He reigns it in. Pulls it all back. Composure slides into his frame as easily as her hand rests on his shoulder. Feathers flicker between white and grey and black, mottled, solid. Smoking. His head scans the room, everything firmly, safely covered. No one falls to the pressure, though they flinch.

That's the part he hates, sometimes. The people they're meant to protect, afraid. It's necessary, argues the other part of him. They have to, or else nothing gets done.

His gaze turns back to the wreck of a man. I doubt he's forgiven you - no, he sure hasn't. It might not actually have hurt Shepard, but it's the principle of the damn thing, isn't it? He folds his arms, not moving. As unflappable as any statue. Though his mandibles flare off his jaw, just for more effect. More teeth.

Then she's done here. The air smells of woodsmoke and burned flesh. His only acknowledgement is to nod. They're done. He's ready to put this office behind him. Behind both of them. Leave behind the odd stab of fear he could be losing her again.

Though what that means, he's not quite sure.