the Broker… it had been all too obvious, and all too painful. For years, knowing that Miranda was working to bring Shepard back, Liara had secretly nursed her feelings for Shepard, hoping against hope that she would change her mind, throwing herself into her work to avoid the inevitable second thought that she would not. Back on the Normandy after taking control of the Broker network, she had carefully voiced her suspicions, and her heart had simply cracked when they were confirmed. She was, of course, glad to know that Shepard was happy, and that Garrus was happy, and in no way was she bitter– but it hurt, oh Goddess, it hurt.
She had never been more glad of the numerous empty rooms in the Broker's base as she was that night. She'd cried and cried– just let it all out. She'd meditated: tried to focus her biotics enough to create a ball, like she'd seen the justicar do when she'd peeked in on her in the observation lounge. It was incredibly difficult, but by the end of the night she'd managed to hold it for a second or two, and she'd fallen asleep exhausted, tear-streaked, but feeling just a little bit better.
Things had been better after that. And then she came back to the Normandy, and worked with Shepard again, and knew that the twinges she felt weren't just residual pain from wounds sustained in the fighting. She also knew that what she was planning on proposing to Shepard and Garrus would require the utmost respect and understanding between the three of them, and she had to be in the right state of mind to even consider it– otherwise, she would be doing them a disservice, and the outcome would be… hurtful.
And so, she rested her head against the window, and gazed out into space.
Liara essentially only came out of her room that week to eat, drink tea, and wash. She shut off her datafeeds as much as possible, telling Glyph to inform her operatives that due to repairs from war damage, she would be unavailable except in emergencies. It wasn't entirely untrue. She did need to run diagnostics and repair systems which she'd been living without since the end of the war. There were a few urgent calls which went to her omnitool, and she dealt with those calmly.
The rest of her time was spent sitting on her bed or on the floor, eyes closed, shimmering biotic sphere held in front of her. She'd rigged a holoprojector to display the pieced-together images from the Normandy's cameras, graciously provided by EDI. She sat in darkness, lit by the stars when the ship flew at sublight speeds, and by the shifting lights when they ran at FTL. EDI cut the feed to black when they flew through a relay, the extreme light show a bit much.
Liara had only managed to hold a sphere near the end of the war, after the missions on Thessia: she had run to her room upon returning to the Normandy, shaking off Shepard's sympathy, ignoring Javik's strange cross of pity and condescension, and locking the door behind her as she slid to the floor, weeping. She had lain there for an eternity, tear-trails on her armour, joints stiff from the restrictive hardsuit, mind whirling, heart aching. Finally, she'd numbly stripped each piece of armour off, crawling to her bed, still sobbing weakly, feeling bereft – feeling like Noveria, but somehow so much worse. She sat on her bed, clad only in her undersuit, crossed her legs, and sought refuge in meditation. She drew on everything in her mind and body – each feeling, thought, and image – and gently let them leave her, directing them softly into a nexus of emotion which slowly began to coalesce without her noticing. Her mother had taught her this technique when she was even younger, more impulsive: when her frustration at not being delicate enough with her precision tools and fragile artifacts gave way to anger and destruction. Take everything from you, and let it go. Embrace the universe; meld with it. See it as your partner, your lover, your friend– one who lets you down, but who will always be there. Share your pain and suffering, your joy and peace.
When she had opened her eyes, much later, she was astonished to see the silver ball hovering above her lap. She knew, instinctively, what it was: she laid her hand on it as if caressing it, and then she mentally let it go. It dissipated into the air, into the fabric of the universe, and it seemed to Liara's tired mind that she could feel a subtle flash of biotic energy go through her and the ship. She took off her undersuit, pulled on some nightclothes, and slipped into bed.
Since that long day (EDI, who had been gently warding off many of her friends with a carefully-measured "Dr. T'Soni is meditating and wishes to not be disturbed", had told her that she had been in her room for roughly three shifts, or about eighteen hours) she had regularly returned to the ball meditation, feeling as if she was imbuing the Normandy with her own energy. It had struck her as maternal at the time, like shielding her friends. It had given her calm during the last days of the war. In the chaos following the final battle, she had not meditated more than a few minutes a day (though she was making excuses not to: there were many things about the end of the war that she did not want to revisit any time soon), and it was only now that she was drawn back to it. It was not solely for her own sake; for her friends' sake, she needed to be at peace.
The stars slipped around her still blue form, her face illuminated by the light flung from the ball floating in front of her, and she thought of Shepard, of friendship, of love, and of motherhood.
On the seventh day, still with her eyes closed, the ball still hovering in its eternal tranquility, she keyed open her omnitool and sent a short message.