December Thirteenth
"Look what I what won," Garrus called, bursting through the door.
Shep rolled off the couch, still half-asleep, brandishing the remote as a weapon.
Garrus paused, noting the hair askew, the look of tight panic on her face before she smoothed it out. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.
Shepard shrugged, gradually unclenching her fingers to release the remote. "Nothing. Just napping. What is this?"
Chest out, chin raised in pride, Garrus held aloft a turkey that weighed roughly twenty-five pounds. "I won it. In the raffle."
Shep shook her head. "So many questions," she muttered.
"It's—" Garrus started.
"Traditional," she interrupted. "I know. Weird, though." She squinted at him. "They do say your people started out as some kind of avian creature. Wouldn't think you'd want to cook a turkey."
"You are not trying to tell me you think I resemble one of these." He dropped the turkey heavily into her arms, playing at being offended.
She grunted, taking the turkey. "I dunno … maybe not a turkey, specifically. But what about those birds of paradise? With the big crests? And they're always preening, you know."
"I do not preen! And at least I'm not descended from pyjacks." No longer pretending to be offended, Garrus stalked away into the kitchen, leaving Shep to carry the turkey.
"Yeah, but I'm not eating any pyjacks. Jesus, what does this thing weigh?" She dropped it on the counter with a heavy thunk.
Running water into the sink to defrost it, Garrus muttered under his breath. "I'll cook you a pyjack. You won't even know."
"What's that, big guy?"
Taking a deep breath, Garrus reminded himself they were supposed to be having a nice Christmas. "I said, I won't be eating any turkey, either."
"Then why did you bring home fifty pounds of it?" Shep griped.
Is she trying to exasperate me? Garrus took the turkey from the counter, setting it in the sink. "I told you, it's—"
"Traditional," she finished again. "I'm surprised you haven't gone in for the mistletoe. That one's a big tradition, you know."
"But I can kiss you whenever I like," he reasoned, demonstrating the ability with a chaste peck on the lips.
Shep wrapped his arms around his neck. "That isn't a mistletoe kiss, though."
He pulled her close, the tension in his keel easing now that the bickering back-and-forth seemed to be over. "Don't worry. I'll be putting mistletoe in some, ah, strategic places when you're feeling better."