December Fifth
"What the hell, Garrus? What is this?" Shep smelled the glass, a look of distrust on her face at the frothy yellow mixture within. She looked like a kaja that had accidentally tasted a vegetable.
"It's eggnog. It's traditional." Garrus nudged the glass toward her mouth. He knew it was traditional for some humans at Christmas; he'd looked it up. He had no idea why they would choose to mix these things and deliberately ingest them, but she was human. She might like it.
Shep shook her head, handing the glass back. "I can't drink it, then. Traditional turian drinks will kill me."
Garrus rolled his eyes as best he could. "It's traditional for your people, Shepard. I made my own a little differently, with dextro stuff. Just try it." He held the glass out to her again.
"I will not," Shepard grumbled, arms crossed over her chest.
"Are you afraid of a little drink?" Garrus's chin lifted, challenging her.
"You know, eventually that will stop working," Shep muttered. She grabbed the glass, downing the contents in one go. Her head whipped forward as she coughed. "What's in that stuff?"
"Well … yours is mostly rum," Garrus admitted. "I had a feeling you wouldn't like the whole egg-and-cream—"
"What now?" Her eyes narrowed at him.
"Nothing. Just a normal drink." Garrus shrugged, sipping carefully at his own own. Uuuugh. He shuddered. He'd done the best he could with dextro substitutions …. I hope the human version tastes better than that.
"You're trying to get me drunk, big guy, aren't you?" Shep asked. She looked up at him, cheeks already flushed a little with the alcohol.
"Just a little tipsy, maybe. It's been a while since you've unwound." That was no lie. She'd been pushing hard for years, now, and she rarely took a break. It would do her some good to let loose a little, get a little drunk, relax some.
"Gimme another," she demanded, pushing the empty glass back to him.
"Shep, are you sure? I thought you didn't like it?" Garrus hesitated. Surely she shouldn't have too much, coming out of the coma and all.
"Acquired taste. I think I quite like it."
I think your alcohol tolerance has dropped to nothing. But he gave up, sighing, and mixed her another "egg nog;" in reality just plain rum, now, with a dash of the original concoction thrown in.