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

[vissernone]

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.

Comments

[currupted]

If there's one question Cyrus is growing sick of hearing, it's What happens to the Tributes who don't come back? He doesn't know. He doesn't know that anyone knows. He doesn't care. But it's just one more thing that's become more complicated since the Games changed - one more thing for the Tributes to hold against them, one more thing you just never had to think about before.

She's right, of course, that he can't flat refuse this. Of course it is is what he wants to say - she's got a brand on her face, after all, the fact that she's here, speaking with him, is presumption - but it is not his job to say so.

"...It's never presumptive to ask." He slides smoothly around making any promise, but pleasantly enough. "Besides, you've been such a help to us, Ms. Salazar-- I think you're allowed a little presumption, at this point."

[vissernone]

It's a dance, a knife fight. Though they stand perfectly still with their doughnuts and their nice clothes, they're circling each other, afraid to expose backs and bellies. She hears that he doesn't commit to a promise; it's like a missing drumbeat in a measure. She respects it. It's deftly-handled.

"A few weeks back, I did a favor for your brother. He was in need of a Mentor's expertise regarding some unruly Tributes of his."

It goes unspoken that Stephen owes her repayment, that she hasn't called it in yet. That she could. It's her way of making a threat without the risks an overt display would entail. Cyrus can't be oblivious to how malleable his brother is; Eva picked up on it within seconds of meeting him. Familiarity may cloak flaws but it doesn't work its charms on someone as intelligent as Cyrus.

"There's a girl I care for, Eponine Thenardier. She has something of a mouth on her and worse impulses, though she's entirely harmless. I have her at my home more often than not, and for reasons of politeness, for reasons of protecting her fragile self-esteem, I don't possess the cruelty to tell her to stop coming over. But I would like authorization to install a more rigorous security system for my personal files, because I wouldn't want a little street rat going through my finances and identifiers."

[currupted]

Cyrus' expression goes a little flatter at the mention of Stephen. His brother is still in the family's disgrace, though no longer confined to quarters. Cyrus has long forgiven him his part in the disaster, of course - forgiveness is never a question with Stephen - but the incident, the misunderstanding, the cuff had reminded him just how malleable his brother is. How easy to procure a favor from. How unwilling to question the purpose to which his goodwill will be turned.

He's loath to offer any help to Eva Salazar, to afford her any special treatment whatsoever. ...But he's equally loath to trust Stephen to do anyone any more favors. There it is-- she's found his weak point, the softest part of him; she has only to hold the knife where it is. There's no need to drive it in.

"...I know Miss Thenardier," he says. There is history in that statement. He doesn't just know of her-- he knows her mouth and her impulses, and he is not convinced of her harmlessness. "And I certainly understand your concern. Though--" With an attempt at wry humor, at a neat deflection-- "--It is Eponine. Are you sure she's... computer-literate enough to access your personal files?" (Are you sure she's literate at all?)

[vissernone]

Eva's a good enough actress that there's no sign on her face of the glee she gets when she sinks her claws into that tender piece of Cyrus' heart. She doesn't need to tell him with her face that she's made her threat. The subtext of her words is enough.

"I mean my physical files, Mr. Reagan. I just want authorization for biometric locks to my study. I know the girl can pick a physical one."

She's wreaking a trail of deniability for Eponine, for when everything goes down. Eva's ragged adoptive daughter will know nothing, will only know that her "Mama" goes to spend time with Wallander regularly, took a cab home drunk those nights. She'll be wreathed in the armor of Eva's secrecy.

She smirks and cajoles. "Of course, I understand if that sort of authorization isn't something that a Reagan can pull off." That's amateur bargaining, sophomoric teasing. She knows Cyrus isn't simple enough to be swayed by needling his ego. This can just be the story he tells himself later, to try and believe that she wasn't dangling Stephen over the pit.

[currupted]

He's trying to figure out what about this might be bigger than it looks. Favors, and the subtle art of calling them in, are so rarely about what they appear to be. There's nothing dangerous whatsoever about doing something for someone. No, the danger comes in the power that gets traded along with even the smallest favor, and Cyrus is loath to give any of it to Eva. He has no idea what she might do with it.

But there must be balance - and he has to admit that this could be worse. She might have called it in from Stephen, and he'd never have known about it. She might have asked for something more delicate, less straightforward. Can he really afford to turn her down only to make a point?

And so he laughs, a little sheepish, caught in a moment of misunderstanding. A physical lock. Of course.

"It'll require a special caucus of the Cabinet," he says dryly. "I'll have to put it to a vote. President Snow himself will have to sign off on it." Hyperbole, as joking reply to the implication that there is anything he can't do. "I imagine I won't be able to get it to you for... oh... two days?"

--And, there. That's the agreement. "So, if you think you can keep Miss Thenardier's paws out of your study until Saturday..."

[vissernone]

"Thank you. I appreciate it very much."

She imagines herself a cat, holding a dying mouse between her paws, sinking a claw in here, slowly. The organs move around like little ball bearings in a squishy sack of blood and skin. The prey wriggles.

She knows it's a deluded fantasy. She can only picture herself as having any power if she strips away the context she exists in; the truth is that even though she's found an upper hand on Cyrus now, he could make a quiet phonecall tonight and have her house bulldozed and her existence denied. Claim she fell asleep with a lit cigarette and set her mattress ablaze. Have her disappear and put out a comment to Panem Nightly that the Peacekeepers are likely looking hard for her, but they suspect the worse, that they'll find a body at best.

But in this small victory she is the cat, and it's all she can do not to lick her chops.

"I'm sure I can manage it a few days. She does get around, you know. She has so many gentleman callers." Eva smirks as if she's making a sly joke at Eponine's expense. "I suppose she does take after me. Now, I don't want to take up more of your time..."

She moves to leave, to finish getting checked in and to go see Wallander with a box of doughnuts slightly lightened.

[currupted]

Cyrus is not accustomed to feeling like prey. He is not accustomed to standing on the inside of the trap. It doesn't matter how small the trap is, how benign the predator. It doesn't matter whether the cat is collared and leashed. It is the principle of claws and teeth that makes him squirm and sweat in the cage; it is the implication of the hunt that might have been that makes his skin feel tight with helpless fury.

He laughs at Eva's joke, politely enough; and he steps into her path before she goes.

Lets her stop in her tracks for him, just for a second. Makes of himself an obstacle, and in the process, a reminder: What just happened was an anomaly. I will never again move for you.

He smiles at her, swift and polite and too close, and plucks one more doughnut from the box. "For later," he says. Lingers a second in her space, because he can. And then steps back.

"Good luck with the investigation, Ms. Salazar." It's easier to look down on her from a few steps away. His parting smile is almost friendly. "My people will be in contact with you."

He gives her a nod; slings his jacket over his shoulder, and leaves the station.