Author's note: I am back, and hopefully updating more regularly. This is a pretty short filler setting up some content for the next chapter I have in the works. I said a while back that this story would be wrapping up in a few chapters. Well, I've been having way too much fun writing it, so I'm not making any promises as to when it will for sure end. That being said, I have begun writing chapters for a post ME3 fic featuring my Shakarian. Those will be posted after I wrap up this fic and Hiraeth, but I may open up a few polls to ask readers what they would like to see happen to Garrus and Ayhoka after the reapers have been defeated.
Special thanks to VeelsMe for letting me bounce a continuous stream of ideas at you. Between my three fics, I have so many things rattling around in my head that I need a second opinion to sort them all out. Also, thank you to everyone who has read, favorited and followed this story. It has far surpassed the amount of attention I thought it would get, and I hope I continue to write material that is captivating and keeps you reading.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and threw the data pad down in frustration. The fourth murder case that had come across his desk in a month, this one involving, of all things, a hanar prostitute and a volus with a suit breach. Messy, and just downright bizarre. It had been months of paperwork; backlogged cases that had been swept under the rug in the chaos that was the Battle of the Citadel, that greeted him when he returned to C-Sec.
The Citadel was well on its way towards recovery from Sovereign's crash landing. The Presidium, of course, had been the first area to be restored to its original splendor, and the Coucil was once again ensconced in their bubble of ignorance-fueled politics. Two months had passed since Garrus disembarked from the Normandy, and almost every day he was in communication with some reporter or another. He and Anderson had sat down in the spirit of cooperation; humans and turians beginning to develop a mutual respect for each other. Unfortunately, the idea never progressed past the doors of Anderson's sparse office.
There was a fine line being toed in the aftermath of Sovereign's defeat. Shepard and Anderson had spared the Council at the expense of thousands of human lives. Appointing the admiral as the new human Councilor was another Shepard decision, one that grated on the older man's nerves. Garrus could tell he was growing increasingly frustrated with the ongoing politics; as a career military man, sitting behind a desk bashing heads with the Council may be his own personal hell. But, there was an obvious importance to it, once that Garrus had seen Shepard express to Anderson as they shook hands at her departure. There was a bigger threat looming in dark space.
Two months had passed since he had walked out of the airlock and into the recycled air of the Citadel docking bay. Two months since he had said his goodbyes to the crew who had fought alongside him. Two months since he had stuttered his way through a thank you to Shepard, clasping her small hand in his large one and shaking his head, knowing his work at C-Sec would pale in comparison to what they had accomplished together on the Normandy. She had sent him off with a data pad. One that contained a letter of recommendation, addressed to the turian Councilor, stating Officer Garrus Vakarian, C-Sec, would make a fine Spectre candidate, having demonstrated valor, composure and intelligence in the face of great danger. It was signed by one Commander Lana A. Shepard, Spectre.
He had presented it, with a subtle flourish, to Councilor Sparatus, who gave him a tight grin and a forearm clasp. The paperwork had been processed, and he was waiting on yet more forms to be sent to him, solidifying his intention on participating as an official Spectre candidate. The waiting was made slightly easier by how damn busy he was, both with his C-Sec work, and ensuring the Council wouldn't soon forget the reaper threat.
In his office, Garrus checked his omnitool messages, scrolling through several older ones, pinged to him when the Normandy had come in range of a comm buoy. He had kept up regular correspondence with several of his former crewmembers, mainly Tali and Shepard. Tali had returned to the Flotilla, having successfully completed her Pilgrimage. Wrex was back on Tuchanka. Garrus had entertained the idea of going back to Palaven for all of ten minutes before Captain Bailey had clapped him on the shoulder and handed him a stack of datapads of backlogged casework. After the months of chasing down Saren, a desk job was a vacation, of sorts.
He had fit seamlessly back into his old life, going through the daily motions, working extra hours, always keeping an eye on where the Normandy was or had been. If anyone had asked if he was happy being back at C-Sec, he would have given them a small smile and a nod. In reality, the work was a way of floating on the surface, bobbing in the riptide that had been the glory and honor of fighting with Shepard. It was difficult to fall asleep at night without the distinct hum of ship engines, and the constant hustle of Citadel life was almost too much compared to the easy routine he had established on Shepard's ship. He had wanted to stay, but hadn't been quite brave enough to ask. And his commander had been so earnest in sending him back so he could once again try for Spectre candidacy.
"When this is over, I'm going to need people I trust by my side, Garrus," she said as they both leaned against the bar, sipping species-appropriate alcohol, their crewmates swirling and chattering around them. "I need people within the Council, but outside its power. People who will do whatever it takes. The Council hasn't worked for a long time now. Times are changing, and they're still stuck in their ways. I need people I can trust. And if sending you back to C-Sec insures that I can get you through Spectre training, then that's what I'll do." She had given a rueful wink over the rim of her glass, face still caked in the dirt and gore from fighting Saren.
Weeks went by without any news, until messages began trickling in. The Normandy ran silent a majority of the time. Tali was a more regular correspondence, but her messages were lacking the substance that he was searching for. Shepard's were what kept him afloat; descriptions of the hoards of geth they had been tracking down, the goings on of the crew. While the messages were few and far between, they were lengthy, as if she had taken the time to actually sit down and write to him. And that in itself was flattering. He chided himself for the almost obsessive need he felt for those messages.
Hours later, he found himself back at his small apartment, feet up on the coffee table with a turian brandy in hand. The extranet screen on the wall was turned low, playing the nightly newscast. The Council had taken a decidedly ignorant standpoint in regards to the reapers, and Garrus had spent hours arguing with Councilor Sparatus. A small but astute headache was building between his eyes. Out of habit, he checked his omnitool for new messages, only to be interrupted by a knock at his door.
He froze, his finger hovering just over the interface of his omnitool. The apartment he was renting was only known to a few people. Three or four thoughts collided in his mind before he pushed himself up from the couch and answered the door.
Anderson stood on the threshold, his hands clasped behind his back. It took Garrus about three seconds to recognize the admiral wasn't wearing his Councilor's uniform, but instead was clad in the sharp creases of his Alliance dress blues. Garrus wasn't particularly adept at reading human facial expressions, but the deadened look in Anderson's eyes hit him like a punch in the gut.
"No." Garrus shook his head and took a step backward, his spurs catching on his reclining chair, taking his feet out from under him. He landed in a heap on the seat, eyes squeezed shut against the light pouring in from the open door. He took a deep, shuddering breath. "No."
The admiral hung his head. "I'm sorry, Garrus," he said, voice nothing more than a shaky whisper. "I'm sorry. But I didn't want you to find out any other way."
The turian leaned his head back. His fists were clenching and unclenching in his lap, ungloved talons digging into his palms. "How."
"Officially?" Anderson said, stepping into the small apartment and letting the door snick closed behind him. "A geth cruiser. She got everyone to the escape pods. Unofficially, the ship signatures along with testimony from the crew match no known ship. Joker believes it was reaper related."
Garrus snorted, a grating sound. "So that's what I'm going to be hearing in approximately fifteen minutes, when the story breaks? That a 'geth cruiser' took down the Normandy? That the best pilot in the galaxy wasn't able to outrun a bunch of AI's? That the Hero of the Citadel was killed by geth?" His voice was a rasp, and he stood abruptly, knocking the chair over. "Have the past few months taught you people nothing? No matter if you pretend the reapers are real or not, they're still coming. And now you plan on tarnishing the memory of the one person who saved your asses?" His voice was rising, but he didn't care. The blood pounding in his ears buoyed him as he panted in stress. "She deserved better! Hell, I thought you of all people would stand behind her!" He raked his hands across his fringe, walking in a ragged line across the apartment. Anderson watched him pace through sad eyes, his mouth twisted down at the corners.
"Garrus, you know I believed her. But one person standing behind her isn't enough to change the rest of the Council's collective decision."
Garrus stopped abruptly and swung his head to look at the admiral. "I won't let you tarnish her reputation over fucking politics, Anderson," he growled. "I'll make sure that every reporter I talk to knows the real truth."
Anderson tipped his chin up and leveled his gaze on Garrus. "You're not a Spectre yet, boy. It would do you good to remember that. Don't go in, guns blazing, when you don't have protection from the consequences."
Garrus let another growl escape through his clenched teeth. The floor of his apartment was tilting underneath him, threatening to send him sprawling on the floor. His vision greyed at the edges as he fought to control his breathing. "Don't do this, Anderson. Don't spit on her memory. Don't ruin everything she was working for."
"She knew the risks, Garrus. She was an Alliance marine, first and foremost. She died a hero, and I'll make sure everyone knows that she saved the lives of almost all her crew, that her death was not in vain."
"That's not good enough!" he shouted, hands waving violently in the air above his head. "Pretty, flowered words to make the public and the politicians happy. What happens when the reapers come for Earth, David? What happens when your supply lines dwindle down to nothing within days, because you weren't prepared? What happens when billions die because a couple Councilors decided to ignore all the warnings?" He snapped his teeth together. "You'd make her a pariah, before you told everyone the truth. The Alliance's favorite scapegoat since the fucking Skyllian Blitz."
Anderson shook his head and frowned deeper. "My hands are tied, Garrus. I'm sorry."
The turian hissed, a primal sound that made the hairs on the back of Anderson's neck stand up. Garrus pointed a shaking finger towards the door, talon inches from the admiral's face. "Leave."
Anderson raised his hands, palms out, in defense. "Garrus-"
"I said leave!" he shouted, his voice ringing off the empty walls. "Go and tell the rest of the galaxy that the best individual I knew is dead. And make sure you tell them exactly what the Council wants you to say."
Anderson dropped his hands to his side with a slap, and turned on his heel, palming the door open. He hovered on the threshold, and turned his head slightly, gazing out at the busy Citadel traffic in the distance. "For what it's worth, I loved her like a daughter. And I would have been more than happy to see her live a long and happy life. She loved her job. And she loved her crew. You especially." He stepped through the door and it snicked shut behind him.
Garrus stood in the middle of his apartment; the extranet counsel a soft buzz of background noise as the reality of Shepard's death settled on his shoulders like a leaden blanket. He tried to take a step forward, to will is feet to move, but the floor tilted up to meet him. His knees protested as they hit the carpet. Keening softly, he clutched his head in his hands and mourned the loss of his commander.