By the time Deacon is headed Mitchell's way, he's looking to wind down. Like he'd excused himself before, being around excessive amounts of people of a different species makes him itch, with the caveat being that he is barred from eating any of them. At least while in the building. There's being arrogant and thirsty, and then there's being stupid.

Burgundy tie has been slid off from around his now opened collar, the strip of silk absently wound around his knuckles. Upon entering, slate-blue stare does not speculatively tick over the available wall of liquor or the wine racks. He does scope, instead, the occupants, including the lady that Mitchell is eyeing up, following her own glance to the other vampire himself.

Next to silently, he steps up on Mitchell's other side. "She's pretty."