Purgatory was exactly the sort of place Payton hated having to visit. Her time spent in Afterlife and Chora's Den was short, but it wasn't Omega's gritty club scene or a strip joint in the Wards that reminded her of her past. There was a security to be found inside of an expensive bar on the Presidium, and that kind exterior and cleanliness made her more uncomfortable than any shady back alley.

Wringing out her hands, Payton took in the club's interior with a critical eye. There was shouting and cheering. There was dancing. But beneath the bass line and familiar metallic twang of turian instruments, there was no joy. There was a frenzy, a pulsing and frantic air, and it only lent to the tension that kept her stationary.

The last time she'd seen the inside of a club like this, she was nearly twenty-five. That was also the first time she met Anderson outside of a formal setting.

She could remember the sickeningly sweet burn of asari liquor so clearly it was almost as if she still held it on her tongue. It'd been a night full of shots with her fellow snipers, a celebration of a victory they shouldn't have come back from. But thanks to her overwhelming disregard for her own safety, she discovered a way.

He walked right up to her and snatched the shot glass out of her hand. The liquor sloshed over the rim and dripped down his knuckles, onto her lap. Not half an hour later, she was sitting in his apartment with the strict order to "sober up" before they spoke, smelling of a foreign fruit she couldn't name.

The only difference between that night and this club was the fact that she was standing in Anderson's shoes. While they fit her surprisingly well for the time being, she wasn't sure she would be able to wear them in this setting for much longer.

Payton released a slow breath and began the trek up the stairwell towards the bar on the second level. Even from a distance, she could see the man she'd come to talk to.

Kenneth Donnelly stood at the bar, shoulders hunched forward as he spoke to the asari behind the counter. While he wasn't shouting at the petite alien, he kept raking his fingers through his hair and pointing towards the door, dropping familiar words like Shepard and soon. He wasn't there to drink, though from the looks of things, he was close to changing his mind.

"Look, she'll be here," he told the asari, sounding more worried and anxious than angry. "Just - just give her a few more minutes. She said she'd - she'll be here."

The asari inclined her head towards Payton. "She's already here."

When Ken turned to look in her direction, her fingers clutched into fists at her sides, a physical reaction to seeing him that she couldn't quite fight off. Anyone else, someone who knew him before he joined the Normandy, might have been surprised at his change, but this was the only face she remembered. The pinched brows, the tight jaw, the poor posture - after what happened on the Collector base, this was Kenneth Donnelly. He was a reminder, both of what she'd done, what she failed to do, and what she had to set right.

"Oi, yeah, I know. I look like shit," he said, voice pitched low, but loud enough for her to hear. "Can you just give her your credit chit so we can get out of here?"

Nodding, Payton stepped up to the bar and dug the chit out of her pocket. The arrangement wasn't a beneficial one. Not for her, at least. Bailey wanted to make room in the C-Sec prison, and Kenneth didn't want to spend however many years stuck there. He wanted to get out. Bailey wanted Kenneth's outrageous debt paid off. And Adams needed another hand in Engineering.

The transaction was a quick one. Ken's tab was paid off in a moment's time, and she returned her credit chit to her pocket just after. But they didn't leave. Kenneth wanted to go; he was already halfway down the stairs when she caught up to him. But there was something that had to be said.

"Stop," Payton called out to him, descending the stairs between them when he paused. "I need you to promise me that this isn't going to happen again."

"We're not gonna be on the Citadel, captain," he told her. He didn't tilt up his chin to make up for the fact that she stood a few stairs above him. He simply looked at her, forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows pressed upwards. "It's over, alright?"

With that, he turned around and began walking down the stairs. He only made it down two when he felt fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him back, keeping him still. Jerking away from her grip, he stopped a second time. "It's over. Jesus Christ. I know better than to lie to you."

Pulling her hand back, Payton folded her arms. "And I know better than to believe it's that easy. It's only been six months, Donnelly. And you've only spent two weeks of those in a cell. You're not over it."

"I'm sick of sitting around and doing nothing." Kenneth didn't look at her this time, shoulders curving inwards again and his eyes focused on the flashing violet lights of the club. "I don't wanna be on that ship for anythin', but where else am I supposed to go?"

"If you want to help so badly, you could find work on the Citadel."

Kenneth rolled his eyes. "And end up here every night? You saw how much good that did me."

"Then come with me. But this is not happening again."

"It won't. The booze you've got on the Normandy is shit anyway."

She didn't believe him. He was too desperate to get out, too intent on separating himself from the club and the atmosphere, like he was running away from it rather than facing the issue. The realization that that was familiar, too, was a punch to the gut.

When she didn't immediately reply, he started walking down the stairs again, only to be called back with a sharp, "Kenneth!"

"What?"

Payton walked down to meet him, this time standing on the same stair. Her expression shifted as much as she could manage. Empathy stung, so she settled for pity. "I'm sorry," she told him. "This is my fault. I should have kept in touch. Maybe this wouldn't have –"

"You're right." Kenneth's voice was rough. He still refused to look at her, pointedly focused at the shining grey metal beneath his feet instead. If he would've looked at her then, he might have been even angrier. "This is your fault. But it's not because you didn't ring."

Pulling away from her and out of the conversation, Kenneth descended the final stretch of stairs and walked out of the club, never so much as glancing around. He didn't want to say goodbye to Purgatory. He didn't even want to say good riddance. He just wanted to get out. And when the doors closed behind him, Payton's breath caught in her throat.

She'd tripped.

She'd stepped into Anderson's shoes and tripped the moment she took her first step. The situations were different. Anderson had no reason to apologize to her. Akuze hadn't happened because of him. She hadn't lost her crew because of him. She never lost someone she loved because of him.

But Kenneth's loss was on her hands. She had no right to tell him to get over it, no right to force him to sober up, because she was so steeped in guilt.

Running her hands over her forearms, Payton glanced around the club again. The lights were bright; their color, garish. Everything still seemed so foreign. But standing far off to the side, leaning against the second bar, was a familiar face. She hadn't seen James earlier, but he'd seen her from the looks of it. He didn't move to see how she was, knowing it was better to sit this one out, but he wasn't looking away.

She squared her jaw and looked away, striding out of the club with her hands at her sides. The moment the club's doors slid closed behind her, she swore to herself that she wouldn't talk to him about what he'd seen.

But curiosity broke promises as easily as anything, and Payton was in the shuttle bay only a few hours later.

At the sight of her, back in her Alliance casuals and her hair pulled back in the same braid, James called for everyone to clear out. When Steve called out something dismissive from behind the Kodiak, he wasn't having it. "Uh uh, Esteban; the commander needs some space!" Steve shot back something about James taking up more of that space than James did, but eventually put up his tools and disappeared into the elevator with the rest of them.

Payton busied herself at the procurement console, scrolling through the items available to keep from telling him none of this was necessary. Her kneejerk reaction to deny that there was a problem was the wrong one. She knew it. She knew she had to say something just as clearly as she knew she couldn't do it with a dozen people standing around her.

Folding his arms over his chest, James watched as her hands moved over the interface. She was tense. Even more so than usual. And seeing her up close for the first time since the chat she had with Donnelly in Purgatory was enlightening.

"So what's up with you, Lola?" he asked, eyes drifting up from her hands to her face. "I saw you at Purgatory. Didn't seem like shore leave to me."

"It wasn't." She looked over at him from the screen. "I was tending to business regarding Donnelly's transfer to the Normandy."

James huffed quietly. "Right. Business like that at a bar. Sounds legit."

"I paid for his tab," she said, the words leaving her quickly. Like tugging off a bandage. "It was the only way Bailey would let him transfer onto my ship. So I dealt with it. Why do you care?"

"Because you obviously do." Stepping away, James' hands fell to his sides, lingering there for a moment before digging into his pockets. "I've never seen you get physical with someone like that. Not someone who wasn't shooting at you, at least. So something's wrong. You can talk to me about it." He walked around behind her, watching as she glanced over her shoulder. She didn't see a smile on his face, which meant he wasn't mocking her. He didn't give that impression. "If it's not a touchy subject."

Payton narrowed her eyes at the console. "It's a touchy subject," she murmured, both index fingers tapping at the desk as she tried to focus on the upgrades on the screen. "You should know."

That shut him up, if only momentarily.

"You've been on my ship for almost two weeks now. You don't think I would keep you here without looking over your files?" James worked his jaw as she continued, stopping at her back, waiting for her to turn around. She didn't. "You have a little experience when it comes to losing people."

"A little?"

While she hadn't used the slight as bait, he snatched it up without a moment's hesitation. "What happened on Fehl Prime was an isolated incident. It's happened to you once."

"It still fucking happened."

Payton turned around, facing him with her lips pressed into a line. "Yes. It happened. Once. An isolated incident. I shouldn't have to explain to you what a little experience entails."

"Just because I didn't make a habit out of losing my squad –"

James stopped short when a finger snapped up into his face. "Don't," she told him. "Don't go there, lieutenant. You don't want to finish that sentence."

He swatted her hand away from his eyes. "Yeah, maybe I do." Payton didn't press closer. She didn't flare up from being dusted away like the solid threat was nothing. "You give me a lot of shit about acting the way I do, but we're not any different. I'm just not where you are yet. I don't wanna be." Swallowing thickly, James was the one who pressed forward. He had too much to say. There were too many thoughts circling his head, and that meant only one thing. His words would come out wrong. And they did. "The second I get so fucking bitter and repressed, I'll get somebody to take me out back and put me out of my misery."

"What are you trying to say, James?"

That was the first time she'd ever called him by his first name. But the solid, almost dull way she said it made him wish it hadn't been. "I'm saying that you're a lot more screwed up than I am."

He was so close to her he could see the lines in her skin. He could see the shift of muscles, the momentary pinch of her brow and the frown that tugged down the corners of her lips. And when she spoke again, he could almost feel the warning in her voice. "Get out of my face."

He didn't move. He didn't step away and go about his business. Anyone else would have. Anyone with half a brain at that point would have. But she wasn't his superior officer anymore. She was a potential threat, to herself and to him and to her crew.

"Step away, lieutenant."

"No," he said, his own words pitching lower. "You can't just make me pretend I don't see what's going on."

Payton could feel her throat tightening, could feel a tug in the center of her chest and a heat rising up the back of her neck. "You don't," she spat out. "You don't get it. You have no idea –"

"Who else!"

She ordered him to take a step back, but he took a step forward.

"What?"

"Who else here gets it?"

Even as she let out a shuddering breath, her glare didn't waver. "You don't," she shouted. There were no tears in her eyes. There wasn't even a blue flame. There was nothing. "You have no idea what it's like! And pretending like you do doesn't help anything!"

The first fist flew when he reached out to grab her arm. James grunted as his neck snapped at the impact. The force to his jaw kept whatever attempt to get her to calm down locked in his mouth with the flavor of metal.

The second fist was followed by blood and a gasp.

Payton's hand went to her face, stifling the flow down her upper lip, brows knitted above her likely broken nose.

The shuttle bay was quiet for a long time after that. Every now and then, Payton took a breath through her mouth, but even that was quiet. She was too focused on stopping the bleeding to care about anything else. Not the spots on her uniform, not the bright red gash of color from her fingers to her wrist. And any time James tried to say something, a sharp pain shot up his jaw. They were forced to merely stare at each other.

Whatever angry looked they'd worn were gone. They were replaced with looks of shock that slowly translated into pain and then acceptance. Payton was still flushed, the heat from her neck turning her ears and the apples of her cheeks bright pink. But even that didn't stop her from being the first to speak.

"That was incredibly stupid," she told him. "You should have just walked away."

"Yeah, because I have a great track record of walking away from you."

Payton's eyes fell to her hand, at the smear of blood. "That doesn't matter. You should have walked away, not grabbed me. That wouldn't have happened if you wouldn't have grabbed my arm."

He huffed, though his entire body seemed to tense at the pain that followed. "You were gonna snap anyway. Might as well be at me."

"Still a stupid move, James." She up from her hand and into his eyes, tonguing over her upper lip when she felt a trickle over the curve of it. "Do not do that again. I'm letting this slide as self-defense. But if you get in my face like that again, especially about this, you're gone."

"Fine," he said, stretching his neck and pressing the pads of his fingers against his jaw to measure the damage. "Whatever. You've really gotta relax, Lola."

Payton shook her head and stepped away from the console. "I don't have the luxury of relaxing." When she was only a few steps away from him and closer to the elevator, she turned back around. "You know, you never told me why you call me that."

"Ah. Yeah, uh, can I tell you later?" James shifted on his feet. "Not really digging the idea of getting punched again."

A smile hitched at the corner of her mouth. "Now you have to tell me."

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"Lieutenant..."

James chuckled, skin around his eyes creasing at the feeling that laced up the side of his face. "Lola was a girl I knew when I was younger," he said. "Had a bit of a thing for her. She was tough. Hot, too, but tough."

Watching her for whatever reaction he'd get from the admission, he let out a breath of relief when she gave a thoughtful little nod. She wiped her fingers beneath her nose and then looked down at herself, at the stains on her clothes and on her skin. "Hot," she murmured. "Right."

"Mostly tough?" he offered.

"Mhm."

When Payton turned around and began to walk towards the elevator again, James rolled his eyes. "She never punched me, though!" he called after her. "I might have to rethink the nickname!"

She didn't respond with words. But right before the elevator's door closed, she lifted the hand she'd used to wipe the blood from her nose and gave him a wave. It was a small one, a quick little swish of her fingers, but it was something.

His jaw hurt. It would hurt for days. But at least she didn't punch him again.

He considered that a small victory.