The Primarch of Palaven was the first to answer her. "You present us with impassioned rhetoric, Commander and I do not doubt the strength of your convictions..."
"Oh, yes, she is certainly a well-spoken lunatic. Good at long-winded speeches, but lamentably short on logic," Velarn interrupted.
"With all due respect, Councillor, I believe Commander Shepard raised several thought-provoking points," the Primarch of Invictus said. "We know very little about the origins of the technology we use or the history of our galaxy. This ignorance presents a serious problem for the defence of our colonies. The Collectors went after human settlers. The next threat from dark space might go after our colonists."
This provoked alarmed looks and murmurs of agreement from several of the other Primarchs. From watching news vids, Shepard knew that turian colonies had recently been hit by another wave of batarian pirate raids.
"Palaven and the Citadel are always well-defended, while the colonies are left in the dust," one of the Primarchs said. "If there's an invasion coming from dark space, we're the ones who'll suffer first."
"I can assure you that the next threat from dark space won't be a fleet of immortal sentient spaceships," Velarn sneered. "So let's quell those fears, shall we?"
This prompted a few laughs from the back row of petitioners. Shepard turned in her seat, glaring at the culprits. It wasn't as if Velarn needed any more encouragement to make caustic remarks. He already seemed to be under the impression that he was a great wit and took undisguised pleasure in mouthing off about human recklessness and folly at every opportunity.
"It is an improbable tale," Palaven noted.
Invictus leaned her elbows on the table, directing her comments first to Palaven and then to Velarn, who appeared to be her ultimate target. "And this galaxy contains many improbable forms of life. Think of the hanar, the elcor, the vorcha or for that matter, humanity. We know so little. It would be foolish to simply dismiss the claims of a Spectre, especially one who has proven reliable in the past."
Shepard gave a slight nod, her lips stretching into a grateful smile. She was about to speak in support of this when Velarn cut in, his voice laden with a martyred patience that suggested that he was growing very, very weary of having to deal with fools, cowards and incompetents.
"The Council has dismissed those claims. We've been listening to them since the incident at Eden Prime. We've examined the evidence and found no indication that these so-called 'Reapers' are anything more than a product of Shepard's fevered imaginings."
"And that's exactly what the Reapers want us to believe," Shepard protested. "They benefit from the element of surprise. They're not going leave proof of their existence just lying around."
"How very convenient," Velarn muttered. "You have an explanation for everything, don't you?"
"No, I can't explain why the Council is wilfully ignoring the greatest threat this galaxy has ever faced. That's one thing I'll never understand."
"Without solid evidence, we must stand by the decision of the Council," Palaven said.
"It is too early to rule on this. There is far too much at stake here," Invictus asserted. "We must give the Commander more time to investigate."
Velarn scoffed, the elaborate white tattoos on his face shifting into another pattern entirely. "More time? That's preposterous. We are only gathered here for another week. I, for one, don't plan on waiting around to listen to Shepard's ravings when I have business on the Citadel."
"Let her have another week then," Invictus said. "It is the very least we can do. If she can present no further evidence at that time, we will let the matter rest."
A few of the Primarchs registered their approval of this resolution, nodding and pounding their hands against the tabletop. Shepard had observed that the colonies seemed to band together against Palaven and the Council, a distressing phenomenon when one considered the history of the Unification Wars. Nevertheless, the divisions in the Council might work to her advantage, especially if the colonials had chosen Invictus as their leader.
"That seems reasonable enough," Palaven conceded. "We will delay our ruling on this until the final session of this year's Primacy Council. You have one week to present us with evidence that these 'Reapers' actually exist, Commander."
"Oh, very well. One week, then," Velarn said grudgingly. "And when you come back empty-handed, Shepard, you can apologize to the Primarchs and to the Council for wasting our time with your ceaseless demands for attention."
One week. She hadn't been able to convince the Council of the Reapers' existence over the course of nearly four years, but somehow she had to find proof to persuade the Primarchs in seven days. That wasn't even enough time to travel to Omega and back. Why didn't they just ask her to turn cartwheels, juggle dark matter and turn Citadel sewer water into Thessian wine? Still, an extension was better than an outright dismissal. Maybe she could chip away at the resentments between the colonies and Palaven - a dangerous course, to be sure, but one that might give her an advantage in a final vote.
"Alright," she said. "It's a short time span, but I'll track down more information. I appreciate the Primacy Council's consideration."
After the meeting was disbanded, Shepard found Councillor Velarn casting a long shadow over her. She was used to speaking to his holo-image and she'd forgotten how tall he was in-person or that condescension wafted off him, palpable as a foul odour.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself, Shepard. This little stunt of yours doesn't mean anything. You can't circle around the authority of the Council."
"Really? Because it looks like I just did."
"You'd be best to watch yourself, Commander. We can revoke that Spectre status of yours. And with it, goes all your legal immunity," Velarn said. "Don't push us too far or you may find that you're a rogue, being hunted across the galaxy by another potential hero. That will have certain irony, won't it, considering how you made your own reputation?"
"There's a big difference between me and Saren."
Velarn gave a snide chuckle. "Indeed? Because I see a power-hungry Spectre, an apparent hero but also a known collaborator with the rachni, the krogan and the geth. Doesn't that description sound familiar, Shepard?
"I'm not seeing the comparison."
"Don't be obtuse. What are you building an army for, Commander?"
She stared at him, unsure of how seriously to take him. "If I'm building a coalition, Councillor, it's because I want us to be prepared for the Reapers. As I said in the meeting, we need to stand together on this."
"The Reapers don't exist. Perhaps you have another intended target?"
"If I wanted the Council dead, Velarn, I would've let Sovereign finish the job two years ago. Don't make me regret my decision," she said. "Now, you'll have to excuse me, but I have other important business to attend to. Why don't you run along now to that little luncheon of yours?"
Velarn's mandibles flared, his black eyes narrowing with menace. "You haven't won here, Shepard. All you've been given is a reprieve."
"If I haven't won, Councillor, then why are you so angry?"
She turned her back on him and walked away, wishing that she had the option just to disconnect the transmission as she had back in the old days on the Normandy. Sometimes face-to-face communications were so inconvenient.
In the hallway, the Primarch of Invictus brushed past Shepard, carrying a stack of files. A data-pad slid from atop the pile and dropped onto the floor, but the busy representative kept walking, seeming not to notice the error.
Shepard stooped down and picked up the data-pad. It was a note addressed to her.
Commander Shepard:
The holdings of the late Saren Arterius are being catalogued for auction by the Internal Affairs Bureau. The Arterius estate is located on Palaven's second moon, Auctoritas. Might be interesting to see what is there.
She tucked the datapad into her jacket pocket, encouraged by the Primarch's trust in her. She hadn't realized that Saren had left so many possessions, but in retrospect, it made sense. His exploits, investments and a lot of backroom political dealings had made the turian wealthy and he had no family remaining to inherit his property. Hidden amidst his old papers and accounts, there had to be some indication of Saren's cooperation with Sovereign and the Reapers or at the very least, something that would prove that he couldn't have commanded the loyalty of the geth heretics on his own. It would be a good place to start...but she'd get cracking on that tomorrow.
This afternoon, she had another high-stress scenario to deal with, namely, her dinner with the Vakarians. Admittedly, it wasn't an issue of galactic significance, but she was still hoping to make a good impression – or, well, as good an impression as she could make, considering her obvious lack of mandibles, fringe and dextro-amino proteins. Trying to ignore the ticking clock set by the Primacy Council's deadline, she left the Nexus Tower and hunted out a grocery store, where she bought a pricey bottle of wine and paid to have it gift-wrapped. The gift-wrapping job was actually surprisingly well-done, considering how difficult it must have been for the turian clerk to spread out the delicate tissue paper and tie the red ribbon into a sprightly bow with her vicious-looking talons.
On her way to the Metro, Shepard came across a salarian fast food franchise, Mr. Yum. While people back on Earth still claimed fast food as a human invention, the salarians had developed the idea into a true inter-galactic craze, producing breakfasts, lunches and dinners at frenzied speeds that only a forty-year life span could justify. A second after Shepard ordered a Yum Combo #2 to go, a brown bag full of package food shot out of a mysterious purple chute and landed in her hands.
"Five credits, please," said an awkward young turian in a polyester shirt and a funny paper hat. Shepard paid up. Humming a little song to herself, a tune they used to play in Flux, she ventured down into the Metro to catch the east-bound train to Honoria station. According to Garrus' instructions, it was the closest stop to the apartment complex where his father lived.
When she arrived at the apartment building, she had to check the address again, just to make sure she was at the right place. The building was spotlessly clean, par for the course on Palaven, but old and plain with few amenities, not even an elevator. It wasn't the sort of location she'd expected a C-Sec veteran and decorated hero like Cereus Vakarian would choose to spend his retirement. Walking up the stairs to the third floor, she found the door marked '347' and rang the buzzer.
Garrus answered the door. "Hey Shepard, come on in."
"I brought wine," she said, grinning. "Best I could afford on a Spectre's salary."
A turian with blue and white facial tattoos limped towards them, leaning heavily on a metal cane. Family resemblance aside, the intensity behind his silvery-green eyes would have been enough to inform Shepard that he was Cereus Vakarian. At the moment, those keen eyes were trained on her, their gaze cold and appraising, as if assessing the potential of a new recruit.
"This is Commander Jillian Shepard," Garrus said.
When Cereus Vakarian spoke, he had a gravelly stentorian voice that seemed to rumble up from the earth itself. "And so we meet at last, Commander. I don't know what you've heard about me, but I've certainly heard a few things about you."
Shepard shook his hand. "I knew you by reputation, of course, but it's a pleasure to meet you, Officer Vakarian."
"I don't go by that title any more. Cereus is just fine. I've passed that other legacy on to Garrus here."
Shepard smiled. "I don't exactly walk around forcing people to call me 'Commander' either. Jillian is just fine, although everybody seems to think that Shepard has a nicer ring to it."
"Blame Wrex," Garrus said. "He's the one who started it."
Cereus' mandibles twitched, his mouth shaping itself into an expression that Shepard could only read as a disapproving frown. "Ah, yes. Your krogan mercenary friend. How amusing."
Garrus passed the bottle wine over to his father, anxious to change the subject. "Hey, Shepard even brought you a gift. I think she's trying to make me look bad."
Cereus examined the bottle of wine, turning it around in his hands. "Thank you, Commander. A fine gesture. We don't use intoxicants in this house but I'm sure to find a use for it. If nothing else, alcohol is good for disinfecting wounds."
Garrus seemed embarrassed, giving Shepard an apologetic glance over his father's shoulder. "You know, one glass of wine over dinner isn't going to hurt anything. It's quality stuff."
"No doubt, no doubt." Hobbling into the den, Cereus stowed the bottle away in a cabinet. "I certainly appreciate the thought."
"I wasn't aware that..." Shepard said.
"Not your fault," Cereus said. "I suspect that my son has picked up some slovenly habits since he left Palaven."
"I enjoy a drink or two on occasion," Garrus replied. "Shepard can tell you that I'm not belly-up to the bar every night."
Shepard cupped a hand over her lips, stifling a laugh. Compared to her fondness for the rounds of free drinks that came with being the Hero of the Citadel, Garrus was practically a teetotaller. After all, he and Tali had been the ones who'd had to peel her off the bathroom floor after she chugged down a glass of ryncol at the Dark Star. Oh yes, and apparently it had been the men's bathroom. She hoped that Cereus wouldn't be hearing about that in a summary of her heroic exploits.
Shepard looked around the room, noting the collection of rifles arranged on the far wall. On an antique bureau, there were family holos and military commendations, including what appeared to be a faded image of a female turian – Garrus' mother, maybe? Shepard wanted to inspect them further, but doubted that Cereus would take kindly to her curiosity.
"Don't worry. Garrus goes easy on the alcohol. And he's definitely good at his job," she said, sitting down on the sofa. It was a remarkably uncomfortable piece of furniture with hard cushions and an awkward backrest that seemed calculated to give the sitter perfect posture at the expense of all notions of rest or relaxation.
Garrus sat on the couch too, but he positioned himself at a careful distance that suggested he had a deathly fear of bumping knees, touching thighs or any other sort of accident physical contact that might occur while under the scrutiny of his father.
"Yes, but as I have often had occasion to remind him, good intentions mean nothing without discipline," Cereus said, resting his cane against the edge of the coffee table. He eased himself down into a ragged armchair that was clearly at least a decade older than Garrus. "You're the first human Spectre, are you not?"
"That's what I'm told," she said, smiling.
"That must be quite a feather in your cap. Do you enjoy your work?"
His tone was jovial, calculated to make a loaded question sound innocuous, but Shepard sensed that he was deploying tricks from old C-Sec interrogations. In fact, the more she spoke to him, the more he reminded her of Executor Pallin. Actually, it was kind of...uncanny. The conflict between Garrus and his former boss didn't seem like such a coincidence anymore.
"I enjoy the results of my work," she answered. "It gives me a chance to make a difference. I don't think anybody in military or law enforcement work can ask for anything more than that. "
"Of course, you must enjoy the freedoms too, not having to be accountable to a superior officer..."
"I'm accountable to the Alliance military and to the Council. If they don't like what I'm doing, I'm sure to hear about it. In great detail."
"Hmm. Well, I guess that's somewhat...reassuring. Has Garrus told you that he was considered as a candidate for the Spectres?"
"Yes, I mentioned it," Garrus said. "I also told her that it was a real long-shot. A one-in- one-thousand chance."
Shepard threw him a smile, trying to put him at ease. "I think your chances were a heck of a lot better than that. If I made it, you could've done it too."
Garrus chuckled. "Rrright. Because they just hand that stuff out. Modesty doesn't suit you, Shepard."
"The Spectre application was more of a youthful whim than anything else, I believe," Cereus said. "But I was relieved that he didn't follow through with it. You'll excuse me for saying so, Commander, but there is a great potential for corruption within the Spectres."
"Shepard is careful," Garrus replied. "When she cuts through red tape, she does it very gently."
Cereus frowned. "Red tape is usually there for a reason."
An alarm sounded and Garrus sprang off the couch, rushing towards a small white-tiled room that Shepard assumed was the kitchen. "Damn. Just be a second."
"Language!" Cereus admonished him. The old turian shook his head at Shepard, looking particularly disappointed and paternal.
Shepard smelled smoke and the odour of something burning. She was suddenly relieved that she had a very convincing biological excuse to eat salarian take-out instead of whatever science experiment Garrus was concocting in the other room.
She heard the oven door slam shut and the sound of Garrus scuffling around, making frantic preparations in the kitchen. "I'm actually a pretty good cook," he insisted. "I just got distracted...Oh, crap."
Some pots rattled around and then something clanged against the floor. If Garrus didn't come out of the kitchen in a few minutes, Shepard resolved to storm in and rescue him from the debris.
Cereus leaned forward in his chair, lowering his voice. "I think it's time that you told me something. What precisely is your relationship to my son?"
"We've been friends for a long time."
He drew back, pondering this. "Yes, I gathered that. Good friends, no doubt. Now, tell me, if you were in my position, do you think you would be happy about seeing your son entangled in such a...relation?"
"I think that I'd want my son to be happy."
"You humans are so fond of this concept of happiness. It's self-centred, individualistic, the attitude of a spoiled child. Turians understand that true satisfaction comes from fulfillment of one's duties, from having a place in one's community and the galactic order."
"I don't think the two things are mutually exclusive," Shepard said.
"That's just because you haven't had to choose. A real turian will always choose honour."
Garrus marched out of the kitchen, apparently triumphant in his battle against dinner. There was oven grease smeared on the side of his face. He looked between them, seeming to sense the tension in the air. "Supper's ready. What did I miss?"
Shepard opted to fib. "Your dad was just telling me some stories about what you were like as a kid."
"Oh, that doesn't sound good. I hope he didn't mention a certain hunting incident."
Cereus gave a hoarse chuckle. "The time you shot yourself in the foot? No, I didn't make any mention of that."
"Wow. I'd always figured you for a natural sharpshooter, Garrus."
"Look, I was six years old. It was my very first expedition. I didn't realize the safety was off."
Garrus went back into the kitchen and carted out the main course, a charred piece of blue meat surrounded by rubbery green vegetables that reminded Shepard of brussel sprouts, except even more alien-looking. Cereus lifted the cover of a steaming tureen and ladled out a strange orange sauce on top of the meat.
"Good dinner," he said, between forkfuls.
"Thanks," Garrus said. "Wait, I've got something for you too, Shepard. Human food."
He disappeared into the kitchen again and came out carrying a plate of french fries and six charred pieces of bacon. In the middle of the plate, there was a sizable pat of butter that Garrus seemed to have mistaken for a side dish.
Shepard grinned, quickly concealing the bag of food she'd picked up at Mr. Yum's. "Wow."
"Sorry. I, uh, burned the bason. But it won't kill you, I promise."
She reached up to adjust her translator. "You mean the bacon?"
"Wait, that's how you say it? Bay-kon. Hmm. No wonder the guys at the store were looking at me funny."
"Thanks. This looks great."
She forked a piece of blackened bacon and ate it. It wasn't bad at all, just crunchy, tasting of carbon.
"I hope I didn't mess up the butter. Mordin says humans really like butter."
"No, uh, the butter's good," Shepard said. "I'm just going to have a little though. Don't want to spoil myself."
"Tell me, Garrus, how has your work at C-Sec been progressing?" Cereus asked. "You must have made some criminals very angry to earn that scar of yours."
Shepard shot a glance at Garrus and the guilty look on his face confirmed her suspicions. He hadn't told his father about leaving C-Sec again or that he'd spent nearly two years as a vigilante on Omega.
"Um, actually, I was meaning to tell you...I decided to leave C-Sec," Garrus said. "Things just weren't working out for me there."
Cereus' fork rattled against his plate, a sharp, tinny sound. "What do you mean, it wasn't 'working out for you'? Were you making busts? Getting convictions?"
"Yeah."
"Then what was the problem?"
"I don't know. It just felt pointless. No matter how hard I worked, nothing changed. It was just the same crimes, the same system repeating itself over and over. And then Shepard died and I didn't see any reason to put up with it anymore."
"Shepard died? She's sitting right there, eating bacon."
"He isn't lying. I was dead for a while, but it didn't stick," Shepard explained. "It's a long story."
Cereus did not look amused. "So you quit your job because Commander Shepard was temporarily dead. What an excellent career plan. And what, may I ask, do you intend to do with your life?"
"He's serving as second-in-command on the Normandy, the most advanced ship in Council space," Shepard said.
Garrus blinked at her, obviously startled. He'd gradually been acquiring the duties of her XO for a couple of months now, but she'd never mentioned making the promotion official.
"I see," Cereus said. "And what other revelations do you have in store for me? You might as well tell me now."
Garrus sighed, shovelling the food around on his plate. "Alright, you asked for it. I went to Omega and started a squad to fight the gangs there."
"Go on."
"That's where I picked up the scar. The leader of the Blue Suns figured he'd rearrange my face a bit with his gunship. Of course, some people think it's an improvement."
Cereus' expression was grim. "So you were a vigilante."
"I had to make those bastards on Omega pay."
For once, his father was too distracted to complain about disrespectful language. "Pay for what?"
Garrus stared down at the blue and white checkers on the tablecloth. "For their crimes."
"So you committed crimes to make them see the error of their ways. That makes a vast deal of sense."
"It wasn't like that. My squad and I, we were enforcing justice in a city without laws."
"Were you serving justice or taking out your own frustrations on group of petty thieves? You seem to forget that there's a difference between the two."
"You wanted to know what I did. I told you," Garrus snapped. "My squad was massacred. My mission on Omega failed, so you can spare me the lecture."
Cereus was calm, completely controlled in the face of his son's anger. "Fine. No lecture. But you seem to be leaving one thing out, one very significant detail."
"What?"
"Her." Cereus nodded at Shepard.
Shepard scraped her chair back from the table. "Look, if I'm making things uncomfortable, I can leave. I didn't come to cause trouble."
Garrus put a hand on her shoulder. "Shepard, don't go. It's time he heard the truth. I want him to make him understand."
She settled back into her seat again, unsure of what to do. Part of her was tempted to intervene, to defend him against his father, but it felt wrong to insert herself in their relationship, which was obviously...complicated. And it wasn't if his dad didn't have a few good points to go along with the puritanical disposition and thinly veiled anti-human sentiments. Garrus' crusade on Omega had definitely honed his skills, but his obsession with sticking it to the criminal element had been damned unhealthy, almost a death wish. She couldn't blame Cereus for being displeased about it. It made her feel antsy too.
Garrus turned to his father. "Go ahead. Ask me. What do you want to know?"
"She says you're old friends. Precisely how friendly are you?"
He reached along the table and clasped Shepard's hand. "Just as friendly as two people can be. Does that answer your question?"
"I'd heard certain unsavoury rumours from my old contacts, but I dismissed them as idle gossip," Cereus said. "The son I knew wouldn't let himself fall under the influence of a female human, one who doesn't respect for our way of doing things. I didn't start to believe any of it until you brought her under this roof."
"Well, I guess seeing is believing," Garrus said. "You're just going to have to accept it."
Cereus looked at Shepard. "Commander, would you kindly excuse us? I wish to converse with my son in private."
"Then I think it's time we both left." Garrus bolted up from the table, almost toppling his chair behind him. "You don't have anything to say to me that she can't hear."
Shepard stood up. "No. It's alright. I should be heading back to the Normandy anyway. Lots of business to take care of."
She turned to Garrus, softening her voice. "You should stay here. Work things out."
As she walked out of the apartment, her brown-bagged Yum Combo #2 in hand, she could hear Garrus speaking to his father, his voice a strained whisper.
"Honestly, did you have to do that? Are you happy now?"
"It's for the best," Cereus assured him. "Perhaps it seems harsh now, but I only want the best for you."
Shepard shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, drawing in a ragged breath. She reached up and swiped at the tears welling in her eyes.
A turian walked by, casting a nervous glance at the human crying outside the apartment door. He looked embarrassed to have caught her at it, almost as mortified as she was to have been observed. Rubbing her face one last time, she stood upright and headed back towards the stairs.
It was stupid. Masochistic. Shepard hadn't gotten into this - this thing with Garrus, whatever it was - to make herself cry. It'd started out as flirtation, just fun and games, two friends taking refuge in each other's arms and finding some brief comfort amidst all of the ugliness associated with Cerberus and the Collectors. There weren't supposed to be consequences. She hadn't been thinking that far ahead, not when they were heading into a suicide mission where one or both of them could wind up dead.
When the mission was done, she thought it would end, that they'd finally come to their senses and accept that this private romance they'd been playing out wasn't substantial enough for real-life. But quite suddenly, the fun affair, their crazy cross-cultural experiment, had become something much more serious. All at once, there were deeper feelings at stake, emotions she'd never thought about, although it occurred to her that they'd always been there and she might've noticed them if she'd just scratched the surface. Even back when they were still chasing Saren, she remembered feeling jealous when she saw an asari chatting up Garrus at Flux. She'd been involved with Kaiden then and she shouldn't have resented her friend garnering some female attention, but it'd annoyed her nonetheless. When they got back to the Normandy, she'd made a point of razzing him about it just to make sure he wasn't too hung up on the girl. For his part, Garrus used to get shy around her sometimes, which she'd chalked up to a lack of experience being around humans, who were generally more expressive and impulsive than turians. He'd always been absurdly protective of her too, which used to make the others laugh, because, dressed in heavy armour and wielding an assault rifle, she didn't look like much of a candidate for a dashing rescue.
If she'd looked closer and really considered their history, she might've realized the potential for complications, the possibility of painful distractions from the mission. But it was too late to dodge the bullet now. She'd gotten attached to him and if she had to let go, it was going to hurt a lot, maybe even worse than waking up strapped to a gurney, with gouges ripped from her cheeks and the dreadful, slow-rising consciousness that she'd just come back from the dead. As for love - hell, she'd always loved Garrus. He was her best friend. No matter what, she'd resolved not to screw that up. No matter what.
When Shepard reached her quarters in the Normandy, she'd intended to get some work done, maybe start prepping her report to the Alliance. Instead, she sat down at her desk and ate her fast-food dinner while she watched the vids, flipping channels between a police procedural about C-Sec officers on the mean wards of the Citadel and a moronic sitcom about an apartment full of attractive asari singletons and their very confusing sex lives. She made a point of avoiding the news channels. When the shows were over, she stripped down, turned out the lights and snuggled into bed, grateful that she was tired, that she would be able to sleep and not rack her brain thinking about Garrus and his father and the Primacy Council and the secrets of Saren bloody Arterius. Today had definitely been a case of too many turians.
Shepard woke up to the sound of someone knocking on the door. Glancing over at her digital clock, she saw that it read 2:30 am and groaned, pulling the sheets up over her ears. The knocking sounded again, but this time it was gentler, a bit more tentative.
She got up, draping her robe around her body. The sash had gone missing, so she had to hold it together by crossing her arms over her waist.
"I'm coming. This better be good, though. In case you didn't notice, it's the middle of the night."
Opening the door, she locked eyes with her late-night visitor.
