It was the colour of weak sunlight, of tea thinly steeped, of old stone and sand. He picked up the glass -- it looked suddenly overly small, impossibly delicate, subsumed in fingers that were gawky in their handling of such things -- and swirled it until the liquid lapped at the sides. Sully was not a drinker, whiskey was more his sister's thing (how he imagined her; lips scarlet as a blood-stain or a startling kind of flower, ordering whiskey to shock, drinking it as though it were her apertif of choice. Would that be Tali? He didn't know, he could only guess, shadow-lines overlaying blank paper in mimicry of actual knowledge) so he sipped, tasting rather than gulping. If he were anothe man, a more sophisticated type, he might have commented on the smooth, cool burn or the way it slid with awkward sweetness down the throat. Sully was not. He smiled, instead.
"Do you drink a lot, then?" She didn't look old enough in some lights, not for that -- she was delicate, in the looks of the men that lined the bar, all collarbone rising from shirt, and a ragged kind of prettiness that was haphazard rather than polished. Not old, but not young -- not truly. She had a look of Haven, of those that gleamed having been rubbed street-smooth. Sully's attention was a flicker too sharp.
"Incredibly," he pronounced, having taken another swallow. "Can I buy you something?" There was suddenly money in his hand.