It's the feeling of hunger, more than anything else, that tells John he's really home again. He hasn't had all that much opportunity to use his biotics over the past months, aside from the 'practice sessions' he was allowed a few times a week (which consisted mainly of lifting pre-approved weights and were slightly less engaging than watching paint dry), and his appetite shrank accordingly.
On the shuttle back from Palaven's moon, though, it returns in full force. His stomach twists and gives an accusatory grumble that he fervently hopes Primarch Victus couldn't hear over the engines; he feels the familiar trembling start in his fingertips, and a few minutes back onto the Normandy light-headedness starts to set in.
He spends most of the debriefing with the Primarch standing at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, to keep the shaking from being too obvious. Normally, he would have eaten already by now. His old instructors would throw a fit if they saw him letting the symptoms get this far.
It doesn't help that the refit throws obstacles in his path at every turn as he tries to get back to his cabin after the debriefing. He shifts impatiently from foot to foot while the scanner in front of the war room takes an eternity to determine that yes, he is in fact the captain of this vessel and no, he isn't carrying any weapons.
"Sorry, sir." one of the guards – Westmoreland - says as the scanning field fades. "We never did manage to get the system calibrated properly."
The temptation to make a joke about Garrus, which neither of the guards would understand anyway, is outweighed by John's overwhelming hunger. He nods at Westmoreland, strides through the CIC and takes the elevator up to his cabin.
Old habits die hard; he bought meal replacement bars on their brief visit to the Citadel and stored them in his quarters. (Biotics are probably the only people in the entire Alliance who can boast that they're actively encouraged to hoard food.) He takes four from the bedside drawer and peels the wrappers back before wolfing them down, one after the other.
That takes the edge off, although not by much. The L5 implants he's carrying now might have a lot more kick than his old L3s, but the trade-off for the extra power is increased demands on his system after heavy use and an appetite that would raise even Kaidan's eyebrows.
Kaidan. John's been trying not to think about that too much; he pushes away the image of his old friend lying limp in the medbay and stands up as the light-headedness recedes slightly. He's eaten more than a third of the bars he bought, and he likes to keep some back for emergencies, so there's only one place on the ship left to go.
Ten minutes later, John stands back and surveys the food arrayed on the kitchen counter critically. Large protein shake, seven egg sandwiches, beef stew MRE...
It looks good, but there's one thing missing.
He rummages in the cupboards above the sink and brings out the red bottle that Joker gave him as a welcome-back present of sorts. (Sometimes it's good to have crew members who know you almost as well as they think they do.) The rooster on the label is like an old friend by now; the sauce has seen him through countless deployments, although telling some of his friends in boot camp about its other name wasn't the best idea.
He probably shouldn't be doing this, he reflects as he upends the bottle over the sandwiches. Peppers speed up the metabolism, something he really doesn't need right now (if ever.). But it's been six months of bland Alliance rations, and depriving someone of sriracha for half a year should be a crime in itself. Plus he never got to sit down and enjoy his first meal as a newly-free man, what with the mad dash between Mars, the Citadel and Menae.
Conscience neatly assuaged, he puts the bottle back in the cupboard and takes his tray over to the officers' table. The first bite of sandwich is ambrosia; sriracha can make even rehydrated eggs taste good. John makes an inarticulate noise of pleasure and takes another bite-
"You really gonna eat all that, Commander?" Vega's tone is one of mildly amused respect.
It's one of the questions John's heard a thousand times over the years, from subordinates and superiors alike, along with: How much do you eat? Why do you need to eat that much? What's the thing on the back of your head for?
He swallows. "Wouldn't have made it if I wasn't, Lieutenant."
"Biotics need more food than grunts like you, Mr Vega. Isn't that right, Commander?" Cortez asks.
John nods, surprised. "You've served with us before?"
"Once or twice. Never for long, though."
"They like to keep us spread out across the fleet." John engulfs another sandwich in two bites and reaches for his protein shake.
There were six biotics on the last tour, he remembers with a slight pang. That meant six people who wouldn't ask awkward questions or stare at plates piled high with food. It might not seem like much, but he got so used to it that being the only biotic on board (apart from Liara, of course) is going to be very strange for a while.
Still, he has his ship and two of his friends back, and a chance to make a difference in the war. That's more than worth a little strangeness. And he has sriracha; even the Reapers couldn't ruin that for him.
It's the little things that make life worth living.