Bryant had been celebrating the holiday all the week through by wearing some, ah, novelty scrubs during his surgeries. He'd purchased them through a mail order catalogue. Weeks, that's how long he'd had to wait for them, but perhaps that was owning to the fact they may have been intended for use by female nurses or pediatricians. Getting down to the nuts and bolts of it, Bryant was a rather tall chap with a surgical theatre in the basement of a brothel.
In any event, the scrubs had been worth every penny he'd paid for them when they finally did arrive.
So he was unintentionally in a costume, of sorts, when he came hurrying in to see if Sebastian needed anything before the meeting / party. Bryant wasn't a part of the therapy group and whatnot, largely because it was a safe haven and the odd duck surgeon known sometimes as Frankenbrit behind his back... well, it took a special sort to feel safe around Dr. O'Neill. He dearly loved to be of use, though, and he'd happily call Sebastian a friend.
At least the scrubs and white lab-coat Bryant was wearing were clean; Bryant almost never wore bloodied clothing in the halls of The Red Door if he could help it. It seemed... impolite. Impolitic, even, especially considering the vampires he'd like to call... associates, at least. No, these scrubs were clean: black with white lines that sketched out a rough draft of a human skeleton on his frame. The lab-coat ruined much of the effect, as did the fact that he wasn't wearing the skull cap-and-mask combo that had come with the scrubs. No, Bryant's russet hair was free, looking very much like he'd run his hand through it several times over the past few minutes. The fact that he was in scrubs instead of his suit demonstrated to others that knew him that he could be expecting a... patient. Or maybe the good doctor felt like his services might be required at some point. Bryant got a funny feeling about that sometimes, thought it was rarely an accurate feeling. He'd chalk it up to his nightmares -- a few days ago it had been the one of the huge figures looming over him again on his own operating table -- and cheerfully move on, disaster or not.
There was a bit of a spring in his step as he limped into the conference room (the one that doubled for more, ah, 'private' parties and whatnot) and called out, "Sebastian, old chap, w-was there anything you needed for--"
And realized that there were already people here. "...th-the... ah... the... I mean... the party? This one?" Bryant finished a little weakly, instantly flushing and ducking his head a little, apologetic in case he'd broken up any conversations. Miss Dahlia and the lesidhe -- Saint -- seemed to... to be rather close. Bryant was familiar with the fae's promiscuity but far more comfortable with its fascination: it was a trait Bryant had in himself in spades.
But Rachel was here, making her way toward Sebastian, and those were two people Bryant felt capable of approaching. He wasn't scared of crowds, not really, but his entrance had left him feeling uncomfortable and awkward and this tended to take the wind out of his sails. Even so, he approached Sebastian and Rachel, ruffling his hair and running a hand sheepishly over the back of his neck. "Ter-terribly sorry," was his greeting, looking first to Sebastian. "D-didn't mean to barge in." Then to Rachel. "Hello." He smiled at them both his usual awkward half-smile. "My question... that is to say... what I asked as I entered, stands: is th-ere anything, anything at all I can help with for your gathering? I could-- I say," Bryant interrupted himself to look at Rachel again, expression lightening. "Is your costume an homage to Blade Runner?"