AN: Just to forestall any issues, "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" is, in fact, in the public domain.
December Ninth
Garrus paused, washing dishes in the kitchen. What was that noise? Was she moving furniture? She certainly wasn't supposed to be moving furniture yet. The sounds came again, heavy cardboard boxes scuffing across the floor, Shep grunting.
"Hey, this isn't a sideboard," Shep muttered.
"What are you doing?" Garrus came to the doorway, still holding a soapy mixing bowl.
Shep had moved several huge boxes away from a piece of furniture in one corner of the room, and was now clearing the junk off it.
"I thought it was just a useless piece of furniture," she murmured. She lifted a piece of it, and underneath, Garrus saw the black-and-white pattern of one of those human instruments.
"What is it?" Garrus asked. Pino? Plano?
Shep touched a few keys, coaxing a delicate, airy tune out of it. "It's a piano." Her gaze was far away, brow furrowed. She appeared to be lost in memory.
"You play?" he asked. There was something familiar about the look on her face.
Shepard shrugged. "I used to. On Mindoir, as a child."
Oh, shit. Garrus's mandibles went a little slack, and his first impulse was to rush forward and destroy the thing, obliterate whatever it was that brought her back to Mindoir.
Except … she didn't look distressed. More just … wistful? I think this is the first time Mindoir has come up without it hurting her. "Play for me," he suggested.
Shep shook her head, but her hand absently picked a few notes out anyway. "It needs to be tuned."
"I'll get someone out here tomorrow," he promised. He didn't know why, but he needed her to sit down and play.
"I don't know if I remember the lyrics," Shep demurred, but her hand was still finding those airy little notes.
Garrus waited, and finally she slid onto the bench, both hands finding their places, and began to play.
"It came upon a midnight clear, that glorious song of old …."
Garrus sat down on the couch to listen to her, completely forgetting about the dishes he was washing. He couldn't help it; he had never expected such a sweet sound could be produced by his Shep, his little carnage in a tiny suit of armor. It was entrancing to see what else she was. And to see her finally remembering home without it killing her ….
"O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing."