thecapitol | I Will Contain You, Then Cast You Away [Semi-Open]

WHO| Eva and Wallander, Eva and anyone with reason to be around the Peacekeeper HQ
WHAT| Eva sleeps with Wallander and brings him doughnuts.
WHEN| Week 2 of the Arena
WHERE| Wallander's house; Peacekeeper HQ
WARNINGS| Mentions of sex.

For Wallander

She wakes up next to Wallander again and slips out of the bed, donning a loose sheet as she searches for her clothing. Soon enough she's found her shirt and her pants and a rubber band to tie her hair in, even if it originally was used to keep bread in a bag fresh.

They've slept together at least ten times now. Normal people would consider it a relationship. Eva isn't sure she doesn't. That doesn't change her feelings on the matter, and her gaze as she looks at Wallander's bare back is both disdainful and a bit sad. She sits on the windowsill and stares at the moles and sweat on his back and the wrinkles on Kurt's face and the empty ringfinger. The morning light casting its way through the curtains makes him look washed out and not unlike a pastel sketch of a corpse. He snores and his hand roves the bed for the curve of her hip, but he doesn't wake when he finds only the sheets.

She gets up and heads to the kitchen. She does his dishes and she starts some coffee. She puts some makeup she keeps in her purse over the brand on her face. It doesn't do much, but it sends the message that she's trying.

She makes herself at home on his computer too.

-/-

Open

The next day, having spent the night alone at her own house, she pays a visit to Peacekeeper Headquarters. She's been coming in for regular meetings with some of the investigative officers as follow-up to the leads she gave them back during the interrogation. She has a reputation for being "prickly but cooperative" with the officers, which, she says, is a pretty outstanding performance given that they burned part of her face off.

Today she brings in a dozen doughnuts and instructs one of the desk jockeys to take it to Kurt's cube. She's sure only some of them will make it to him, and that the others will fill mouths that alternate between stuffing themselves and gossiping over it.

She doesn't mind that people know she's a Capitol canary; in fact, she all but flaunts it. Nor does she mind terribly that people know she's sleeping with Wallander, and if he's received any flack for it he's kept rather mum about it.

Besides. No one complains about fucking doughnuts.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"It's of interest to me. Just because I take curiosity in things doesn't mean that I afford them much weight."

Eva never really purrs back. Something about her voice is always ragged, always on the defense. Wildcats lose their abilities to purr so that they may, at times, roar.

Wesker remained unruffled by the statement. In fact, his mouth twitched, a sharp curl at the corner closest to her.

(He prides himself, enjoys the power, of being able to command with only a few soft spoken words.)

"I think this your world, that these are your people, and you understand it and them very well."

"I've had half a century to learn the hard way about not understanding them." She shakes her head, more at herself than anything else, her past stretching out, invisible, behind her like a chain of shadowy paper dolls. "God, I'm old. Do you think Kurt minds having his cradle robbed?"

As if they're merely going to get coffee as friends and not jousting in their heads, looking for weaknesses, for tactics.

"That's a bit dramatic, wouldn't you agree?" he drawled. "The only cradle I'm sure Mr. Wallander remembers is his daughter's."

Outside the office, he paused, and turned, his head tipping, the fluorescent lights flashing white on his pale hair.

"If your concern is what they think--" his chin lifted, just a fraction, in a small gesture back over her shoulder, "--I'm sure it's no surprise they have other names for you."

She laughs again, knowing it to be true. The lights wash her out, while they make Wesker shine. Her age shows with bright fluorescence painting on every wrinkle.

"Oh? And what would those be?"

She's not prying for gossip so much as trying to see if anyone suspects her motives. She wants to be called loose, desperate, drunk - but if 'conniving' makes any appearance on that list she may have to reevaluate.

The laugh is like breaking glass to his ears - a sharp, dangerous sound.

It makes his mouth twitch, a corner pulling toward his cheek.

"Nothing terribly clever," he assured her, tone dry, sigh long-suffering. "Though it is rather remarkable so see which things stand the test of time."

The White House reduced to rubble, a forgotten memory, while 'frigid bitch' endured.

"God wouldn't have condemned wanton women had they not been around for eons and eons," Eva says, the laugh settling contentedly into a smirk, like a cat folding up onto a warm windowsill.

"And you, Mr. Wesker? Are you so beyond humanity that you have no interest in carnal pleasures? I'm sure your, what are your fans called, Weskies or Wesk-hers or whatever they are would be happy to tempt you."

"I have an itch, I scratch it, Ms. Salazar," he replied simply. The act as simply as that to him.

A biological urge, like eating. He occasionally felt a need -- and he saw it filled, as thoroughly and expertly as he did everything.

"But in order to be tempted, they would first need something I wanted."

Eva lowers her voice to a purr, a murmur like water sludge over rocks. "I imagine their desperation might taint the flavor of the meat."

And she waggles her eyebrows at him before bursting into a grin, as if she's just amused herself greatly with her teasing.

He arched a pale eyebrow, unused to being teased in general - and in particular where it came to his dietary needs.

...But if he found it unpleasant, he didn't say so.

"It isn't my favorite," he said, as his eyebrow settled again. They might have been discussing wine. "Bitter, and lacking substance. What's the point, as they say, if I'm hungry again in an hour?"

"A little temperance probably does your body good." Eva's smile turns predatory for a moment as she reaches into Wesker's personal space to touch his shoulder. Is he still a Tribute, despite his new station, subject to the whims of a disrespectful Mentor?

A muscle moved in his throat - a strange slithering to the left of his chin - but if she was expecting (hoping?) for a dramatic reaction she was to be disappointed.

"As well as theirs."

He reached up, arm crossing over his chest, and took her hand with his and brought her knuckles to his lips. A warm - too warm - brush that would have been chaste from anyone but him.

"Ms. Salazar."

There's something dark in her eyes when she grins, like fish moving beneath the surface of black water. She's surprised, and it's pleasant to be caught off guard in such a way.

"Enchanté," she says, as if they're just introducing themselves to each other.

"Something more," he purred, "for them to say about you."

His mouth pulled again, and he leaned closer. An imposing wall of muscle and heat.

"Perhaps we'll get to find out whether Mr. Wallander is jealous."

She doesn't wilt as he leans in, as he pushes into that sacred bubble of personal space. She just stands a little straighter, plants her feet a little firmer, fixes her smile on harder.

"Oh, I think he'll just sulk. You know him."

Not as well as Eva does, though.

He clucked his tongue, amused, and leaned back again - a graceful shifting of weight.

"Pity," he sighed. "My days are so predictable."

Screams of pain and pleas for mercy got so old, so very quickly.

"Eat a damn doughnut, Wesker," she purrs back in that little mocking way, as if taunting. "Mix it up a little."

She reaches out and pats him on the elbow, and then turns to go.

"Give mine to Wallander," he replied as she turned. "The extra sugar will do him more good."

(Perhaps then one might be able to distinguish him from the furniture.)

With that parting shot, he turned as well, striding down the hall and disappearing around a corner - moving deeper into the bowels of the building.

I Will Contain You, Then Cast You Away [Semi-Open]

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