C is for Creampie
...
The dynamometer needle bobbed, and Garrus measured the engine output of a cherry-red stand mixer. He scratched down the last recording, then oiled a crankshaft. The turian's taloned paws replaced the appliance faceplate and screwed the last screw. Now, let that heat try and build up. The torque and rotational speed brought to standards, his Cuisinart stand mixer delivered all zero point four-four horsepower to the bowl.
The engine purred, while the orbital arm spun. Garrus gingerly added sugar to the whipping cream, frothing up a fluffy miracle. Lips smacked around a sample of perfectly soft peaks. Garrus nodded, recalling the sweet words Shepard used to describe her favorite pie.
"It's what love tastes like."
It made sense, now. He couldn't wait for her to try his recipe, hoping his creation filled the Commander with delight.
After removing the mixing paddles, Garrus studied the dessert consistency. He spread the thick topping across a chilled custard, already prepared, and garnished with coconut shavings. Real coconut. The cook was glad he had bought extra, remembering earlier, when the stone fruit exploded in his overzealous grip. It had been messy, but he always wore protection.
Garrus untied the knot at the back of his waist, and folded up an apron. After boxing the pie for Shepard, the turian found her cabin.
Her tiny tank top, and too baggy pants, paired well with a lazy smile. "Hey, Garrus." Gentle lips pressed to his cheek plate, then she pulled him inside. "That smells divine."
He opened the box and her hand flew to his shoulder, the grip surprised him. "Oh, my god, banana cream pie, my favorite!"
"Uhh." He inspected the pie even though he made it, saying, "No, it's coconut cream pie."
Her face fell. Shepard's eyes shifted uncomfortably. "Coconut?" She itched a forearm. "But, I'm allergic."
