A/N: The original version of this chapter is explicit, so a modified version has been posted here. If you'd like to read the other version, please PM me. And as always, thank you for reading!

Shepard stayed silent the entire way back, her face etched in stony lines that kept Garrus quiet too.

She doesn't feel things the way I do, he thought after the second time he tried to start a sentence and she wouldn't look at him.

Still.

He put a hand on her back; not a reproach, just steady reassurance. Shepard tensed but when he stayed quiet, she relaxed and gave him a rueful half-smile.

You're not off the hook, Shepard. We will talk about this.

Shepard slung an arm around his carapace and pulled herself closer. In what seemed less like coincidence and more like happy telepathy, she had a response for exactly what he was thinking.

"I know you want to talk about this, Garrus, but I don't. Not yet." She kept her eyes on the alley ahead of them. "I'm fine, but let's just get home."

Garrus nodded. Shepard's arm had slipped lower, to rest around his waist. She may not have been trying to distract him, but now all he could think about was how quickly they could get back to base.

Two days was a long time to wait.

Shepard disappeared as soon as they passed into the base. Garrus knew she was waiting for him up in their room, impatient to talk about the mission and to invade his personal space as she checked him for wounds. He kept the debrief with the squad as short as possible before he assigned guard duty and sent the rest to the showers. No one questioned the early dismissal; exhaustion hit them hard once the battle-spell dropped away, even for the squadmates who hadn't gone on this mission.

Garrus took the stairs two at a time.

Shepard had her back to him, arranging his datapads into new stacks. He heard her impatient huff as he opened his armor case and ducked his head to hide the wide flare of his grin.

"Butler actually scared me a little today. I knew he had the Berserker gene mods - at least, I hope he did. If he was born that way, you should be terrified of him. Either way, maybe we should have started his dry spell a little earlier."

Garrus made a noncommittal noise as he unclasped his armor and shrugged it off. The relief hit him in a solid wave and left him so dizzy he had to lean against the wall before he could straighten up. He glanced over his shoulder at Shepard. She drummed her fingers on the desk and set the last datapad to the side.

"You're awful quiet, Garrus. Don't want to talk through the mission?"

"Not particularly," he said.

Shepard half-turned. "Did you have something else in mind?"

"You could say that," Garrus answered. He snapped his armor case shut and turned to face Shepard.

When their eyes met, the air went electric; every angle sharpened and even the light overhead felt brighter. Shepard leaned her hip on the desk and folded her arms across her chest.

As he walked toward her, Shepard smiled and looked away. He lifted her head with his thumb beneath her lip and pressed his forehead to hers, parsing the welter of his feelings: dregs of adrenalin, fury at Tarak, affection for the squad, exhaustion, worry, and in the center, the hot well of everything he felt for Shepard.

She stayed still as he traced her face with his fingers and eyes. It occurred to him that Shepard was never still without a reason; she could stand motionless for hours if the mission called for it, but given a choice, she would never stop moving. No one else had ever been given so much of her time or peace.

The base was quiet, the squad had relaxed its watch over him, and Shepard was only inches away.

"You're making that noise again."

He hummed and pushed closer.

"I think I've been very stupid."

Garrus opened his eyes. Shepard's irises were thin jeweled rings around wide pupils. "Stupid? You?"

She linked her fingers behind his neck. "Yeah. Here I am, worrying you haven't said... it back. You've been saying it the whole time, haven't you?"

Garrus kept his forehead pressed to hers as he nodded.

"Yeah, pretty stupid. Got a lot to learn." She laughed again, the sound coming out skewed and a little sad. "Good thing I've got so much time, right?"

If she stays still, she thinks too much, Garrus realized. That's why she doesn't let herself stop. The least I can do is try to make her stop thinking.

For that, speaking wouldn't be necessary.

Garrus woke in the middle of the night. Shepard's cool, still form wrapped around him, firm but not restrictive. He slid a hand down her bare back. Her hand squeezed his leg in response.

Shepard rolled away, her hands leaving his body reluctantly.

"Time for your patrol?"

She nodded in the gloom as she dressed. "You've still got a few hours before you need to be awake. I'll be back before the watch changes." She bent to kiss the top of his head and disappeared.

Garrus counted five minutes in his head before he swung to the floor and got dressed. Sleep was out of reach; he didn't want to stay in bed when Shepard wasn't there. He hoped the scum of Omega would stay quiet tonight.

The danger of a what if was how quickly one blossomed into many. The first stretched out sticky tendrils to snarl in his thoughts; everywhere it stopped, another fanned open and spread until he was lost in the tangle.

Garrus made himself stop pacing and sat down at his desk. This is like any other mystery, he told himself. You ask questions, you make connections.

He hesitated before opening a secure channel. The last conversation with his father had gone well, but that was no guarantee this one would. From experience, Garrus knew he could weather his father's disappointment, but his father's laughter was a different story.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened the channel. With luck, he wouldn't be calling in the middle of the night.

Thrace answered.

"Garrus," he said. "I'm beginning to think you actually want to talk to me. Your mother and sister are out. I'll try to entertain you while - "

"Dad," Garrus burst in, before his nerves failed completely, "what do you know about spirits?"

Thrace said nothing, so still that Garrus thought the screen was frozen.

"Dad?"

"I'm going to need a drink," said Thrace calmly. "A very big one." He walked off-screen. Garrus caught the clink of glass against glass.

His father sat down and stared at Garrus, not even a stray rumble giving away what he was thinking.

"I know you too well to bother asking why you're calling to talk about spirits, Garrus, and you know me too well to have forgotten that your mother's the religious one." Thrace gave one of his dry-twig laughs. Dualla Vakarian was only religious by turian standards; compared to the rest of the galaxy, she was an atheist. "So you want my opinion." He took a deep swallow of his drink and regarded Garrus. When Thrace spoke, it was clear he had chosen his words with more than his usual precision. He wanted his meaning to be perfectly clear.

"Spirits are not an answer to prayers. It's hard for the other races to understand that. They have their gods, their protectors, and those all exist to help. That's their whole existence. Spirits are unique. They exist because we bring them into being. We call them forth, not from our need, but from the acts of living and working together. They don't help us, because they are us. They may inspire, but they do not interfere. Some melding of purpose and place, honor and determination, called out of the dark." Thrace laughed again. "You caught me in a rare poetic mood. Don't tell your mother."

Garrus tried to laugh. "Can spirits change?"

"What do you think happens when a member of a squad dies, or an old building is torn down? Of course they change. The one thing they don't do is leave. Once we call them, they stay." Thrace cocked his head to the side. "Good thing it's a big galaxy. It would get pretty crowded otherwise."

"Have you heard of...ghosts?"

"Ghosts? Back when the first humans started showing up on the Citadel." Thrace shuddered. "It's a horrible idea. Undignified. When a person dies, they should just be dead. Gone is gone."

"Gone is gone," echoed Garrus. "Right."

His father didn't hear him. "I've often wondered what spirits would look like now that turians are serving with other races in such numbers." For the third time in the conversation, he laughed. "The spirit for my squad at C-Sec must have been one ugly bastard." His laugh cut off, and his eyes focused on Garrus, sharp and cold.

"What would the spirit of the Normandy have looked like, Garrus? Turians and humans built it. Then your Commander Shepard collected a krogan, a quarian, an asari - and you."He tapped his glass but didn't drink.

"It doesn't surprise me that humans came up with the idea of ghosts," he said. "They adapt to everything else. Why wouldn't they be the ones to find a way around death?"

Thrace took a drink. Garrus stared at his hands.

"Like I said, I'm not religious. You're just getting an old detective's ramblings. A priest would have been able to explain. Too bad they're all dead."

"It helped. I needed...clarity." Garrus tried to smile. His father didn't look convinced.

"You've never lacked that, son, only control." Thrace leaned back. "It looks like you've found that now, too. Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, it suits you."

A real smile touched Garrus' face. "You have no idea," he said.

Thrace smiled back. "Good," he answered. "Garrus, there's no easy segue for this, but I need to -" He went still, head cocked to the side in such an obvious listening posture that Garrus mimicked him without thinking. There was nothing to be heard, but Garrus watched Thrace close up, his body shuttering away any tells or hints of what he'd just heard.

"It can wait," said Thrace, without any emphasis. That peculiar emptiness in his voice chilled Garrus, for no reason he could pinpoint.

"Dad -"

"Your mother and sister are home," he said. "I'll tell them you said hello."

His father disconnected the call before Garrus could say anything else.

When the time came for his watch, Shepard hadn't returned. Garrus took his time with his armor, checking each piece before he put it on, but his delay was useless. Ripper's watch was finished, and the squad would comment if Garrus was a minute late. He gave his bed one last look and turned off the lights.

Ripper saluted as Garrus approached. Garrus tried to wave the gesture away. Ripper ignored him.

"Nothing to report, boss," he said. "Not even a pyjak. Looks like you've got a quiet night ahead of you."

"Just the way I like it. Thanks, Ripper."

Ripper tipped another salute and jogged back into the base. Garrus listened for his footsteps on the stairs, then for the door of the squad room to open. When the door hissed closed and he heard Ripper's footsteps overheard, he let himself sigh and slump down.

I am not going to worry about her, he told himself. She'll be back.

In his gut, he was almost grateful she left. He wanted - no, he needed - time to process the weedy hope that woke him, that made his heart lurch and his stomach go cold.

Garrus stood up straight and let the what-ifs form.

What if Shepard is a spirit, and not a ghost at all? What if I called her back - called her into being?

The implications made him dizzy. If he called her, would she hear?

Something moved at the end of the bridge. Training took over; as he pivoted, he brought his rifle up and sighted down the scope.

The burned woman stood at the end of the bridge. She raised her hands. Garrus kept his rifle up, marking where the burns seemed more healed, where stubble covered her scalp. Her head rocked side to side, then she trembled, a low scraping sound grinding out of her throat. The woman staggered forward, nearly falling, before she pulled herself up and faced him, her head moving in its slow arcs again.

Garrus lowered his rifle. "What are you?" he asked, pitching his voice so the squad couldn't hear.

The woman didn't answer. She twitched and shuddered, the sound forcing its way past her teeth again. A terrible, fascinated revulsion kept Garrus' eyes fixed on her, even when she dropped to her knees, clawing at her chest.

Garrus took a hesitant step toward her. His footsteps gritted on the bridge; at the sound, the woman's head jerked up, her blank gaze fixed somewhere to his left.

"No closer," she snarled. "No closer, Vakarian."

He stopped, sickened, but unafraid.

The woman licked her lips. "You have no fear of me. That's good." She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said, in her rich, cracked voice. "I'm so sorry."

"Why?" He shifted his grip on his rifle. Her words were like falling through ice into black water.

Another shudder wracked her. When it passed through her, she planted her hands on the bridge and pushed herself upright. "I thought there was more time." A spasm ripped up her right arm; she grabbed her wrist and forced her arm to stay still. "I'm sorry," she said. Her white eyes slid over him. Garrus' hands felt numb. All he could think of was -

"Shepard."

The woman's head lifted.

"Where's Shepard?" he asked. The only answer he got was a laugh, broken and weak.

The woman's face constricted; she tried to speak, and all that came out was a thin whistle. She shuddered, eyes closed, and forced herself to talk. "She is over the hills and far away."

Garrus felt the air leave his lungs. Those words, tossed back at him from a memory he tried to ignore, chilled him. Omega's humid air felt clammy on his hide.

"No," he said. "Spirits, no."

"I'm sorry," said the woman. She stood straight, a pale, ruined figure in dull black armor, and held up her hands again.

"Be vigilant, my Vakarian," she said, as if every word pained her. "It will move very quickly now." She tried to say something else, but her mouth opened in a silent howl as her right arm wrenched itself back. "Vakarian, watch -"

Garrus reeled back as the woman screamed without sound, hands clawing at her face. "Can't," she cried. "Can't, can't -"

She disappeared, and the bridge was empty.

Shepard, Garrus thought, bleak and cold. Shepard.