Author's Note: illustratedacorns (on tumblr) wanted to do a fic/art trade, with the sharing body heat trope as a prompt. This was supposed to be a ficlet. Oops.

Shepard woke to darkness and to cold. A moment later, pain followed, bringing a muddy confusion hard on its heels. A nightmare, she thought at first. Just another bad dream. But when she tried to roll to the side of the bed, she realized she was sitting upright, strapped into the Hammerhead's pilot seat. The pain wasn't just a ghost of memory running phantom fingers along her nerves; her bones ached from the impact, and she had the sneaking suspicion that even her Cerberus-enhanced bone and muscle weaves weren't going to—

Impact.

"Garrus?" she asked. Her throat burned as though a scream had been torn from it. She didn't remember that part, but it seemed plausible. The silence swallowed the word, and without the reassuring crackle of an open commlink, it sounded barely louder than a whisper, trapped as it was inside the confines of her own helmet. Ignoring the pain in her throat, she raised her voice and repeated herself, but Garrus didn't answer.

Silence. Complete silence. Unnatural silence. No engines. No generator. Not even the buzz and whir and sputter of anything broken. She supposed she had to be grateful they weren't actually on fire, but silence was a bad sound. Without power, they were stranded, and Lattesh wasn't a planet anyone wanted to be stranded on. When she tried to remember what had happened just before the crash, what kind of warning they'd been given, only fragments—laughter, a shout, her own voice yelling brace for impact an octave higher than usual—came back to her. Garrus had made a joke about flying in circles. She'd replied with a quip about pulling over and making him walk home. The boards had all flashed red. Red wasn't good. Red was never good. Red was as bad as silence, in its way.

Her neck protested as she turned, blinking to clear her vision. Her eyes saw better now than they ever had before, also courtesy of Cerberus' interference with the natural order of things, but the interior of the Hammerhead was lit only by insufficient strips of emergency lighting tape, rendering Garrus a dim shape made of a slightly darker shadow. The angle of the lighting strips told her they'd landed nose-down, at something like a thirty degree angle. Not terrible. Also not great. At least on Lattesh she was fairly certain they weren't in the process of sinking into a river of lava. Wedged into a crevasse or buried under an avalanche, though; those were unfortunate and all-too-likely possibilities. She swallowed her panicky worst case scenarios and tried to bring up her omni-tool interface, but it didn't respond. Through the faceplate of his helmet, even Garrus' ever-present visor was dark, and for some reason that tech failure struck her as the more disturbing. Some kind of broad EMP, maybe. Nothing she'd been expecting, certainly; these little data-gathering missions for Cerberus had been as tame as freezing temperatures or hopscotching across lava rivers could be. Panic welled up again, and this time when she tried to banish it, it proved intractable. Trapped in a fancy tin can with no power was one thing; to be deprived of omni-tools and hardsuit computers was quite another.

"Garrus," she repeated. She listened closely, but couldn't hear his breath. She hoped his own helmet was merely swallowing the sound, playing a cruel came of hide-and-seek. "Come on, Garrus, wake up."

#

"Going planetside?" he asked, leaning against the side of the Hammerhead as though he owned it, as though he had nothing better to do than lean and lift his brow-plates and flick his mandibles in an amused smirk every so faintly tinged with the concern that had been there since she stumbled out of the Hammerhead the last time she'd gone planetside alone. She'd emerged with one hand full of dog tags, and the other clutching the helmet of a soldier who could never have survived the beating it had taken. Not naturally, anyway.

She shrugged, holstering a pistol she didn't think she'd need, and cocking her hip a little to match his swagger. She didn't mention his concern; she suspected he wouldn't like knowing she could read it on his face so plainly. "Cerberus thinks there might be relevant intel about the Protheans down there. Just a drop and grab; shouldn't even have to get out. Just as well. Apparently Lattesh is Ninth Circle of Hell frigid."

He made a face; even if he didn't know the reference, apparently the word frigid was enough to ensure his distaste. She caught herself staring a little too long, smiling a little too fondly. He didn't draw any attention to it, but if she could see his concern, she was pretty sure he'd be equally able to pick up on her admiration. Trying hard not to blush, she reminded herself very firmly that they'd decided to hold off on… blowing off steam, being intimate, whatever it was they were calling it, for very solid reasons. Things like not wanting to bother the crew. Or distract themselves from the extremely important tasks at hand. Or… she reached for another of the excuses—reasons—and found only a litany of pleading justifications for acting now. Acting yesterday.

On the one hand, she completely understood the logic behind waiting.

On the other? She was pretty sure logic could die in a fire and she wouldn't waste a second mourning it.

He watched her with an expectant tilt to his head, and she realized that while she'd been waging her ridiculous internal war, she'd completely missed whatever question he'd obviously asked. He huffed a breathy laugh and said, "Maybe I'd better insist. Wouldn't want you clocking out like that without a copilot to take over." He shifted his weight to his other foot, a subtle indication that he wasn't convinced he wasn't pushing his luck. His uncertainty made her gut twist with echoing dismay. "I, uh, asked if you wanted company. No pressure. Of course. Your call."

She smiled to cover her momentary lapse in attention, and gestured broadly. "You sure? I heard something about turians and cold and I wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

He scowled. She laughed. And decided not to bring a third, for a change.

#

It was so damned cold. Whatever pitiful insulation the Hammerhead possessed was swiftly losing the battle against the elements, and without her hardsuit's onboard computer regulating life-support systems, she couldn't count on her gear to keep her warm. Even now, it felt heavy and cold, and she found herself breathing a little too quickly, remembering stars and endings she shouldn't have been able to remember. Instead of reaching for the oxygen line she knew—she knew—wasn't broken, she felt for the clasps of the straps holding her in and released them. She extended her hands to catch the edge of the darkened display. Her neck protested even the slight fall, but she was pretty sure it was nothing more serious than a case of whiplash.

She blinked, able to make out a few more details as her vision steadily adjusted, and by the time she eased over to Garrus' seat, she could make out the distinct shape of his chair and the quiet, dark panels that should've been lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Garrus," she said again. Her voice echoed in her helmet. He didn't answer, didn't move. She didn't want to shake him, in case he'd done more serious damage to himself than she could make out at present. His body was held in place by straps like hers had been, but his head lolled and his limbs hung limp, evidence of unconsciousness. She was pretty sure they were all natural angles, but couldn't be certain. She had to be certain before she tried to move him. That was just basic first aid. She could do basic first aid. Even without computer-regulated automatic medi-gel dispensers.

She took a deep breath, rallying her resources. Light. She needed light. She had no idea how long she'd been out, and presumably both the Hammerhead and her various electronics had been malfunctioning all that time, but she wasn't dead, so she thought it was safe to assume Lattesh had breathable air, and that the crash had opened some crack enough to supply it. She couldn't pretend her hands didn't shake as she reached up and carefully removed her helmet. Icy air hit her warm cheeks like a double-handed slap, and she blinked as her eyes stung in response to the sudden change, but when she took a deep breath in, the air was thin but otherwise fine. Without any mechanical noise to cover it, the wind howled, and the Hammerhead's walls weren't thick enough to completely block the sound of a storm raging outside. She closed her eyes, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. Even with their systems blown, EDI had to have some kind of tracker on them; as soon as a break in the weather allowed, the Normandy would come swooping in to save the day. And then she'd have to accept endless jibes about her bad driving and Joker's piloting superiority. Which she'd do. Gladly, if he got her out of this.

Much of their cargo—some standard gear and the deposits of minerals she'd been able to rescue—had shifted in the crash. She pushed aside the rations and a crate of weapons she'd evidently forgotten about. She eyed a box of grenades uneasily, glad they'd stayed secure during the unplanned descent.

"You'd better not just be pretending to get out of helping," Shepard said, wishing he was pretending. She cast a swift look over her shoulder, but the turian-shaped shadow didn't move. "Just give me a second, okay? I know we've got some kind of emergency flares back here. We just need a little light, and it'll be cozy as a blanket fort in here." Garrus said nothing. "Do turian kids do that? It was my favorite thing. My dad made great ones. Really structurally sound. Multi-level, sometimes. He stacked chairs. Kids were envious for miles around. Pretty sure most of my friends only put up with me for the blanket forts. And maybe my mom's baking."

She went on at length about some of the more memorable forts—and cookies—as she rummaged through the crates, and was surprised how little the memories stung after all this time. She'd kept them wrapped up like fine china she was too afraid to use for so long she'd almost dreaded taking them out only to find them not as beautiful as she remembered. Translucent and solid, they were as lovely as she'd always thought they'd be, and she felt a pang for having hid them so long. Her mother's hands, her father's laugh, soft kisses pressed to her brow, soft hands running through hair so much longer than the tufty curls Cerberus had left her with.

Finally, after several false starts and half a dozen shared memories, she lifted a sealed lid and found a dozen emergency flares, more precious than eezo. She let out a relieved whoop and twisted a flare sharply to bring the contents to life. The red flash blinded her for a moment, and then faded into an eerie glow, casting strange shadows in the Hammerhead's interior.

#

"Well," Garrus said as she careened through the snowstorm, heading toward the distant red glow of the node. "It's no Mako, but your flair for the nauseating hasn't dimmed. I guarantee Wrex would be losing his lunch in the back, if he were here and not busy knocking heads together on Tuchanka."

Shepard's lips twisted in a wry smile he couldn't see. She didn't dare look away from her instruments. Although not yet serious enough to worry about, the engine was cooling more rapidly even than she'd anticipated. She allowed herself a moment's mourning for her poor Mako. "No need to be ashamed about it, Garrus. I know you miss him."

"Ahh, yes," Garrus mused. "All those exchanges of head nods and monosyllables. What's not to miss?"

Shepard chuckled. Garrus turned toward her. "Grunt, on the other hand, cornered me in the mess a few days ago and told me he knew eighteen ways to kill me even without a weapon. And then he detailed a few of his favorites. Nice kid. You'd think I never helped him kill a thresher maw. On foot."

"Was he threatening you?" Shepard had thought her warning adequate. With a frown, she calculated how much time it would take to swing back to Tuchanka and leave Grunt to Wrex's tender mercies.

Garrus snorted. "Might've been less weird if he had been. I think he was proud of himself. For the knowledge, maybe? Though it could've been pride at his own restraint in not using it."

"And how'd you respond?"

"Told him he shouldn't forget about spurs. Hurts like hell. Breaking one would buy at least enough time to do that, uh, fringe-ripping thing that he seemed so excited about."

"Garrus! Don't encourage him!"

Garrus laughed. "I told him his theory was solid, but if he started thinking about testing, he'd never see the sniper's bullet coming."

"Yours or mine?"

Garrus shrugged, and Shepard hit the boosters, shooting the Hammerhead forward in a series of little hops. "Does it matter? It's not like either of us misses."

"Says the turian who was bowled over by a FENRIS mech when he, oh, failed to get in cover."

"You said you weren't going to bring that up again."

"You missed it at point-blank range!"

"So you want me to bring up that time with the YMIR? Because… what's that saying of yours? Two can play this game, Shepard."

And so they played.

#

Her exertion with the crates had warmed her, but she didn't think she was imagining the sharper chill in the air as she crept back toward the cockpit. Her breath caught when she realized Garrus had managed to turn his head, and she set the flare down in order to reach for his helmet. Once he was freed of it, his mandibles gave a weak flutter and he said, "Were you talking about… cookies?"

A giddy burble of relieved laughter escaped her before she could swallow it. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to wonder what raisins are."

She laughed again, bringing one hand up to her mouth as if to push the sound back in. In the small interior of the Hammerhead, the mirth reverberated strangely, unsettling instead of comforting.

"What the hell happened, Shepard?"

"We crashed."

"Yeah," he said, "that much I figured out. I—don't remember the details. I—a lot of it's pretty fuzzy."

"Some kind of EMP. No one's come looking for us, though, so maybe it was some automatic defense triggered by our passing. Maybe by retrieving all of the data? No idea. Uh. It's bad, though."

Garrus shivered violently and cleared his throat. She watched as a flicker of dismay rearranged the plates of his face. It vanished again almost as quickly as she recognized it for what it was. The shivering didn't stop. "No power?"

She shook her head. "No omni-tools. No shipboard systems. My hardsuit's not responding." She sighed, tapping her ear. "I guess we should be grateful the pulse didn't fry our translators? I only know curse words in turian."

Garrus' answering ha didn't sound terribly amused. His body gave another shudder, and she didn't miss the way his hands trembled as they fumbled at the straps. A moment too late, she reached out to help him. As soon as the clasps opened, Garrus fell forward, but instead of catching himself the way she had, his reaction time was a fraction too slow and he thumped against the dash with a low grunt, his hands coming up too late, his breath pushed from him roughly. He shook his head, but whether it was to clear some unexpected fogginess or in disappointment with himself, Shepard couldn't tell.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked abruptly. He removed his visor, turning it over in his hands. His face looked different when he raised his chin and met her gaze. She tried to remember if she'd ever seen him without the headset, but couldn't. Instead of sharp, his eyes were vague, slipping past her to look into the darkness beyond. "I'd—normally it would tell me."

"Really?" she asked, not liking the pauses, as though he were struggling to find words. Even his voice sounded strange, like his subharmonics weren't working properly. Or like they were trying to tell her some truth she didn't want to hear. "Mine just helps with targeting, mostly."

"Like you need the help."

"Hey," she said, smiling faintly, "I take our headshot competition extremely seriously, I'll have you know. No fair giving you such an obvious advantage."

Under usual circumstances, he would've come back at her with a quip or a jibe, perhaps a smart remark about just who was leading the way (him, she knew, by two). This silence, like the silence of the Hammerhead, wasn't normal. He blinked at her, and replaced his visor, tilting his head as though confused to find the screen dark. He said, "I'm cold, Shepard. I'm really cold. I'm… it's… not good."

"It's shock," Shepard said. "From the impact. We should—"

But Garrus was already shaking his head. "I don't… without life-support systems… I meant it about turians. And the cold."

#

"Times like this, you almost wish you had a geth Colossus to shoot," Garrus said.

"I think you mean 'run over,'" Shepard insisted.

"I meant shoot. You meant run over."

"You're no fun, Vakarian."

"And you like to hog buttons and kills," he retorted. "Save something for the rest of us."

"The calibrations are all yours."

"Funny."

She laughed, turning toward the last of the information nodes. None too soon, either; the storm wasn't letting up in the slightest, the Normandy's transmissions were coming in broken over the comms, and the Hammerhead's engine was protesting the cold with beeps and whines. Garrus' answering chuckle echoed over her comms. She maneuvered the Hammerhead until they hovered over the node, but, buffeted by the harsh winds, she had to restart the procedure three times before it took. The engine warmed slightly.

"Why do this?" Garrus asked abruptly. "These little fetch missions for Cerberus?"

"Because I'm pretty sure Liara would never forgive me if I let potential new information about the Protheans go undiscovered?"

"You sending her copies?"

She huffed. "Please, Garrus. You think I'm sending intel like this back to the Illusive Man without copies of copies and backups of backups? Cerberus gets nothing from me that hasn't been blind copied to Anderson and Liara and Admiral Hackett and a catch-all account for my own later perusal. Hell, I'll send it to you too, if you want."

Shepard cursed creatively as the winds pushed her off the node just before the data finished uploading and she was forced to start again. The engines protested. She bit down on her bottom lip, brow furrowed with concentration. "Honestly?" she said, when it appeared the transfer was going to take. "The team's still not cohesive the way I want it to be, and I'm not heading through the Omega-4 without a solid squad, even if it means leaving good people behind."

"Miranda still not speaking to you?"

Shepard groaned. "She'll come around."

"If she doesn't?"

"She will. Jack got under her skin. She didn't like the side of the line I came down on. That's fine. But she's going to see it my way eventually."

Even though she couldn't see it, she heard the grin as Garrus said, "Because you're always right?"

"Because Miranda's a rational human being and I made the rational argument." Shepard sighed. "Also, I'm always right."

"And so modest."

"Practically my middle name."

"Yeah? I thought it was—"

Shepard drowned out his laughing words with a jumble of nonsense noises, la-la-las so loud they made her comms screech with angry feedback. "Don't make me drive this ship into the side of a mountain, Vakarian."

He raised his hands in surrender. The data recovery finished with a pleasant beep, and Shepard immediately boosted the engines, heading toward the last coordinates the Normandy had sent.

#

Shepard knew how to survive in the cold. She remembered that facet of N-training as a particularly grueling, particularly ugly unit, in which more marines dropped out than lasted. She'd passed, but it had taken a week to recover, when usually she'd managed to bounce back within a day or two. Lists of symptoms, of dos and don'ts, ran together in her head, prodding her toward action while she still had wits enough to do so.

Physical activity was hampered by the limited space, and as he grew weaker and wearier, Garrus grew less willing to crawl from one end of the Hammerhead's little interior to the other, no matter how intently she urged him on. Garrus had eaten the two dextro ration bars she found stashed in the crates, and they'd helped, but now they were gone, and she'd emptied every crate and box looking for more to no avail. She ran her armored hands back through her short hair, doubtless leaving the curls in mad disarray. The turian symptoms of hypothermia weren't all that different than the human, but he was progressing through them at an alarming rate. She, on the other hand, felt fine; a little chilled, but nothing like the stars, the breathlessness, the moments before she woke up on Miranda's slab—

She jumped when she heard a crash, and whirled to find Garrus scrabbling clumsily at the clasps of his armor. The crash had been his chestplate; a moment later the large piece covering his cowl followed. He mumbled under his breath, snatches of words and sounds her translator was having a hard time making sense of. She did recognize a couple of turian curse words. Particularly vile ones. It was like watching a sleepwalker dance, graceless and off-beat. "Garrus," she said, reaching for his hands. "Garrus, stop."

He raised his eyes and fixed her with such a look of confusion and incomprehension she nearly dropped his hands again. "I've got to get up to the perch," he said. "I won't let these bastards get away with it, Butler." He pulled back, but was too weak to break her grasp. "This armor's wrong. It's not mine. I need mine."

"It's yours now," she said.

"You're dead," he snarled. "The Normandy went down over Alchera. That's what Anderson said."

"I'm sorry," said Shepard.

"Yeah, he said that too. Bastard. Where was he when they started slandering you? Where the hell was he?"

"Garrus," she said. "You need to put your armor on. You need the insulation."

"You're dead," he repeated. He laughed, horribly. "Shit. Is that what I do now? Take orders from the dead? It's worse than I thought. It used to be I just heard your voice, sometimes. This is new. I think it's pretty bad."

"Come on," she said, shucking her own gear with surer hands, settling the pieces off to the side, where they wouldn't be in the way. "We'll be warmer huddled up together."

His smile was wan, containing only a hint of its usual swagger. She blamed the sting in her eyes on the chill. "Saw a vid like this once," he said. "Or maybe it was a scene in Fleet and Flotilla. You flirting with me, Shepard? That's new." He rubbed absently at the side of his neck, and the gesture was so normal, so him, she could almost forget how many extremely dangerous symptoms he was exhibiting. Body heat was something of a last resort; she threw off heat like a furnace these days, but she didn't know if even her Cerberus-enhanced metabolism would be enough to pull him back from the brink he was toppling over.

She had to help him with the rest of his armor, figuring out the bits she didn't understand by trial and error. He was still shivering, but not worse, she thought, than he had been. When Shepard was finished, and they were both left wearing only their thin underlayers, she guided him away from the rapidly cooling metal walls and urged him to sit. He stumbled, falling hard on one knee, and letting the rest of his body follow in a sort of grim inertia. The Hammerhead wasn't equipped with anything so helpful as a sleeping bag—human or turian—so she made due with a heavy piece of tarpaulin she'd found folded up in one of the crates.

Garrus looked too small half-crumpled on the floor in the dim red light of a second flare. Shepard swallowed hard. She knew what a turian body looked like, of course. She knew eight ways to incapacitate one. Still, all her experience was academic; she'd never seen one up close and personal before. He was so tall and so slender about the waist, lean muscle trembling with the shuddering cold. She shook her head. No wonder turians didn't do well in the cold; they had no natural insulation. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, trying to decide if it was better to wrap her insufficiently tall warmth around him, or to have him curl himself around her. When she stepped close enough, he solved the problem for her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing the bandaged side of his face against her belly. She knew then how far gone he must be, because he didn't flinch and she knew very well how much the wound still pained him, under normal circumstances.

"I'm sorry, Sol," he mumbled against her, his subharmonics keening below the words, an eerie countermelody she'd never heard before. "I should have done more. I should never have—I wanted to do more."

Sol? Confusion and the ping of recognition warred for a moment before Shepard remembered with some shame the files on Garrus she'd perused on the Shadow Broker's ship. Leadership potential overshadowed by Shepard. Unlikely to fully develop under Shepard's command. Solana Vakarian, the sister he'd never mentioned. His grief was doubtless for the sick mother he'd also never spoken of. Shepard ran a tender hand down the curve of his fringe. His voice broke as he mumbled something about forgiveness, and something about impossibility, and something about always being too wrong, too late. Always too late.

Without pulling out of his grip, Shepard sank down, tucking the tarpaulin as tightly around them as she could manage. She turned to face him, pressing as much of her warmth against him as she could manage. She told herself she felt his shivering lessen, but it was a cold comfort. When he stopped shivering, it would be a bad sign. A very bad sign. One of the worst signs.

"Miss her," said Garrus. She heard the rumble of his voice, and felt the movement of his chin against the top of her head.

"Solana?" Shepard asked quietly. "Your mother?"

"Shepard," he said. "So desperate. Thought I saw her through my scope. Before I died. Always was good at making an entrance. Didn't like her exits as much. So final."

"Garrus," Shepard said. "I'm here. It's fine." A turian heart didn't beat the same rhythm as a human one she thought she remembered from her lessons on how to incapacitate and kill them, but she was certain Garrus' was beating too slowly to be healthy. She felt doubly warm because he was so chilled. Spurs are weak, her instructor had said. Eyes, of course. Waists and necks, if they're unarmored. Don't let their startlingly dangerous appearance intimidate you. They can be killed. I'm here to teach you how.

Crash on an ice planet, she thought miserably, tightening her arms around him. Garrus didn't acknowledge the pressure, didn't murmur, didn't move.

"Tell me about Palaven," she said. He made a noise that sounded suspiciously sleepy. "Garrus," she snapped, louder, in the voice she usually reserved for reprimands and startling new recruits. It had the intended affect, making him jump, but before he could pull away or snap to attention or salute, she added, "No sleeping."

"Wasn't," he lied. He shivered again. "Palaven? 'S hot."

"I gathered that," she said. "I've never been."

"Radiation. Need a suit." His breath wheezed, neither laugh nor moan. "One that works."

"Funny," she said, swallowing to clear the tightness from her throat. She blinked the prickle from her eyes and a pair of hot tears trickled down her cheeks.

"Fruit," he said. "Miss it. Sunsets. Red. Like nowhere else."

"You'll have to show me sometime."

"Radiation," he repeated, the word tremulous and confused and still humming with that low keening note.

"I'll get a suit," Shepard soothed. "One that works."

In a wounded child's voice he asked, "Did I win?"

She didn't know what he was referring to, didn't even know if he thought he was speaking to her or to one of his other hallucinatory phantoms, but she pressed close, willing all her warmth into him with the kind of fervor as Ashley Williams might have called prayer, and said, "Always, Vakarian."

#

Shepard woke to dim light and warmth. A moment later, pain followed, bringing a muddy confusion hard on its heels. A nightmare, she thought at first. Just another bad dream. But when she tried to roll to the side of the bed, she found herself strapped down, bound by cords and machinery, and Doctor Chakwas hovering.

"Garrus?" Shepard croaked, her throat rough and tight with disuse. She squirmed against the restraints, trying to see around the doctor to the other beds. She heard her monitor indignantly beeping even as her heart began to race in her chest.

"Commander," Chakwas said. "Shepard, please. He's—"

"Where?"

Chakwas settled a cool hand on Shepard's brow; she wouldn't have thought cool could feel soothing after her ordeal, but it put her in mind of her mother and cookies and the blanket forts of her childhood, and not deadly crashes and raging snowstorms. "He's recovering. Much as you are. It was… a near thing. For a time."

Shepard tried to speak, coughed, swallowed hard and managed, "Tell."

Chakwas frowned, looked as if she might protest, and then sketched the outline of the tale. The storm had made finding them difficult. They'd been stranded without power for nearly sixteen hours. Shepard had barely been conscious when they'd finally arrived; it was no surprise she had no memory of it. Garrus had been—"You've Thane to thank," Chakwas explained. "He said he'd seen men brought back from worse."

Shepard made a face, thinking of that Cerberus slab, that death amongst the stars.

"He knew it would have been disastrous to warm Garrus too quickly. I did the bulk of the work there. He hasn't woken, but—"

From beyond the doctor, a voice croaked, "Shepard?"

"You would both wake up at the same time," Chakwas sighed. When she stepped out of the way, Shepard found herself looking across a narrow aisle at a weary and well-bundled turian. Garrus' mandibles fluttered, and this time when his gaze found hers, she was pleased to see it sharp as ever, without a hint of the earlier terrifying confusion.

"Terrible date," he said. "Next one'll be better."

She tried to laugh and only succeeded in coughing. "What, the Omega-4?"

"Funny."

She smiled, weak with relief. "Fine. I owe you a tropical beach, or something. Hold me to it, Vakarian."

"With or without hostiles?"

The smile warmed, widened. "Your choice."

"I can practically feel the sun on my plates."

"It's a lamp," Chakwas explained dryly, releasing Shepard's restraints with a warning look. "And you two need less banter and more rest. Doctor's orders."

Shepard and Garrus exchanged looks, and then she rolled her head back, settling it on the pillow, and closed her eyes. If she concentrated really hard, she could almost feel the sea breeze, could almost feel the warmth of sun-beaten sand beneath her, could almost hear the soothing lap of waves against the shore. She reached out a hand and found Garrus' already extended. She'd wondered how five fingers and three would entwine, but, as it happened, it was no struggle at all. He squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

"We'll have alcohol," she added in the kind of sleepy murmur that made her think the doctor had applied a heavier hand than usual with her order to sleep. She couldn't have opened her eyes if she wanted to. As it happened, she didn't want to. Not even a bit. "Lots of alcohol."

"And some kind of shooting contest," Garrus agreed, just as drowsily. "I'll win."

"You wish," she retorted, not bothering to hide her fondness.

And in the warmth of the Normandy's medbay, they slept.