He could always tell what kind of mission it would be by the way Shepard said goodbye.
A touch on his back meant an easy mission, in and out in no time.
A light squeeze on his shoulder was a more difficult mission; injuries and a narrow escape were possibilities.
A brush of knuckles on his neck meant a mission of uncertainty and danger, with death looming like a devouring beast.
And a kiss, pressed behind his ear, then three little whispered words carried Shepard out of his shuttle, into the living hell Earth had become.