If there's one thing Garrus is good at, it's following directions. Another day, he might ask Shepard a million questions about it, just for the joy of hearing her talk: what an earl is, what Earth is (and here he pauses, thinking the traitorous word 'was,' and of Palaven, and shakes his head, settling back onto 'is') like in the corners where these strange plants grow, why the hell she wants a sour yellow fruit squeezed into it. For now, he follows her instructions, puts the hot mug in her scraped hands, kisses the bruise forming on her cheekbone, and curls around her as the ship hums steadily on its way through the dying stars.

ao3