#hes like a feral dog unfortunately....... hot on saren's scent... he wants a Fight. it should not have been with ash and he can admit that

[shepcdr]

despite the sobriety with which shepard seemed to be trying to handle this — though sobriety's probably the wrong choice of word, given his choice of meeting spot — he almost laughed at William's comment. He managed to force his reaction down to a shortly-stifled snort, shaking his head at himself as he went for a swig of his beer. A gunfight almost sounded easier to navigate than whatever he was trying to do here with Williams. But she was taking his thoughtless approach rather well... making jokes about all of this, even. Maybe there was a chance this wouldn't turn out disastrous or awkward... or disastrously awkward, or awkwardly disastrous.

"Guess if anyone's bitter about the Council taking on the first human Spectre, now would be the best time to take their shot at personally demoting me. Maybe you should consider a seat out of any potential sniper sight lines."

He listened idly to her order. Maybe her choice of drink said something about her personality, maybe it didn't... he wouldn't know. Much as he enjoyed drinking, he approached it as he would most other things: expediently, and only whenever and however it was most convenient. Perhaps, if he was looking to kill time, he might bother having his liquor chilled. It was another matter when someone else was ordering — he didn't care what it was being served as long as it got them eventually drunk — but when was the last time he had shared drinks with someone?

(... more than ten years past, now. A lifetime ago, when he had victories he'd thought worth celebrating and people — brothers — to celebrate with, to pass around bottles and drink themselves stupid until brawls inevitably broke out and until they were kicked to the curb to pick another fight with passers-by outside, or to wander off until they found a new club to while away time until the next drunken altercation. Happier, simpler times... and worse times. It turned out that brotherhood only lasted until you wavered a second too long, asked one too many questions; you'd find out far too late, then, that men you called your brothers all your life might as well have been your enemies.

(Well, that wasn't something he had to worry about in the Alliance. He just had to follow orders, and to manage the day-to-day of a crew also sworn by oaths of enlistment to follow orders. In many ways, it kept things easier.... so, why he was here and trying to make things less easy for himself — who the hell knew.)

The small lapse of quiet that followed as the bartender put Williams' drink together and brought it to her was comfortable. With any hope, it would continue until maybe he received a transmission from Captain Anderson, or until a gunfight really did break out and cut this conversation short... but Shepard wasn't so lucky.

He let his next sip of beer sit in his mouth a few moments longer than he ordinarily would, if only as an excuse to think for a little more.

"I wasn't happy with our chat after Eden Prime." He'd been brash, though that was nothing new. But far more than he'd ever needed to be, or should have been, with Williams. If he was looking for an excuse... (then it might have been that something had reared its violent head at the new knowledge of this looming threat... of Saren Arterius' involvement. Awake at last after spending the last fifteen hours knocked out in the medbay, groggy and still carrying the adrenaline of yesterday's battle — primed for attack if need be — he'd locked on at the first sign of confrontation.)

... but he wasn't looking for an excuse.

"We'd just lost a man. I didn't know you or your capabilities. It was a bad time to integrate you into the team. Still, my behaviour on the Normandy was... inappropriate." The next part — this is the part he isn't used to. He goes for another quick swig of beer, not so drawn out that she could respond before he went on. Just for the second he needs to work up to this.

"... and for that, I should apologise." He turned to her, mouth tight for a moment and brows set above a piercing stare. Williams deserved this apology, he knew that well enough. But saying it aloud, in a place so out of his element... that was the tough part. Like baring the back of his neck to a predator — it felt oddly vulnerable. Still...

"I'm sorry."

Telling Ashley Williams to relax was like telling a sharpshooter to try harder to miss their target. She couldn’t help but feel scrutinized under his gaze; the way he seemed to take in her appearance, only to look away as if she’d caught him doing exactly that. She said nothing in response, though there was a hint of surprise in her expression as he offered her a seat… and a drink. She didn’t take a seat right away, contemplating; what exactly was this intended to be? So far, the impression he’d given her wasn’t one of friendliness, and yet here they were… and he was being oddly friendly. Kaidan had assured her that that was just how Shepard was, and that he’d been that way even as long as the Lieutenant had known him, but Ashley was much harder to convince on that front.

His addition after helped; it wasn’t an obligation, but an offer. It was enough to make her take a deep breath, relaxing just slightly as things became a bit clearer. She shrugged when he mentioned that he should have given her a heads-up, opting to take the seat as she put on her best casual—but still professional—smile. “I’ve had worse surprises. There’s no guns involved, which is good, because I think we’re both very under-dressed for that kind of scenario.” A little humour never hurt, and hopefully it would relieve the tension of the situation. She could tell there was something bothering him; after years in the Alliance, she’d learned very well how to read people, even if she didn’t acknowledge things.

Maybe it was the way the situation looked. After all, he was a superior officer, one inviting a female subordinate to drink with him… one which he’d avoided like the plague and rebuffed multiple times. And now, he wanted to talk. Talk about what, exactly? Carefully, she processed everything with absolute grace, studying everything she was picking up about the situation. It felt like for a moment, she was seeing a very different side of Shepard, one that was perhaps beyond what she expected. Regardless of her initial impressions of her, Ashley couldn’t help but at least have enough kindness in her heart to give him a chance.

After all—maybe her pessimism about the situation was misplaced, for once in her career.

Waving down the bartender, she ordered something simple: orange cognac and peach schnapps with a bit of ginger ale (or, at least, the closest she could get on the Citadel). She could’ve gone with a beer to match him, but she wasn’t looking to go down that road quite yet; beer often reminded her of her father, and that wasn’t a conversation she felt comfortable approaching just yet. As the bartender brought her drink, she took a small sip, taking a moment to choose her next words very, very carefully.

“So? What was it you wanted to talk about?” Though her professional demeanour hadn’t changed, there was a clear underlying hint of warmth and friendliness in her tone and expression; she did genuinely care, especially if it was something bothering him.