Garrus tapped on the closed door of Lexa's room. "Lex, it's time to go."

"No! I don't want to!"

Garrus sighed. Visits with Shepard and David had become a regular end-of-the-week event. Usually Lexa was happy to go, eager to play with her friend or the puppy. Tonight she'd been holed up in her room since she got home from school. "We'll be late if we don't leave now," he said, checking the time. Shepard had hinted at a surprise, and he didn't want to be late.

"I don't want to go." There was a sharp, suppressed noise from the other side of the closed door. Garrus frowned, registering the angry tones of her subvocals.

"Open the door, Lex." Only mutinous silence followed. "Lex," he repeated, more sternly.

The door flew open, and his daughter glared up at him. "Right, now we can have a reasonable discussion—" he began, but she interrupted.

"I don't. Want. To go. Anywhere. We'd have to take a... a car..." She swallowed, and he could see her mandibles quivering. "... and I don't want to do that today." She gave him a hard stare, but her mandibles were quivering. "I can't believe you forgot." She shut the door—not quite a slam, but a little more force than necessary. There was a thump—probably Lexa throwing herself onto her bed—and then the return of that suppressed keening.

Fuck. He hadn't forgotten. He'd just... been trying very hard not to think about it. Easier since the Citadel operated on the asari calendar rather than the turian. Easier to pretend that it wasn't exactly one year since he'd gotten pulled out of a vidcomm meeting with the colonial primarchs.

There's been an accident.

His own father would never have brooked a display of defiance like Lexa's. Door-slamming, defiance of a parent: these were serious faults, meriting discipline. Or maybe Dad would have, under the right circumstances. Garrus hadn't lost his mother until he was an adult, after all.

He leaned his head against the door. "Lex. I didn't forget."

There was a brief, waiting silence. Garrus tried another tack. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather do something fun? Take your mind off things?"

"Just leave me alone, Dad!"

He winced. Maybe he ought to insist she open the door and take part in the despised activity.

Maybe he ought to open the door himself and hold her until she calmed down.

Maybe he should simply do as she asked.

"All right. I'll be... I'll be right out here."

He headed back toward the living room and called Shepard. She sounded slightly out of breath. "Garrus? What's up?"

"I hate to do this when you said you had something planned, but we won't make it tonight."

"Why not?" Her voice sharpened. "Is something wrong?"

He tensed as Lexa's keening got louder. "Is that Lexa?" Shepard asked, sounding startled.

"Yeah." He forced himself to walk away from the door and sat on the couch. "She's... upset. It's been a year since the accident, and..." He trailed off, having no good idea how to finish that sentence.

"Oh," said Shepard. He almost cut the call in the quiet moment that followed, but before he could, she said, "Do you need anything?"

"I... No. I guess not. I don't know."

"Call back if you think of something," she said firmly.

"Okay. Thanks."

Garrus ended the call. Lexa was still crying. He couldn't just sit there while she sounded like that. He stood up and went back to her door.

"Lex? Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Can I come in?"

"No. I said just leave me alone."

Great. Well, he was hungry. Sort of. He had no real appetite, just an awareness that he hadn't eaten in hours. He stalked back to the kitchen, reheated a frozen meal, and ate it without tasting it. That chore accomplished, he paced through the length of the apartment, wondering if he should go in anyway. He tried to talk to Lexa once more before the outer door chimed, with as little result.

It was Shepard. With the dog. It whined and pawed at his leg while Garrus stared at it blankly.

"Down, Rusty. I got over here as fast as I could," said Shepard, a little breathless.

"What?" he said, feeling stupid.

"She really likes the dog. I thought it might help." She frowned at him, as if he should understand. "Can I come in?"

He stepped back and waved toward Lexa's bedroom. "Go ahead. She doesn't want to talk to me, apparently."

Shepard patted his arm as she passed. Garrus watched her knock on the door. After a moment, it opened a crack and the puppy bounded in, barking. Shepard followed.

Feeling utterly useless, he returned to the living room and sat heavily on the couch.

A few minutes later, Shepard reappeared. She stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip. "Where do you keep the booze around here, Garrus?"

"Cabinet in the kitchen. I think she's a little young for that, though." He didn't watch as she went into the kitchen.

"Not for her. For you." She returned and set a glass of brandy in front of him. "You look like you need it."

"It didn't take me long to figure out that getting drunk didn't help. It just added a hangover to the problem."

"I don't think one glass is going to get you drunk."

She was probably right, he reflected. He picked up the glass.

Shepard didn't say anything while he finished. And at least Lexa had stopped keening, not that he'd had anything to do with it. The quiet should have been soothing, but instead it grated on his nerves. "Well. It's good to know I can be replaced by a hairy, four-legged drool machine."

"Hey." Shepard touched his arm. "It's not like that. The pet is warm and cuddly and comforting. You can tell it anything and it just listens, without judging or expecting anything."

He wanted to snarl in frustration. Instead, he yanked his arm away, snapping, "What kind of parent do you think I am, exactly?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's just... the animal is simpler, that's all."

Garrus closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. Shepard said nothing. He half wished she'd say or do something, as a distraction. He was straining to hear the slightest noise from the bedroom, any sign of Lexa's mood, but the silence from that direction continued. Eventually he found himself saying, "Sometimes I wonder if she'd be better off if our positions had been reversed. If I'd been driving and Mely had survived."

"Garrus—"

"I just don't know, Shepard. I'm trying as hard as I can, but I just don't know if I'm doing the right thing for her. When Mely was alive, it seemed like we could always figure things out between the two of us, but now... I can't afford to fuck this up. Not this."

Her hand was on his arm again, and his time he let it stay, the pressure against his wrist vaguely comforting. "Don't do this to yourself. Look, I don't know if turians raise children differently from humans, but as far as I can tell, she's healthy, she's well-behaved, and she's doing well in school. She's smart and kind and she's a good kid, Garrus, so you're doing something right. And as for the other thing—" Shepard's voice wavered a little "—she loves you. It doesn't take much observation of the two of you together to tell that she adores you. If her mom were alive instead, she wouldn't be grieving less, she'd only be grieving differently. You're not fucking anything up. She's sad and angry right now and she's taking it out on you, that's all. She can take it out on you, because she trusts you completely and she knows that you'll never let her down."

He wanted to believe her, even if he couldn't feel any of it just then. "Pretty smart, Shepard," he managed.

She snorted. "Believe me, I've been here. David used to have the worst tantrums. Screaming, crying fits. Things got better. They'll get better for you and her, too."

"She was mad because she thought I'd forgotten what day it was. I hadn't, I'd just..."

"I know what you mean," she said quietly.

He leaned back on the couch, letting his head fall against the padded back, remembering. "I got called out of a meeting and raced down to the hospital as fast as I could, but... Mely was already gone." He cleared his throat, trying to control his own discordant vocals. He couldn't remember the details of the last conversation he'd had with Mely. Something totally banal, probably, something about the week's schedule and wishing each other a good day. If he'd known it was going to be the last conversation... he pulled himself back from the thought, saying, "Lexa was banged up and dazed. She grabbed on when I came into her room and she just held on so tight. She'd hardly let me out of her sight for a week." That was certainly a change from now, he thought bitterly.

Shepard's grip on his arm tightened. She said, "I didn't hear about Kaidan for two days. Security issues. There are these romantic stories in human culture, where if you truly love someone, you know if they're in trouble or if something happened to them, but I didn't. I was a little worried, sure, but not more than for any other mission." Her shoulders rose and fell. "Romantic nonsense, I guess."

He hummed in assent. "I think asari can sometimes do that for real. Or maybe those are just stories, too."

Shepard nodded. Her hand moved up and down his arm, absently stroking. "Do you want to talk about her? You don't have to, but... if you want to, I'll listen."

His breath came out in a creaky kind of sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. "I don't even know where to start."

"The beginning?" she suggested.

He snorted. "The beginning. Okay. I met her at this ceremony. You probably know the type, a memorial for the fallen plus medals for those still standing."

"Yup, we do them, too. Boring as hell."

"Right. So I was behaving myself for once, and I heard someone near me making sly little remarks about the honored and venerable speakers. I looked around and figured out who it was because most of the other people near us were giving her dirty looks and edging away."

"Smart mouth, huh? Sounds like just your type."

Garrus managed more of a real laugh this time. "Yeah. So she got called up for her award—she was getting an Azure Star, they give it to field medics who go beyond the call for their patients. And she accepted it, proper and polite as anything, and came back and started in with the digs again. Then I got called up—I was getting a Shield of Palaven, for, well, everything. They gave this long speech about all of my supposed accomplishments, half of which were things you'd done—"

"You were there, too. Take the credit you're due."

"Eh." He waved it off with his free hand. "So, long speech, I was standing up on the platform wearing the thing. It's this huge, ostentatious piece of metal, almost as big as a dinner plate, and shiny enough you could see your face in it, and I had to stand there wearing it while they talked about me. I looked out over the audience, and I swear she winked at me. And then the speech was over and I went back to my place and she gave me a look and said, 'Nice shield. Think you could deflect a Reaper weapon with that?' I almost started laughing right there, and the ceremony was only half over. So I asked if she wanted to go out and get a drink afterward, instead."

"I'm guessing she said yes."

"Yeah." He shook his head. "I don't know, Shepard. She was smart and funny, and she put up with me for years, spirits only know why, and when she was alive, everything seemed easy. And now... I miss her so much, Shepard." He was shaking, now, with the effort of keeping his voice steady enough to be intelligible. Shepard's arm crept around his back, warm and firm and solid.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm going to spare you all the stupid bullshit people said to me when Kaidan died. I'm so, so sorry. I can tell you it hurt when he died, so much. And it did get better. Eventually. I'll listen any time you want to talk." She was quiet, for a time, while he got himself back under control. Her silent, steady presence was unexpectedly comforting, and comfortable. Eventually, she said, "You know, you're not that hard to put up with."

"Hm?" he said, momentarily puzzled.

"I always thought you were easy to get along with."

He tried to make sense of that remark. It was tempting to read in a little too much. He and Shepard had never really cohabited, though. Sharing close quarters on a frigate wasn't quite the same thing. That was probably all she meant.

"Um, ma'am?" They both looked up to see Lexa in the doorway, clutching the puppy's leash.

"Hey, Lexa, what is it?" Shepard asked.

"I think Rusty needs to go out."

Shepard got up, patting Garrus on the shoulder. "I'll take care of it," she said, taking the leash and drawing the puppy with her toward the door.

Garrus tried for a smile. "How are you doing, kiddo?"

"I think I feel better." She came halfway across the room before stopping, scuffing her toes against the rug. "Dad?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Relief loosened his muscles for the first time since she'd shut herself in the room. "It's okay, sweetheart. Come here?"

She finished crossing, eagerly, and all but burrowed into him, arms around his chest, head tucked against his cowl. He held her tight, remembering how she'd clung to both of them when she was small, remembering how hard she'd held on for that first week after the accident. He sighed. "I'm sorry. I should have remembered better, and asked what you wanted to do. Do you want to make a memorial tomorrow? I think there's a memorial flame in the park not far from here."

"Yeah," she said after a moment. "That sounds nice. Can we bring Rusty?"

He sighed again. "Yes. As long as it's okay with Shepard."