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“And that is quite all right,” Zevran said, cocking his head with one of those twists of his mouth that played at being a smile. “I understand that is the way of geth. I said it because I say similar things to flesh and blood people, and you,” he said, with an expansive gesture meant to indicate 943′s body entire, or perhaps more than that, “are all people. And thus, the words. They are meant to be taken how you choose to take them, though you would prefer not to choose at all, the words are still kindly meant, my friend.” 

My muse trips and falls on their face in front of yours. How does your muse react?

“Reciprocating what? Words? You seem to bandy them about quite handily, my large friend. Friends,” he corrected himself with genuine dismay, dredging that factoid about geth from the dusty shelves of rarely dusted memory, and smiled, lips covering his teeth, as drell bared them to threat display. “Do the words not strike your fancy? I have some others, quite a number of them, though most, admittedly, are for flesh and blood conversational partners, you are certainly worth the effort to adjust, hmm?” He smiled again, rolling his shoulders in a lopsided shrug to show that, yes, he was indeed still gently flirting, with every intention of backing off, on that front at least, should it be so desired. Knowing what was coming, it seemed a small enough kindness, though he knew full well that, given the context of what was to come, it would be quickly forgotten. 

Yellow optics focused on the dress, his face, markings, clothing. Measuring Zevran and his likely capabilities, knowing that the drell, like all other organics, were not easily predicted.