all_inclusive | Gathering: New Year's Eve Gala

Gathering: New Year's Eve Gala

The annual Nexus New Year's Eve gala began at 8 in the evening. Too grand to be contained by the lobby or dining hall, the gardens at the front of the hotel were employed, with long strings of white lights forming a twinkling canopy from the front doors all the way to the hedge maze. The weather was temperate and calm, and the night perfectly clear.

Drinks were served at various bars set up throughout the gardens and lobby, with champagne cocktails being the specialty of the night. Wheeling through the crowd was a bartender with golden cart providing warm drinks on the go: Tom and Jerrys, rum punch, negus, and Irish coffee.

Crisply-dressed wait staff wove through the collected guests with an abundance of hors d'oeuvres for all different tastes. The Bistro remained open with a limited selection of items for those who were wanting something more substantial.

Above the front doors was hung a large, gold-rimmed clock counting down the last hours, minutes, and seconds of the current year.

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It's a pretty surreal feeling, Matt thinks, to find himself in the middle of a New Year's Eve bash when it was still fall in the room he just left. He isn't really dressed for it—Couldn't really be dressed for it even if he wanted to—and it's no more his scene than the smooth marble and rich leather of the Smoking Room. But he doesn't let a little classism keep him from the hotel bar, and there's a similar itch to stay at this big, brash party. (It doesn't hurt that there's free drinks.) Everything is bright: The voices, the music, the crimson auras pulsing around the press of bodies. He should hate being in a place so crowded with sounds, but he isn't exactly the average blind guy, and this isn't exactly the average gala.

He pulls the tie free from the collar of his dress shirt, shoves it into his jacket pocket, and dives into the fray.

Martha's had a couple of drinks, and she's feeling pretty good about life, about being here. This party doesn't involve work colleagues or a risk to the hospital's reputation if there's a misstep, so things could really be worse, and she can cut loose.

As much as she ever cuts loose, that is. She's not done irresponsible in a very long time.

Even so, it's complete awkward accident when she turns and bumps into the man with dark glasses, and it only takes half a second for her to realise they're not an affectation. "Oh bollocks," she says, hand going to her mouth. "I'm sorry, mate, I should to w--be more careful."

Matt reaches an instinctive hand out to steady her, firm fingers against the curve of her shoulder. Beneath the slick fabric of her dress, she's impressively well-built for somebody so small.

"I thought that was my line," he jokes, his mouth hitching into a lop-sided smile. "Did you spill your drink?"

"Fortunately, I've managed to avoid that particular catastrophe," Martha quips in response, glad she's still got that set of skills at the very least. The alcohol means she's not entirely turned off her diagnostic brain, so the ease with which he catches her means she's parsing level and length of impairment, not that that matters.

"Sorry about that," she adds, again, superfluously. "I swear I'm not that drunk."

"No need to apologize," Matt says. "Even if you were that drunk, I think this is the one night all year where you have to be forgiven. If anything, we should both be apologizing for not being that drunk."

He pulls his hand away before it gets awkward, and then offers it to shake just slightly left of where it should be. "I'm Matt. Thanks for not spilling on my shoes."

"I don't know if there's ever a point where you have to forgive," says Martha, and there's a bit of a look in her eyes, possibly in her voice, but easy to miss. It's there and gone again, though, and she smiles, because the memory isn't directed at him.

"Nice to meet you, Matt. I'm Martha." She glances down at his shoes. "Real leather, yeah, you'd probably want to avoid that, though it's not fun to have liquor soaked feet in general. Wastes the booze and makes you reek."

The note in her voice doesn't go amiss, but it's difficult to tell whether there's real bitterness there or if it's just another example of shit everybody goes through. She has a nice voice regardless, and she hasn't told him to get lost, so Matt thinks he must be doing okay.

"Do not be fooled," he says with a slight forward tip of his head, "they may be real leather, but they're still cheap. It's entirely possible a little alcoholic rubdown might be an improvement."

Martha laughed, a quick peal of sound. "If we're up for honesty hour," she said, "I don't know anything about shoes, except when the leather's fake or not." He's American, but the self-deprecation is something she can work with, and he's damn cute besides. "Can I get you a drink, Matt? If I swear it doesn't end up on your shoes?"

"Hey, you're still doing better than me; I thought I put on bunny slippers this morning," Matt teases her with a knowing little smile. "And a scotch would be great, thank you. Just a little water, and no making fun of how I take my drinks." She's English, or at least sounds it, so maybe she'll get the preference; he's had enough of philistines telling him he's ruining good liquor.

"I was about to ask what part of England you're from, and then I remembered you might not even be from Earth," he says with a soft laugh.

There's little doubt in Martha's mind that Matt knew exactly what he was wearing when he put it on that morning, and she smirks a little so he can hear the verbal wink in her reply. "They're fuzzy and pink and look just like wingtips," she says, then turns to the bar, placing the order before looking back over her shoulder. He's still there when she brings the drinks back, which is something, and she gently touches his wrist as she hands him the drink, so he knows it's coming.

"To be honest, I'm told by people in the know that water's the discerning," she puts a wry twist on the word, "choice for single malt. Ice is what's for rubes." Then again, this was combined intel from her father, who'd drink anything; the Doctor, who'd have put bananas into it if you gave him a chance; and Alistair Stuart, the fourth floor anesthetist at work. "And you're in luck--as it happens, I actually am from Earth, and from England. London."

Martha's given up on explaining to Americans where Harringay is.

"You know what, ice is for rubes, thank you," Matt says with a fully unguarded laugh. "You have no idea how much shit I've gotten about how I ruin good liquor by adding water to it."

The drink he easily accepts, and the fact that he can see it coming really doesn't have much bearing in the moment—Martha's thoughtful, clearly, in addition to knowing the proper way to drink a glass of scotch. If he were keeping score, she'd definitely be at the top of the leader board, and they've barely gotten started.

"Is it wrong to be relieved that you're actually from London and not some random planet that happens to have the same sort of accent?" he asks, and takes a small sip.

Grinning slyly, Martha chuckles in response to Matt's laugh--it's a little infectious--and strokes her fingertip along the rim of her glass before she lifts it towards her mouth. "I was told," she says, "it's the clever thing to do. Opens up the liquor, there's science to it but if we're being honest tonight, chemistry wasn't my best subject."

She inhales over the top of the drink, then sips, swallows, slowly. "Having been in a bunch of random planets where they do end up sounding extraordinarily ordinarily English...I really can't blame you," she agrees. "It's disconcerting as hell. You can't stop yourself from assuming they know what you mean when actually their frame of reference is entirely different."

Actually, now that she thinks about it...was it just the TARDIS' translation that made them sound English? Probably not the best time to get philosophical, chatting with a hot bloke.

For all the swirling, maddening, ridiculous tales of the Raven King and the Faeries, he knows well enough to be wary of such magical parties where music is struck and deals are made. Jonathan isn't sure where it is he's found himself, but the people look distinctly different from faeries and it's in this moment of clarity (while pursuing his madness) that he realizes that he's back in the mirror.

Not the King's Roads, though, no. No, this is the Nexus. He must reek of that awful Venetian abode, but he's in the midst of the room and doesn't think using magic to clear it would be quite intelligent, so he begins to traverse it carefully, but he stops all of a sudden, regarding the man before him.

Blind, yes, but aren't there histories upon histories of those without sight being the best seers of all? (Has his madness set in entirely? Has Jonathan Strange truly gone around the bend?) He's lingering for so long that it turns awkward. "Good day," he greets. "Sir. Are you a faerie?"

Maybe this isn't the sort of question that should surprise Matt. He's standing in the middle of a hotel that transcends all of time and space, after all. Yet he can't help but feeling he's not had near enough to drink to answer remotely seriously.

"I have to say, that's probably the most straight-forward pick-up line I've heard in my entire life, congratulations," he says with a slight cant of his head.

Strange blinks and almost as if the shroud of madness has been peeled back, he gets a glimpse of life on the outside. No more eating mice, he suspects. At least, not until he finds himself back on the path to the King's Roads. "You mistake me, sir, I'm a married man both widowed and desperately searching out his wife," he says, gravely serious. "But if you are a faerie, you might lead me to her."

There's no need for spells, not yet, but they tickle at the back of Strange's mind, whispering to him as they beckon to be used.

"Okay, that really doesn't negate..." Matt begins, but quickly enough abandons the argument. There's a manic energy around this man that doesn't seem as if it would be much affected by logic, and it had been a joke in the first place.

"I'm not a faerie, buddy. Sorry," he says instead, with a helpless little shrug.

The disappointment builds in Strange until it's a terrible thing, clawing at him and causing a new sort of anger and madness, one that he can barely control. "I suppose I saw your predicament and I thought that you might be as though Cassandra," he says, the hope slowly weaving out of his words. "I'm searching for my wife, and I know a faerie can aid me with the task. Here, on what I still believe to be part of the King's Road, it only seemed right to find one."

And yet, he has not. "My deepest apologies, sir," he says, offering a curt bow. "Jonathan Strange, at your service."

"Matt Murdock."

By this point, it isn't often that he legitimately feels compelled to give away that he can, actually, see when someone naively thrusts a hand his way or dips into a bow, but this time it's tough to restrain himself. This man is a walking contradiction—Outwardly he's prim, but chaos is pulsing around him like a heartbeat. The guy is clearly adrift in a very real way.

"No need to apologize," he says, gaze firmly on the middle distance. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but what happened to your wife?"

"A terrible thing, I'm sorry to say," Strange replies, his own guilt rising at the memory of how he had accepted the wooden bog creature to be his wife, how he had sworn himself to her, and then how she had been taken. "She died. But you see, it was not her," he shares. "For when she was dug up, it was the bog that we found, not my wife. My wife, and Lady Pole, they have been taken by the faeries," he says, reaching forward to clasp onto Mr. Murdock's lapels.

"Madness will draw me to them. When mad, one can see them!"

Rachel is getting drunk. There's the problem of not even understanding how she got here on top of the blowup fight with Mike and she's not even remotely in the frame of mind to do anything but drink until she sees stars. Luckily, whatever weirdness is going on seems to have manifested itself in a party and she snags a glass of champagne before heading over to mingle with the other partygoers.

When she sees the guy with sunglasses on, she tips her head toward him and cracks a joke, trying to make herself feel less underdressed and self-conscious. "Anyone ever tell you that wearing sunglasses at night went out in the late 80s?"

She really doesn't have the room to talk, since this guy at least had the decency to put on a suit and she's in a long sweater and slim pants that are perfectly business casual but not so much for a party.

"They have. Do, actually, pretty regularly," Matt easily replies, and cants his head with a blithe smile as he leans against the bar. "If I've got my cane with me, though, it tends to happen less."

He's merely teasing, of course, but her voice had been edged in self-consciousness, so he quickly leans forward just a bit and adds, "I'm Matt. I usually say I wear them because it makes people more comfortable, but the truth is I just like looking cool."

"Oh God," Rachel says, mortified. "I'm really sorry. You're the kind of guy who takes it well, and I appreciate that, but God. I'm an idiot."

Preoccupied, more likely, but she really does feel like shit for not realizing he was blind. The glasses look good on him, though, so she definitely understands why she wears them.

"I'm Rachel. I...just got here, so, we're going to blame that for me being so incredibly rude just now."

"It's alright," Matt promises with an easy laugh. "You've got a great voice and smell good, so I'm just happy you decided to talk to me at all."

Dimly, he wonders where Foggy is in all of this noise and gaity, what with Matt's magnetism to stunning women with questionable character having apparently crossed dimensions. To be fair, this one found him.

"So, when you say you just got here, do you mean today, this week...?"

"About five minutes ago?" Rachel says, voice pitching up on the end of the question just a little. She isn't entirely certain how long she's been in this particular establishment but it's been long enough to get a drink and, apparently, almost insult a blind man. Good job, Zane.

"I was leaving home to go to a friend's and I walked into this place. Someone gave me a drink and here we are. I think you're caught up now."

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Gathering: New Year's Eve Gala

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