Renard has never brought a date along to a function – not that this is a date, really. Now, he's stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for the woman to find the right earrings or whatever she's doing. He feels like he should be checking his watch and grumbling, though there's plenty of time. It's all very normal and domestic, and it scares him to death that he almost likes it.
Isabelle blots her lipstick, and gives herself a quick critical inspection. This isn't a proper date, of course, but she wants him to appreciate the effort. The irony is, for a woman who works in the industry, she actually wears very little make-up generally. But time and some persistent friends have taught her, and she thinks she looks acceptable for a works do. Unless she stands on a box, she's never going to look anything other than short next to him, so she doesn't even bother trying with heel height. The top is a good colour on her, and she's managed to get her hair to behave and stay up, at least.
She stops two treads up and she's at his eye level for a change. He's grown accustomed to Isabelle's casual look, and to her work outfits (the sharply tailored suit and heels had made him stare the first day she'd come downstairs in them, enough to make her check she hadn't spilt something on herself ) - but now he gets to see the polished party version. Whatever she's done, it makes her eyes look very green, and her lips are a rich wine colour against her pale skin. When she walks down past him, he's presented with the delicate nape of her neck, and he has to swallow hard.
The dark suit, the shirt left carelessly open at the throat, and being level with his stupidly handsome face - Isabelle thinks it a bit of a Christmas miracle than she hasn't fallen down the stairs. Or onto his mouth.
There's a little ripple of surprise when they come in together, but it is more the fact that the Captain has turned up with someone than the who. There would have been far more disturbance if he'd brought anyone else. Gossip has gone out and around, though some people have refused to believe it until they see it.
"Captain has got a new lady friend, then," one detective remarks, "Maybe it'll make him more human."
Wonders why Burkhardt has snorted his beer.
This is a normal evening out in the normal world. Sean is very much in his benign superior officer mode, but he's obviously genuinely liked and respected by his people, it's rather nice to see. From what she can tell, he's very good at his job, and it's nothing to do with his other side at all, he earned every rank and promotion and citation. (One day, she will see the photo of the young Sean Renard in his first uniform, a wide-eyed and fresh-faced rookie, and laugh gently at the rather unfortunate ear situation with the hat.)
He's not the only one who can wear another face, hers is just more subtle. Pitched between her manager persona, and social hostess, she's there to be a charming, friendly adjunct. (Basically, dial back her natural urge towards sarcasm and remember not to swear.) And she finally gets to meet Juliette. There's an odd moment of tension as the younger woman greets her, before it evaporates in the general exchanges, but it's easy to make nice with Hank and Nick, who both make her welcome.
Juliette wasn't sure what she'd expected, though she'd like to know the woman's skincare routine. Not as glossy as she expected from someone who sold cosmetics, subtle make-up, and the lot of dark hair bundled up in a way that was artfully casual rather than styled. Not very tall, neat little heels that make the presence behind her even more noticeable. Within five minutes, Juliette knows that she is just as nice and polite as Nick had described her, and that she doesn't like her. There's nothing rational about it. But the woman has pitched up in this strange and dangerous world, and instead of being lied to and menaced, she's being welcomed gently in. Renard is treating her like she's a piece of china, but she looks quite sharp and capable, chatting comfortably to everyone as if she's known them forever.
Isabelle doesn't really like large gatherings, especially ones full of strangers (and Juliette doesn't like her, she's picked that up straight off) but long practise means that she's able to be anyone's friend for a few minutes, then move carefully along. At least the buffet is good, so whilst Sean has been buttonholed by someone who wants to talk budgets, she sidles off to go stalking the spring rolls. She's picking her way through some rather nice satay, when there's a warm voice slightly too close to her.
Rufford is a good detective, but he'd slept his way through quite a few of the younger and more impressionable women in the precinct on the strength of his good looks, before word got around. Now, he sees a stranger who doesn't know his rep, and decides to try his luck. She's a bit older, but then, she might be grateful for a bit of attention, standing on her own like that.
"Oh. Oh, no. Rufford's trying to score."
"Man, I thought everyone dodged him by now."
"Yeah, but she doesn't know who he is."
"...He doesn't know who she is, does he?"
They watch the man attempt to chat up an obviously unimpressed Isabelle with a certain amount of wincing awe.
"He's going to end up busted back to traffic." Or possibly eaten by something.
"Oops. Captain's noticed."
It is rather like watching a shark move through a shoal, the same sense of smaller creatures getting the hell out of the way of a very dense killing aura moving towards them.
Isabelle is still being polite, but she has a limit, and this guy is pushing at it. He's being careful to stay the 'right' side of light banter, but he's gradually getting into her personal space. She shifts back again, and drops her tight uninterested smile for a flat gaze of chilly dismissal.
"I am actually here with someone," she says, "so, no, I do not need some company."
"Well, he's left you all alone..."
"Not for long," her eyes go past him, then snap back when he dares to hold her arm to stop her walking away.
He's circling back, drinks in hand, pauses. She's perfectly free to talk to whoever she chooses... but she's talking to Rufford, and he's leaning in far too close. Then the man puts a hand on her, and he's already moving. He arrives in time to hear her say,
"Please take your hand off me, or I will break your wrist," in a tone which holds complete conviction.
"There's no need to be a bitch..."
"Excuse me, detective?"
Rufford turns, tilts his gaze up, and his entire life flashes before his eyes.
"Sean, darling, I'm perfectly able to deal with a creep by myself." She's both amused and exasperated.
"But his behaviour here reflects badly on me." He's still looking homicidal, until he registers the 'darling', and blinks at her. Rufford takes the opportunity to escape, at something that's not quite a run.
"I do think he's probably reconsidering his career path right now." If not changing his trousers. And she's having a little bit of a feminist fail, because okay, having him loom up protectively was rather hot. (Oh, shit, did she really call him 'darling'?)
"Would you have broken his wrist?"
"Weeeelll, sprained it badly. I've had to do it before. Should I admit that to a policeman?"
"Self-defence is perfectly acceptable."
"Perhaps you should have waited another minute, then."
They are utterly unaware of the rest of the party watching them, the way that they both turn together to send a cool unblinking gaze after the fleeing detective. Apex predators disdaining some rather substandard prey.
"So," Wu says, conversationally, "He's found someone as scary as he is, that's nice for everybody."
Isabelle and Wu have an instant and unholy connection – it starts with film quotes and devolves into sniggering, and Sean does not want to know what an 'Ankh-Morpork' is, or why carrots are so funny. He resists the urge to have the man immediately transferred to the North precinct.
After an hour of circulating politely, he would normally be thinking about maybe heading to one of the more upmarket bars, by himself, at least initially. There are three rather good ones within easy walking distance of the venue. Instead, a couple of hours have passed and he's watching in a mix of horror and hilarity as Hank leads a bunch of semi-drunk detectives through the Macarena. Isabelle is frankly giggling, and he doesn't like the way she's eyeing him and the dancefloor in turn, a certain wicked speculation.
They'll never know if she could have got him up to dance, because a couple of phones go off, and even if he's not technically on call, he's always in charge.
"I'm sorry..."
"I know," she rolls her eyes, cheerful resignation, "Honestly, inconsiderate bloody criminals, wrecking the evening."
"I could find a patrol car to drop you home."
"Sean Renard, are you offering to abuse police resources for me?" She drops the mock shock, grins, "It's fine, I'll get a taxi."
"Hopefully it won't be a late night. I'll try not to wake you." A lip twitch. "Darling."
(A passing officer nearly falls over a chair.)
Isabelle really hopes that the low lighting disguises the blush she can feel on her cheeks. Evil man.
"Fruitcake? Seriously?"
He can tell her about this case, it's turned out well enough.
"Yes, fruitcake was an actual cure."
"I'm getting you some socks for Christmas, in case the Jólaköttur is real." She's entirely serious.