(Untitled)
WHO: Everybody! Everybody, and Patricia.
WHAT: The first annual Europe Day Party, aka EU New Years, aka Europegate, aka The French Revolution. Decadent decay, imperialism, wine-drinking, scone-waving, Manet/Monet slurring, nouveau bossa nova, big maps, Eurocentricism, themed booze.
WHEN: Friday evening; party starts around nine, starts around ( Read more... )
WHAT: The first annual Europe Day Party, aka EU New Years, aka Europegate, aka The French Revolution. Decadent decay, imperialism, wine-drinking, scone-waving, Manet/Monet slurring, nouveau bossa nova, big maps, Eurocentricism, themed booze.
WHEN: Friday evening; party starts around nine, starts around ( Read more... )
After several weeks of moping and whining and sitting around his apartment, and then losing his job due to no fault of his own, the last place one would probably expect to find Richie Sutton, sir Cowardly Lion himself, would be at a party with a lot of people he didn't know. Heck, even in a good mood he wouldn't have done that.
But solitary confinement, unemployment, and a bottle of goldschlager from his ex-boss (Richie was pretty sure it was an apology, though it was a little concerning) did strange things to a man. He'd toyed with the idea of going to the Byrons' - he liked them, their parties were pretty infamous (he'd gone to one with Allison, once, but no! Crying drunk would not do!) and by the time he finished the fourth or fifth swig of whatever the hell goldschlager actually was (he thought it was like Schnapps, but it had a pretty good kick) he had a perfect costume in mind. It was a European party!
And Richie was European! Sutton was a Norman name. Clearly, the answer was to go to a costume shop and find a Viking hat, which he did, and a sword for around his waist. When he arrived at the party, it was as a proud, noble Viking. Or as much of a proud, noble Viking that he could look like, being a scrawny feminine-looking guy who barely broke 5'9".
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"There will be no Wagner in any house of mine," Hale declared pleasantly, which was a sort of greeting; bow as he did before the altars of the New York arts and culture scene, he simply couldn't allow Opera. But for all this, it was a good-spirited denial, spoken as he rounded a corner and blustered into the Cowardly Lion's path. After all, Richie was wearing a viking helmet, not a cowboy hat. A cowboy hat would be a clear alliance with the enemy (for the group of compendium users trying to convince Watts that country music was okay were the enemy). A viking hat was acceptable and actually pretty clever. He considered all of this before he even realized that it was a young man he knew; a bashful one, at that. Good for him.
More appropriate to saying hello, Hale quickly extended a shakeable hand and said, "Hello, Ritchie. Glad you could make it. Oh!" he noticed the other half of the costume, "Yes, a few people brought swords to our last party, too, except it wasn't a costume party at all. But I trust you to have one, so I suppose I won't demand that you have it peace-bonded." He spoke quickly, a peculiar sort of friendly extroversion which, on Hale, made it seem like he was trying to sell the house.
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Richie had barely been there for a few minutes, standing mostly out of the way and looking around at people and things and considering whether he should get a drink or not (he decided to go for it), when he was bumped-into, in the metaphorical way and not the physical way. "Byron Hale," he greeted him, with a little smile, reaching out to take his hand and shake it, tentative and quick just like all his other handshakes.
"Thanks," he said, and shifted to show off his sword, one hand coming to rest on the handle of it. "Well, good. I promise not to pillage or plunder while I'm here." He knew he couldn't keep that promise if he wound up drinking too much, but even if he did get hammered and start waving it around, it was just plastic.
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Laughing, he took a sip of wine and considered the havoc a plastic sword could wreak upon the populace. The very picture of viking terror, Richie was. "I couldn't in good conscience ask you not to pillage or plunder at all," Hale said with a smirk, "as that's half the purpose of any party, but I'll ask for moderation and leave it to your discretion. At very least don't leave any evidence of your identity, so we don't look out at the wreckage and think, oh, that's what Richie did, Richie broke the coffee table. Though if you're going to break something? Please do me the favor of breaking the coffee table. But watch the corners," he cautioned without any pause whatsoever, except the time it took to look behind him and at the furniture in question, "they're hell on the shins."
As his gaze returned to Ritchie from the much hated table, he wondered if the young man knew the double entendres to which he'd be subjected throughout the course of the night, carrying a sword around. He suspected it would be a night of many discoveries for young Mr. Sutton.
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Despite his introduction to the host, Murdock's arm flew around Richie's shoulder, in a generally amicable but vaguely alpha male gesture. "Splendid party! Never fails to disappoint." He announced with only a slight slur, before canting his head to regard his improvised leonine leaning post. "Hey, Sutton! Hale, you know Sutton? This guy, I tell ya." A hand patted Richie's chest firmly, "Good guy! No, I mean that. I mean, I'm man enough to admit it, you know. You know this guy stole a woman right out from under me? Seriously! You wouldn't think it, but he's a killer. This guy!" Murdock carried on like a steamroller, defying any efforts at interruption, and giving Richie a good shake. "You watch out if you got a girl here tonight, Hale. You're with Lil Maine, right? You keep your eye on her when this one's around." A loud, if somewhat less-than-earnest laugh showed that he was mostly joking (and totally oblivious to some things). "Speaking of which, I've got to find Vel. Have you guys seen her? Well, not you - I better find her before you do!" An overly firm pat on Richie's back. "Just joshing with ya, m-- Oh hey, Perry's here! Hey Perry!"
And he was off, as suddenly as he came, with all the grace and panache of an overdressed tornado.
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Richie had a plan for the conversation. It was going to be funny, too. He was going to make a joke about pillaging and plundering and he'd work the coffee table into it somehow. It would have been good, but Richie only got about halfway through the deliberation before Murdock descended upon them, and the pun was lost forever. Richie didn't like to be touched by people he didn't know; it made his skin crawl. He liked even less to be touched by people he somewhat disliked, and Murdock certainly fit that role.
Murdock knocked his Viking hat askew when he patted him, and Richie's cheeks were a healthy shade of burgundy by the time Murdock was distracted by something else and left them alone. An uncomfortable moment passed, and Richie let himself move again. He'd frozen up when Murdock had grabbed him, and forced himself still to keep from hitting him or something. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders relaxed slowly, though his hand dropped to the sword hilt. He paused, thoughtfully, as if debating whether or not to - no, no, don't be stupid - and then dropped his hand. Everything about his body language screamed 'defeated'.
"How about a drink?" he asked Hale, turning back to him, something nervous and desperate in his eyes.
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Since the end of Murdock's rant had been received with Hale's silent search for a moment of silence where he could contradict the claim that he and Lillian were together, he understood Richie's discomfort. Oh, Hale understood. This party demonstrated that he was less shy and earnest than he would have the world believe, but he did have his moments. An acquaintanceship with a certain extroverted Scotsman had conducted him into awkward social situations from which he could not escape, and which ended with him looking much like Richie did right now, flustered and speechless. He understood at this instant that the fondness he felt for the young lion was actually identification--that, and at the coffee shop, he had unwisely expressed an interest in things that so interested Hale. This was an eternal ticket into the second Swindler's good graces.
"Here, there's an... um," he helpfully righted the Viking hat upon the young man's head, and then gave a strained smile which silently said, that was very awkward for the both of us, let's not talk about it ever again. "Good man. Drinks are good."
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It was funny, because he hadn't realized his face was tight - lips thin, eyebrows raised just a bit - until it relaxed into a very relieved smile that probably would have said 'thank you for not saying anything, dear lord thank you'. "Drinks. Yes, so many drinks from so many European nations. I wonder what Vikings drank," Richie's conversation was a bit more verbose than usual due to sheer nerves and a frantic desire to have a drink.
He hated that Murdock had brought Allison up. He hated that he'd insinuated that Richie was some kind of girlfriend-stealer. And he hated being poked and shook around by strangers! He was nearly seething on his way toward the drinks, silently stewing away. His jaw clenched a little when he was angry.
"Probably like, um, ale or beer or something," he said, after mulling it over. "Mead?"
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"Except we don't have the blood of innocents, unless one of the newcomers brought it... no," he added as they approached their stock, "It doesn't look like it. We do have bloody mary premix. Actually, if you think about it, the virgin mother... it could work." Hale didn't like bloody marys, but he was captivated by the fact that it equaled the blood of innocents. Strange things captivated Hale.
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The blood of the innocents - slash - bloody mary thing gave Richie pause, and he tilted his head while he thought it over. It was interesting. "I bet bloody marys are what modern day Vikings drink." He peered toward the drinks, with a thoughtful tap to his chin. "Um, but I started off with goldschlager and I think if I put a bloody mary on top of that," he paused, trying to come up with a decent analogy. "Well, it wouldn't be very good."
But nearly anything else not involving tomatoes would do. Richie leaned over, plucked up a liquor bottle and looked it over. He uncapped it to take a sniff, and then nodded. He wasn't sure what it was, but most liquors got along with Richie just about the same.
"Um, want some shots?" he suggested.
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