Chapter 2: Lacrimoso

"Dr. T'Soni?"

"Yes, Nyxeris?" Liara looks up from her reports as her assistant enters her office.

"Forgive the interruption, but you asked to be informed immediately. We've just received notification from our agent at dock control. A Cerberus registered vessel has just arrived through the relay."

Liara tries to remain calm, as though a tectonic shift in her world is not heralded by those simple words. Cerberus has many ships and many agents, and Illium is a free port - there could be hundreds of explanations, could there not? "Oh? What's its registry and destination?"

Nyxeris consults her notes. "Bound for Nos Astra, registered as the SSV Normandy SR-2."

Vertigo forces Liara to grip the edge of her desk for support. Cerberus would never dare use that name for a ship, unless..."And the name of her captain?"

"A human. Commander Rachel Shepard." Nyxeris frowns. "As in, the hero of the Citadel? I understood she was dead?"

She was.

"So did I," Liara manages to keep her voice steady, barely. "But Spectres are adept at subterfuge. That may have simply been a cover. Nyxeris, please contact the Dockmaster's office, and pay all of the Normandy's docking fees from our operating budget. And please ask Carina to direct the Commander here at her convenience. I'm looking forward to seeing my old friend." She wants to say more, but she's afraid she'll begin babbling.

"Of course." Nyxeris excuses herself with a nod. Liara sinks back in her seat, sucks in a deep breath. If the miracle she never dared hope for has come to pass, then Shepard will be here soon. Within minutes.

Rachel's here.

The thought is too big. She can't comprehend its full magnitude. The idea that Shepard is alive again…

"Liara, go. Now."

"Shepard... Shepard's gone, Captain!"

Rachel's death had crippled her, kick-started a chain of events that turned everything she knew, everything that was familiar, on its head. I'm no longer the person I was two years ago, but Rachel will not have changed.

If it's really her.

Liara needs confirmation.

Sitting forward, she activates her terminal, sorting through saved reports from various sources that cite sightings of a human rumoured to be Commander Shepard on Omega, the Citadel, and just recently, Horizon. Judging Omega to be her most direct route to hard data, she routes a call through her contacts, and within a few seconds is negotiating a deal by proxy with the mining station's infamous pirate queen.

The cost of Aria's confirmation in astronomical by brokering standards, but Liara's in too much of a hurry to pay it any mind as her data feed begins to relay Omega's security camera footage. Her heart skips a beat as she sees a red-headed human woman, in nondescript merc armour, accompanied by the unmistakable figure of Miranda Lawson and a dark-skinned human male she doesn't recognize.

The woman turns, and Liara sucks in a sharp breath. Staring straight into the camera is the face that has haunted her dreams for two years. Commander Rachel Shepard.

On the vid, one of her companions says something, and she grins in response as she turns away. Dozens of memories of that same grin directed at her wash through Liara's consciousness and set her pulse racing.

The feed from dock security beeps – Carina, her agent, informing her that Commander Shepard is ashore with two crew members, a human and a turian.

Goddess, there's no more time.

She fusses aimlessly around her office, moving the chairs, arranging her datapads, straightening the monitor, as if Shepard might judge her on the neatness of her desk. She's dreamed of this moment so often, but it's never occurred to her that the scene would be her office. Somehow, when she hankers for this reunion in the safety of her fantasies, the setting is always remote, secluded, away from prying eyes, that they might enjoy total privacy to reconnect as they see fit. Shepard's hands wandering across her body, peeling her clothes away to expose her skin to the human's warm, clever touch.

Irritation spikes her daydream as her terminal's comm manager begins to shriek an incoming call warning, heralding the very type of interruption she so devoutly wishes to avoid. The identity of the caller does not diminish her ire; Jonas Cordeiro, a minor human politician lobbying for election on the Citadel who has reneged on his payment schedule. He's absolutely the last person she wants to speak to right now, but his continued recalcitrance is something she can ill afford. Politics is a recent expansion to her business, and if she gets a reputation for letting clients take advantage, she will be fatally compromised. She stabs at the receive button savagely – it will only take a moment to deal with him.

She doesn't give him an opportunity to set himself. "Mr. Cordeiro, I note from my records that you are still in arrears on your payments. I have been more than patient, but given that the invoice for my services was issued over four weeks ago you will understand that I am not interested in listening to any further excuses. If your account is not settled within twenty-four hours I will be forced to take...steps."

Cordeiro offers an unctuous, condescending smile. "Miss T'Soni, I'm afraid you don't understand how these things are done. I ..."

"Doctor T'Soni," Liara cuts him off icily, temper slipping. "And I understand perfectly well that you owe me fifteen thousand credits. Tell me," she makes a show of adding notes to her omni-tool, "have you faced an asari commando unit before? Few humans have." She scowls at him. "I'll make it simple. Either you pay me, or I flay you alive… with my mind." She cuts off the transmission with a peeved stab at her omni-tool, and as she does, her thought process catches up with her senses and she realizes she's not alone.

She spins around, and there's no escaping the moment any longer.

Rachel Shepard is standing in her doorway.

Oh, Rachel.

"Shepard!" she gasps. She is mortified, disbelieving, exalted, terrified, all in the same moment. "Nyxeris, hold my calls," she manages to order, not even sure if her assistant is even in the room, her gaze locked on one person, and one person only.

Rachel.

Joy floods her, deep and fierce, as she stares unashamedly. Shepard commands the whole of her attention, a siren calling to her very soul. Liara rakes her gaze down the human, from the fall of her fire-tinted auburn hair, the sparkling green eyes and freckled nose; over the powerful, muscular body encased in a defiantly N7-decorated suit of Kestrel armour. An enormous, familiar, lopsided grin splits the human's face as she moves forward with the commanding, dangerous grace Liara remembers so well. It's as though she's never been gone, and for an eternal moment, reality drops away and time slows, happiness pulsing through Liara's every nerve and synapse.

Rachel.

Shepard grasps her hands, strong, armoured fingers gently taking her captive.

It's really you, isn't it? Rachel… my love?

Shepard tilts her head, closing the distance slowly, her hesitation a wordless request for permission. Liara leans in, granting the request. Their lips touch, softly, perfectly, and the exaltation redoubles in Liara's soul. There's no doubt in her mind that the woman she's kissing is Rachel Shepard. She has the same warmth. She tastes the same, smells the same, the elusive hints of oranges and cinnamon and the clean scent of her perspiration. The brush of her hair against Liara's cheek is a familiar tickle. Liara reaches out, just a little, with her mind, feels the edge of the soul she knows best in the galaxy save her own. Goddess, it really is you. I…

Movement shatters the spell.

Miranda Lawson has done nothing more than shift her weight, avert her gaze, but her presence in the room is a sledgehammer applied to the finest crystal, and the shards of Liara's happiest moment since the that terrible day over Alchera skitter away as the chill reality of the situation snap-freezes Liara's joy. Two years of grief and struggle reassert their dominance; two years of paranoia and pain.

Rachel's broken, burnt corpse leers at her through the viewport of the pod, a nightmare worse than any husk, recognizable only from the faint trace of the characters N and 7 embossed into the charred armour.

Liara jerks back, shaking her head in denial as fear swamps her. In spite of the warmth of Shepard's touch, the honest delight in her eyes and her mind as they kissed, this is simply too good to be true. She cannot afford to be naïve. The stakes are too high. Cerberus have revived Shepard for a suicide mission, and the most likely outcome is that she will be dead again before the year is out.

I can't do this. I can't do this again.

Shepard is slow to comprehend, her gaze tracking Liara in confusion as the asari steps back, careful to keep Operative Lawson in clear view. Her past interactions with the Cerberus agent have hardly engendered trust, and caution has saved her life many times since Shepard… left.

"My sources said you were alive," Liara manages once she is safely behind her desk, physically removed from the terrible temptation of Shepard's earnest, safe embrace. "I never believed… It's… good to see you."

Shepard flicks a quick glance to Lawson, whose shoulders twitch in the barest shrug, almost as though she's checking the other human heard the same thing. When she looks back at Liara, there's confusion in her gaze. "You have sources now?" she asks, nonplussed.

"A few." Liara turns away, paces to the window, using the diversion to balance herself. "Sources, contacts, even a little hired muscle. I've been working as an information broker. It's paid the bills since you…" she can't bring herself to utter the words. You died. You left me. She shrugs as she turns back, sitting down at her desk and gesturing for Shepard to take the seat opposite. "Well, for the past two years. And now you're back. Gunning for the Collectors with Cerberus." You're alive – and they want you to take on a mission so dangerous it's practically certain you'll die again.

"Well, if you know that, then you know that I could use your help." Shepard sounds casual, but the look in her eyes is beseeching, an impassioned, intimate plea, and the sheer need in the human's expression stops the breath in Liara's lungs for a moment.

"I can't, Shepard," she grinds out, her voice harsh. "I'm sorry. I have commitments here. Things I need to take care of." The shield afforded by such excuses is paper-thin, but it's the only cover she has. Even as the words leave her mouth, it takes every shred of Liara's willpower not to snatch them back. But she doesn't have the strength to watch Shepard die again, sacrifice herself again for the sake of an uncaring, heedless galaxy. She's sure, deep in her heart, that she can't survive such a loss a second time.

"What kind of things do you need to take care of?" Shepard asks, concern immediately putting that damnable wrinkle in her forehead, the one Liara loves because it underlines her commander's kind, compassionate nature. "Are you in trouble?"

Goddess, she'd drop everything to help me, and Athame forgive me, I want her to. Liara averts her gaze, but her whole body aches for the protection of Shepard's arms around her, the safety she knows her love would grant her no matter the rights or wrongs of her cause.

She wakes in the dark, gasping, heart hammering, her vision blurred and her face wet with tears. She can't stop the sob that wells from her chest. "Mother!"

She doesn't clearly remember the nightmare, but the grief it has provoked is inexorable. Curling in on herself, she tries to block it out, this resurgent pain of bereavement that catches her when she least expects it.

Gentle, sure hands pry her open, roll her over. "Shhh, Li, it's OK. It's just a nightmare." Shepard's voice, husky with sleep, holds nothing but tenderness and compassion.

"Rachel, I…"

"It's OK. C'mere."

Liara allows herself to be drawn into a tight, warm embrace. She presses close to her lover, skin to skin, taking comfort from the heat of her body and the shield of her arms. "Meld with me," the human murmurs against her aural cavity, her fingers trailing soothingly along Liara's crests. "Meld with me, sweetheart."

Craving the comfort of the bright, assured love she knows she will find in Rachel's thoughts, Liara gladly complies.

Goddess, she yearns for that comfort now, more than she has ever wanted anything in her life. But she dares not chance it. Even if she wills it, even if Shepard wills it, until she is sure that her bold commander has not been tampered with, changed, bound by some twisted bargain or technological control to serve Cerberus in more than name, full disclosure is a risk she cannot take. Remember why you kept your distance. Remember why you told Lawson you did not care. This is not some children's story. Shepard's self-determination and freedom can't be verified by a single kiss, and wishing will not make it so.

"No," she answers, "no trouble, but…" Agitated, she gets up again, pacing back to the window, "it's been a long two years. I had to do things while you were gone." Things she cannot bring herself to admit to Shepard, with her intact belief in Liara's innocence. To Shepard, whose every thought and action are predicated on just cause and honourable dealings. To Shepard, who would never leave a friend to die just to save her own skin. "I have debts to repay."

Bracing herself, she turns back. Her emotions are threatening to boil out of control. She needs time, space; she needs to think, not react. She needs Shepard to come back here alone, without Miranda Lawson as her insidious shadow (and come to think of it, where is Garrus? Shepard disembarked with a turian crew member, and there's only one turian in the galaxy who'd follow Shepard onto a Cerberus ship). She needs to get Shepard out of here while she regroups, because if she doesn't, she's going to throw herself into the human's arms, beg her for forgiveness, beg her to meld, and jeopardize everything she's trying to protect. "Listen, if you want to help, I need someone with hacking expertise, someone I can trust." Once the first sentence is out, it somehow gets easier. "If you can disable security at key points around the port, you could get me information I need."

Shepard stiffens. "What's this all about, Liara?" she demands, her tone laced with frustration. "Can't you just talk to me?"

"Don't you think I want to, Shepard?" Liara snaps back reflexively. Shepard recoils, an incredulous expression unhinging her jaw, and as Liara watches guiltily, hurt flares in the human's deep green eyes. Liara looks down, biting her lip to dam the apology rising in her chest, unable to watch as the damage she's deliberately inflicted in the name of protecting herself takes root. When she looks back, Shepard has command of her expression, barely. "This isn't because I don't trust you," she half-pleads, half-explains. Far too little, far too late. "This is Illium. Anything I say is probably being recorded." And Operative Lawson is as likely a suspect as anyone else.

Shepard shrugs, the gesture laden with resignation. "If it'll help you, sure. I'll take care of it," she agrees. No questions, no conditions, just simple faith. It feels like everything she says and does is designed to do the maximum damage to Liara's self-command.

Hastily, she runs through the instructions for the data hacks. As she finishes, she inadvertently meets Shepard's searching gaze as the soldier stands, sees the sudden flare of passion in the human's eyes. Frightened, she schools herself to a cool neutrality, feigning indifference as best she can. She must be cautious.

But erring on the side of caution takes a terrible toll. Shepard's shoulders slump. The spark of hope in her eyes gutters and dies. Her face pales, but what cuts Liara open is her forlorn, bewildered expression. She genuinely cannot fathom the rejection Liara has just dealt out; as the shock of the wound hits, Shepard is completely poleaxed. Liara bites her lip again, tastes blood this time, trying to contain the cry of denial that's fighting its way up her throat.

Mercifully, Miranda Lawson breaks the deadlock. "We'll be in touch," she states as she lays a hand on Shepard's shoulder. Shepard doesn't flinch or brush her off, as though the Cerberus officer's touch is welcome. Jealousy boils up in Liara, and her face must show it, because a sudden flash of savage satisfaction flickers in Shepard's eyes as she turns and walks away without a word, Miranda following close behind.

Liara watches her go, the pain in her chest so acute that it steals her breath. As soon as the door hisses shut, she collapses forward onto her desk, buries her face in the crook of her elbow, and a deep, heaving sob tears loose. The compulsion to give chase, to run after Rachel, drag her back in here and beg abjectly for her forgiveness is almost overwhelming.

Athame's infinite grace, is it possible that you could have made any more of a mess of that than you did? "I'm sorry, Rachel," she whispers brokenly. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

Misery overwhelms her, and for a time she is a slave to its whim, sobbing helplessly into her sleeve. No matter how much she has changed, one thing is clear; she still loves Rachel.

How could I not…

Liara leans on the balcony before her, looking out over the gardens of the Presidium. Although there are still scars from Sovereign's attack, in the two weeks since the battle the Keepers and repair crews have worked tirelessly, and already the area around the council tower has regained much of its pristine splendour, at least on the surface of things. Enough to recreate the sensation of tranquil calm the Presidium normally exudes.

Hands grasp her hips, squeezing lightly for a moment, then slide round to clasp her waist as she's drawn up and off the balcony and into a gentle hug. A kiss skims her cheek, accompanied by the light tickle of human hair against her skin. "Hiya, Li," Shepard murmurs. "Been waiting long?"

"No," Liara assures, revelling in the contact. Their week of shore leave has made her much more aware of the warmth and strength of Shepard's body, and to be held in the human's arms imbues her with a sense of security she's rarely known. "Just a few minutes."

"Sorry, Councilor Valern went on a bit. I couldn't really tell him to shut up, so I had to wait for him to take a breath."

"But it went well?"

"As well as can be expected for now. Mopping up the geth might not be a carte blanche Reaper hunting licence, but it gives us cover to go looking, at least."

Liara turns in the circle of her lover's arms, hooks her hands round the human's neck as she looks into her eyes, reads the frustration lurking behind the positive tone of voice. "Who are you trying to convince, Rachel, me or yourself?"

Shepard smiles wryly. "Busted." She leans in, presses a light kiss to Liara's forehead. "You know me too well. Already."

"The perils of dating an asari," Liara teases, tapping her fingers against Shepard's temple.

"Mmm." Shepard's smile expands into a grin. "Speaking of which…"

"What, asari?"

"No. Dating." Shepard squeezes her gently. "Are you busy this evening?"

Liara considers it. She has nothing arranged. Since returning from their leave yesterday morning she has been caught up with the business of reorganizing her life; arranging a sabbatical from her position at Serrice University, beginning to deal with the paperwork for her mother's estate, completing her consultancy assessments and insurance waivers for the Alliance, moving her belongings into Shepard's cabin, buying more belongings when she realized she had almost nothing to move. All of which has resulted in seeing very little of Rachel. Odd that she should have come to be so possessive of Shepard's presence so quickly. "I was hoping to spend some time with you," she answers truthfully.

"Well, that works out nicely." Shepard draws her closer. "Meet me back here at nineteen hundred hours, ship's time. I'm taking you out for the evening." She ghosts a kiss against Liara's jaw.

"Where are we going?" Liara enquires, shivering at the touch of Shepard's lips against her skin.

"Nuh-uh, not telling. It's a surprise."

"Well, what should I wear?"

"Whatever you're comfortable in," Shepard replies with a wink. "But nothing too complicated to get you out of, since you look even more beautiful undressed."

Liara blushes, reflexively looking around to see if anyone has overheard, and Shepard laughs, crushing her into a tight hug.

"My God, you're adorable," she chuckles. "And if someone heard me, so much the better. I don't have any problem with people knowing I think you're beautiful."

Liara's blush deepens; she never knows how to respond to such compliments. "I…"

"It's OK, Li," Shepard assures her softly. "You don't need to say anything." She lowers her head, and kisses Liara, and the asari can't remember ever being happier.

The insistent chirp of her omni-tool brings her back to the present. Activating it, she sees a reminder for a meet-and-greet with the governor of Nos Astra at the Dracon Trade Center this evening. She has no interest in the event, really, but it cost a fortune to secure an invitation. Anyone who is anyone will be there, and the influence she can develop in four hours at this one function is more than regular work can garner in a year. She must compose herself; she cannot afford to waste the expenditure or the opportunity.

Agitated, she rises and walks to the window, tears still flowing, and stares down into the crowd, and her heart kicks as she sees Shepard walking side by side with Garrus. They stop, turning to face one another, and Garrus' mandibles flare wide in a laugh as he jabs his elbow toward Shepard's face. Laughing, she dodges the blow, and they start walking again, engaged in a mock-wrestling match as they work their way toward the docks. In spite of the playful interaction, Liara is not fooled. She recognises the tension in Shepard's shoulders even from range, even through the veil of tears that fogs her vision.

The stunned, hurt look on Rachel's face flickers through her mind once more, and suddenly, the office is claustrophobic, intolerable. Gathering her things, she leaves, scrubbing her cheeks clear of tears, informing Nyxeris that she'll work from home for the rest of the day, and yes, everything is fine.

The walk home helps her calm herself, but her immaculately appointed, high-end apartment (a necessary cover to give her the veneer of respectability and affluence that Nos Astra requires of its wannabe movers and shakers) offers no refuge. On rare occasions, particularly in recent months, she's started to notice how sterile and lifeless the space is, has begun thinking of how she might truly build a home here amid the towers of mirrors. Illium is a well-connected hub world, the reason she chose it as a base in the first place. The business she began to cover her hunt for the Broker has become profitable, adding to her already considerable resources, and her connections and political influence are burgeoning. She would do well here, if she chose. If this was the life she truly wanted.

She can't deny it holds its attractions. She enjoys the intellectual challenge of being a huntress in the digital jungle, an ecosystem infinitely more complex than any real-world environment. Tracking the Shadow Broker through the almost infinite pathways of data is by turns exhilarating and terrifying, as is the power of that data to influence lives. A misdemeanour exposed here, an alibi questioned there, and the whole edifice of an existence can be brought crashing down.

And therein lies the dark path of temptation, and the trade-off with her conscience. The jungle she hunts in is not always a clean place. Thus far, when not directly pursuing her enemy, Liara has tried to focus on legitimate dealings, taking on contracts for law enforcement, political analysis, and corporate R&D rather than anything more morally ambiguous, but even so, she has ventured into territory where the law has been, at best a secondary consideration, at worst an outright hindrance. Her respect for the rule of law has been corroded by experience, at least insofar as her own actions are concerned, and further worn away by her dealings with her legal consultants, whose moral flexibility is available to anyone who can afford their eye-wateringly expensive hourly rate. Every time she is required to call on them, the price exacted from her innocence hurts far more than the damage to her bank balance. But whatever crimes Liara has committed have been carefully bleached from existence, first by her lawyers, and then by her own hand. The hack into their system was by far the trickiest she's ever attempted, but with the enemies she has acquired, trust in a stranger is not something she can afford, also the reason she boasts no friends, and keeps even close acquaintances at a remove.

Looking around the lonely, immaculate apartment, her gaze catches the polished display case that holds Shepard's ruined armour. Liara's relics, her sacred items, the symbols of her faith and her crusade. The tangible daily reminder that she has already lost the most precious thing she possessed to the Reapers. Rachel gave her life to defend against their threat, a sacrifice that demands no less a measure of devotion from Liara. Her innocent views on the galaxy are a small price in comparison; she would give much more to stop the Reapers. The display is there to remind her that she cannot lay down the burden of the oath she swore over Shepard's body before she handed it to Cerberus.

And yet somehow, the armour has lost its aura, as though Shepard's resurrected form has reclaimed any essence that might once have imbued the relic. The scant comfort Liara has eked out over the years, of fighting on as she believes her love would want her to, has been shown for the guttering candle it is beside the beacon of Shepard's presence. And Liara is terrified now that, like that candle, she will be found wanting when measured against Shepard's memory of her, of the naïve maiden she was when she fell hopelessly in love with a hero. Seeing Shepard again has rammed home how lonely she is here, how isolated. But to regain Rachel, and then lose her not to the battle but to the decisions she's made, that… that would be the cruellest of all self-inflicted wounds. This outcome, she fears more than the possibility of Shepard's death… to be condemned to watch her walking away.

Seeking a distraction, Liara ascends to her bedroom. She needs to get ready for the evening. Stepping into her closet, she pulls the dress she plans to wear tonight from amid her small but carefully calibrated selection of formalwear. (Another minor fortune expended, but even Liara will admit that the stylist who assisted her was worth every credit.) The jade fabric drapes sensuously over her fingers, a rich, soft material that moulds to her every curve. She wonders what Rachel would think of the dress.

She paces the Presidium nervously, running her hands down the dress she spent hours picking out, fussing with the fall of the material she's not used to wearing. She hasn't worn a dress since Janiris last year, and even that was a rare happenstance, and, Goddess, what if…

"Wow." Shepard's voice is stunned. Shyly, Liara turns to face the human, tugging nervously at her neckline.

"Do you… like it?"

Shepard sucks in a breath, lets out a tiny huff of laughter. "Do I like it?" She runs her hands down Liara's flanks, smoothing the deep jade material over her hips. "My God, Liara… you're breathtaking." She catches Liara's hand, lifts it to her lips, and presses a kiss to her knuckles. "Yes. I like it. Very much."

She lays the dress down on the bed, finds the shoes that match and selects some jewellery, a simple necklace and bracelet that belonged to her mother. She strips the business ensemble she's wearing, dumping it in the refresher station and sits down on the bed, studying her choice of attire for the evening, once again with the wrong audience in mind.

After a sumptuous dinner and a tour of one of the Presidium's newer attractions, a human antiquities museum holding an exhibition on Ancient Greece, Rachel leads Liara to the Park Hotel, near the Consort's apartments. A room is reserved for them, and as soon as they're alone, Rachel pulls Liara into a close embrace, her hands wandering freely as they kiss.

Liara settles back on her bed, closing her eyes as the knot of tension that has been tightening ever since Rachel Shepard stalked into her office and kissed her finally identifies itself as arousal. It's been so long since she felt it that it's unfamiliar, almost unwelcome.

Rachel's fingers find the closure of her dress, unsealing the garment with torturous slowness. Liara shivers as the cool air whispers across her exposed skin, leans closer into the blazing warmth of Shepard's body. Task completed, the human's warm fingers trail back up her spine, then across her shoulder blades, hooking the straps of her dress and pulling them clear of her shoulders.

The garment flows down Liara's body to pool at her feet.

"See," Shepard whispers, "you're even more beautiful now." She strokes her palm down over Liara's collarbone and chest, cupping her left breast and squeezing it lightly.

Liara lets her own hands caress her body, imitating her graphic recall, teasing her own aroused flesh. It's an activity she seldom indulges in, since, like any other memory of intimacy, it has become irrevocably associated with her lover. And without the meld, it's a poor substitute for satisfaction at the best of times, a fact that she's inevitably reminded of on the rare occasions that she's minded to attend her own pleasure.

Touch yourself, Li. Rachel's voice entreats Liara through the meld, her fingers caressing the folds of the asari's neck with a deft, sensual touch. Take full advantage of your hands and mine. Let me feel what pleases you. She takes Liara's hand, guides it down to the junction of her thighs, uses the asari's own fingers to massage her. As Shepard lets go, Liara obeys her lover's instruction even as Rachel's fingers wander up to her breasts, and she lets out an involuntary gasp.

She slides her hand between her legs, feeling the slick warmth of her need, and as her fingers graze over the apex of her azure, her memory betrays her completely, carried away by the recollection of that first date, a recollection she has not permitted herself to indulge in for years: The imploring, worshipful look in Rachel's eyes as Liara's kiss torments the sensitive flesh of the human's sex, tasting her arousal. Her deep, husky groan of pleasure as she climaxes, self-command undone by Liara's touch. And then, reciprocity; Rachel's skilled fingers working her to ecstasy; the taste of the human's kisses; the powerful rhythm of her muscles shifting beneath Liara's hands as the human works to pleasure her. "Rachel," she cries as her lover enfolds her in a tender embrace, anchoring her as her orgasm sweeps through her, and then, blissfully, the peaceful, sated afterglow of collapsing into her human's arms.

Her biotics light up, the snap-discharge crackling around the room and jerking her back to the present. She opens her eyes, finding herself alone, fingers tangled in her underwear, and the magnitude of what she's lost obliterates the brief euphoria of her memory, eradicates the simulacrum of passion her own touch has concocted. Rachel's devastated expression of defeat, not two hours old, inflicted by Liara's own hand, desecrates the sanctity of her recall, a jeering, splintering counterpoint to her beloved's happiness in that moment.

I can't. I can't do this. Rising, she hurries to the bathroom, setting the shower to its coldest setting and plunging beneath the icy spray. The shock makes her gasp, douses the pernicious fire of her arousal with brutal efficiency. What the water can't wash away, though, are her emotions, the tangled skeins of fear, despair and abject loneliness that are throttling the joy she desperately wants to feel at the thought that Rachel is alive, that Rachel appears to want her; that she need no longer be sustained by memories and fantasies; that her love is alive and vibrant. That she doesn't have to be alone anymore. The idea of seeing her tomorrow fills her with equal parts dread and bliss.

She stays beneath the shower until her teeth begin to chatter, until her omni-tool alarm is shrieking that she will be late, giving herself no opportunity to think further. Drying off, she replaces the jade dress in the wardrobe, selects a silver one in its place and dresses mechanically, donning another piece of the emotional armour of the broker's profession with each garment and accoutrement she slides into place. She has work to do, and she must focus. By the time she is ready to leave, she has her emotions locked away, forced back behind the mask she has become so accustomed to wearing. Time to go to work, T'Soni. Leave your childish insecurities out of sight, where they belong.

Hailing a taxicab, she steps out of her apartment building to begin her journey. Preoccupied with planning her strategy, she does not notice the stealthy figure of a watcher atop the building opposite, the glint of the street light off the polished surface of the watcher's armour, or the laser sight that dances on the window of her apartment.