Fiona had decided, at the end of the day, against the dress she’d designed. Every time she looked at the drawings, it gave her a weird, creeped-out feeling, and out of sheer defiance of whatever it was inside her, she’d opted not to use it (though she’d kept the sketches both on paper and the computer). What she’d gone with instead was the Baroness from G.I. Joe, complete with PVC catsuit, hair parted in the middle, and glasses she didn’t need. The boots had heels, but weren’t impractically high, which was a good thing, since she’d decided to work tonight, and CASKET was hopping. Fee had found her flow, though, and was serving up drinks and smiles with aplomb, and dancing around as she did so. It was great to work at a place that actually had enough staff and didn’t seem bent on running everybody into the ground, and the crowd was big enough and served fast enough that there was no shortage of tips to be had. Slipping a few singles left on the counter into the kitty all the bartenders split at the end of the night, she started making the ginger-pear martini the sexy-whatever-she-was (angel? bunny rabbit? ghost? whatever, she was wearing maybe a total of ten inches of white fabric) as she started looking surreptitiously around the bar to see who was next.
The man who appeared at her counter was decidedly not next, having arrived at the bar only moments before. Those who had been in front of him in line - patient, hardy folk, clearly willing to withstand the crushing press of sweat-slick, glitter dusted patrons all in the interests of scoring an overpriced drink for their night’s chosen prey - grumbled their frustrations, but after a sharp look from the object of their annoyance, none seemed eager to get too close. It amused him that his glare remained so effective, even from behind a black domino. He smirked at their rippling ranks, watching contentedly as a few more timid party goers left the line altogether.
“Vodka martini,” he said, leaning over the bar, the sleeves of his tattered black shirt coming to rest atop its smooth surface. A mock - but obscenely bloody - wound covered one bare shoulder, his makeup more realistic than a nightclub party truly called for. “If it’s no trouble, Baroness,” he added, quirking an off-kilter grin.
Her brow arched high as she smirked at him, shaking her head at his boldness as she poured the ginger-pear into a glass and passed it to the sexy -- snowman? Whatever.
“Oh, it’s trouble all right, sweetheart,” she told him, rinsing out the shaker. “But a little trouble never put me off.” With that, she flashed him a half-grin and turned around to grab a bottle of Ketel One from the top shelf. As reached for a fresh martini glass, she cast a look at him, taking his measure.
“So you’re the Dread Pirate Wesley, huh? I thought he was English, not Southern.” she iced the glass then expertly poured the vodka into the shaker. “And I thought Southerners were too polite to do things like cut in line.”