“That’s it, Shepard. I think we’re all clear.”

Garrus reached down, pocketing a couple of the heat sinks the half-husk, fully-dead Cerberus soldiers weren’t going to need any more. The wind howled, a last mech self-destructed with a bang, and “Die for the Cause” finished on its stirring crescendo, but Shepard didn’t answer. He switched to the private frequency they sometimes used. “Shepard, you okay?”

Nothing. Not even static. Not even a buzz. Not even the sound of battle that might’ve told him that, clear or not outside, she was still dealing with hostiles and could use backup.

The planet’s surface temp was too warm to account for the sudden chill that turned his blood to ice, and he turned, scanning for her. She’d gone inside the building under cover of her cloak to collect the intel Hackett wanted, leaving him and Vega to cover her six outside. No one had entered after her; he was sure of that much. “Vega?” he snapped over the comms; across the platform, Vega’s head shot up. “You have eyes on Shepard?”

“Not since she went in. Thought she must’ve come out your side.” Vega cleared his throat. “Hey, Lola. Very funny. That’s enough hide and seek for today.”

The redheaded woman at the bar has the kind of laughter that cuts through all other noise, and she’s using the full force of it now. It’s not unpleasant—just loud—but Shepard missed the joke, so she can’t join in, and it’s definitely the kind of laughter that invites joining in.

Instead, Shepard looks around, searching for seat. It’s been a hell of a day. A hell of a year. A hell of—well. She’s earned a drink. But the place is packed wall-to-wall, with nary an empty chair in sight. She’s just about to give up and leave when the woman from the bar appears at her side, sidling up close and grinning, her pale eyes shining both with mirth and with welcome. “Free advice? You’re never going to find a seat being all polite about it. Not in here. Hey! You! Up! You’ve been here all night. Give someone else a chance.”

Wonder of wonders, the man doesn’t protest. He returns the woman’s grin and raises his mug, before giving up his table and staggering into the thick of the crowd. The woman throws herself into one of the seats, and pushes back the other with the toe of her boot in an indication for Shepard to take it.

“Saw you come in,” the woman says. “And saw you looking like a fish out of water. Name’s Hawke. You?”

Shepard blinks. It’s been a long time since she walked into a place and went unrecognized. Allers and her reports—Hackett and his you’re the tip of the spear—have made her even more a public figure and household name than she was after Elysium. After a moment too long, she says, “Shepard.”

It feels okay to leave off the Commander, for a change.

“She’s going to make a break for it,” Kiara warned. “She’s got the look.”

“Kiri, you’re imagining things. There’s no—oh.”

Amelle laughed, sweet and abrupt, as Meghan scrambled to her feet and began toddling away as fast as her chubby little legs would take her. Kiara peered out from under the brim of the beribboned bonnet Tasia had absolutely insisted on, whose shade she would never in a hundred years admit to appreciating, and added a chuckle of her own. Malcolm, on the other hand, watched his twin sister with placid amusement, and reached for another cookie.

Mirae, who until that moment had been snug in her mother’s lap, saw her cousin’s dash for freedom and set out to follow as best she could. She hadn’t quite picked up walking yet, but made a valiant attempt at wriggling away from Amelle and crawling along at speed, uneven ground—to say nothing of the twigs, rocks, and bugs—be damned.

“We’re going to be late.”

“You always say that, and we never are.” She smirked into the mirror, letting him catch her reflected amusement, and then returned to the very serious business of expert mascara application. “Besides, I seriously doubt they’ll give away our table. Having a couple of the most recognizable surnames in the galaxy’s got to count for something.”

Garrus’ sigh was so long-suffering, Shepard relented. “Thirty seconds,” she said, rising on her toes to plant a lipstick-rosy kiss on his mandible. “I’m not wearing a towel out to dinner.”

“Admiral Shepard,” the young woman squeaked. She’d risen halfway from her seat behind the desk before freezing like a pyjak caught in the ration bin. “I—I had no idea you’d come yourself. I just—oh. Oh, gosh. My boss is going to kill me.”

Shepard smiled the smile she usually saved for placating irritated krogan or upset Council members and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m happy to help. Callista, right?”

“Callie,” the girl said at once, and then blinked. “But you can call me Callista, if you want. You can call me whatever. It’s fine.”

“Callie,” Shepard amended. “Trust me, I’ve been sent on more far-flung missions than what amounts to a half-hour skycar ride and an afternoon of my time.”

Behind her, Garrus cleared his throat, and she stepped through the door so he could enter on her heels. Callie went a shade paler, and actually put her hands on the desk to bolster herself, whispering something under her breath that Shepard couldn’t make out, but the way she shook her head spoke volumes.

“Right,” Garrus added. “And at least this one has some value. Unlike a few missions I remember. What did you do with those League of One medallions, Shepard?”

Unsurprisingly, when she strolled into the cargo hold looking for him, Shepard found Vega deep into a muscle-maintaining workout. Leaning back, she crossed her arms over her chest and watched a dozen pull-ups before clearing her throat. He immediately dropped to his feet lightly and turned, all in one motion.

Good, she thought, raising a speculative eyebrow. Not good enough.

“Hey, Lola,” he said, smiling. “What’s with the hardsuit? We goin’ somewhere?”

She didn’t smile back. A faintly unnerved expression rattled his features for a moment, and his spine stiffened, military muscle-memory in action. Very good. He can do better.

“No Lola-ing me today, Lieutenant. If I’m going to kick your ass six ways from Sunday, you’re damned-well going to acknowledge proper protocol as I do it.”

He snapped instantly to attention and saluted with the precision of a fresh-minted recruit trying too hard. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”

Since no one except Shepard ever visited him in the battery, Garrus was halfway through greeting her before he turned and found Jack leaning against the wall instead, arms crossed over her tattooed chest, narrowed eyes watching his every move. He blinked. If he’d had to make a list of likely visitors, Jack would’ve been near the bottom. Oh, they got along well enough, especially after Pragia, but she wasn’t big on talking. Or visiting. Occasionally they spoke in the mess—usually in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep and she could avoid the most unwanted contact—but she rarely emerged from her dark bolt-hole, and he knew better than to go looking for her when she didn’t want to be found.

“Expecting someone else?” she asked. “I bet. She’s busy. And I needed a minute.”

“Sounds ominous,” he replied easily, turning to face her, leaning back on his console and matching her posture.

“Ah,” Mordin said without looking up. “Good you’re here. Needed to speak with you.”

Garrus cleared his throat, linking his hands loosely behind his back because what he really wanted to do was turn around and walk straight back out of the lab and down to the battery. And then hide. For approximately the hundred years necessary to muffle his mortification. It was bad enough he had to talk to someone at all. Having Mordin waiting for the conversation somehow made the whole thing infinitely worse.

He’d thought about going to Dr. Chakwas instead, but when he’d poked his head into the medbay, she’d assumed it was something to do with his face, and had launched into a series of questions that couldn’t have been further from the topic of his… research. When, at the end of the interrogation, she’d smiled and said, “Was there anything else, Garrus?” he’d only ducked his head and all but jogged out.

“I don’t suppose you have any idea who this little monster belongs to?”

Garrus, crouched beside the cot of a wounded turian soldier who was trying very hard to give him a report, glanced over his shoulder, lifting his brow plates. Faint query turned into genuine astonishment when he realized Shepard was toting a tiny turian on one hip. The child blinked at him, her huge amber eyes so reminiscent of his missing sister's his breath caught, frozen somewhere between loss and grief and desperate hope he’d see Solana again. 

“No,” said a voice not to the left or right, but directly above him.

Garrus jumped half a foot and only barely stopped himself from making an embarrassingly startled noise. Kasumi’s cloak flickered and fell, and she leapt elegantly down from the ceiling as if the maintenance duct she’d been using was a Presidium path and she out for a pleasant stroll. The elevator he’d been waiting for opened, but before Garrus could step inside, Kasumi frowned, crossed her arms over her chest, and repeated even more intractably, “No. Absolutely not.”

He sighed, and the door slid shut again. “You going to clarify, Kasumi? I have… uh, an appointment.”