ME Ficlet: Valentine’s Day, 2200
After more than a dozen of them, Garrus knows how vehemently Shepard insists she doesn’t care about the day he stubbornly refers to as the human love day with all the hearts.
He also knows she’s lying.
Oh, she doesn’t care about the chocolate (she prefers lemon, which he had to--in a moment of utterly worth it embarrassment--learn from Vega). She and flowers--especially the ones most prevalent on human love day--have an uncomfortable history. He’s never been as good at picking out lingerie for her as she is for herself (he’s never been able to live down the year he bought her a collarbone-revealing nightgown that, she said through giggles, reminded her of something someone’s great-great-great-grandmother might’ve worn).
For all the difficulties it presents to get it just right, Garrus loves human love day.
Every year, he finagles some reason for the Council to avoid meeting on the equivalent of Earth’s February 14th. Early on, once or twice, opposition was raised. On both occasions, the staunchest support for Garrus’ requested leave came not from the human councilor, but from the Prothean one. Javik, as it happened, could be very convincing. Even a dozen years later, most delegates haven’t realized Javik’s muttering about airlocks never becomes reality.
Every year, he hacks Shepard’s omni-tool so the usual endless parade of requests for her help, her presence, her opinion, her sartorial advice (Garrus is perturbed by how often it’s the latter) is silenced for twenty-four hours. It’s become something of a game. She knows he does it. Her unspoken human love day gift to him is the increasingly difficult code she sets up to block him.
She’s always known him so damned well.
Every year, the children spend a few days with whichever of their many aunts and uncles swoops in to collect them first.
Usually, it’s Jack. Garrus knows better than to even think about teasing her about it.
Every year, he lets Shepard sleep in. That she doesn’t immediately wake the moment he stirs is a more potent gift even than the tricky omni-tool defenses she devises. In the kitchen, he toasts more bread than any one human should be able to eat. He makes coffee and pours a mug roughly the size of Shepard’s head, doctoring it with the extra cream she prefers. He puts a slice of lemon cake (extra lemon, do not skimp on the lemon) on one of the pretty dishes she’s collected over the years.
When the bedroom door slides open to admit him, she stirs. He is the only one who gets to see this soft Shepard, with drowsy eyes and hair a lush, red fall around her, wearing decidedly non-grandmotherly lingerie. He is the only one who gets to see the particular smile she smiles when she’s sleepy and satiated and no one has asked her for anything in twelve whole hours.
She always takes the coffee first. He never expects words before coffee. After the first sip, her smile broadens and he thanks every deity he’s even heard mentioned that he’s the one sitting next to her on the bed, watching her eat toast and drink coffee and smile like he’s the present she always wanted but didn’t know to ask for.
“I’m impressed,” she says.
“Same coffee as every other day.”
She shakes her head. He runs the pads of his fingers through her soft hair. “I worked really hard on my defenses this year. Thought for sure you’d be stumped.”
“It’s like you don’t know me at all, Shepard,” he scoffs. “Since when has a little code ever defeated me?”
She leans against his side, resting her cheek against his arm. He nuzzles the top of her head. A moment later, he whispers, “I needed Tali’s help.”
Her peal of laughter is bright, unfettered. He’d walk into the hells of every deity he’s ever heard mentioned to hear that laughter.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says.
“Human love day,” he corrects. “With all the hearts. Turians would never do anything this sentimental.”
“You know you don’t have to, Garrus. It’s just a day.”
“Mmm,” he says. “Let’s make the most of it, then.”
If they’re lucky (Spirits, he hopes they’re lucky), they’ll live to see a hundred more.
