Politics or Booze?

[Emil Vaako] Senior Detective Doug Brasier is about to die. Were the man less inebriated, were he just that tiny bit less certain of his dancing ability while inebriated, he'd live another day. Eddie would not be perched, a figure cast from easy, reclining hatred, on the plush velvet of one of the hotel chairs along one side of the wall near the buffet and waiting like a hawk for that man...

That goddamn cretin...

To come by with his dolled up wife as they spin about the dance floor and step on Eddie's patent leather boot just one more time...

Doug is spared by fate. As many dancing couples stroll past in their slightly tipsy, but still mostly stately dance, Douggie misses Ed's boot this time. A subtle, barely there grimace flickers like a ghost on the lanky Detective Vaako's face. He settles back in the chair, a picture of reptilian confidence, and sweeps cunning, pale green eyes around the richly appointed ballroom.

Ice drowning in a puddle of good bourbon swirl in a class clutched in one hawk like hand.

Coming had been a bad idea. Just like it had been every year since the divorce. Such an occurence is too common among the law enforcement fraternity to be of any great note... but Eddie feels eyes on him. Sympathetic ones. Its worse than the thinly veiled disgust on some of the other faces. That he almost luxuriates in. Stubbornness fed by their scorn.

"Bozmeg" He rumbles to himself, and tilts his head back for another swallow of bourbon.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is not dancing. She is standing off to the side, a wine glass filled with red, listening disinterestedly as a fifty-something senior officer talks her ear off about -

what was it again?
Oh yes. Boats. Riveting.

- about boats. His boat. The boat he wants to buy. The lake. The river. Boats on the lake and the river. Boats on the ocean. Makes of boats. Styles of boats. Boats, boats, boats.

She does a rather good impression of being interested, answering him at appropriate intervals. Sounds of interest, or leading questions. In between the moments where she must offer a small measure of focus, her gaze surreptitiously slides over the crowd. She takes a sip of wine. When the man - let us call him Carl - when Carl looks over his shoulder to point in the general direction of the lake, she takes a larger gulp.

Her skin is like alabaster, her hair vibrant and brilliant, pinned up behind her head in an artful disarray which merely takes advantage of her mane's natural chaos. Her dress is a blue so dark it is nearly black, bringing to mind twilight, the space between the stars, her eyes. She keeps a stole about her arms, wrapped at her bicep, as it for warmth or perhaps merely style.

She does not beg for anyone to help her - though she's seen Emil by now, she makes no effort to catch his gaze, stare hopefully in his direction. Eventually she untwines herself from the conversation, and starts to weave through the dancers, her glass nearly empty.

[Emil Vaako] An ice cube clicks against the side of the glass as the very tall detective spits it back amongst its now breathing brethren.

Eddie is a man. The sort with propriety bolted on his manner just a bit to the left of center. "Roguish" They used to call it. Though these days other adjectives apply. One moment he's as stark as a lump of coal cast amongst diamonds. Motionless, a bit too dark and broody. In the next, those roguish manners become apparent. The lanky man's eyes swing as though drawn on a string. His wicked gaze stabbing at a beautiful woman he'd seen just on the edge of his vision.

He doesn't quite leer. Though saying that he simply appreciates the view is also not quite accurate. Once his gaze finds flame- red hair and a familiar, striking face- and the two facts together collide in realization- his manner moves from quasi- leering to a blatant gape.

The doc needs out of scrubs more often.

he blinks again. Shaking his head as though to dislodge the thought. He doesn't remember to stand up until she's arrived. It doesn't occur to him to question the sudden return of manners Serbian mothers beat into all their children.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen - Doctor Slaughter, so few call her by her first name, now - flicks a glance toward Emil as he gets to his feet, her gaze raking down, then up again, her eyebrow arching faintly.

"Detective," she greets him. Formal, as she's always been.

Her tattoo shows faintly throw the gauze of her shawl, the solid black loops of the glyph out of place on her skin, in her attire. She takes the last swallow of wine before setting down the glass, catching the bartender's eye. She orders another glass of the house red, taking a moment to breath in the near-silence of a conversational reprieve.

She breathes in, picking up her glass by the bowl, casting a glance sidelong toward the narcotics officer.

"And how are you?" she ends the reprieve albeit reluctantly.

[Imogen Slaughter] (correction: Not narcotics! organized crime!)

[Emil Vaako] The glass meets the bar with a soft snap, as Eddie's eyes flicker back to the luminous alabaster and night- blue figure standing next to him.

"Acutely aware that I've only had one of these," he gestures to the glass. "-and considering what kind of bribe it would take..."

Eddie's eyes slide past Imogen's left shoulder and twitch slightly narrower. He tracks the proud grace of one of the men on the dancefloor. Douggie had been closer to death than Michael Gull.. but Mike was a near second. Obnoxious prick. He just loved idling his date near the stag chairs. Passing out conciliatory smiles.

"...to convince you to stand closer for just a feeeeew mooore seconds.."

[Imogen Slaughter] Her eyebrow arches once more, this time higher and with a more pointed commentary.

"Far more than you can afford," she says, archly.

[Emil Vaako] "Shit." Something oddly like the faint beginings of a smile threatens to spill across the edges of his mouth. It had been a good idea, the rakish detective seems convinced. His attention passes back to Imogen and remains there, as the bartender returns with a short snifter cradling a puddle of amber liquid.

"So." Eddie twitches one long fingered hand toward the lovely doctor. "You look good. I'm pretty surprised to see ya here. Come for the booze? Or is it politics?"

[Imogen Slaughter] "Politics," she answers him succinctly, her attention moving away to scan the crowd, even if his attention remains her. She wears his awareness - the awareness of other men in the room - with reticence. Implacable, as if untouched by it. But not as if she were unaware.

"S'easier t'stay in th'good graces o' others if yeh drink wi' them," she offers, turning her attention back, lifting her glass to her mouth, "and if they think their cause is yours."

She lowers her glass, lifting her chin to gesture toward the other Kinfolk, "And you? Politics or drink?"