"Over there, boys. Right where it used to be. C'mon Zhag," she hissed at one of her workers as he fought to keep a grip on the black leather. "Get moving." Peering over her shoulder, Aria needn't turn to see who belonged to the heavy footfalls approaching. Zhag, new, young, and dumb enough to walk right up to her and slam a palm in her chest before awaiting Aria's command would, on the other hand, serve to only antagonize her guest if allowed to. Before the fool could break the load he was maneuvering into place, Aria spoke up. "Shepard. Fancy seeing you here."

"What, no cavity search this time?"

A body came to stand to her left, roughly mirroring her stance as she surveyed her handiwork. She'd established a maintenance and repair team for the extensive damage to the main level of the club - might as well get it opened back up. Give the people an outlet after all they've been through - hired architects for reinforcing the integrity of her sanctuary, a safeguard making it more resilient than ever, and enlisted the help of dozens for the spit and shine. This place would be glitz and gloss again in no time.

"I hardly think that's necessary, unlike an explanation of why you're here. Don't you have a galaxy you're in the middle of saving?" she pitched offhandedly.

"I heard about today. I wanted to be here," was the simple response. God Shepard, don't remind-

"Zhag! Break; before you break my couch." The Batarian muttered something guttural, taking care as he set the upholstery down before taking his leave. "It's so hard to find good help these days," she muttered under her breath with his retreat.

"So you scrounged it up, eh? Harrot didn't give you a hard time for it?"

"You know, I was wondering how he got the coordinates for the damn thing in the first place. Thanks for adding to my workload."

Squared-off shoulders shrugged away the snipe. "He helped with supplies and upgrades we needed before heading off into the mines. I owed it to him to have a fighting chance."

"Even after all this, you still forget the one rule of Omega."

"Even you wouldn't kill over a couch. Besides, I seem to recall a certain someone saying I'd chipped away some of the superficial grit on my last visit."

Ignoring the last comment, Aria jutted her chin towards the black leather sofa. "I like this couch. It has... memories." The petals of her words fell softly to the ground at her feet, weighed down by the unseen pull that tugged at her hardened heartstrings.

Shepard pulled her from her lament as a static biotic charge coursed through the woman beside her, illuminating the booth in electric blue. "Well, why didn't you say so?" Efficiently, as was no surprise, Shepard maneuvered the settee to its place of honor along the balcony edges.

Aria couldn't keep the familiar sneer at bay. "Interested in being a moving man for a day?" she fetched as they made to sit. Instead of her usual corner seat, Shepard took the space left intentionally empty along the same side of cushioning. A rare gesture, even to those closest to the pirate queen. But if anything, Shepard had earned it.

"Har. I was thinking more along the lines of paying my respects."

A sigh that revealed only a tiny portion of just how winded she truly felt escaped the asari's violet lips. "Your parents should have named you Debbie Downer. The ceremony's not for a while; we've got plenty of time to talk if you have other business to attend to."

Leaning forward, balancing an elbow on a knee as was her way when she meant to rapture her associates, Shepard held Aria's gaze the way only she could. "How are you, Aria?"

A light chastising scoff. "Some business. What do you want me to say? That I got it out of my system when I lost my shit after she blew herself up?"

Shaking her head, Shepard was blunt, kind, and honest all in the space of a few words. "No. I want to know how you are. Really."

Chewing over another sarcastic front, Aria opted for her most potent weapon: the truth. "She didn't have to die," was her gentle reply. Quickly, it turned to rage as the memories and sharp, painful emotions coupled her into a tenuous fit. "She didn't have to worry over saving everyone else's lives. Omega's backbone has always been its people; they could've held their own long enough for us to get the job done."

"Nyreen knew she could save more lives by sacrificing herself."

"It was the most selfish thing she could've done!" Afterlife was made to reverberate a heavy bass off the walls tenfold, making the same note hit you over and over again. In the deafening absence of the music it also tended to carry Aria's torrid fury, assaulting even her own ears with every syllable. Whether it had the same effect on Shepard she couldn't know; to say the commander was undaunted by the outburst would have been an understatement. Rather, she simply looked to be waiting for the asari to continue. So patient, Aria marveled in spite of herself. Vaulting from the cushion, she began to pace in frustration, letting the words trickle from every wound Nyreen's death had ripped clean open. "Nyreen could have done more good than half of the civilians on this rock if she'd just stuck it out a minute longer! No, instead she goes and wipes herself out - and for what? Because of what I said about the adjutants? Was she trying to prove herself? A hell of a way to do it. I've seen red before, Shepard. But when she..." Shadowing her eyes, she let her head droop to a burn mark that had blackened her floor. Goddamn it. The reminders couldn't be wiped away quick enough. "...all I saw was black."

A worn, weathered hand was lain softly on her shoulder. They stood like that for several heartbeats, Aria letting herself be consoled in the touch of an unlikely partnership turned... what? Friendship? The word was foreign in her vocabulary. She had allies, employees, expendables whose favor she'd won by some means or another, even the odd acquaintance she kept underfoot as mere decor. But a friend in Shepard? She didn't know how agreeable the notion was to her selective palette. The pirate queen attracted a certain kind of people, kept to a certain strain of work where friends were the opposite of assets in a cutthroat's spindle. "Walk with me," was her solution. Walk and talk on it - see if I'm just imagining things in my sentimental state of mind.