A/N: This started off as a Valentine's Day story but went way, way over schedule (it's a gift) It also lacks the 'cute' ending I had wanted to write, but if you want a story about Shepard being moody here you go. As a 'bonus' this version kind-of (you may have to squint though) works as a prequel to Three Little Words and Stuck in the Middle...Not so sure that counts as a bonus...
Illium
"What will you have?" The asari working behind the bar asked. As asari bar-tenders went she was a little...unusual. There was no cheerful, almost playful, tone in her voice instead the blue-skinned bar-tender sounded disinterested, jaded even – and then there was her appearance. Asari could live for over a millennia with, by human standards at least, very few outwards signs of time's passage. The table dancer that was the focus of a small bachelor's party nearby could easily be five times Shepard's own age, even Li...even she... had already lived over a century–
"The dancers aren't for sale," the bartender's voice derailed Shepard's dark thoughts, "neither am I. So either pick a drink or go somewhere else."
Shepard's scowl didn't seem to phase the...the mature-looking...asari. "Aren't you a little old to be a barmaid?" The Spectre retorted.
"What, you thought Matriarchs all just sat around and dispensed wisdom to the kids back on Thessia?" The Matriarch was openly scornful, "Well I hate to break it to you but not all of us do that, some of us even own bars right here on Illium."
Shepard mentally revised the asari's age upwards...a lot upwards, "You're right; I'm sorry," the Spectre apologised, just because Li...she...was a cold, heartless, unfaithful– Just because one asari had ripped his heart out, didn't give him a free pass to be obnoxious. "I'll take..." Shepard's dulled eyes scanned the extensive collection of bottles behind the matriarch, "...the green one. The whole bottle."
"The whole bottle?" There was more than a hint of scepticism in the asari's voice, "You're sure?"
"The bottle," Shepard repeated, "and a table. A quiet one, out of the way."
"Sure," the bartender lifted the plain bottle from its shelf and placed it on the bar. The price of the unassuming bottle almost made the Spectre reconsider his choice, but in the end he angrily authorised his omni-tool to transfer the credits from the Normandy´s accounts.
"You have someone I should call?" The matriarch asked as Shepard lifted his purchase, "A next-of-kin or something?"
"Liara T'So–" Shepard cut himself off. She had made it clear that was over. "YUNDAI dock, wharf two-nine-seven," Shepard answered, "they'll send someone." The Spectre walked off to find a table, bottle in one hand and a pair of shot-glasses in the other.