Marcus eyed the dance floor warily as he sank down into his seat, the music thumping uncomfortably into his bones. He tried to find a way to arrange his long legs under the table, shifting until he'd managed to do so without knocking into Millicent. "S'good," he muttered, looking away from the dancers. "I can dance, just not like that. Looks like they're all under that dance hex." Or having sex on the dance floor, which was just another disturbing thought.
He assumed the second glass was for himself and grabbed it, taking a gulp of the whiskey. It had been a bitch of a weekend at work, with Marcus getting all the scut work while everyone else was on duty for the trial or out hunting Death Eaters. Seemed he was going to be on the "only semi-trusted" list for a while, until the DEs were safely back in Azkaban, or their presence replaced by innocent bodies.
He took another gulp and put the glass down on the table. "Fuck." He nudged the glass towards her, since it was her bottle, and only polite to ask before taking.