"So, what's three or four short-sighted idiots, more or less?" Shepard knows better than to hope for a war; wars are messy, and destructive, and almost never worth what they cost to pursue, but...

...Most days, it just feels like it'd be a relief if the other shoe were to drop, the three Factions finally stop screwing around, and get on with it.

"I'm tryin' to find reasons to give a shit about any it, honestly. I hate this planet— and the other Summoned aren't much better," She says it not with fire, but real anger, slow and hot, the same low dissatisfied way she's spoken in the past about Torfan, Horizon, and Aite, "For every decent person among them there's two I could waste a bullet on."

But he rests his head on hers and by degrees she relaxes again. It's getting colder, and the fire is crackling, the stew making quiet noises in its little tin pot. Garrus is a solid wall of warmth beside her, and there's a soft place just under his chin, where there's neither plate, nor scale, nor bone, nor even hide— just skin. Soft, where his pulse runs, and where all the joints need room to flex together. The kind of place only a lover gets to touch; not for passion, even, just... intimate. Private.

"...Sorry." She doesn't sound sorry. But she doesn't sound angry anymore, either. "Have I mentioned I'm not good at being out of the fight?"