Not two minutes go by before Shepard comes walking back with a child held easily in her arms. Garrus exhales a breath he's been holding as the asari pulls away from his grasp.

"Mommy!" the girl cries, and Shepard sets her down. She runs to meet her mother, and they embrace with tears in their eyes.

Shepard keeps her distance, and somehow Garrus knows it's for them. When the mother finally turns her attention from her child, she looks at Shepard.

"Thank you," she says. Then she turns to Garrus. "Thank you both so much."

The human smiles and says nothing. Garrus comments that they should get outside, that the police will need to take their statements. Shepard skirts around them as they head out through the back. She casts a critical eye over the scene, picking her way through the wreckage of the firefight like a curator at an art museum.

"'Cuttlebone?' " Garrus asks.

"Had to play it right," she says. "You haven't gotten that one before?"

"No. How's your friend?" Garrus asks.

"Drooling in a heap downstairs," she replies. "How's your head?"

Garrus scoffs. "Please."

"Don't worry. I pulled my punches."

"Sure you did."

Shepard gives him a skeptical look. Garrus can hear sirens approaching fast. Tactical finally getting off their asses just in time to pose for pictures.

An odd sort of silence hangs between them. Garrus isn't sure what to make of it. Or of her, come to that. Whatever preconceptions he had about her had vanished when she rounded that aisle with a child in her arms. He had taken a leap of faith, let her go in the hope that she wasn't as bad as she presented herself to be. And his faith had been rewarded.

What did that leave?

"So," Shepard says, with a shrug and a searching look. "What now?"

Garrus' brow plates rise. "You're asking me?"

She crosses her arms. "It's your show," she says seriously.

He looks her up and down like he's seeing her for the first time. It seems like he is.

"You didn't have to help that girl," he notes.

"No, I didn't."

"You didn't have to take down that batarian."

"Nope."

"You didn't have to come back."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yet here you are."

Shepard raises her head, proudly, defiantly. She looks him dead in the eye. "Here I am."

Garrus' mandibles flex in and out. He hears the sirens land outside. Not much time left to make a decision, if there's a decision to be made at all.

In the end, he decides there isn't.

Garrus steps forward and extends his hand. He smiles, but only slightly. Shepard looks down, takes her time considering the offer, and, eventually, accepts.

She has a firm grip, he finds. Strong, but not unyielding. Her hands are larger than they look, and they fit in his without any difficulty.

The cuff fits around her wrist just as easily.

"Wow, really?" she says, not sounding surprised. "Really?"

Garrus reaches to take and cuff her other hand. In front of her, this time. Not behind the back. Shepard doesn't resist in the least.

"Uh-huh."

"Whatever happened to gratitude?" she asks as he pulls his pistol from her hip and replaces it on his own.

He directs her towards the door. "You asked that already."

"And I didn't get an answer." She holds up her wrists and examines her new cuffs, in particular the metal chain connecting them. "These aren't even mag-locks. Where did you get these?"

"You never want to be left without a spare," he says blithely, keying the C-Sec security override on the front door panel. "And you never want to be too dependent on technology."

Shepard rolls her eyes so hard they're nearly white. "Jesus, Vakarian. You really are a Boy Scout."

"Since I don't know what that means, I'll take it as a compliment."

The doors open and the security cage begins to rise. The two officers and their patrol car have been joined by two more cars and two transport shuttles. Tactical is there in all their glory, fully armed and armored and lined up behind freshly deployed barriers.

Everyone raises their weapons. Garrus is prepared—he already has his badge in his hand, and he holds it up as they walk out together.

"Garrus Vakarian, badge number seven niner three seven two one four eight," he shouts. "Situation is resolved."

He feels Shepard's shoulders shift beneath the hand he has on her back. Garrus glances her way and finds her scanning the situation. Not afraid, exactly, but fully aware of exactly how many weapons are pointed in her direction.

A thought occurs to him as tactical sprints past to secure the building. He doesn't have much time to dwell on it before the executor starts demanding explanations.

She wanted to run. She wanted to run, and she didn't.

"—your problem, Vakarian?"

The Executor, a short turian whose name he doesn't know but whose golden yellow tattoos mark as someone from Rocam, isn't shouting but he's close to it. "You were supposed to wait for backup!"

"Hostages were in danger, perps were desperate." Garrus shrugs and moves past his superior, guiding Shepard along with him through the labyrinth of parked transports. Red and blue emergency lights flash in a steady rhythm. "I made a judgment call."

"A judgment call?" the Executor balks. "You don't get to make judgment calls, Vakarian. Or have you forgotten what your rank is?"

"The hostages okay?" Garrus asks, scanning around for a medical transport and finding one parked up the street, near his skycar. He'd say this much for tactical, they could certainly widen a cordon in a hurry. He saw most of the hostages crowded around the transport, receiving attention for minor cuts and bruises.

"Wh—they're fine. All alive and accounted for." The Executor stumbles a bit. "Stop changing the subject."

"I'm afraid I don't know what the subject is, sir," Garrus says dryly. "I didn't disobey any orders."

"You didn't wait for any! That's the issue!"

Garrus opens the front passenger door. It's a moment or two before Shepard figures out he wants her to get inside. She gives him a look that's surprise and a little suspicion and... something else that he can't quite place, but which he's certain his partner would understand.

"Wait, where are you going?" the Executor asks. "Who is this?"

"This is a prisoner," Garrus says. "Picked up in Chora's Den earlier tonight and being taken in for processing."

The Executor blinks and sputters. "Then what were they doing inside?!"

"I think two of the hostages inside could give better statements than I could. Sir," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Shepard gets inside, smiling now, and Garrus shuts the door for her.

"Wait just a second here, Vakarian," the Executor demands, following him as he walks around the hood. "You aren't getting away with this—"

"With what?" he asks sternly, rounding on the man and bringing him up short. "Doing my job? You're not from my precinct. You're not part of my chain of command. If you have a problem with my conduct, lodge a formal complaint or take it to Pallin. But don't threaten me out here like you have the power to reprimand me just so you can look impressive to your subordinates."

The Executor says nothing for a moment. Simply stares knives into Garrus' eyes. Then, he says, "Pallin will hear of this."

"Of course he will," Garrus mumbles.

Before the Executor can shout anything about how he heard that, a tiny blue child slams into Garrus' leg and wraps her arms around it. "Thank you for saving us, mister police!" she shouts, before looking up and adding, "Mommy says thanks, too."

Garrus looks towards the ambulance and sees the asari, hugging her elbows and beaming at him. Not knowing what else to do, he awkwardly pats the child on the head before she removes herself and runs back to her mother.

In the silence that follows in her wake, he takes his opportunity to dismiss himself. "I'll give my statement in the morning. Directly to my superiors." He salutes and says, "Good luck with the clean-up, sir."

The Executor, half-heartedly and with great reluctance, returns his salute. He says nothing more as Garrus opens the door and climbs into the car, and as he begins the ascent into traffic, he sees Shepard making an obscene gesture down at the ground.

It really is shocking just how quickly your opinion of someone can change.