I was going to change the Council out completely, but I like Sparatus and Tevos so much, I'm keeping them. I figure they had a decent chance at reelection. The thing about the salarian councilor is that since salarians are so short lived...i figure he wouldn't be around too long after the Reapers ;_;

Mass Effect belongs to Bioware.

The human councilor, a woman who introduced herself as Irma Peletier, greets her with practiced formality in her private chambers. Shepard opts to sit back and listen to her drawl on about the ceremony, they have planned for her in light of her victory. It is to be a highly decorated event, with many important names attached to the guest list.

"Some ceremony," Shepard remarked dryly, as the woman ended her descriptive tirade. "I'm not making a speech, and you can forget about that dress you mentioned."

The councilor raised her brows, somewhere between thoroughly offended and mildly surprised, "I would imagine the savior of the galaxy would have something to say."

"Yeah, not happening." Shepard was hardly in the mood for anything, to be honest. The councilor should have been happy she was planning on attending at all.

She watched Shepard for a moment, as if gauging her thoughts. "I was told you were hard-headed, miss Shepard," she said, her voice maintaining its diplomatic composure, "but, I didn't get here without learning to compromise when necessary."

Shepard leaned forward, "What kind of compromise are we talking about here?"

"You either wear the dress—which, as I mentioned, is a gift from a very respected asari matriarch—or you sit down with my assistant and write a moving speech worthy of tears."

"Tears?"

"Tears," she affirmed, "I want not a dry eye in the room."

'That's easy; I'll just tell them about my love life', she thought, bitterly.

"It'll be the dress, then," she said.

Irma clapped her hands together, smiling. "Perfect. I will be seeing you in five hours. You have your room to relax. I want you at your best."

Shepard nodded and stood up to leave.

"A word of advice," the councilor said, before she could go any further. "When you find yourself out in the open, know that not everyone welcomes your reappearance."

Shepard lowered herself back on the chair, beckoning her for an explanation.

"People want to forget the war, Commander," she explained, as if it was both a thing that she understood and did not like, "many want to forget that we came so close to complete annihilation, that our existence was so fragile. Many lost everything. We have been steadily moving on from thoughts of that possibility."

"I'm a reminder of that." Shepard said blankly, her stomach reeling.

"You are a relic, Shepard," she intoned, "of a time when everything came so close to ending."

Shepard resisted the urge to scoff. At this point, she wouldn't be surprised if she had a bounty on her head. Things were really that bleak.

There was nothing more to say, so she left for the privacy of the room she'd been allowed to stay in, though relaxing was the farthest thing from her mind.

The few hours she had to herself she spent in her room, trying to configure the terrifying ambiguity of her situation. Her professional identity had been wiped with the loss of the Normandy, the lack of communication from the Alliance, and the fact that she was certain her Spectre status had been pulled from under her while she was comatose. She had never felt so uncertain. Even when she was grounded five years back for the relay incident, she knew she still held a place somewhere.

Now…well, what was there to do now but wait?

Eventually, the stylists showed up at her door with the dress carefully in tow. She had no choice but to allow them to maneuver her into the draped attire.

"I think we're missing a few parts here," she grumbled, hating the way the front dipped dangerously low. It was a wonder the fabric hanging just over her breasts stayed in place, but she didn't like to take chances with propriety. Her back was left completely bare. "I feel…really exposed."

"It will be fine," one asari stylist said, tightening the dark sash around her waist. The dress was floor-length, silver in color, and in a style that was apparently all the rage in high asari society (like she cared).

Her hair was pulled up, away from her face, and someone went over the scars on her face and arms with concealer. A few added touches and she was allowed a few moments to herself before Irma would appear to usher her away.

She moved toward the open balcony, the humor wiped from her face. She slouched in her dress and rested her elbows on the metallic railing. The view, she had to admit, was impressive.

"Shepard."

Her blood ran cold with the sound of his voice. She spun around and found him standing on the threshold in his formal attire. His face was solemn, but for her sake, he managed to loosen his mandibles in a brief smile.

"Garrus." It was more a gasp than an utterance.

"It's been a while. You look..." he glanced briefly at her dress, "good."

He joined her at the balcony, at arm's length. The notable distance made her ache.

She forced herself to look away, to avoid his gaze. There was lament in her eyes; her words were stained with it. "Is it true?"

He sighed, "Please, Shepard. Not here, not now."

"Is it true?" she asked again, tone urgent. He remained silent; staring out into the buildings below, shoulders slumped, avoiding the subject altogether. Shepard wasn't having it. She'd had enough of people avoiding the subject.

She did the only logical thing and punched him on the shoulder. Hard. He staggered a few steps back and steadied himself on the railing. To the small part of her mind that wasn't completely wrapped up in this shitstorm of feelings and sentiment, it felt amazing.

"Say something!" She demanded, because silence, in a way, was worse than outright denial.

"What do you want me to say, Shepard?" he asked dully, his hand still gripping the railing. She was incredulous, because he should know by now what she wanted him to say.

She closed the distance between them, pulling him down by his cowl, so that their faces were level. "Please, Garrus," she said softly, her voice tinged with more desperation than she cared to admit, "just…say it was a mistake and we can pick up where we left off."

"Shepard…"

She pressed herself against him until she was certain he could feel the rising rhythm of her heart, "Kiss me," she pleaded.

You grab the girl, and kiss her like you mean it.

"I can't, Shepard," he murmured, the low tones of his voice scraping against her chest, "I'm sorry."

She pulled away, visibly wounded. But she had to know, even if it would kill her on a whole new level, "Who is she?"

He shook his head, "It doesn't matter."

The councilor appeared on the doorway just then, looking mildly surprised at finding Shepard with company. "Apologies, I did not mean to interrupt," her eyes darted to the two, sensing the tension but choosing not to comment upon it.

"I was actually just leaving," Garrus said quickly, "enjoy yourselves."

"You as well, Vakarian," Irma called, before turning back to Shepard. "You look good, Shepard. They're waiting."

'Great,' Shepard thought, realizing that he was probably heading to the same place. She wondered if it was too late to back out of her own ceremony.