December Fourth

"Well, why won't you?" Garrus asked. He sat at the little wooden coffee table, while Shepard sprawled on the old, ratty couch.

Petulant, Shepard thought. You sound petulant, Garrus. She didn't say it, though. That was kind of a compromise, right? She tried to think of a logical reason she was resisting, something more logical than it's silly and I don't wanna.

"Because it's a tradition for children," she said. "Not for adults. Adults who fight wars. Come on, Garrus—"

Garrus's mandibles flicked. "So, you're so terrified of acting a little childlike—"

"Hey! I am on to you, big guy." She shook her head, determined. "You can't try to make everything you want into a dare so I have to do it. Nuh-uh, not falling for it."

Garrus stuck his tongue out at her briefly, his talons drumming on the sheets of old-fashioned looking parchment he'd gathered.

Shepard didn't laugh. She knew he was just going to find a different angle of attack. She needed to stay on her guard.

He dropped his head, then looked up at her sadly. "It's just that … it's my first Christmas, and all."

Shit. "Don't do that. That's not fair." It really wasn't; how was she supposed to fight against unrelenting puppy-dog eyes?

"I mean … I've never gotten to do the tree, and the presents, and all that. I just want to have a traditional Christmas with you." Finally he lifted his head a little, and Shepard saw his jaw was trembling slightly.

"You cheating bastard. Fine, I'll do it." She slid off the couch, kneeling at the coffee table.

Mandibles spread wide in a grin, he shoved some crayons and paper at her.

Shepard sighed; she knew he'd been faking. "Can't I at least use a grown-up implement?" she asked.

"No." Garrus shoved a Christmas-green crayon into her hand. "Now, remember to tell Santa everything you want, okay?"

Oh, I have a list. I want to get out of here and back to the war clean-up, I want my armor, I want my gun back. She tried to think of smaller stuff, that he might actually be able to get. This is stupid, she thought, but she bit her lip to keep quiet. He wanted her to write a Christmas list, she'd write a damn Christmas list. She watched him under her eyelashes, intent on his own list-making, mandibles chattering quietly the way they did when he was concentrating.

It was kind of cute, she supposed.

Yeah, I guess I can write a Christmas list. Just as long as it makes you happy, big guy.