[It's honestly possible he was in the room, but let's be real: he was pretty out of it towards the end.]
Why? What're you thinking about?
[He takes another long sip, then settles a few feet away from her. He won't fight her, per se, but it might help her to have an opponent to focus on. She won't hit him yet, she's not that good.]
[He sprawls in his seat again. She can keep practicing, or not. It's fine either way. He slumps back, legs spread.]
There's a-- there was a big ritual back where I'm from. The Hunger Games. Run by the government. Once a year, two kids from every district-- 'cept for the Capitol, but they're the big elites-- are picked, twenty-four in total. Big event, all televised. There's a whole lotta fanfare beforehand, cuz the people in the Capitol wanna get to know you, right? They pick who they like best, sponsor em, give em all the things they might need. Medicine or weapons or water . . .
[Hm. Should he switch to something sweeter? Wine goes down easier, but scotch will get him blasted faster. He's been teetering on the edge of blackout and just drunk all day, but why not shove over these last few hours? Oh, right: because someone might come and kill him. Fuck.]
I was . . . sixteen at the time. Younger than you. There were twice as many tributes that year. Half of em died just from the arena, cuz the whole place was poisoned. Some of the others took care of themselves. But I got three. And the last one . . . she'd gotten my stomach.
[Maybe he shouldn't spill the details, but on the other hand, she'd asked, and he isn't a merciful man.]
Guts spilling everywhere, but I'd taken out her eye, so it was a contest to see who'd bleed out first. But that's not exciting, right? And it's a television show, remember, at the end of the day. People bet on their favorites, pick out who the like best, and then the winner gets to be a celebrity afterwards, yay!
So she threw her axe at me. Missed. It hit the edge of the arena, bounced back, and hit her in the head, just like I figured it would. And then it was over.
[She seats herself on the arm of the couch across from his as he talks. She'll have plenty of time to practice later, and besides, the alcohol is starting to make her head swim.]
So... A bunch of teenagers are dropped into a poisoned arena and made to the fight to the death? Over a course of days?
[And Haymitch was one of them, apparently. That... makes sense. Does it? Sure. If he'd told her all this a week ago, she would've called bullshit, said he'd been drinking too much. But, no, this does make sense. What a dumb thing to lie about, and this lines up with his profile...]
And now you're a celebrity for it. That's sick.
[She says it in sympathy for him, of course. Obviously this wasn't his choice.]
[He lifts his bottle up in silent agreement: sure is.]
Keeps everybody in line, you know? Besides: you talk out too much, it'll be your kid next. If they don't just kill you and your family right on sight.
[A few seconds, and then he shrugs. It's sick, sure. But there's not a lot he can do about it.]
Anyway. Turns out that doesn't work forever. There was a big revolution, and now it's all over and done with.
[Theoretically. Except for the memories he and the others have to live with; except for the fact he still wakes up half-expecting an axe to his stomach. So will Katniss. But her kids won't, and that's good, it is, but he can't think that far right now.
[She nods, more for lack of something to say than anything else. It's hard to really fathom the scope of what he's talking about. It sounds like something out of a movie.
On reflex, she moves to dig her cigarettes out of her pocket. They're in her hand, and then, fuck, that's right, she doesn't have a light. She sighs and toys around with the pack for something to do with her hands.]
I don't know much about the kind of thing you're describing, but I don't imagine it's something you're ever "over and done with". Tradition has a way of sticking with you.
[And this is one of the cases in which she'd argue it shouldn't. Sometimes, you do fuck with tradition.]
[She nudges his leg with hers, and then slowly convinces her body to leave the couch. She gives him another nudge to motivate him. He looks like he's gonna need it.]
[Ugh. He groans pointedly, but sooner or later rises. He assuredly brings the bottle, but there's little to no fuss as he follows her through the hall. Her room? Sure. Why not.]
[Oh, it bums her out to hear that, his kneejerk suspicion at a small favor.]
You taught me how to hold a knife, and even I know it pays to have allies at a time like this. Besides, I'd like to get this blood off of me.
[She gestures at her All, which... isn't much, actually. A white (and probably now permanently stained, ugh) crop top and overall shorts is all she's wearing, and she could not be more eager to change. All the blood has thoroughly dried by now, and it's itchy.
She swipes her clamshell over the lock and leads them inside. Her roommate isn't here for handwobbly time reasons, thank god, so her armful of contraband gets dropped onto the counter for the moment. She fishes through the cupboards, and a minute later, she's handing him a glass of water.]
As promised. Now, down the hatch. Have you had sex with anyone here yet?
[There's not a real good way to transition into that question, so she just goes for it.]
[He chokes on that water, so good job Katy now he's dying. Or at least coughing for a minute, because it's one thing to think about and another to hear.]
Come on, darling, you couldn't have asked me that before the whiskey?
[Bruh. He glares up at her a little, but takes another drink of that water, because his liver may actually be dying.]
[She tips her head to the side, biting back a smile. She knows it's a talent of hers, her... charisma. While she's aware likely anyone would falter after a question like that, regardless of who's asking, the fact that it's her certainly bears some weight. The light assumption that it's a proposition is a good example of that, for starters.
Not that it wasn't, but, point is, she likes making him squirm, plain and simple. There's no ulterior motive, really. It's just fun.]
I'm asking because apparently the currency around here is sex. You fuck, you get an app on your phone [it's not a phone, but,] and tokens or some shit. And that's what I bring to the table.
[She steps forward so that she's up in his space, reaching to brush the hair out of his eyes.]
Not to be impolite, but I'm not lacking in expertise when it comes to drawing folks to the bedroom. I keep us stocked, you keep us safe. Deal?
[Though knocking him off-kilter may have been slightly intentional, the offer is earnest: She's not going to make it on her own here, and from the way he's been hitting the bottles this past week, he's not, either. Plus she's got just the tiniest inkling that he's not eager to sleep around for cash.
Who knows, though? They've only just met, all things considered.]
[So here's the thing: he isn't, honestly, as unused to pretty girls throwing themselves at him as she might think.
He was a winner once, after all, and he's not exactly slack when it comes to the looks department. Plenty of people wanted to sleep with the winner of a Quarter Quell, and the fact it was Haymitch was just secondary. Even in 12, he'd had more than a few offers: not immediately, not after her death, no, but sooner or later they'd come calling. Not always for sex. Security, too; he was one of the wealthiest people in the district, after all, and you could do worse than a drunkard with frequent nightmares as a husband.
But he'd turned them down. All of them, one by one, til at last people got the message and stopped trying. Til they saw him for who he really was: a cocky idiot who'd gotten everyone he'd ever loved killed in one fell swoop, and now who was left a bitter, broken shell of a man who nobody ought to want to be near, and for good fucking reason.
But here they are again. In a way, he's glad her proposition is so business-like. It's more direct, sure, and maybe not as romantic as some would like, but there's a simplicity to it. It's not even sex in exchange for protection, because he'd turn that down. Sex is a necessary part of it.
And he likes her. He really does.]
Sure.
[It's steady and pitched low, because she can be cocky all she wants, but he won't play the sputtering idiot for long.]
But if you're gonna fuck me, you do it by my rules. Got it?
[(He's glad he hadn't told her about the other part of being a winner. He doubts she would have made the offer if she'd known).]
[Truth be told, she likes that he can recover quickly when she knocks him off balance. Reilly and Jonesy, god love them, are too stupid to play it this smooth, and Stewart... Well, he was a lost cause, but all she had to do was ash her cigarette in his direction and he'd fall to pieces. This is a welcomed changed. This is the kind of thing she was hoping to find in the city.
Nevertheless, there's something off about how he phrases that stipulation, though she can't put her finger on it. What's he leaving out?]
That's a Texas-size ten-four. If I'm gonna fuck you, what are your rules?
[What a stupid rule. What a pathetic little thing he has to stipulate, but he's watched too many people prostitute themselves to feel comfortable watching some girl sign herself into that life, even partially.]
Your protection doesn't hinge on you spreading your legs. Got it?
[Oh. That takes her by surprise, and she sinks back a bit.]
That's not something you have to worry about. I don't do things I don't want to do, it's that simple. And my rule is this: Remember that this isn't a favor. We see eye to eye and we've got an opportunity to help each other out. It's a friendly agreement, and I do mean friendly.
[When a man asks for help, you help him—she's just saving them both the trouble of asking. Or, rather, she's offering instead of asking. Both of them could get by without the other, and she'd put money that she needs him more than he needs her. At least her knack for charming others can actually be useful, here. There's gotta be useful stuff in that gift shop.
She stands up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek.]
This isn't the Hunger Games, is what I'm saying.
[For the moment, she retreats, but not before tapping a finger to the bottom of the water glass.]
Pitter patter. I'm off to clean up, so you focus on sobering up.
[And with that she heads off to the bathroom. She's still covered in blood and I keep forgetting about it so now she's just gonna shower rq.]
[He grunts in reply, a wordless acknowledgement, but he does drink up-- and further, gets another glass, so by the time she returns, he's far more stable. The good thing about being a drunk: not only can you think through it pretty easily, but you sober up fast too. Sometimes way too fast, honestly, but that's neither here nor there. It means he's up and standing, idly staring at his clamshell of a phone, waiting for her.
Are they going to fuck tonight? He honestly isn't sure. He isn't opposed, actually, now that she's said all that. It feels far less like taking advantage.]
[She appreciates the effort, good buddy. She laughs to herself, still in the shower as she wrings her hair out. God, she needed that.]
You've got more, do you? Hmm...
[She lets the pause linger until she's back in the living room, all clean and toweled off and, well, in a towel. Of the two sets of clothing she has here, one is soaked through with the blood and the other... eh. A towel is about par for the course when you're factoring fabric-to-skin ratios, anyway.
Oh, good, he drank the water. Or just poured it down the sink, maybe, but he's not wobbling as much as he was a few minutes ago. That'll do.]
One is probably that I don't call you "daddy", right?
[JUST SAYING. God. He grimaces as he looks at her, and yes, okay, it's . . . far more appreciatively, let's say, than before. She's wearing nothing but a towel, and he's not blind. Her skin glistens in the low light, her hair wet and sticking to her skin, and yeah, okay, he's definitely paying her attention.]
But if you're dying to call me that, sweetheart, all you gotta do is ask.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
polyapathy) wrote2019-10-12 09:47 pm
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[It's honestly possible he was in the room, but let's be real: he was pretty out of it towards the end.]
Why? What're you thinking about?
[He takes another long sip, then settles a few feet away from her. He won't fight her, per se, but it might help her to have an opponent to focus on. She won't hit him yet, she's not that good.]
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He swore up and down he was immortal, but I said he was full of it. So he said, "go ahead and murder me, then!"
[She takes another swing, swiping upward this time.]
And I didn't buy it, but he'd just come back from the dead not two minutes earlier. So, sure. I went ahead and did it.
[Another swing. This is hard work.]
He came back, of course. But, for a minute there, he'd kicked it.
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[It's lazily given advice, but he's really quite intent on her expression.]
You ever kill anyone before, sweetheart?
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But at the question, she falters.]
No! God, no. That's not...
[There's a long pause as she studies him.]
Have you?
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[Steady, even. Not a brag, but not a shameful fact either.]
Four, in total, over about five days. It wasn't pretty. Wasn't fast, either. But I had a knife, and I got them before they could get me.
[He turns away, grabbing the bottle again. Almost wryly, as he uncorks it and draws it up:]
Cept that last one. She got me pretty good. Not good enough, though.
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Why? How do you...?
[She has a lot of questions, and they're all getting gummed up on the way out of her mouth.]
Feels fair to assume yours didn't come back after.
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[He sprawls in his seat again. She can keep practicing, or not. It's fine either way. He slumps back, legs spread.]
There's a-- there was a big ritual back where I'm from. The Hunger Games. Run by the government. Once a year, two kids from every district-- 'cept for the Capitol, but they're the big elites-- are picked, twenty-four in total. Big event, all televised. There's a whole lotta fanfare beforehand, cuz the people in the Capitol wanna get to know you, right? They pick who they like best, sponsor em, give em all the things they might need. Medicine or weapons or water . . .
[Hm. Should he switch to something sweeter? Wine goes down easier, but scotch will get him blasted faster. He's been teetering on the edge of blackout and just drunk all day, but why not shove over these last few hours? Oh, right: because someone might come and kill him. Fuck.]
I was . . . sixteen at the time. Younger than you. There were twice as many tributes that year. Half of em died just from the arena, cuz the whole place was poisoned. Some of the others took care of themselves. But I got three. And the last one . . . she'd gotten my stomach.
[Maybe he shouldn't spill the details, but on the other hand, she'd asked, and he isn't a merciful man.]
Guts spilling everywhere, but I'd taken out her eye, so it was a contest to see who'd bleed out first. But that's not exciting, right? And it's a television show, remember, at the end of the day. People bet on their favorites, pick out who the like best, and then the winner gets to be a celebrity afterwards, yay!
So she threw her axe at me. Missed. It hit the edge of the arena, bounced back, and hit her in the head, just like I figured it would. And then it was over.
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So... A bunch of teenagers are dropped into a poisoned arena and made to the fight to the death? Over a course of days?
[And Haymitch was one of them, apparently. That... makes sense. Does it? Sure. If he'd told her all this a week ago, she would've called bullshit, said he'd been drinking too much. But, no, this does make sense. What a dumb thing to lie about, and this lines up with his profile...]
And now you're a celebrity for it. That's sick.
[She says it in sympathy for him, of course. Obviously this wasn't his choice.]
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Keeps everybody in line, you know? Besides: you talk out too much, it'll be your kid next. If they don't just kill you and your family right on sight.
[A few seconds, and then he shrugs. It's sick, sure. But there's not a lot he can do about it.]
Anyway. Turns out that doesn't work forever. There was a big revolution, and now it's all over and done with.
[Theoretically. Except for the memories he and the others have to live with; except for the fact he still wakes up half-expecting an axe to his stomach. So will Katniss. But her kids won't, and that's good, it is, but he can't think that far right now.
He grins, and it's horrible.]
Until now.
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On reflex, she moves to dig her cigarettes out of her pocket. They're in her hand, and then, fuck, that's right, she doesn't have a light. She sighs and toys around with the pack for something to do with her hands.]
I don't know much about the kind of thing you're describing, but I don't imagine it's something you're ever "over and done with". Tradition has a way of sticking with you.
[And this is one of the cases in which she'd argue it shouldn't. Sometimes, you do fuck with tradition.]
Do you think your government put us here?
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There's not enough . . . [hmm] . . . pageantry. It'd be a whole thing if this was them. This is something else.
[He stares at nothing for a few seconds. And then, almost idly, almost certainly not meant to be heard:]
Good, that you don't know much about it.
[God knows what it means. But it's nice to know there's someone who's grown up without that kind of horror in their lives.]
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Well, that's something.
[She pats his knee and takes a drink.]
How much water have you had today, big shoots?
[It's said gently. She's not here to get in his way, but also, she doesn't need him falling to pieces on her. They're allies now, she's decided.]
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[It's a scoff, which means very little. Which is stupid and self-destructive, so welcome to Haymitch.]
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You do. My room's just there. Come on.
[She nudges his leg with hers, and then slowly convinces her body to leave the couch. She gives him another nudge to motivate him. He looks like he's gonna need it.]
Bring your bottle.
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What's in this for you, huh?
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You taught me how to hold a knife, and even I know it pays to have allies at a time like this. Besides, I'd like to get this blood off of me.
[She gestures at her All, which... isn't much, actually. A white (and probably now permanently stained, ugh) crop top and overall shorts is all she's wearing, and she could not be more eager to change. All the blood has thoroughly dried by now, and it's itchy.
She swipes her clamshell over the lock and leads them inside. Her roommate isn't here for handwobbly time reasons, thank god, so her armful of contraband gets dropped onto the counter for the moment. She fishes through the cupboards, and a minute later, she's handing him a glass of water.]
As promised. Now, down the hatch. Have you had sex with anyone here yet?
[There's not a real good way to transition into that question, so she just goes for it.]
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Come on, darling, you couldn't have asked me that before the whiskey?
[Bruh. He glares up at her a little, but takes another drink of that water, because his liver may actually be dying.]
No. You?
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Not that it wasn't, but, point is, she likes making him squirm, plain and simple. There's no ulterior motive, really. It's just fun.]
I'm asking because apparently the currency around here is sex. You fuck, you get an app on your phone [it's not a phone, but,] and tokens or some shit. And that's what I bring to the table.
[She steps forward so that she's up in his space, reaching to brush the hair out of his eyes.]
Not to be impolite, but I'm not lacking in expertise when it comes to drawing folks to the bedroom. I keep us stocked, you keep us safe. Deal?
[Though knocking him off-kilter may have been slightly intentional, the offer is earnest: She's not going to make it on her own here, and from the way he's been hitting the bottles this past week, he's not, either. Plus she's got just the tiniest inkling that he's not eager to sleep around for cash.
Who knows, though? They've only just met, all things considered.]
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He was a winner once, after all, and he's not exactly slack when it comes to the looks department. Plenty of people wanted to sleep with the winner of a Quarter Quell, and the fact it was Haymitch was just secondary. Even in 12, he'd had more than a few offers: not immediately, not after her death, no, but sooner or later they'd come calling. Not always for sex. Security, too; he was one of the wealthiest people in the district, after all, and you could do worse than a drunkard with frequent nightmares as a husband.
But he'd turned them down. All of them, one by one, til at last people got the message and stopped trying. Til they saw him for who he really was: a cocky idiot who'd gotten everyone he'd ever loved killed in one fell swoop, and now who was left a bitter, broken shell of a man who nobody ought to want to be near, and for good fucking reason.
But here they are again. In a way, he's glad her proposition is so business-like. It's more direct, sure, and maybe not as romantic as some would like, but there's a simplicity to it. It's not even sex in exchange for protection, because he'd turn that down. Sex is a necessary part of it.
And he likes her. He really does.]
Sure.
[It's steady and pitched low, because she can be cocky all she wants, but he won't play the sputtering idiot for long.]
But if you're gonna fuck me, you do it by my rules. Got it?
[(He's glad he hadn't told her about the other part of being a winner. He doubts she would have made the offer if she'd known).]
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Nevertheless, there's something off about how he phrases that stipulation, though she can't put her finger on it. What's he leaving out?]
That's a Texas-size ten-four. If I'm gonna fuck you, what are your rules?
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[What a stupid rule. What a pathetic little thing he has to stipulate, but he's watched too many people prostitute themselves to feel comfortable watching some girl sign herself into that life, even partially.]
Your protection doesn't hinge on you spreading your legs. Got it?
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That's not something you have to worry about. I don't do things I don't want to do, it's that simple. And my rule is this: Remember that this isn't a favor. We see eye to eye and we've got an opportunity to help each other out. It's a friendly agreement, and I do mean friendly.
[When a man asks for help, you help him—she's just saving them both the trouble of asking. Or, rather, she's offering instead of asking. Both of them could get by without the other, and she'd put money that she needs him more than he needs her. At least her knack for charming others can actually be useful, here. There's gotta be useful stuff in that gift shop.
She stands up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek.]
This isn't the Hunger Games, is what I'm saying.
[For the moment, she retreats, but not before tapping a finger to the bottom of the water glass.]
Pitter patter. I'm off to clean up, so you focus on sobering up.
[And with that she heads off to the bathroom. She's still covered in blood and I keep forgetting about it so now she's just gonna shower rq.]
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Are they going to fuck tonight? He honestly isn't sure. He isn't opposed, actually, now that she's said all that. It feels far less like taking advantage.]
Any guesses on what those last few rules are?
[he calls it as he hears the water stop.]
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You've got more, do you? Hmm...
[She lets the pause linger until she's back in the living room, all clean and toweled off and, well, in a towel. Of the two sets of clothing she has here, one is soaked through with the blood and the other... eh. A towel is about par for the course when you're factoring fabric-to-skin ratios, anyway.
Oh, good, he drank the water. Or just poured it down the sink, maybe, but he's not wobbling as much as he was a few minutes ago. That'll do.]
One is probably that I don't call you "daddy", right?
[IT'S A JOKE.]
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[JUST SAYING. God. He grimaces as he looks at her, and yes, okay, it's . . . far more appreciatively, let's say, than before. She's wearing nothing but a towel, and he's not blind. Her skin glistens in the low light, her hair wet and sticking to her skin, and yeah, okay, he's definitely paying her attention.]
But if you're dying to call me that, sweetheart, all you gotta do is ask.
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