2010-10-04: What Are You Doing Here?



Date: October 4, 2010


Add enough booze to the equation, and suddenly all bets are off.

"What Are You Doing Here?"

George's apartment, Greenwich Village

There is a knock on the door. Then there is a giggle and a harder knock on the door. This then becomes shave and a haircut. Bum-bum-ba-bum ba-bum.

Little surprise that the first knock goes unanswered; there's music playing - one of Rob Dougan's lesser-known instrumental tracks - but it gets turned down partway through the followup sequence. "Okay, I'm coming!" a familiar voice calls out.

Before long, George opens the door. The standard-issue jacket and tie have been exchanged for a comfortable sportswear outfit. "Evette! Don't tell me there's an emergency?" He looks more confused than worried: why wouldn't she have called ahead?

Evette slides past him, or attempts to into his apartment. She has a few bags with her but more importantly expensive champagne in her hand. "George!" Wuh-oh. She gives a bright and friendly smile. "I thought I would share the wealth. We were drinking after you left and I thought of you." There is an arch of her brow. "Unlessh you aren't alone."

Eve waves the drink as if that is going to get her in the door. She's in her work clothes still. Apparently, the staff joke about getting the ice queen drunk or tipsy wasn't just a joke. On the bright side, she appears to be a happy drunk.

Nope, it's just him, apparently, considering that he opens the door wider instead of shooing her back toward the elevator. "I see that," George offers, arching a brow. If she's this drunk, then how much has everyone else had? What's he going to have to clean up tomorrow morning? Or here tonight, for that matter— not that he doesn't drink himself, just usually not so much. But then again, neither does she, that he knows of. "C'mon in, the couch is this way," pointing her in the right direction before she has a chance to stumble into the stereo system instead.

Evette laughs softly. It might be part of the problem that she doesn't drink that often. For really, it makes her a light-weight. The girl reaches up to pat his cheek, a bit too hard, "You are sho nice shometimesh." There is another giggle as she notes the… stereo system! "Ohhhh can we play mushic? I loooove mushic." If he doesn't stop her, those long fingers are all over that stereo system.

Now this is a hell of a role reversal— it's his job to be the responsible one, for once. Maybe his ability was unconsciously keeping her in check the other day when the tequila came out.

George doesn't answer out loud, but neither does he stop her. Now he's just curious which station a drunk Evette will wind up gravitating toward.

Come on rude boy, boy
Can you get it up
Come here rude boy, boy
Is you big enough
Take it, take it
Baby, baby
Take it, take it
Love me, love me

Evelyn scans and flips and scans and flips. In fact, at one point, she almost falls over once or twice too. The Rihanna song comes on and Evette flies to her feet. "Oh! You should danche with me." She nods her head and clunks the bottles down on the nearest surface.

Evette will die a million deaths before she ever admits what happens next. She spins around to prowl towards him, that's not too bad. Until she begins to dance to the song. One would think white girl doesn't have too much skills. They would be wrong. Sorta. Eve is what one would dub a club dancer. Which means she can 'drop it low'.

Oh, good Lord. Even the resident expert in cutting Gordian knots is momentarily at a loss to deal with this situation. "I should," he agrees, coming up with a lie on the spot, "but I banged my knee earlier. Lemme get you another drink, okay?" He goes to double- and triple-check that the door is locked and chained, then ducks toward the kitchen with a purpose. Glass, water, aspiring. Scratch that— plastic cup, no worrying about it getting broken.


The word is almost whined before she moves to follow him. Her eyes don't even move towards the door. That means something doesn't it? She takes off her jacket and tosses it towards the couch. Then she leans in the doorway to watch him. "Sho, why don't you like me?" Right to the direct of it. "You have to drink. The team shaid you had to drink. I'll totally tell them if you don't." Welcome to her world of when things don't go how they should.

"I am going to drink," he promises, his tone of voice smoothly shifting to imitate hers, "gimme a minute, okay? I'll pour two drinks, I got some nice vodka here and we'll save the other stuff for later." At least she's just hanging out in the doorway, not getting right up behind his shoulder, or it'd be a lot tougher for him to fake her out. As it turns out, he does have a bottle of vodka, and it sort of looks like he's pouring it into the cups. Over the kitchen sink.

Evette shakes her head. "No, I don't think I should drink more. I think I drink.. drunk.. drank.. um.. enough." She looks at him. "Why don't you like me? I mean really? You remind me of my Dad. He didn't like me either." There is a giggle and then she moves to walk towards the couch. "'Shidesh, you probably lie about wanting to drink. Drink the champagne!"

George rolls his eyes. "I will! Eventually." That much is true, if she leaves it around long enough - longer than she'd like, no doubt, but still. The glasses of 'vodka' are brought over and set down on the table, sitting down a polite distance away.

"And don't compare me to your dad. Hallis compared me to her dad." Rarely a good sign for a relationship, that. "I mean, you keep telling me that all men are scum, and I'm scum for wanting to date a little bit, what do you expect? You're trying to be a pain in the ass because you figure that's what gets the job done."

Evette rolls her eyes to that. "I didn't shay don't date. I shaid don't do it until after November. You are the prick that can't keep it in your pants that long." She then laughs. "What do you think I'm shupposed to think of you when you can't go a few monthsh?" There is a tip of her head. "I'm not Hallish." Which comes out a lot like Hellish. "You date the girlsh with Daddy isshuesh don't blame it on me."

Well, at least some things never change, no matter how wasted she is. It'd be comforting if it weren't so aggravating. "Do you have any idea how much can change in a few months? You oughtta go out with someone yourself, then maybe you'd ease up once in a while." She's not a complete robotic taskmaster, but it wouldn't be much of an argument if George didn't push in the other direction. A quick sip of his drink - little enough to keep up the ruse - then he casts about for the remote control and switches tracks again.

I've had my fun if I never get well no more
I've had my fun if I never get well no more
All of my health is fading
Lord, I'm goin' down slow
I'm goin' down slow

Evette laughs at that. "I do horrible at romance. You have no clue how bad a pershon'sh tashtesh can be." She shakes her head to that and smirks. "If it meshesh it up. It ain't meant to be. YOu are a bushy man, if she can't wait then fuck her. She ain't worth your time. In fact, wanting you to meet her on the shly already makesh me think bad about her." There is a shrug. "What about when you really are too bushy to date? I jusht think you are too worried about the wrong ashpect of your life."

A shrug. Evette is bound to be someone's type, but damned if George knows whose. Unless she got drunk enough to pick up some leather boots and a cat o' nine tails— "Who said she wanted that? She just doesn't wanna be all over the tabloids, we haven't been hiding or anything." Just sticking to vaguely obscure places. "And she's got her own career to keep her busy, so… I dunno. We'll work it out if it comes up, I guess."

Evette laughs. "I hope it failsh." Then her eyes get wide and she slaps her hand over her mouth. Oh and the things in her closet that no one knows about. All the repressed girls are the secret freaks right. Then she sighs. You really can't take that back once it's out there. "It'sh your life. We ain't likely to talk after election."

George pauses at that one, considering. Is it just the booze talking? There has been an awful lot of it clearly. Finally, he decides to let it go. "Oh, I don't know, we'd probably be friendly enough when we didn't have to be telling each other what to do all the time. Do you have anything else lined up yet?"

Evette shakes her head. "I might just go back to California." There is a momentary long look given to that. It is almost like she's seeing something in a far off way. She doesn't see him anymore. Then she shrugs a bit. "Maybe I'll just go work for your competition or something." It is a light tease.

"Hey, I'd be happy for you to help him get elected to some other office. Didn't we go over that already?" Leaning forward, George picks up the untouched second glass, pressing it into Evette's hands. "How'd it go for you out there? I mean, I saw the formal write-ups, but—"

Evette lifts up her brows to that. "The write-ups?" She takes the water and drinks it before choking a bit. Her eyes still have that glassy drunk look. Although her posture is far more relaxed. There is a shake of her head as if in answer to a question not asked.

George waves a hand vaguely. "Your resume, you know? '2005 to 2008, primary duties included', et cetera, et cetera. Tells you nothing useful about anyone competent, which is why we still have to do interviews." Would he still have hired her if he'd interviewed her personally? Probably. "I mean, did you hate it, do you miss it, are you just looking for a change of pace every year or two?"

Evette thinks it over for a few moments and shakes her head. "I love it. I know I don't show it often. I like working with you too. I don't know. I'm probably just jealous about your relationships. Who knows?" She holds her cup with both hands and stares into it. It is almost like it holds all the answers to all her problems. "I don't drink often."

"I would never have guessed." Deadpan. "And seriously, you should at least try finding someone to go out with— if it didn't work out there, maybe it'd be different here, you know? Different group of people to choose from."

At least she seems to be coming down safely from the champagne high— with a little more luck, she'll be safely asleep inside of half an hour. Which means he'll have to decide how mean he's feeling the next morning…

Evette studies him for a moment. "Don't be a fucking ass about it. I don't mean jealous like oooh why can't he be making bad decisions with me.. you know what.. never the fuck mind. Forget I was trying to open up to you." She comes up off the seat to move onto the couch. She's sulking a bit. "Go to bed. I'll be fine."

What does that even mean? George's ability to follow the drunk logic has reached its limit. "Fine," he says, getting out of her way before she flops down. "Use the blue pillow, the green one's all lumpy," he adds, already on his way down the hall.

Evette sticks her tongue out at his back before she sighs out lightly and leans back on the couch. "Good night George." Now here comes the really sexy thing. No we mean REALLY sexy. In about half hour she's out cold and … snoring.

Seven hours later

The champagne is in the fridge, the vodka is in his briefcase - he'll drop it off in the break room later, it'll get finished off by the end of the day - and the prevailing scents in the air scream 'well-rounded breakfast', complete with crackling noises coming from the kitchen.

No 'oh God you were the best last night' ploy, she'd see right through that - for one thing, she's still fully dressed - but George can certainly dump a pile of chipper in her lap. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," he murmurs, leaning down for a closer look.

Evette looks different when she's asleep. Her features soften. She's silent. As well she's hugging the green one like a well loved teddy bear. There is a flutter of lashes and then a groan of discontent. The raven haired beauty does not wake up. She just mutters something about not wanting to get up for school and turns her back to him.

Ooh, now there's a dream state going back a few years. Oh well, she'll snap out of it before long. Coffee and orange juice on the table, a plate of food next to it - at a safe distance, in case her hangover turns out to be bad enough - and then it's time to put the music back on. "Morning Mood", obviously; what else do you listen to at oh-dark thirty, besides Reveille?

There is a hiss and then that woman is up like a rocket. Big, blue eyes gaze around in confusion. "What the holy fu…" Then those eyes of hers fall on George. Now, right now, she would always be able to deny being a former beauty queen. Her sable hair is seven types of disarray. She has an imprint of his pillow on her cheeks and she's staring at him in a murderous consideration. "Really?"

With all the pieces in place, George plops down into the seat that she was using the night before, holding his hands up in the air as she snarls at him. "Okay, you're right. It was all my fault. I paid the front desk to get you smashed, I paid the cab driver to bring you here."

Still sticking by your career choice, Evette?

Evette pauses for a moment to those words. It is as if she's trying her damnest to remember if that is how it happened. She looks around his place curiously and then back to him. "Seriously?"

Aha, memory loss. Right. "No. Seriously? You managed all that on your own, I just kept you from cracking your head on any sharp corners. Now eat your breakfast already, it's getting cold." And George follows his own advice, too, mushing a slice of toast into a sunny-side-up egg yolk.

Evette looks at his toast entering that runny yellow egg yolk. There is a soft groan of displeasure as she looks away from him. "I'm sure it was just random happenstance that it all went just like that, right?" She looks back as if to figure if his little power is being used. Then she looks towards her breakfast to bring it closer to her. "How about we just work from here until noon?"

George squints at Evette, toast still in hand. "What do you think I am, crazy? I wouldn't set this up, you could just as easily have thrown something heavy at my head. Far be it from me to understand how Drunk Evette Logic works." The comment about work goes unanswered, he seems in no mood to work from anywhere until he's finished eating. The chipper routine is based on the assumption that there's breakfast coming up first.

Evette stops with food halfway to her mouth. "Drunk Evette Logic?" Oh hell. She turns to look back at him for a long moment. "What sort of logic was that?" Please don't have said something stupid. Please don't have said something stupid.

"Oh—" There's a pause - entirely too long a pause - while he tries the coffee. "Get drunk, show up here, rant a little bit. Crash on the couch. It could've been a thousand times worse, I mean you didn't throw yourself at me or anything." Except for the 'dance with me' part, but that doesn't count, does it?

Evette laughs. "I would think there was more than alcohol if I threw myself at you." She shrugs. "So it was like being awake then." She doesn't seem overly concerned. Her lips curve upwards for a moment. "Well at least you didn't try to take advantage of the situation." She doesn't sound as if she expected it. "There was drinking after you left. I didn't even drink that much."

George rolls his eyes. "I'm not that hard up for a date, as you well know." Trusting her to interpret it as not being an insult, in context. "And I don't know exactly how much you had— it seemed like more than you realized, but if you don't have a hangover, then maybe not."

Evette just cuts him a look. It's too early in the morning for her to argue with him. "Right." Then she takes a bite of her food. "So does that mean if I ask if you want to help me shower, that you'll get all flustered? It could be fun to watch."

"You watch it," he replies without hesitation, "I might just call you on it just to see the look on your face." The yawn ruins the effect, though. Maybe he should've had some of the coffee earlier. "I would offer you a fresh set of clothes, but I doubt I've got anything suitable."

Evette turns to look at him balefully. "You want to come shower with me?" She waits for a heartbeat and then turns back to her food. "We can just swing by my place on the way in and I'll do a quick change. I can't show up from your place wearing the clothing from yesterday."

George makes a face. "Yeah, good point there. Especially anyone who saw you last night before you left, you know exactly what they would assume happened. And they're not as nice as we are." Which is why they don't get paid the big bucks like Evette does— but that detail would surely be lost on them.

Evette nods her head to that. "I mean.. hey let's just cause a scandal. I mean who better? I'm the one that covers them up." She smirks a bit to that. She's obviously jesting. "Besides, I would prefer to at least have bad sex before just assuming it happened." There is a pause to that. "So that was a no to the shower?"

"Eat your oatmeal," replies George. Shaking his head, he rises to his feet and carries the empty dishes to the sink, giving them a quick rinse before returning to the living room.

No, there is no oatmeal.

Evette grins at him and gives a sincere bark of laughter. "I just want it on record that I called your bluff and I what is that word.. right.. won." She then looks back towards her food. "Also, you forgot to make me oatmeal to eat." She does stand after finishing her dishes to walk into the kitchen and hand them over.

George turns, leaning back against the countertop, and offers an impish smile. "Oh, by all means, be my guest. As long as the record mentions what you were bluffing with, too." In a way, it's too bad the gig will only last another month— the sparring does serve to keep him on his toes when it comes time to juggle lobbyists.

Evette walks up in front of him. Here is where evil happens. See, she can lie easily. She can blanket her emotions. Right now, her eyes don't give a thing away as she shake her head. "Oh, but George…" There is an intimate purr of her voice as she steps a step closer. Then another one. This is a new sort of bluff that she knows she'll win. "I wasn't bluffing."

Oh dear. Did she get into the booze again when he wasn't watching? Doubtful… but then what is she playing at? George—

—is bailed out by the ringing of his phone from the other room, the ringtone indicating that it's from the office. "Hold that thought, would you? Apparently we're not the only ones getting an early start." It's not a complete escape, but hey, he'll take a delaying action at this point.

Evette grins and starts to laugh. In fact, she's laughing so hard that she has to double over and may actually be wheezing from it. "I…" Gasp "..win.." Gasp ".. if you.." Gasp ".. are saved by.." Gaspity gasp. ".. the phone."

There's a smile on George's face when he returns after a quick verbal exchange, phone in hand. "Laugh it up, Evette— they're asking if I've heard from you this morning. Something about a traffic cone and a meter maid outfit? What do you want me to tell them?"

Evette laughs all the harder. She's crying by now. In fact, she slinks down to sit on his kitchen floor because she's having issues breathing. "It wasn't me." That is just barely out before she tries to take in a gulping breath of air.

"Liar. Orange is totally your color." Shaking his head, George wanders back to the living room, un-muting the phone as he goes. "Oh, she's fine, just working herself half to death. You know how she is. Hey, I missed the Isles game last night, how'd—"

Evette sits on the floor to try and catch her breath. It takes a moment or two. For some reason that really cracked her up. Then she moves towards the living room. She mouths easy enough for him to read. "All colors are my color." Suddenly, her eyes start to sparkle. In fact they fill with mirth. They are dancing very beautifully and she then mouths. "Shower?" The poor woman almost loses it again in hysterics.

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