Commander Jane Shepard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
earthborn) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-01-03 06:48 pm
earthborn) wrote in thecapitol2014-01-03 06:48 pm
Entry tags:
It's a Date
Who | Commander Jane Shepard, and Venus Dee Milo
What | Fancy shipper-baiting dinner date at
Where | a suspiciously loud restaurant
When | TWO-KNIGHT
Warnings/Notes | canon-typical language
The restaurant was a high-end replica of some wealthy Capitolite's idea of what a London dive-bar looked like. It was too clean by half, full of wood beams polished dark and thick wine-reds and navy blues. The brass was real, but untarnished by the supposed age proclaimed by the signage, and the beer tasted like shit, too weak and watery. You'd think with all this money, they could at least get good fucking beer. The whole business reminded her of nothing so much as plastic silver cutlery, functionally one thing, but only a child believed it to be what it was trying to be. Hell, even the food was off; she'd spent long enough in London to know exactly how much grease should've been soaked into these chips and this wasn't it.
The only authentic thing in the place was the volume. Vidscreens broadcast some mutant descendant of football and the enthusiasm of the patrons hung around like smoke from green wood, liable at any minute to rise up and choke you.
And all that suited her purposes just fine.
So Shepard perched herself in good view of the door, more than dressed for the occasion, and waved Venus over when she made her appearance. Soak it in, girlfriend, the beer might be piss, but the greasy, inauthentic shepherd's pie is still damned good no matter what's in it. Romantic as fuck.
What | Fancy shipper-baiting dinner date at
Where | a suspiciously loud restaurant
When | TWO-KNIGHT
Warnings/Notes | canon-typical language
The restaurant was a high-end replica of some wealthy Capitolite's idea of what a London dive-bar looked like. It was too clean by half, full of wood beams polished dark and thick wine-reds and navy blues. The brass was real, but untarnished by the supposed age proclaimed by the signage, and the beer tasted like shit, too weak and watery. You'd think with all this money, they could at least get good fucking beer. The whole business reminded her of nothing so much as plastic silver cutlery, functionally one thing, but only a child believed it to be what it was trying to be. Hell, even the food was off; she'd spent long enough in London to know exactly how much grease should've been soaked into these chips and this wasn't it.
The only authentic thing in the place was the volume. Vidscreens broadcast some mutant descendant of football and the enthusiasm of the patrons hung around like smoke from green wood, liable at any minute to rise up and choke you.
And all that suited her purposes just fine.
So Shepard perched herself in good view of the door, more than dressed for the occasion, and waved Venus over when she made her appearance. Soak it in, girlfriend, the beer might be piss, but the greasy, inauthentic shepherd's pie is still damned good no matter what's in it. Romantic as fuck.
