Manly Fruit Cocktails


bebe2_icon.gif charity_icon.gif christina_icon.gif delilah_icon.gif elisabeth_icon.gif eve_icon.gif felix_icon.gif logan_icon.gif martin_icon.gif sawyer_icon.gif thornton_icon.gif teo_icon.gif tuck_icon.gif

Scene Title Manly Fruit Cocktails
Synopsis The opening of Burlesque sees many face. There's naked women, colourful alcoholic beverages, and then something violent happens. A few times.
Date August 15, 2009


A flashy little strip club, its name advertised in bright neon pink above the door in swooping cursive, with the figure of a woman outlined in the same seeming to kick a leg with each flash of the light. Two bouncers stand by the door, which is a reflective chrome and stays closed unless opened by the security duo, with a red carpeting extending out onto the pavement. They will check you for I.D. before permitting you entrance. You'll be greeted by a woman in full burlesque regalia, with exaggerated makeup, a corset that barely keeps everything in, fishnets and feathers. Provided you can pay the cover charge, she will show you to a table, offer to get your first drink of the evening, and leave you alone to enjoy what Burlesque has to offer.

The main room's focal point is the generous stage, a circular platform with Broadway lights around the edges, and a catwalk that extends further out into the scattered round tables where patrons can sit and drink. The lights that shine down on it are never particularly clear, often shards of pink, green, blue, which hide as much as they reveal. There is almost always a dancer on the stage, even as even more girls move around the room to give more intimate shows on tabletops. There's a long bar that crawls along one side of the room, with a couple of bartenders behind it, a counter of black glass with rows and rows of liquor on display on glass shelves. Leather booths are tucked away towards the back, offering some privacy for whatever purpose.

Despite the proposed theme of the club, impressions of burlesque only factor in with the permanent staff and particular shows of featured dancers. Otherwise, the tunes are standard for any kind of strip club, and the girls will wear what they like. There are private lounges for more expensive, personal shows, and a darkly lit, obscured staircase leading up to both dressing rooms and the manager's office.

If there's anything this place doesn't quite resemble right at this moment, it's a strip club. Men and women alike dot the area, cluttered around tables, talking quietly, talking loudly. A couple of glasses bash together in an uneasy toast and music spills from the speakers in dulcet tones. The lights are designed to reveal and mask in equal turns, but mostly? Dazzle. Striking beams of pink, blue, green. It's hard to sort stranger from friend, such social barriers crumbling just a little or too subtle to really pick apart beneath low lighting and the mingling crowd.

The open stage is occupied, those nearest to it turning their eyes up towards where a woman, curvy rather than the rail-thin stereotype, is wrapped about a pole and dressed in glimmering sequins and silks. Her moves exaggerated, showy, and she's not alone. Other women occupy smaller stages, from the circled ground nearby the booths to table tops through to the bar itself, picking heavy heels amongst glasses.

They're as much a part of the scenery as the lights, the music, either ignored or noticed in equal measure. The evening has more or less kicked off.

Logan, currently, is at the bar, picking up two colourful (manly!) fruit cocktails and passing the second over to the woman who, in all respective ways, can more or less count as his date. Despite the occasional, the erstwhile brothel owner and current strip club manager is dressed sedately if, as ever, expensively - black on black in varying textures, from the silken tie to the rougher fabric of his suit. When he glances about the crowd, he's not intending to see faces he knows - but one never can tell.

Christina is not the normal type for such a place. She's not dressed as a stripper, and she's not dressed in any kind of club wear. She's in business attire, and she's got a glass in front of her, but it's just water and ice. She's observing, and not so much the women on stage. More the club itself.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is actually possible for Gilbert Tucker to leave Staten Island without bursting into flames or melting. It is also, apparently possible for him to dress in something other than jeans and a t-shirt. For the occasion, he's found a tuxedo jacket, paired with a printed shirt and a pair of dark jeans. One would almost think he knows how to dress. His hair's combed, spiked, and he's close-shaven. He even wore contacts, so the plastic-framed glasses are nowhere to be found.

Logan might not be looking for a familiar face, but a familiar face finds him. He makes his way through the crowd, smiling politely at corset-bound waitresses. "Well. You don't waste much time at the bottom, do you, sir?" He leans on the counter and arches his brows at the proprietor.

Sleek, Well polished, stylish stubble…Stephane makes his entrance in a black suit complete with tailor made vest and white high-collared shirt deal. His walking stick has a gold head and is black to match his suit and leather gloves. He scans the establishment with narrowed eyes before just shaking his head and slowly making his way in further.

For all that his day job has him more or less literally a suit, Fel's got a fairly perverse sense of humor. Which is why he's dragged the unfortunate Liz Harrison with him, out on what can't be a date. Nor can it be work - undercover and plainclothes cops make a point of being unobtrusive and ordinary….which is precisely what the pair are not, at the moment. Far from attempting to slip in unnoticed, Fel's dressed to kill, as if to poke not-so-subtle fun at the pretensions of the establishment; one of those impeccably tailored suits that's way, way beyond his paygrade, really, a dark gray pinstripe like something out of an old film. Liz, usually a fairly practical woman, has also upped her glamour quotient by orders of magnitude - who knew a lady as comfortable in a bullet-proof vest as out of it had lipstick that shade of red in her cosmetic case? Felix looks supremely pleased with himself, as if daring the bouncers to throw him out, Liz on his arm.

Daniel Sawyer enters the club dressed with much less style than usual, wearing dark denim jeans, matching denim jacket and a simple gray t-shirt. After all, he doesn't have to wear The Suit anymore. He looks ready to have an enjoyable evening, though. He finds a good seat near the stage, ordering a drink when someone comes to his table.

Wearing a lovely low-cut purple piece of frock and sporting a stellar smile that might threaten to blind anyone within spitting distance in this low light, that mysterious young woman who's earned the dubious distinction of decorated John Logan's arm is probably a very familiar face for those who used to frequent the Englishman's other establishment. The name that's on all of her forged paperwork is Barbara Dahl but she is much more commonly called 'Bebe' by just about everyone who knows her.

Bebe hoists the thin stem of her (manly!) fruit cocktail drink and sips demurely and then dazzles Gilbert Tucker with that wide and wonderful smile again. "Hello, stranger," she says. "You clean up very nicely."

In truth, the style of the 1930s so is not one that Elisabeth's all that fond of, but Felix was so insistent that she let herself be tugged along for the ride. It's supposed to be great fun, anyway, right? So, wearing a long dress with a swishy kind of and flirty sleeveless sleeves, even her hair done up the right way…. it makes for an interesting picture anyway. "Can't believe I let you talk me into this," she comments to Felix with a grin. The crush in here is amazing, though.

"…so in a way, it's a favor t'them. My services come highly recommended… even if the recommender is six feet under." Walking out from one of the private rooms with a cocktail glass in one hand and the stub of a cigar in the other, a well dressed gentlemen in dark framed glasses seems like the kind that qould frequent this place. While not quite as much of a Rennaissance Man when it comes to prostitutes as John Logan, the equally British Martin Crowley holds his own when it comes to two things; liquor and women. His accent, pond-skipping as it is, seems a bit out of place against the rough New York backdrop, but it's that softening of his H's and raises his I's that sounds like a slice of home to the strip club's owner. Bringing the cigar to his lips, alternating it from the cocktail glass, his eyes shift to the younger man walking at his side.

"I still don't see how a dead man's recommendation got you this position." Not nursing a drink or a cigar, Albert Paulson looks nonplussed by his environment. Equally well-dressed in an almost embarassingly matching black suit; his short, curly hair is the only thing a shade darker. "You know, it makes me wonder who took the reins back in Chicago, all things considered. If he was out here, running things than that leaves — what — Cruz in charge out there? Like he doesn't have a thousand things to handle administratively to begin with."

Walking around one of the stages and towards an unoccupied table with a view of the attraction areas of the floor, Martin pauses to turn and look back at Paulson. "You honestly think I'm just pecking at the ground like a chicken, don't you?" He points towards the younger man with his cigar, "You just think I'm looking for scraps at the director's table, don't you?" With an overly dramatic roll of his eyes, Martin turns to the table and pulls out his chair, hand still on the back of it as he revisits the thought. "Personally I'm offended that you think so low of me," he notes with somewhat mock indignation. "I'm not a self-serving man…" Martin adds as a murmured addendum as he takes his seat.

Just staring at the bespectacled Brit for a moment, Paulson closes his eyes and shakes his head, moving to pull up a chair at the same table. Even as he sits though, Martin's not truly done with him. "Why aren't you drinking?" He asks of Paulson, motioning to him with the cocktail glass, "I told you tonight was going to be a night on the town, and that we were going to relax. You don't look relaxed, Al, you look decidedly unrelaxed." His cigar comes up to his lips, the ember glowing at the end as he draws in a hot breath of smoke. "I know relaxed," Martin adds in his continued tirade, smoke rolling in slow and languid waves out of his mouth.

Both of Paulson's brows shoot up as his head tilts to the side in an of course you do expression, exhaling a huffed sigh as he leans back in his chair and folds his hands in his lap. "I'm — "

"Don't keep your hands down there we're in a stip club for God's sake, someone's going to think you're diddling the business." Martin hastily interjects, slapping Paulson's shoulder with the back of his hand holding the drained cocktail glass while trying to casually pass off a toothy smile to one of the waitresses as she passes by, brandishing his empty glass at her as if it were a knife, clearly intent on getting another midori sour to fill it up

Logan's eyebrows go up in some surprise when Tuck slides into view, but offers the pawnie the smile he's been managing all night: the not totally insincere spark of greeting and warmth of a good host. "But are you really surprised?" he asks, over the sound of nearby conversation and music, an arm curling around Bebe's waist as if perhaps she, too, were among those things he was inclined to show off. "I've always preferred being on top."

Hurrdurrhurr. His gaze skims over Tuck once more as the crowd switches and changes, some disappearing as if to accommodate the presence of more and more guests, and if he immediately recognises anyone, he's not moving to approach (or flee) right away. Simply takes a sip a (manly!) fruit cocktail and indicates towards him with it. "Lovely of you to make it too, would you like a drink? Everything's at half price for the evening."

Interesting. Christina notes some of the people who come in, and there's a bit of typing at her Blackberry. She watches, and then aligns the thing to take a picture or two. Inconspicuously, of course. Just aligning the thing in the right direction, and press a button.

"Hello young miss," says Tuck to Bebe. He inclines his head and pats the bar. "Afraid I can't stay. Just thought I'd drop in and say hello, wish you luck. All that other social hoo-ha and whatnot." He waves a hand vaguely, then glances out of the corner of his eye as a trussed up waitress wanders by. "Certainly has more…polish than your last establishment. Have a good evening Logan, Bebe." He rocks back and starts for the door.

"See, I told you it was actually a burlesque joint. I'm sure they do other things, but…" The female voice coming in the door never finishes the thought, as Delilah is now inside and peering almost gleefully around, hands on the front of her dress. It's a wiggle dress, no less, so every step only seems precarious. It's dark blue, and covered in tiny white polka dots. Her hair is up in a barrette, lips red and upper lashes looking rather vampish. And, right behind her, last she looked- is Teodoro Laudani, doubtlessly exuding at least a small bit of wariness in accompanying Delilah here.

"Oho, check her out." She even points, across the room towards one of the dancers, looping her arm under Teo's elbow. Seems there's more than a couple Brits tonight. Maybe the building is magnetized?

"Hell, neither can I. Seeing how you look tonight, I'm starting to really regret that whole faggot decision," Felix says, bluntly. He tweaks one of her dangling earrings with a fingertip. He himself is without his glasses, hair cut short, scar along his temple painfully new. He leads Liz towards the bar at a deliberate pace, only to stop short in startlement when he spots Bebe. He doesn't -quite- doubletake, but he immediately gets that look of bloodhound eagerness. "I see," he observes to Liz, voice pitched under the pulse of the music, "Someone who has something of mine."

One of them Brits however, named Stephane, just turns on his heel smoothly and makes his way off and out quickly, walking stick occasionally tapping away.

Elisabeth laughs at Felix's comment. "Hey… it's what you get for never actually taking me anywhere, mister. I clean up real good!" She lets him guide her toward the bar with a hand on her back, but when he starts slightly, she turns to look up at him. Then her eyes follow the track his took and she asks, "You do? Wouldn't surprise me to see any number of people here." She glances up to the poles with a grin. "I kinda like it. Who is it that you see? Anyone I know?" she asks.

Through the doors and into the place wades a woman with long black hair, that is slightly curled tonight. That must of took a while to do, her hair is so thick and such.

Light grey eyes scan the people in the place, two blood red pins are in her hair, pinning one section up. The woman's skin shines in the light of the place. She wears a dark red dress that flows out about her and stops at just below her knee, it's strapless and her black leather high-heeled boots make a clicking noise on the pavement.

Nobody has ever seen Eve dressed like this. There is little to no makeup on her face, but that doesn't nothing to hamper her looks. The singer who is pushing thirty is in rare form tonight.

There's a huge fish out of water hulking over the curve of Delilah's shoulder, armed to the teeth underneath the cut of his pea coat, with a weather eye out for unexpected bald assassins. You never can tell, lately. Bigot assassins at gay bars— a burlesque joint seems no less suspect, given the week that's left Teo in the state he is now: faintly anemic, favoring his right arm, generally suspicious of the corners, shadows, and undersides of things. Crowds throw his ability off.

And this is a Hell of a crowd.

The Sicilian does a fair job of not jumping around in an embarrassing parody of ninja skittishness, however. No, he keeps abreast of Delilah with a calm variation of disquiet humming lines of tension around his shoulders and the steady drub of his feet. Pauses occasionally to look where she points, offer a monosyllabic grunt — or perhaps more absurdly still, reddening faintly when somebody's corset happens to end a few inches lower than their tits begin.

"I like the colors," he offers, finally, scratching blunt fingers down the back of his head. Probably, if his zia Lucrezia was here right now, she'd disown him on the grounds of libidinal malfunction, which intrinsically flies in the face of everything the Bennati gene pool stands for. The erratic course of his gaze notes Eve, in passing, with a blink of surprise, a gentle nudge at Lilah's arm in case she missed her former Ferry compatriot.

Only then does the blur of his peripheral vision catch Elisabeth, barely recognized, and a furrow knits into his brow. A cocktail magically appears in his hand, by sinewy reflex he doesn't remember consciously summoning, is gracefully handed off to the woman beside him.

Taking the drink from his passing server, Sawyer leans back in his chair at one of the closest tables to the stage, resting the ankle of one leg over the knee of the other. He takes a slow, nurturing sip from the drink (based on the color, probably gin, possibly water), relaxing and watching some of the ladies that move about to build a 'rapport' with the customers. Having entered earlier and seated himself quickly, he does not notice Felix enter.

"See, look— " Martin raises his empty glass and motions in the direction of one squirming Elisabeth Harrison, "that's the kind of classy woman that you'd expect to find in a place like this. I told you it wouldn't be all tarts and socks here, just a few socked tarts." There's a sly crook of Martin's lips as he brings the glass back up, then remembers it's empty and sets it down right next to a coaster with a bitter expression. "How much do you think it would take to walk out of here with her tonight?" He off-handedly notes, rolling his cigar between two fingers before setting it down tip-first in his empty glass with a wet sizzle.

"Excuse me?" Paulson's head turns in the way someone's does when trying to follow a traffic accident out the window of a moving car; it's a slow tracking motion as his thoughts go from vacant wanderings to what just tumbled out of Martin's mouth. "Did you just — "

"How much effort," Martin clarifies quickly, "do you think it would take to walk out of here with her tonight?" There's a rise of his brows, relaxedly slouching back in his chair as he briefly makes eye contact with another waitress and points bluntly at his drink and then to himself and then back again in case she missed it.

"You're— who're…" Paulson jerks his head around, trying to spot who Martin was referencing until he catches sight of Elisabeth and Felix. His eyes narrow, lips curl back into a dumbfounded look of disbelief, and then flicks a steady stare towards Martin. "You do recognize who her date is, don't you?" That query elicits a scoff from Martin, who idly traces one fingertip down the condensation on his glass.

He looks up to Paulson, then over to Elisabeth and squints at her date. "Well throw me in a sack and roll me down a hill," Martin notes with a quirk of one brow, "that's Felix Ivanov, isn't it?" His eyes track back to Paulson with a mirthful smile, "I think I'm going to go over and say hello. Does that sound like a good idea? If I hit on his date, is that bad form?" All these questions come tumbling out of Martin Crowley's mouth as he pushes himself up from his chair and straightens his lapels, running one hand thorugh his hair.

Immediately, Paulson's brows lower and he turns his back towards Ivanof and Harrison's direction. "Don't," he hisses out through his teeth, "Crowley get back here." But there's really no reasoning with Martin, not now and quite often not ever. The scraggly-haired gentleman is already mid-stride, abandoning Paulson at the table as he tucks his hands into his pockets and starts sauntering on over across the floor towards the bar.

Logan watches Tuck depart with amusement writ into the corner of his smirk, before turning his attention back to Bebe, a hand out to touch her back, leading them both more towards the thick of the crowd, light playing off skin, glass, fabric. "Seems like we're drawing all kinds of faces out of the wood work," he notes. "I didn't quite think naked women would be Gilbert's hook."

Charm, at least something attempted to be charm, turned up several more notches than usual— although around some, Bebe included, Logan is positively saccharine and on, as it were, his best behaviour. "By the way, you do look amazing in case I haven't mentioned it." He says this without actually looking at her, squinting across all the sharp lights and milling people and focusing on the man who's already noticed them - or rather, the woman on his arm. Logan smoooothly swivels on a heel so as to face away from the federal agent, glancing down at his date. "Blimey, and I do mean all kinds of faces."

There's no real worry, there, which perhaps indicates confidence in abundance. And why shouldn't he be confident? The woman on the stage is down to nothing but an oversized feathered fan and garters and the place is practically bursting at the seams.

There's a woman seated at one of the empty tables, her mousy brown hair worn in curls that tease at her temples and rouge-dusted cheeks. Dressed in fishnet stockings, garters and a black satin corset with luxurious feather trim and laces in the back, it's the distinct lack of street-safe clothing that identifies Charity as one of John Logan's many employees, a hold over from a time when Burlesque was still called 'Exotica' and operating under different management. Despondent and busying her mouth with one end of an opera-length cigarette holder, she watches from beneath plastic lashes as the club undergoes the final stage of its metamorphosis and emerges, all sequins, sparkles and glitter, from its chrysalis.

It isn't that she's unhappy — she's just tired, and the opulent pearls shimmering like miniature moons at her ears and around the delicate column of her throat do little to improve her mood. Maybe if they weren't on loan, she'd be smiling instead of regarding the whorl of people like a sullen Persian cat perched upon a grandiose goose down pillow.

The tic-tacs of Dee's pumps pause when she is nudged out of watching feathers and wandering closer. "Oh-" Eve gets a hopeful little wave of the hand, and then there's a drink floating into her vision- must address this first, you see. "You're so high-strung, I can feel it. I'm not the one that needs this. You feel so wired. Take it easy." Though, on second thought- Delilah takes out the olive on its little fan skewer to pull it off with her teeth, one finger reaching out to nudge the rim of the glass back in Teo's direction.

He hardly has some proper time to react before Delilah is tugging him along towards a now-abandoned tablespace near the stage, one eye over her shoulder in case Eve had enough time to notice them and perhaps want to follow. No use yelling over anyone else, if there's a space to congregate.

The look from Teo is noticed by Eve and she turns her head fully to look at him and offer a soft smile and a nod. It looks like Eve is alone, nobody along with her. No friend, no hot guy date. Just coming alone.. Eve always did want to dance.

The seer moves gracefully through the crowd til she comes to stand by her two friends. "Hello." She offers softly and tilts her head as she looks at the two. A light smile crosses her lips.

The brown-eyed beauty by Logan's side feigns a temporary pout in acknowledgement of Tuck's abrupt departure. By the time she's taken a second sip of her appletini or whatever it is that she's drinking, however, her smile is restored to its former glory and she leans in against her escort at a rather merry tilt. "Thank you," she beams, bubbling to the brim with an affectionate enthusiasm. "You look rather dashing. But, then again, when don't you?"

Oh, hey! There's Teo. She totally knows that guy… in almost every way except biblically. Go figure. It's almost ironic. "Would you excuse me for a moment?" she says to Logan, leaning up in order to murmur her message against the side of his jaw. "…I want to go say hello to someone."

Notable, perhaps, that this isn't a token inquiry. Bebe achieving any actual progress in putting much distance, real or perceived, between her body and his until he gives the all-clear and a-okay.

With a last touch to Liz's arm, Fel's making his way through the crowd to Bebe, with almost unseemly haste. He hasn't noticed Teo, and even Logan is for the moment a sort of backseated nemesis. HE doesn't have the backup to arrest him, not even with Liz and her heels. God only knows where she's managed to fit a gun in that dress. Crowley in pursuit in his turn hasn't yet been noticed.

Sitting there, fingers of one hand idly drumming against the simple cloth cover of the table, glass held in his other hand as the three small ice cubes shake and rattle lightly against the glass, Sawyer realizes this may be the first time he's been in a strip club and not been there on business. He takes a better look around. Mostly people he doesn't know, but some faces that may be familiar from files or photographs, and there's Felix as well. He adjusts himself again for comfort, eyes still scanning the room.

Delilah doesn't understand. Someone could drop out of the skylight with— yeah yeah yeah. Teo fishes attention back in through the oscillating waves of the crowd, momentarily ceding Elisabeth to whatever depths she's treading in her pretty dress and hair up.

Little does he know, some hilarious pool ball line-up of pursuit and tail is about to bring him face to face with her, her date, Crowley, and a hooker. Ain't life grand?

"I don't think this is a good idea," he states from over the rim of the martini glass. He could be referring to the alcohol, and his melodramatic decision to show up a few shades paler than even his fraction of Finnish ancestry defaults to.

He could be referring to the fact that they're here at all. Despite this reservations, politeness wins out, he concedes to put his mouth on the glass, try a swallow, even as he trots obediently toward the tablespace. Whereupon he sits down, pleased that the furniture affords some semblence of cover. A luminous pearl at the table adjacent draws a brief glance out of him. "I didn't know you were into this kind of thing." His mumble fogs the glass with condensation, and there's a beat's pause, and then— "Or— did you show me those photographs?" Temporal confusion clashes in his memory, makes him blink.

At that request, Logan glances around as if somehow he could pick the face out of the crowd that Bebe desires to have a chat to, and mostly fails. He'll have to just watch where she goes and so he leans in for a kiss to her cheek, a hand curling around her wrist in a way that's almost unconsciously possessive, bordering on uncomfortable, before releasing. "Go on, then, before I change my mind," he says, without edge and a glimmering knife edge of a smile, before he's first to move away, likely to— do that thing social people do. Mingle. He downs the drink he has first, sets it down on a tray of a scantily clad waitress.

His stroll takes him towards one of the women under his employ, where Charity sits in black silk and lace. Unable to remember all of their names, Logan can still pick her out from the crowd as one of his, so he moves on over. Curiousity attracts. "You can 'ardly recognise it, can you?" A glance back so as to perhaps see where Bebe is headed, before attention swivels back towards Charity, cat-green eyes bright with only mild inebriation rather than preternatural ability. Yet, anyway. Something does need to be done about sad strippers

With a raising of her blonde brows, Elisabeth merely nods to Felix. "All right… I'll be at the bar," she tells him quietly. She hasn't identified John Logan as yet — she's seen a picture of him, but his back's to her and she's not exactly working tonight so it's not like she's scoping out the place looking for criminals. Maybe she ought to be, though… Christ. She pivots gracefully on a heel to start toward the bar to order a drink, though, and then she'll be people-watching all right.

"Mine? Not that I know of- you've never asked, as I recall. Or did you find them yourself and forget?" Delilah is understandably thrown off for a few seconds,one set of knuckles finding her hip. "I'm not that forgettable, Teo." Her hand waves it off. "If you haven't I could show you. But every time someone points their pasties in your direction you stick your nose further down into that martini glass, so maybe not." The redhead seats herself carefully, smiling, keeping one half of her vision cued on the stage at her right.

"Felix the human hurricane Ivanov!" Such a preposterous title can only be said dryly with a British accent and a wry smile, "as I live and breathe." Sidling up behind where Felix and Elisabeth sit at the bar, Martin claps both of his hands together and flashes a broad smile to the federal agent. "I hope you don't mind my stepping out to say hello to you, do you?" He acts like they've known each other for years, and from the obviously painted smile Martin is wearing there's no familiar association here at all.

Thrusting out a hand tactically between Felix and Elisabeth, but offered towards the federal agent more than the detective, Martin's smile turns more into a shit-eating grin. "Martin Crowley, Department of Homeland Security." He doesn't flash a badge, just a smile, "I mean— that sounds all well and good, I'm just NIRT research but that— " He laughs, a feigned awkward touch to his voice, "well, I just wanted to give my regards to the human hurricane. I read all about you in the papers this winter, what with that takedown you did. Quite a mop-up of a job…"

Even as he's talking to Felix, his eyes drift to the corners of his glasses to regard Elisabeth. "And who might I ask is this ravishing thing you happen to have on your arm tonight?" Martin leans a bit more in between the two, smile still ear to ear, "I know they gave you a medal but I had no idea it came with a pair of legs like that."

Across the club, Paulson sits with one hand over his mouth watching the wordless exchange before slowly letting his head slide down and his hand hide his eyes, head shaking from side to side slowly.

Finishing his drink, Sawyer looks at the now, with the exception of the ice cubes, empty glass in his hand curiously.. and begins to spin it atop one finger with exceptional balance. He smirks to himself before tilting it back in his mouth to chew on one of the cubes before setting the glass down and turning to watch what antics Felix is getting himself into.

The tip of Charity's cigarette holder clicks against her front teeth. She looks up at the familiar sound of her employer's voice and offers him a tight-lipped smile. "Bonsoir, Logan," she greets, lowering her cigarette holder to rest it against the ashtray she's claimed for herself, the air around them sweet with clove smoke and the subtle floral underpinnings of her perfume. Shifting in her seat, she crosses her legs at the knee and idly bounces one stiletto heel along with the music's beat. "I enjoy it better this way," she adds, not without a hint of surly slyness, "but did you have to invite so many strangers? We'll have our own menagerie before long."

Better late than never, Nicholas Thornton has finally made his way through the front doors of Burlesque. It's been a long, rough week, and surely an opening celebration will be just the thing to get him back in higher spirits. It may also be just the thing to get him into some street clothes, and out of the business suit that's beginning to feel like it's a natural part of him. No matter! Surely, it looks like he's come from an important dinner or other event, and just needs to relax with a night out. Standing up straight and not even bothering to survey the crowd assembled thus far, he leaps through the necessary hoops to get inside and, keeping to himself to begin with, strides confidently towards the bar. Man up, enjoy a drink, mingle with the patrons and maybe the girls, and above all else, smile like you mean it.

This means, of course, that Thornton will not smile at all, and will mingle only as much as he absolutely must. Two-and-a-half out of four is still pretty good, right? Standing not at all far from Elisabeth and starting with a bourbon and soda, the next, oh, two minutes ought to be a real blast when he finally takes stock of the crowd and spies a whole mess of people he doesn't know. Next step will be getting his act together enough to be social, and wishing for the days when this sort of thing came naturally. But those days are gone, meaning he'll just have to force his own interactions. Why not start with whoever's around the bar?

"I came late," he finally says to Elisabeth, "Did I miss the excitement, or is that yet to come?" That's the ol' pepper, Slick Nick. Two more minutes of that, and it'll be the worst party ever.

There's a sudden pink that graces Bebe's cheek which is not derived from the same shade as the barely-there blush she brushed on earlier in the evening while she was getting ready. When Logan's grip loosens and she is, eventually, released with his blessing, she quite hastily begins to make her way through the throng. She isn't terribly tall, it's true, but that pretty purple dress still defines her in the crowd where she stands out against a sea of subdued hues.

In transit, she breezes by the arm of Sawyer's chair, momentarily bothering the man's hand with the flutter of her dress. Nothing catches.

Finally, she somehow manages to insinuate herself into a bit of space that is also shared by Teo and his (date?) Delilah. "Hello, stranger," she says to the Sicilian, recycling the same greeting that she'd delivered to Gilbert Tucker previously. He barely used it, however, so it's still like brand new and, you know, a pawnie would probably appreciate something like a secondhand salutation.

"I wasn't quite anticipating such a turn out," Logan lies, coming to lean against the table and casting a look out towards the crowd alongside the woman, allowing the curls of the smoke from her cigarette to cloud around him too. "Good for business, though, this place was making a pittance before. You'll have to tell me how it all stacks up in comparison."

Talk, useless talk mainly, the words hardly matter when the focus, really, is somewhere a little deeper than such flighty chatter. It's practically second nature— maybe, in most ways, first nature— that certain chemical levels are rising like a tide, an artificial lift of mood designed to feel warm low in the belly and rise up as high as blushing cheeks. Everyone's different and yet in many ways, we're also all practically the same.

To wax literal, Charity's serotonin level takes a spike for the better. It's accompanied with a smile and glittering green eyes. "Can I coax you out to meet some of these strangers? You never know who'll come back."

About halfway through his martini, Teo sets down the glass and stops relaxing in favor of sitting as stiffly as if someone had dumped liquid nitrogen over his bristly head, staring at the sudden accumulation of Federal agents between the table Delilah chose for them and the bar. Humanis First! at gay bars, Homeland Security at the burlesque club. He doesn't want to know what the next phase of this pattern is.

Elisabeth setting one of her sundry suitors on fire, possibly. That might be fun; she has a badge to legitimize the action. "I think I'm gonna need a cigare—" the words halt in his teeth, and his head swivels on its axis, pearls and Logans and cancer sticks and all other peripheral interests diminished in Bebe's abrupt proximity. Warmth filters into his expression, at odds with the perpetual wintry blue of his steadfast regard. "Buona sera, signorina. Delilah, Bijou. Bijou, Delilah."

Jesus H. Christ, that medal might as well have been a millstone. Apparently everybody and his brother saw that damn newsclip. Fel's smile is as automatic and unconvincing as those rings you get from the crank dispensers in the supermarket entryways. He claps Crowley on the shoulder in absentminded camaraderie, still trying to slip past him and lay a hand on Bebe. "That's Detective Elisabeth Harrison, NYPD-SCOUT. Don't make a pass at her man, she's got a Walther in there somewhere, and she'll totally cram it up your ass. You gotta excuse me for a second, man, thanks for the compliments, I really didn't deserve a goddamn thing." He's not -quite- shoving through the crowd to Bebe, but he arrives next to her, puts a hand on her arm, just as he reaches Teo.

It seems to offend Felix in some way that Laudani is just, you know, standing there. His whole expression chills, not into anger, but something like outraged puzzlement. Why would you -do- that?

Delilah either does not let 'Homeland Security' bother her, or she was not paying much attention. Chances are increasing that it was the former. It is always more suspicious if you run away! "Smoking is bad for y-" It seems not even her admonishments go finished, because Bebe is sidling up to the table with a greeting for Teo, and the Sicilian introduces the girls right off the bat. Knee-jerk reaction, right? Get them to distract each other?

The redhead looks about to offer her hand out to Bebe, but it hovers beside her simply because she isn't sure what club etiquette is. "Hello!" Delilah is as bright as always, up until Felix pops up behind the brunette's halo of personal space. She makes a little noise between a gasp and another word, which only serves to make her sound kind of …strangled. Guess what! She knows Felix too. But from far less personable circumstances. "Hello to you too."

"It's a Springfield XD — Walthers are for men who have to compensate for being piss-poor shots," Elisabeth replies mildly to Felix as he makes his escape. There will be hell to pay later, because he left her where this very sleazy man can continue hitting on her to go talk to …. Teo, Delilah, and another woman? W. T. F? Words. There will be many. Very sweetly to Thornton. "Oh, the fun hasn't begun yet." There's something very definitely feral in those glittering baby blues, cool in their perusal of the Brit as she then returns her gaze to Martin Crowley. "Please don't ooze on my dress. It would…. perturb me greatly."

The redhead is, at the very least, vaguely familiar to Bebe and so she earns herself an earnest smile and salutation. "Hello. It's very nice to me— " Her words are hacked off abruptly when there's suddenly Felix fondling her forearm.

Bebe gasps when she's grabbed! The noise, which might normally remain almost unheard in the din of the crowd and the brassy blare of the music, is punctuated by the sudden and VERY OBVIOUS shift of every ferrous metal object in the place abruptly displacing itself by about a foot— in a direction that favors the tiny (ex)tart and her adamant Federal Agent escort.

Sleep deprivation conspires to reduce Teo's available attention span to two people at any given time. If he had a little more in him, he might be giving Elisabeth gang signs from around the back of Bebe's head.

As it is, there's only a haphazard glance palpitated in the female cop's direction, even as he scrambles to remember Delilah poisoned Felix, Felix tends to follow Bebe around with those hound habits of his, Bebe is talking to him, shaking Delilah's hand and Felix is glaring at him. Color creeps up from his collar, not the indignation of one who doesn't think he deserves to be subject to such annoyance but of one who's giving himself something of a headache trying to figure out which of half a hundred available reasons is specifically why.

And then the cutlery moves.

Fucking A. "You look nice," he says, to Bebe, or Felix, or both. "Appreciate it if you'd cut that shit out, too. People trying to have a good time." He sets four blunt fingers down on the base of his glass, pushes the remains of the drink over to Felix, more deliberately, though his scowl is deliberately restrained to a slit tilt of brows, eyes pointed elsewhere. There's probably a dancer up there somewhere feeling like the edges of her ruffles are singing.

Fel's carrying in his usual shoulder holster. Which means that as a precisely machined piece of Swiss steel abruptly lurches towards Bebe, he goes with it. It looks like a drunken attempt at a hug, as he puts up his arms to try and fend her off. "Jesus Christ, Teo, leave before I have to bring you in for questioning," he mutters, even as he tries to disentangle himself without planting his hands all over crucial pieces of tart real estate. "I'm….uh…excuse me, miss," he says, giving Bebe a stricken look. Apparently waking up naked and cold next to her on Staten doesn't entitle him to familiarity.

Both of Martin's brows rise as he gets that detailed synopsis of Elisabeth's concealments and proclivities, watching with a bemused smirk as the federal agent rises up out of his seat and begins to push past. There's no attempt on Martin's part to dissuade the agent's departure — Oh, no — far from it. Instead, Martin's smile turns back to a shit-eating grin as he settles down on Felix's now unoccupied barstool, offering his hand out towards Liz. "I don't ooze I'm afraid, I've been accused of slithering from time to time," his eyes flick up into the direction of the unfamiliar man with a single brow raised, then back to Elisabeth, "though I'm not on the clock right now."

"I couldn't help but notice you came here with Agent Ivanov, that's quite a flashy arm-piece to be carrying around, unfortunately he seems to've slipped off for the evening." Martin leans back, then leans forward as he turns sideways; one elbow on the bar, hand supporting his chin as he looks on scrutinizingly at Elisabeth. "I'll have you know that I've actually— " and then pretty much every single attempt at hitting on Elisabeth Harrison ends when a small mouthful of blood comes sputtering out of Martin Crowley's mouth. The blood only spatters from the spittling motion on Elisabeth's arm, the filling that was inside that molar now cracked in Martin's mouth, however, winds up right at Barbara Dahl's feet, a tiny glittering testament to one man's ruined night.

Nothing but a howl of pain comes next as Martin slides right off of his stool and onto the ground, clutching at his face with both hands as he curls up into the fetal position, a small spot of blood now on the floor by where his mouth presses to it.

Seeing Martin go down and the sight of blood, Paulson bolts up out of his chair like a Terrier chasing the mailman, shoving past a waitress and one of the dancers, rushing over to where Martin lays on his side howling in pain. "Jesus Christ, Martin what the hell's wrong with you?" he looks around, over to Liz, then back to Martin. "Jesus, are you alright?" The urgency in his voice comes as a hand is laid down onto Martin's shoulder.

"M— mff— m'fuckin' tooth!" Martin's reply is a slurred one, dabbing a hand at reddened lips and pulling back bloody fingertips. "F— fucking— fuck." Immediately losing both his vocabulary and slipping into something less refined in accent and far more cockney. He's embarassed, bleeding, and now trying to get up off the floor.

"Are you asking me nicely?" Charity lifts the cigarette holder to her lips once more, a smile more genuine curling feline at the corners of her lipsticked mouth. She rises from her seat, long legs unfolding, and reaches out to rest her hand at Logan's elbow for support. "It seems strange," she says, teasing, "that Robert would have warned us to be wary of you. I can see for myself you are not so terrible."

Blue eyes wander across the room, skipping over Elisabeth and Thornton, and seek out what little she can see of Bebe's profile from where she's standing. "I would appreciate a drink, I think," she adds, speculative. "Something with anise." The chime of silverware clattering against the floor nearby causes her to abruptly tense, fingernails biting into the fabric of Logan's clothes for the briefest of moments before she relaxes her grip and shoots a concerned look in Martin's direction.

"Is she your wife?" she asks. Bebe, that is. Not the man bleeding from his mouth.

There's a smattering of applause that cuts through the conversation and chatter, some joining in belatedly when they think to see the beauty on stage slide a sheer little coat on that doesn't quite so much as hide a damn thing but indicate her show is over. She blows a kiss, strides her way towards the stairs that lead to backstage, a tag team of women as another one comes sauntering out to the fresh tunes of a new song - vaudeville brasses as exaggerated as her movements—

Until the crowd cuts through at a murmur of shock, a few squeals— not only from patrons, but from the building itself as steel and iron is yanked against its foundations, from the stair railings to the poles designed for women to wrap themselves around. Nothing breaks or snaps away, but a murmur of hesitation seems to shimmer over the crowd. A shiny brooch on the new dancer's glittery top goes skittering away from where it was loosely pinned, giving the audience a premature show before she can quickly gather the silky cloth to her bosom once more.

That at least got a wolf whistle from somewhere in the back.

Logan's buried a hand in his pocket, as a familiar switchblade has attempted to leap from the black, silky confines of his jacket. "The fuck was that?" he mutters, attention breaking from Charity to view the source, gaze swiveling automatically to where he felt that tug at the metal things on his person. A gaze that lands on where Felix and Bebe are tangled and—

And no, he doesn't immediately swoop in and save the day. In fact, he steps back, and watches with all the attention of a cat whose just spied a dog. His has an arm currently looped around Charity's waist and mostly forgotten. "Uh," Logan says, a little tentatively, before glancing at Charity. "No, I'm not even a little married." He steers the woman a few steps away, although not entirely out of range, wishing to keep an eye on things. The music turns back on cue, and things seem to be resuming. "Let's go get you that drink, now. What else did Robert say about me?"

The fun hasn't begun yet, she says. Thornton isn't sure… well, he isn't sure what to make it that, really. Does this mean that she's about to let this other guy have it? That this other guy is about to let her have it? That someone's about to yell 'fire'? Why can't these things just be organized chaos instead of general havoc? To the implicit promise of the fun about to begin, Thornton offers a simple, flat and unenthusiastic, "Fantastic." A sudden, abrupt tug on his wristwatch draws his attention down to the counter, but it's still there and nothing seems out of place, except for his hand having apparently tried to move by itself. The building makes some noise too, seemingly disapproving of him staying in his shell. Weird. Better liven up a little bit.

But, hey, the woman was right. The fun was about to start, when the other guy suddenly goes down to the floor with, apparently, a tooth that went into open rebellion against his mouth. If nothing else, this prompts him to turn back to the bartender and make sure, "I'm not having what he's having, am I?" Ha ha, that was funny. Thornton's a real funny guy. At least nothing that comes out of his mouth can possibly be more awkward than suddenly falling to the floor with blood coming out of his mouth.

In that moment of silverware and other assorted things jerking about, Elisabeth is forced to suddenly slap her hand to her thigh at the same time many other people slap hands to wrists and necks and tie clips and such. The lady cop wasn't kidding — she's carrying. You can take a woman out of the uniform, but some parts of the uniform…. well…. one of the reasons Elisabeth actually liked the dress that she's wearing is that concealing a weapon on her person is easy. Her immediate reaction to Martin's movement is shock, actually. For just that split second. And then concern kicks in and she slides off her stool to crouch next to the bleeding man. "Good Lord…" Looking up at Paulson, the blonde cop gives him a quick shrug — no idea what's wrong — until Martin says it's his tooth. And then she winces visibly. Oh Lord. "C'mon," she says quietly, "Get him up. You're his friend, yeah? You might want to get him out of here." Blood on the hem of her skirt when she gets home is definitely going to perturb the hell out of her. This is all Felix's fault. And he will hear about it later.

Ack! Things move! Dee wasn't quite ready for some things to jostle around, one hand going to slap at the bug-bite knick of her silver chain necklace on the side of her cheek, and the other smoothing her skirt's hem. "What was that?" Creaking walls and whoops- there goes a pin. And, oh, hey, Felix, none of that. "This isn't who you think it is, you must have him confused with someone else." Delilah replies almost coolly to Felix, a hint of something teasing behind it. But as it is, she's mostly right, right?

And just like that, there's a yowling from across the way. Delilah looks, just like everyone else- to rubberneck at that poor guy now in pain because of his mouth.

Not to be outdone by a man in their own territory- there are suddenly ruffled pantaloons, short bloomers, and a few sequinned bikini tops raining down like a distraction from Burlesque heaven. Landing on shoulders, heads, at least one in a drink, and at what seems the last seconds, one pair of little white shorts floats determinedly out of the air onto Teodoro's head.

One moment, you're enjoying the atmosphere, having a little to drink, having a good time. The next, things go crazy. Men getting punched, your belt buckle being pulled towards your back and sending your chair backwards and to the ground, throwing you out of it and across the floor in a tumble. He quickly clambers to his feet, looking around to see Felix in.. some sort of tussle with a woman. Shaking his head, he starts to move over in that direction.

Of course, when someone screams and also is bleeding from the mouth— it'll turn heads, even if the manager of the evening is preoccupied with eyeing the federal agent and the woman on his arm. There's a rustle and bustle of silk as the woman from the front desk, in all her burlesque glory, is picking her way around fallen panties of silk and lace with the correct brassy fanfare they deserve.

"Out'a the way, before I start kickink ankles." What the hell accent is that? Either way, it's a thick one, as the woman comes to survey the situation, hands on her pinched waist. "You'll be kick out'a the steet if there's a fight going on, gentlemen— enough ladies for all, you know?"

Of course, it won't be her doing the kicking, despite the scariness of her shoes. A large man dressed in black, with a comms device in his ear, is already pushing his way over to Martin, a hand out to grip the man's arm and right him. "You alright? Who hit you?"

Why is there a sequin in Teo's martini now? A Fed in his face, and somebody is squirting blood at Elisabeth— there's a vague inward note of relief for glass knives and properly secured parts, almost inundated under the buzz and cry of alarm going up left and right and all over evvverywhere. He's wanted for questioning. "Yeah: what else is new?"

Sawyer starts barreling over, but it's the sudden eruption of the alpha female taking charge that prompts Teo up to his feet. "I'm going home to play video games now," he announces to the room at large, slinging one long leg agilely around the back of Delilah's chair. "See you soon, a'right?" The redhead gets a squeeze on her shoulder, Bebe an apologetic glance tinged with desperation. She'll be all right. He hopes she'll be all right. Felix doesn't have a damn thing on her, anyway—

"He says you have a temper like a Tartar," Charity continues, allowing Logan to lead her away from the table, skirting along the edge of the scene Bebe has begun to make, though her attention more or less remains on Martin and the man helping him to his feet. It's like rubbernecking at the scene of an accident on the highway — she can't help but stare. The sight of blood attracts sharks. Bystanders, too. She steps over a pair of frilly panties, the colour of which isn't quite clear under the club's present lighting, and pauses to adjust one of the leather straps affixing her stiletto to her ankle.

"I think you may be needed," she says when they reach the bar, her attention having wandered back to Felix and Bebe somewhere along the way. She kicks away an errant brassiere with the point of her toe. "Or wanted, rather. The woman who isn't your wife appears to have swallowed a frog."

For a few brief seconds, it almost looks as if Felix and Bebe are about to either engage in some sort of sordid slapfight or hump each other right there on the vertical while they're both fully clothed. It's hard to tell which might be more likely— unless, of course, you happen to have any insight into the Federal Agent's particularly private proclivities. Then again…

The subtle noise of skin and silk and someone's suit jacket engaged in a scuffle is finally brought to an end just as the degaussed daughter of the domain utters a desperate request through tightly grit teeth, "…let— go!"

Once the two have finished their tussle, Bebe takes the opportunity to stare wide-eyed down at her hands or… maybe she's just inspecting her bare arm for bruises or something — police brutality! — before she screws on a small scowl and shoots an accusing look at Felix. What the fuck was that?!

Also, it's apparently raining panties.

Fel doesn't know, either, by the saucer-wideness of his blue eyes. He takes a couple of stumbling paces back, brushes nonexistent dust off that snappy suit, resettles that shoulder holster by hastily sticking his hands into his jacket. That was a pistol on my pocket, I wasn't actually that happy to see you, Miss West. Once he's done, he lifts his hands in a 'hell, I dunno' gesture. And then he frowns, turns his attention to the nearest bit of stray metal: a fork. It staunchly refuses to answer to his call. There's a blurring pass of motion in the air, like film skipping, and Felix is abruptly grinning. One of those tightlipped ones that makes him look like the Grinch contemplating leaving all of Whoville bereft of Christmas.

Looking over to Liz, Paulson takes on a very mildly apologetic look as he spots the blood on her, then rolls his eyes over to where Martin is, helping the simpering lecher up by one arm. "He'll be alright," he assures to Elisabeth, "I'm sorry if he was making something of an ass of himself," he squeezes Martin's arm just a bit tighter, "he's had a few drinks."

Looking up to Paulson like Jesus would to Judas, Martin's glare could probably cut steel if he were so inclined, But instead he just tries to hate Paulson to death for a few moments while trying to figure out why his filling just ripped out of his mouth. Inwardly, he's also blaming Paulson for that as well.

"N— m'nob'dy po'nched meh," Martin both slurs and confuses his vowels with a little bit of magnetokinetic dentistry jumbled up against his natural accent, "I'unno wot'appn'd…"

"Alright, that's enough, come on…" Paulson hoists an arm around his own shoulder, helping Martin up as he looks to the woman who is clearly intending to bounce someone out of the bar for laying down a fist that didn't happen. "He'll be alright, ma'am, I think he's just had a bit too much to drink and some poor choices in dentistry. I'll take him out ot the car and bring him home…"

Martin's brows crease together, a hand coming up to adjust his glasses, leaving a bloody thumb-print on one of the lenses as he keeps his other arm around Paulson's shoulders. Flicking an embarrassed look to Elisabeth, he just hide shi shead down against his chest and murmurs, "Get m'th 'ell out've 'ere…" To that, Paulson is all too willing to agree, acting as a largely uneeded crutch as he starts to help Martin towards the door. As he walks, though, a side-long glance is given to Bebe, meeting her eyes for just that moment of recognition before looking away to continue helping Martin to the door amidst what appear to be a shower of women's undergarments.

At least Martin was right about one thing, there'd be panties flying past him before the night was out.

Nothing is ever as quiet as it starts out, in this town. Delilah knows that all too well, but it seems to be the last straw for poor, high-strung Teodoro. Before he got up from his seat, she reached over to pluck the undershorts off of his head, hooking the elastic with her thumbs and looking up at Teo as he winds around her chair in preparation to flee. "I can't take you anywhere, can I?" Dee laughs, despite what seems like several little sticky situations around her. "One day we'll do something and nothing will go wrong. You'll see!" Delilah pats Teo's hand before he lets go of her shoulder. Ruffled panties in one hand, and an entertained smile on her face. Yep. Burlesque.

Sawyer's step increases to a good clip in the direction of Felix and Bebe, and anyone in the place, near enough and astute enough, may notice his right hand curling into a tight, white-knuckled fist as he does. He taps Felix on the shoulder, waiting for his former coworker to turn and face him before he launches that tightly balled fist in a hell of a punch straight at his face. Oh, snap.

Relief floods Teo's face when the speedster, seemingly now again the speedster, and the magnetokinetic part ways without evidently coming to any further theatrics. Rue comes next, shadowing the crook of his mouth. Always one to cooperate, he bows his head when she reaches up to free his buzzcut scalp of its newest, misappropriated accessory. "We'll do this again," he says. "When it's less" (Felix gets punched in this hyphenated interim) "crowded.

"Have a good time, signorina." Straightening, he huddles his hands into his pockets and his shoulders up around his ears, proceeds toward stage right, stepping around the faint blot and dot of mucus and blood on the floor.

Which….somehow fails to land. There's a flicker of motion, and Fel has somehow caught said fist in mid-flight, Agent-fashion. "The hell, man?" he demands, pushing it aside in annoyance. "She's had my power for the past six months. I'm not trying to grope her."

"What a joker, that Mr. Caliban. I'm a really decent chap, actually," Logan promises, before he's leaning over the bar to order Charity her drink of the appropriate liqueur on his tab, and distributing the glass from bartender to woman even as she tells him where he might be needed or wanted. "I'm sure she's just fine, but here— why don't I allow your lovely self to see to the crowd? Things've seemed to get rowdy with a lack of attention." And maybe he'll even remember her name, for next time. Little does he know—

Front desk lady seems about ready to leave everyone alone— when a fist goes flying, caught or not. Her shriek cuts through the music, easily gaining the attention of nearby security with more efficiency than anything their comms system can produce. "Hey," snarls the nearest bouncer, making long strides towards where Sawyer and Felix are. "You guys wanna take this outside?" It doesn't actually sound like a suggestion.

"Oh, what is wrong," Logan mutters as he sends a sharp look over— assesses things and sees an opportunity— before leans towards the nearest security man heading over, catching his arm in a grip. "I want both of those men— " And he points two fingers towards Sawyer and Felix. "Out of here. And make sure I get notified if either of them show up again." The grip is lessened, and the second bouncer is free to stride over to back up his friend.

Logan turns back to Charity, rolling his eyes. "Excuse me, love." And with that, he's moving away to make sure such things are seen to. It's hard out there, for a— s-strip club manager. :<

Oh good…. that's all she freakin' well needs. This is the last time Elisabeth believes Felix when he says 'C'mon, Liz! Go with me, it'll be fun! It'll take your mind off things. Pleeeeaaaase?' He can go to hell. She'll kick him there himself. As she stands back up, Elisabeth says to the manager-hostess-lady and the bouncer, "No one hit him; his filling popped out, I think. It's all good." She merely nods to both Paulson and Martin, her gaze on Martin sympathetic if nothing else. Meanwhile, now FELIX is getting in a brawl. And Lee will not forgive her if she lets him get beat up…. but she's peeved enough to do it. And then she recognizes the person who took the swing. "Oh for FUCK'S SAKE." She wades through the falling undies and the silk to put herself between …. "Agent Sawyer??" If you must beat the shit out of him, Agent Sawyer," she tells the man with a Very Annoyed Woman expression, "let's take it outside." She gives Felix the Pissed Off Woman look. "And when you're all done, … well, look me up. Coffee's on me this time." And then she pivots on a heel and makes her way out of the club in a swish of skirts.

The fist in Felix's hand shakes with controlled anger before it's pushed away. Sawyer's no fool, and he recognized the deftness, the swift movement in the way Felix caught that hand. He takes a step back, looking between Felix and Bebe, before Elisabeth interjects. "I'm not an Agent anymore. I'll take you up on the coffee.." he looks at Felix. "But it looks like Felix is off the hook on this one." He looks at the bouncers approaching.. and the wheels in his head begin to turn. Fight or flight.

"Oh, I'm sure I will." Patrons are just as entertaining as the ladies. Delilah reaches over to pick up Teo's half-drink left on the table. "And down he goes." She obviously does not mean Felix! Because he and Sawyer are getting booted out, and the rest of that drink sans lone sequin- is downed with a small smack of ruby red lips.

A tug on his watch, an exploding tooth, and now a fight. This really was the worst party ever. Deciding that one is enough, and maybe even a little too much, Thornton settles his tab and stakes out a table as far in the corner as he can manage, as far from everyone as possible, and as shadowy as can be. Suddenly, he remembers why he doesn't go out much; because shit like this keeps happening around him. If he hadn't already spent money to be present, he might just go home. Instead, he'll just quietly spend a few minutes thinking of reasons why his life has been such a mess lately. He might be doing this for a while.

"No! Wait— !" Bebe abruptly throws out both hands — perhaps in an attempt to stop Sawyer from planting his fist in Felix's face after an extended delay or maybe to merely protest Logan's insistence on having the man who actually had the balls to play her would-be white knight thrown out. Whatever the reason, the inadvertent result is the same; more magnetic material shifts, this time in a direction opposite the tiny (ex)tart, as if she'd just pushed it all away with the gesture.

Almost immediately, Bebe regrets her objection. She stiffly draws her arms back down to her sides and stands there for a moment looking just a little bit horrified. Where is Logan?! Did he see that?? Maybe if she just stands really still she might actually be able to disappear…

And now Fel is flung back, though he recovers about as fast one might expect. HE brushes at his suit again, and doesn't wait to be thrown out. Instead, he stalks for the door.

Sawyer's belt drags him in the direction Bebe's hand indicate, nearly tossing him to the floor, but he manages to go down to one knee. He stands back up, looking back at the small woman who he was trying to make sure wasn't getting an inappropriate frisking from a federal agent. His eyes are filled with confusion and curiousity, but he just shakes it away and starts to move towards the door. The hand of a bouncer is violently shrugged off before he exits, stage front.

There's that second uneasy shimmer that goes through the crowd, that ripping pull of magnetism that sends metal clattering, the music sharply cutting out as something is damaged. The two men in question are on their way out, and the bouncer only steers a glance towards Bebe before he's seeing them off from several feet behind. But like clockwork, the show must go on— a little covering from the MC as a few electrical devices are checked, wires put back into place, before the music comes blaring back to life, and a garter is tossed Delilah's way, because she deserves it!

Meanwhile, a hand snakes out of the crowd to grip onto Bebe's arm, pulling her back into the one who grabbed her. Logan's nerves are not nearly as frayed as the time his business was set on fire, but slowly getting there. "Perhaps I shouldn't let you go off to say hi ever again," he suggests, in a voice edged with tension, although his smile communicates: it's a joke! And now we laugh.

"Come on. Maybe you should tell me all about it."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License