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Garrus approaches cautiously. “Shepard,” he questions, in the tone of voice that one might use when someone is on a window ledge and about to jump. “What are you doing?”
“Making spaghetti and meatballs.” She grins, human mouth so oddly (wonderfully) mobile. “Famous Shepard family recipe. It's not as good as Dad's, but it is a special day!” Her hands stay busy as she talks, pulling baking sheets from the oven. The air smells warm and spicy, and on the stove grossly large pots are filled with something thick, red, and lightly bubbling.
The entire scene is... well, Garrus doesn't have the words for it. Shepard – Jane Shepard – the first human Spectre, the savior of the Citadel, a woman that returned from death because her mission wasn't yet completed – his Shepard is cooking. Honestly, given that she was raised on ships and in brief ports, he hadn't imagined she knew how to do anything more than nuke something in a microwave. But she's ran Gardner right out of the kitchen; the Mess Sargent is a nearby table playing a game of cards with several other crew members.
“Special day?” he repeats, looking over his shoulder. Joker is at a table, snickering, but points at Grunt.
Grunt who is at the bar, too big for the stool but perched on it anyway. He's in civvies, a giant shirt with the sleeves torn out and the neck ripped out so loose on his hump: there's some kind of giant reptile on the front, and blocky letters that read T-WREX underneath. He wields a tiny paintbrush dexterously. He's painting a krogan battlemaster action figure, the disassembled toy in numerous pieces around him.
“Grunt's an official part of Clan Urdnot,” Shepard explains. “I thought we should celebrate, and he asked if I'd make him spaghetti and meatballs again. Sort like a birthday day party, I guess.”
“Wait – have you made this for him before?” Garrus asks.
Shepard shrugs. “Sure, when we were dry docked at the Citadel. He stayed at my placed, I made dinner...”
“It's the best meal in the universe,” Grunt pronounces, giving Garrus a beady glare, as though daring him to contradict this proclamation.
Shepard laughs, pulling on oven mitts as a timer dings. “Not quite,” she refutes, opening the second bank of ovens to pull out several trays of toasty bread. “Dad's is better. I'll have to take you to their place sometime, Grunt.”
“Won't be as good as yours.” Grunt says firmly.
Garrus' mandibles have flopped widely open, and his jaw has dropped so far he fears he'll ever be able to shut it again. He turns, giving the assembled crew a look that transcends race; it says, clearly, what the fuck is going on right now?
His com crackles. “Shepard has developed maternal affection for Grunt,” Mordin explains, far across the mess and speaking quietly enough that his words won't carry to Shepard, who is humming under her breath not far behind Garrus. “Humans can form extremely strong attachments to children not their own, and it seems that the Commander has done just this.”
“He's not a kid!” Joker refutes, but his voice is too loud and carries to Shepard. She turns, sharply, and moves into Garrus' line of sight.
“Something to say, Flight Lieutenant?” Her voice is deceptively mild; Garrus knows the look on her face, has seen it numerous times before she massacred entire buildings full of enemies. Joker's eyes get wide – too wide – and he looks left and right, as though someone is going to step forward and help him.
No one does.
“Nope! Uh, no, Commander. Ma'am. Just... talking to myself. About an unrelated issue.”
“Mmhmm,” she responds, a firm stare lingering on the human male until his color changes and he nods jerkily. Garrus pities him, deeply, because he's had this same treatment, and knows how it makes you feel small, like an insect about to smashed under a boot.
“Females of most species incredibly violent when it comes to protecting their young.” Mordin pauses, comm line popping in his silence. “Would not provoke the Commander, Joker. You are extremely breakable. Fragile. Could snap you like dry wood, I suspect.”
“Sleeping with my eyes open tonight,” Joker mutters, while rubbing a hand over his face. “If I ever sleep again, that is.”
“Mess is up!” Shepard announces, slapping her hands together happily. “Gardner, help serve, please? Grunt, clean up the bar.”
“I'm almost done with this piece.”
“Clean up now.” She taps the metal bar top with one finger. “Or no extra meatballs.”
Grunt grumbles under his breath but obeys, packing up the untouched and dried pieces into a large sack and carefully setting the still wet pieces far to the side.
“Grunt gets the first serving,” she pronounces, and makes the plate herself. She heaps it high with worm like noodles and covers it in red sauce, tops it with round hunks of meat, and puts several pieces of bread on a smaller plate. She carries it to Grunt and places it in front of him with a wide grin. “I hope you know how proud of you I am.”
“Yeah.” Grunt's hide colors, a hot orange tint of pleased embarrassment as Shepard moves around the bar to drape an arm over his hump. Then she kisses him, mouth pursed and wet against the side of Grunt's cheek, nose nuzzling. “Thanks, mom.”
“Oh my God!” Joker yowls, hands clawing the air before he points emphatically. “Did he – did he just –”
Jacob drops the cards he's holding, practically stuffing his fist in his mouth as he wheezes, choking as he tries to hold back laughter.
“You're welcome, buddy.” She pats his hump, gleaming with affection.
Later, after the levo's have consumed Shepard's food (and Garrus is jealous because he'd like to eat something she made, something she made for him and not Grunt, which is ridiculous and slightly worrying) and Grunt has torn the wrapping off the gift of several paper comics (“It's fun to read the real thing,” Shepard explained. “This is my favorite series, I thought you might like it, too.”), and the entire crew has been forced to come to terms with all of this –
Later, Grunt comes to the battery. “Need something?” Garrus asks, eyeing the krogan a bit more intently than usual.
Grunt shrugs, an awkward motion with his hump, ambling to Garrus' work station. He picks up a mod, looking it over.
“I can smell it, you know. You want Shepard.”
Garrus nearly swallows his tongue.
“I – you – what?”
Snorting, Grunt drops the mod and turns to face Garrus. “Don't be stupid. You might be a turian, but you aren't dumb. I know you want Shepard. I know she wants you.” He pauses, eyes narrowing as he steps close, then closer, and then so far into Garrus' space that their chests bump. “She deserves to be happy. So that's fine. But let's get one thing clear – I'm her favorite.”
Slapping a hand to the control panel at his side, Garrus gapes at Grunt. “What?”
“I'm her favorite. You two might fuck – what the hell she see's in a turian is beyond me, she deserves a Battlemaster like Clan Leader Wrex, not some sniper ass pussy like you – but it's her choice. And maybe you'll keep fucking. Maybe it'll be more. But I'm her favorite. And if you ever forget that....” Grunt laughs, low and menacing. “Well, I'll be sure to remind you.”
He steps back, laughing changing to something easier as he thumps a hand against Garrus' shoulder, so hard Garrus has to lock his knees to stay upright. “Now stop being such a pussy and making her wait. We all might die soon, and Shep should get what she wants. Right?”
Garrus blinks several times before slowly agreeing, “Er... right.”
“Great. Hey, you got some nice mods – want to take a look at my shotgun? I can't figure out which mods would be best, could use some input.”
“Uh – yeah, sure. Bring it by sometime, I'll see what I have.”
“Cool.” With that Grunt leaves.
Garrus looks around the battery as though it's a foreign land. He scratches his neck, then rubs it, mandibles flapping as he tries to absorb what's just occurred. Finally he gives up and pulls Joker up on the comm. “Grunt was just here,” he says in place of a greeting.
“Oh boy,” he can hear Joker adjusting himself, the leather under him squeaking. “What'd he want? Help on picking out a Mother's Day card?”
“He... wanted me to know that he's Shepard's favorite.”
A moment of silence, before Joker half-laughs and half-gasps. “Wait – what?”
“He said –” Things that Joker doesn't need to know about, frankly – “That he knew Shepard and I are... close... and that it was fine, as long as I remember who her favorite is.”
“Oh my God,” Joker cackles loudly, voice badly distorted by his amusement. “Oh my God!”
“Yeah. Then he asked me to help him with modding his shotgun.”
“Holy shit, oh my fucking God, Garrus – do you know – do you know what he was doing?”
“Yeah, uh, no. It was surreal.”
“He was doing the thing kids do when their moms start dating someone new! He's, like, vetting you to be his step-dad!”
Garrus wobbles to his cot, falling onto it numbly. “No. No he wasn't.”
“Yes, man, he was. Letting you know that he was the priority, but inviting you. Holy shit!”
“A search indicates Mr. Moreau is likely correct,” EDI chimes in, and Garrus' armor suddenly feels about three sizes too small. “From a psychological standpoint, it seems that while Grunt has 'imprinted' on Commander Shepard as a mother figure, he is also willing to accept –”
Garrus closes the comm line. He stares blindly around him, half-hoping this entire day has been a dream.
Not long after this, when Garrus has stripped out of his armor and is spread across his small cot, his omni-tool dings. The message is from Grunt, and he almost doesn't open it – but the subject reads info and Garrus is too curious by far.
There's a link inside. Turian Tongues and Human Women, it reads, and there's a video clip under it.
“Spirits!” Garrus yelps, rapidly closing out.
He can't sleep for thinking about it, though, and ends up watching it – “Just out of curiosity,” he tells himself, “just to see it.” But the next day he can't stop looking at Shepard and imagining her naked, all that soft skin exposed, thighs on either side of his head and –
“Get it,” Grunt urges, slapping him hard on the back as he walks past.
Joker laughs so hard he chokes, and Garrus isn't all that sorry when patting him on the back cracks a rib.