The lights were off when Laurel woke again, but every inch of her skin was covered in sweat. Her hand seared with pain but her head, back and buttocks now ached, probably as a result of her fight with Marik. There was no sign of him, but after her dream she was glad he wasn't around. It was nine in the morning. Switching on the light she saw he had cleaned up the mess on the floor. She then quickly showered away the sweat on her body, leaving her hair to dry naturally when she towelled off. I'll have to find more clothes, she thought, pulling on her dirty black jumpsuit she'd worn the previous night. Her skin prickled with the cool freshness of the air. Gaer the salarian innkeeper was talking quietly to Marik when she found her way back downstairs. Thankfully the large bar was devoid of customers, and Marik was seated with an empty plate in front of him. Gaer stopped talking when she entered the room, his gaze hostile. Marik didn't bother to turn and greet her. With the memory of eleven years ago now completely fresh in her mind, awkwardness encapsulated her body making her grow stiff with dread.

"You did quite a number on him," Gaer spoke to break the silence. "All human females this violent?" His tone might've been jokey, but to her it was full of loathing. She ignored him and glanced at the turian seated at the bar with his large arms resting on the bar's surface.

"I thought you'd be gone by now," she said quietly.

"Would be unwise, huma - Westfahl," he corrected, without looking at her. She wasn't sure what to say now – what to do.

"They'll be looking for you here," said Gaer. "You've all come here at least once before." The salarian busied with something in a drawer behind him for a moment, before putting a small bottle of clear liquid on the bar surface. Lidocaine, 10mg.

"I've closed the bar until midday. You'll have plenty of time," said the salarian, nodding towards Marik.

Marik got up, somewhat reluctantly, beckoning her to follow him out the back after grabbing the bottle. She followed his tall form into a small room, what looked like to be Gaer's admin office, adjacent to the kitchens and store room further out the back. Marik took a syringe from a clear metal tray that looked pre-prepared. He then inserted it into the bottle, tipping it upside down, taking a step towards her. Laurel frowned, perturbed that he didn't say anything, but heard the door bleep shut and a pistol being cocked – right beside her ear.

"Before I stitch this hand of yours back up I need to be sure you're not lying to me. You've lied before, and I do not appreciate being lied to now," he said. He did not step closer, but his gaze was penetrative as he held the syringe. Hadn't she tried to sleep her anger off? Her jaw was set hard in place.

"Why are you asking me this now?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"How does he know you're not secretly working with this Jensen?" said Gaer behind her, pushing the cold barrel of his pistol into the back of her skull. She flinched.

"Why would I be?" she whispered.

"Because its rather too convenient you know him," said Gaer again. "For all we know, you could be his infiltrator attempting to ruin Aria's plan."

"I don't fucking remember you being-"

"I wouldn't raise your temper, human," said Marik. "You're not in a good position for that. I'm asking this because if we're to work together in sorting out this mess, then I need to be able to trust you." She pursed her lips, still meeting his piercing gaze, unable to believe her ears.

"Trust? By putting a gun to my head? Why can I possibly do to convince you?" she said.

"Tell us the whole story," seethed the salarian behind her.

"All evidence goes against me. There's nothing to prove my innocence in five seconds! How many times can I tell people that Jensen was the one who betrayed me all those years ago…that I did not plan to blow your fleet to oblivion?" There was a brief silence. The air was charged with electricity.

"What're you talkin about?" spat Gaer.

Marik's posture loosened a little, and she saw his eyes move to Gaer. He moved his head to signal the salarian out of the room, to which he huffily obliged. He made sure his temper was known, kicking a chair over before the door shut behind him. Laurel relaxed slightly, now knowing she wasn't in danger of having her brain blown apart. She drew up the chair and flopped down on it, suddenly feeling exhausted. Marik didn't say anything like she thought he would. She heard him washing his hands in the kitchens, and slowly unwound the bandage round her hand. The wound was looking septic. By the time he returned, Laurel held her hand out, her head turned away from him. She heard him put on medical gloves.

"Lying is considered very iniquitous in my culture," he began, preparing his utensils. His voice sounded even, but she could detect the underlining meaning in his flanging tone. She bit her lip in order to quell the latest abrasive insult on her mind.

"Turians are quite incapable of lying…for long periods at least," he continued.

"I don't like this mess anymore than you do," she said quietly. She heard him click his tongue in annoyance. She glanced to see his newly gloved talons holding a needle and thread.

"If you please," he said, his mandibles flaring out. Shakily she took the thread and automatically wetted the end of thread and tied a knot at the end without thinking.

"Are you trying my patience?" he said, not taking the needle and thread back. She'd realised what she'd done – a habit shown and then picked up from her mother. She nearly smiled at this simple mistake, but it was simultaneously painful.

"Sorry, it's a habit. My…mum was talented in the age-old…"

She lost herself, seeing how intensely he was observing her. He didn't say anything more, clearly uninterested in her family history and seized her hand, bringing her closer to him than she would've liked. She held the needle until he'd finished re-cleaning the wound and finally administered the anaesthesia, jabbing the needle into the top of her hand. His talons, more visible through the plastic of the medical gloves, were unexpectedly warm on her skin.

"Start at the end of the wound here," she said, seeing him hesitate for a moment after they waited for her hand to go numb.

"I can see why this particular wound needs stitching," he murmured as he took the needle carefully. It was deeper than he'd thought.

"Bring the needle out from the back of the skin, so the knot is secure," she told him, which he diligently followed. It surprised her how gentle he was being – only a few hours ago they were at each other throats.

"Now what?" he said.

"Push it back down through the other side of skin," she instructed him. "I don't know, but I'm guessing you'll want to make running loops. Then secure with another knot. You'll have to do that yourself." She knew it was probably the incorrect way – but how could both of them know?

"It seems you do know," he said as his hand slowly moved up and down as he threaded her skin back together.

She didn't say anything. Her knee brushed his larger one – if she could call it a knee, with the unusual spur sticking up beside it. Laurel tried to close her eyes and think of something else, anything but the turian who was sat close, stitching her hand up. She could feel her blood thrum through her. She was relieved when he finished it off with a cut of the thread. She'd pick up some antibiotics to treat the infection, providing that she got off this planet alive. It was a pleasure not to feel the throb in her hand anymore. He slipped his gloves off, throwing them into the incinerator in the kitchen. Laurel found herself waiting for him to return – she owed him that little. He re-entered the room, wringing his talons together although for a turian it was probably not a symbol of anxiety. His unusual skin appeared in several colours in different lights. Under the amber light of the bar, it was a dark brown. In this bright light of the office, it returned to its usual mushroom colour, interspersed with dark ochres and khakis. Realising that she might be observing him too closely, Laurel decided to look away for a moment.

"It is entirely likely that the rest of the crew will suspect us as betrayers. Either that, or they assumed we were assassinated," he announced. It was beginning to dawn on her that she was essentially homeless with no savings, little in the bank and no possessions such as clothes, passport and her gun.

"Gaer can secure a flight offworld – in a couple of hours time," continued Marik, breaking her thoughts.

"I don't have enough for an offworld flight," she said, frowning. Marik shifted from one foot to the other. If she knew better, he appeared somewhat awkward.

"Luckily, Gaer knows the pilot. He can make an exception…"

"Turian, I don't have any life savings. My record is blackened – I'm reduced to working in waitressing jobs and believe me, that's better than most jobs I have to do," she said. It was hard to retain some semblance of dignity – she felt like he had seen too much of her failures and her vulnerabilities.

"I didn't have the option to save while I was in prison-"

"I'm giving you a chance to catch a free flight offworld," Marik snapped. "That's it. I'm not going to sort out your problems there and then." She folded her arms, taking a step closer to him.

"And what're you gonna do? Stand behind and play 'hero'? Surely you're not going to crawl back to them? It still surprises me that some turian like you could end up with the most notorious merc group in the galaxy." Marik's body visibly stiffened, his hawk-like eyes narrowing and his mandibles widening on his face – as if he'd gritted his jaw.

"Haven't I warned you that pushing me is foolish?" he warned.

"Why?!" she cried, throwing her hands up exasperatedly. "What have I possibly got to lose?" He watched her for a moment as she paced the room in anger.

"Your life? You don't know me, Westfahl, as I don't know you. Let's keep whatever presumptions we have of each other at bay."

With that he pushed roughly past her, back into the bar area.

Gaer had indeed secured them a flight offworld, but he wasn't too pleased about the fact that Laurel was going to make use of it. It was a small ship, bound for the Citadel. Unlike most flights, it wasn't going to make any stops, seeing as most of its passengers were looking for a fast way out. It was nothing more than a large cargo-bay with huge crates that took up the baulk of the room. It was loud, airy and cold inside, and Laurel felt the brief spike of fear as the ship took off. The walls round them rattled. When they reached space, thankfully it stopped. Most of the inhabitants were single passengers and kept to themselves; a batarian, three turians and two humans. They all ignored each other as they sat in their seats, aligned next to each other against the wall.

The seats were as close to each other as you'd see on an Alliance escape pod, but as Laurel sat there she could feel the heat radiating off Marik's unusual plate-like skin. She managed to fall asleep for the first hour, but was jolted awake by the second. Turning her head, she saw Marik looking at her. He might've just casually glanced over at her jerky movement, but it unnerved her nonetheless. She had one of those dreams where she'd either fallen or continued to fall, ultimately making her jolt awake. Someone of them was where she was waiting for an old-fashioned bullet, looking down the end of a barrel. As soon as it hit her, she'd jar herself into consciousness. The cargo-bay didn't have much in the way of heating. She pulled her arms into her abdomen tightly, against the rising cold. She'd be glad to rid herself of his dirty jumpsuit, not to mention her heels, which made her feet ache like hell.

"If it wasn't you," began the gravelly voice next to her. She let him continue, too weary, hungry and aching to shut him off properly. "Then how did you let Jensen get away with it? You ended up on Shanxi." This surprised her.

"I thought you weren't interested in getting to know me," she replied without turning to look at him.

"I'm curious, is all," was her reply. Her forehead knitted.

"It's irrelevant now. And when we dock at the Citadel, I'll be another insignificant wisp in your turian memory," she said.

The Citadel. Laurel wasn't sure if she wanted to return. She'd been homesick for Earth for far too long. Living on space stations took its toll after a while.

"Well, while we spend our last few hours together, why can't I ask you such questions?" he said. Annoyance ran through her.

"I don't have to give you an answer," she snapped. He didn't push her any further, and she spent the next few agonising hours either ignoring him or trying to sleep. When the ETA was only an hour after jumping several relays, he finally spoke to break their silence.

"At least grant me one response. You put the end of the thread in your mouth…you said it was a habit. Something to do with your mother." Her eyes were heavy and her buttocks were sore from the uncomfortable chair.

"My mum was a dressmaker…." she began quietly. The rest of the passengers were now awake, aware that their arrival was imminent. "She made all our own clothes, taught me and my sister how to sew. She started an online business…. made formal wear once we grew up and wanted to buy the latest fashions. But she quit."

"Fashion?" he asked, nonplussed. Surprised, she turned to look at him for a moment. His yellow eyes were not so prominent in the dark light of the bay. His eye sockets looked like large, black holes, which was unsettling to look at. She glanced away swiftly.

"Um…I don't know how to explain it. The style of clothing that is popular for the time…"

"I see," he replied, nodding his large head. "Not an aspect of turian culture."

She was dreading his next question – about her parents – but thankfully it never came. Why would he? He already knew that they had cut her off many years ago. He knew that as soon as they captured her – just a simple file searched and found in a bombed out police station on Shanxi.

"Quid pro quo," she whispered to him, unable to stop herself.

"What?"

"I told you something. Perhaps you can answer my earlier question – how did you become a General?" He stared at her longer than necessary, perhaps surprised by her courage to ask him again. His greying forehead plates moved for several moments, as if in contemplation.

"A couple of years after the relay incident. I'd stopped serving on the front lines as a surgeon when I was only a Lieutenant Commander," was his answer.

"How did you end up with-?"

"No more, Westfahl," he said quietly.

Laurel was surprised by his sudden lack of aggression. They soon enough docked at the Citadel, filing out of the ship one by one. It felt more than strange to be back on the space station, brimming with unfamiliar alien faces and lean, chromatic surfaces. She received a few lingering stares – she was quite a sight when she caught her reflection on a shiny wall opposite the ship; her bandaged hand, pinkish bruising beginning to show on her arms, her dirty jumpsuit and swollen nose. She forgot about the possibility of a broken nose. The other passengers had drifted off as she stood there contemplating her reflection. Marik came up beside her, his eyes meeting hers in the reflection. The top of her head only reached his shoulders. Only hours ago she'd tried to take his beastly, enormous form down, injured and exhausted.

"What're you gonna do?" she asked him, turning round.

"I still have an apartment here," he said. There was a stunted awkward silence, with only the sounds of the dock in the background.

"What about the Suns?" she persisted. "Aria?"

"Perhaps I have you to thank," he sighed, making her raise her eyebrows. "I admit I've made a mess of my life…the rest of it wouldn't be spent well in such a group. As for Aria who knows. She's smart enough to not listen to Banks or Mire who'll assume we were betrayers. I can't be sure, but it's a big galaxy. They'd use too much time and resources to try and track us down. Aria's preoccupation will be Jensen and her stolen money, not matter what happened to us."

This was a rather astute observation about Aria. He didn't ask what she was going to do, and she found whatever words were in her mouth had moved to form a bulge in her throat. He seemed strangely informal at this point with his shoulders slumped. He was tired, just like she was.

"Goodbye, Westfahl," he suddenly announced, and turned back round. He limped slowly away. Laurel stood there still, watching his form retreat away silently. Ships arrived, ships left, as she stood there. She watched until he was a dot, and then vanished.