Well we've both been pretty lucky, there— I barely react to dextro. Mordin gave me a whole speech, with diagrams and pamphlets about how to not die from sleeping with a Turian. Turns out, he needn't have bothered.

[She let shim draw her down, the padding making the ground tolerable soft, and the dimness of it all only more intimate under his fussing. Lucky me, he'd said, but she can't help but feel it too, with frightening sincerity. On one hand, it'd been months since the pit, the fungal darkness, and the gnawing, mind-crumbling hunger. On the other... She thought about it nearly once a day, even now. It'd fade, eventually...

...But she wondered if he was thinking about it now, with the way he tucked them in so carefully.]

Here. [She fishes in the basket for one of the winebottles, and passes it to him. Enough was enough; she was fed and he was warm, and there was dinner enough for two meals in that basket as well. They would be fine. There was nothing worth fearing, out here, or nothing worse than the two of them; Archangel and Commander Shepard. The Varren ought to run away from them in the dark, if they were smart.] First toast goes to you. What'll we drink to?