His comment about being lucky to have her earned a disparaging snort and accompanying eye-roll (she, too, struggling with sentiment and emotion in her own way, and apparently having reached her quota for the moment). The mention of Yasha, though, was harder to brush aside - a wound she'd been studiously ignoring turning out to be, surprise, less healed than she expected - and she was grateful his gaze fell elsewhere, and grateful for the drink for giving her something to drown said wound beneath. Beau drained the glass' contents, refilled, and exhaled. Right. Cool. Moment over. She was clearly the best at dealing with shit.
"... back it up a bit, my bar? What bar? I guess we beat Vokodo, then? Which, kein Scheiss Beauregard," - her attempt at mimicking his accent remained, predictably, terrible - "obviously we beat Vokodo, you're from like... way beyond that, but also yes, viel Sheiss, Caleb. Last thing I remember I was floating in all this nothing and then I was here and asking myself if I'd just died or not."
Another pull from her glass. "Yeah, fuck it. Fill me in. What did I miss?"