three.
"You're shitting me," Ashley Williams shouts over the thumping bass. The fluctuating lights on the dance floor muddle her expression, but her tone makes her disbelief perfectly clear.

"Am not," Shepard shouts back, and to make her point she tries to clap with the beat and fails, miserably, mostly because it's hard to clap with an empty shot glass in her hand.

"That's it?" Ashley hoots—and when had she become Ashley? She may be the NCOIC, but she's still enlisted, damn it, and while she's on the subject she's still not sure what she's even doing, hitting up bars on the Citadel with a subordinate. "That's your big move?"

"Look," Shepard says, and God help her she might actually be a little drunk, "I never said I was good at this."

"Obviously," Ashley says, "but I didn't think you'd be bad at it."

"Yeah, well," she says, but she doesn't really have an answer, and she's still not sure how "help me see about something over shore leave" has turned into "come on, Commander, just one more shot." She doesn't do this, though the soberer part of her observes that perhaps it's just because she hasn't had friends to do it with. Which is ridiculous; she has friends, they're just scattered across the galaxy and she hasn't seen them in...years. Not that she doesn't consider her fellow N7s friends, though at this point it's been months since she's seen them too. And even when she was serving with them...well, she'd seen how they liked to blow off steam, and somebody had to make sure they all got home safely. And she never minded being the one to do it; taking care of everyone else has always been enough, but—

well, this is fun, and she has to admit she can't remember the last time she just had fun.

Even if it is with someone down the chain of command with a penchant for blackmail.

"Commander?" says a familiar voice behind her, and it's a good thing her glass is empty because otherwise she'd be spitting her drink across the floor. It's also a good thing Ashley doesn't appear to have a camera on her omni-tool because she's pretty sure her face is priceless but why in the hell—

"Lieutenant!" Ashley says cheerfully, with a look that implies she is not only totally unsurprised to see K—Alenko (shit) but is also enjoying Shepard's reaction. "Another shot, Commander?"

Without waiting for a response she plucks the shot glass from Shepard's hand and disappears into the crowd of people between them and the bar. Shepard grasps after her but comes up empty and, resigned, turns to face the waiting officer.

Shit. The lights are bouncing and he looks good, and she must be a little drunk because she'd never admit that sober, or even tipsy, but the play of shadows across his face does nothing to obscure the fact that he's the first man in—

well, ever, really—

and now is not a good time to be having such thoughts because he looks concerned, probably because his CO is getting drunk with an NCO and—"Commander?" he says again, looking around as if the middle of the dance floor is not exactly where he expected to find her. "Is...everything all right?"

She takes a deep breath. When was the last time she had this much to drink? Focus. "Lieutenant," she says, managing to keep the word somewhat professional, anyway. "Is there a...problem?"

He doesn't respond right away, confusion written across his (don't think handsome don't think handshit) face, and she winces. This is awkward. This is very, very awkward, and precisely why she doesn't fraternize, even platonically. He looks entirely uncomfortable on the dance floor, which is strangely comforting, because what would she do with a man who wasn't? She needs to sober up, and she definitely needs to stop moving her shoulders to the beat. She wishes she had a drink in her hand. Or better yet, a gun. And while she's at it, she'd rather be covered in Thorian creeper muck—

well, no, Feros had been a bitch and a half, and that's why they're here, isn't it? And wasn't he—

"Aren't you on leave?" she asks, trying to fill the silence with something other than the pulsating beat.

"Yeah," he says, some of the tension easing as he finds an answer. "A bunch of the Marines wanted to catch a movie, so—"

"You didn't leave in the middle of it, did you?" she asks, horrified, and when Ashley comes back with that drink she is going to toss it back and then knock her to the deck. Floor.

"Not exactly," he says. He has to lean in to be heard, and she holds herself very still, locking her hands in a commander's pose behind her back. "I got caught up trading omnitool specs with a quarian at Expat's stall, and then a lost elcor asked me for directions, and the next rapid transit that would take an elcor wasn't for half an hour and so I waited with her—"

"Her?" she asks, intrigued despite herself.

"I think so?" he says. "I got a detailed explanation of her clan's history, but I didn't catch her name. Or the movie. I was about to head back to the Normandy to take a nap when I got Ashley's message."

He's perfect, and this close she can smell whatever he's wearing and it smells good and Ashley sent him a message. "Message?"

"She said it was an emergency," he says, though his expression makes it clear that he no longer believes this to be the case.

"I bet she did," Shepard mutters.

"So," he says, still resigned, a little embarrassed, she thinks, and at least it means she's not alone. "I take it you don't know...?"

"I can guess," she says, and she shouldn't have said that because now she's more than a little embarrassed and she could kill Ashley but at the same time there's something heartwarmingly familiar—

It's something Catie would do, and if Catie could see her now, making a tipsy fool of herself over a platoon commander—

If Catie was speaking to her, anyway.

Shut up and dance, Emma Jane.

"My—I've been told," she says, as he's still waiting for her to elaborate (as if he hasn't guessed, and maybe he hasn't, because if nothing else she is bad at this sort of thing and that might be a blessing because if he hasn't guessed—if he doesn't know—it means she's not so transparently obvious as she fears and maybe she can salvage her dignity after all), "that I dance like a monkey."

He blinks, almost rocking on his heels, and then his lips curve in a slow burn of a half-smile that steals her breath and her balance in one go, and she can't stumble into him and so instead she bumps into an asari who sizes her up and dismisses her in one glance. It's kind of nice, actually, to be ignored, and his grin is rueful and she can't help but grin back at him. And something in his face—catches, like a breath or a heartbeat, and maybe they're both obvious, and maybe—

"Well," he says, recovering, "if she thought I could help, I'm afraid she was sorely mistaken." So he can't dance either. She was right, and it pleases her, and then his next words stop her cold. "So," he says, hesitant and awkward and perfect, perfect, perfect, "do you want to...go for a walk?"

A walk? She can walk. She can even manage a straight line because that's what she's trained to do, dammit, walk and talk and shoot straight even if concussed and bleeding out and keeping her guts in place with her free hand and sheer willpower. She has a scar from that one that nobody's seen, except maybe the doctors. Nailed a batarian between the eyes anyway. It had been a good shot.

She would like to walk. Like very much to walk, and just walk, and talk, shoot the breeze about anything and everything, learn him inside and out and then maybe share scars, the ones that only go skin-deep and maybe the ones that matter, too, fathers who never come home and sisters who can't forgive. His shoulders are broad and she could lean on them; his hands are steady and she could hold them, offer her shoulders in turn. She wants to. She already has; she just hasn't said it, because—

she's Commander Shepard, first human SPECTRE, and a goddamn professional.

Language, Emma Jane. Just because you're a Marine doesn't mean you have to talk like one.

Though maybe if it meant you'd loosened up a bit, that'd be something else entirely.

She might be drunk on a dance floor—not so much anymore, reality a better tonic than any bucket of cold water to the face—but she hasn't spent the past decade carefully constructing her life within the confines of her career for nothing. Or maybe she has; but she doesn't know how to deconstruct it, either. And there's an entire galaxy counting on her (it's just a walk) and she's been doing this long enough to know that she doesn't matter, so long as the job gets done.

Later. After all, there's always later.

"No," she says, and to her surprise her voice is steady, "thanks." She doesn't need an excuse; she's his commanding officer, and mixed with the understanding on his face is a clear resignation that calls to her, soul to soul, and she'll shoulder his disappointment alongside her own and maybe one day they can unpack it together.

She makes the excuse anyway. "Someone's got to make sure Williams makes it back unscathed."

"Right," he says, tepid amusement matching hers. "Do you need backup?"

She manages to quash any inappropriate thoughts before they begin to blossom, being, as she is, no fun. "Nah," she says, and she is surprised at the ache in her chest. "Go take your nap, Lieutenant."

"If you're sure," he says, and she obviously isn't but he's so good, letting her live the lie, and she is absurdly, eternally grateful to him. Which doesn't help the situation, and even as she hesitates he takes the choice from her hands, sketching a salute. "Best of luck to you."

"Thanks," she says, and he half-smiles at her again and turns away to spare her the indignity of being seen so completely undone. She stands there and watches him walk away until a particularly enthusiastic human-asari couple attempts to enfold her in their sandwich and their hot, sweaty bodies shove her right off the dance floor.

Probably for the best.

She needs to find Ashley. She needs that drink.