thecapitol | Everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger

Entry tags:

Everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger

Who| Molotov and Black Tom
What| Dinner
Where| Below Timberline
When| A few days after the end of the Arena
Warnings/Notes| nah

One extremely good part of being friends with Jolie meant never having a lack of animal prints in your wardrobe. Molotov wanted to be a big cat lounging in the trees -- and it wasn't like cheetah print didn't already appeal to the Brighton Beach whore part of Molotov's innate style. Gold bangles and miniskirts and velour everywhere, all the time.

It was easy enough to pull the strings and get a good reservation. Tributes were celebrities by nature, but Molotov's hard work at becoming a public figure really had paid off, as shops and restaurants figured it was fantastic to have someone so recognizable be seen in their doorways.

Her earlier words to Tom were true, though, and she's swept away from the paparazzi into the most private nest before he can even arrive. She waits patiently, long legs curled up next to her under her skirt, sipping at a glass of wine and almost childishly watching for him to round the corner with the hostess.

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"Exactly, and no one takes her seriously anyway. When I say she's insane, I mean it in the classical way. Asylums and straitjackets and electroshock. She could never bother me."

There's an indignant squeak as she reaches out for the bread and he takes it away, and she can only pinch him again, exaggerating her pout.

"Well of course I know that and he knows that," she says, "but it won't stop any rumors, if he keeps flapping his mouth. You think I want to have to answer questions from Caesar Flickerman about that? The boy is just angry because I killed his brother."

For someone who's spent as much time legitimately insane, with a tree actually growing out of his brain, Tom should probably feel a bit more sympathy for the mentally ill. He doesn't. Oh well.

Her pinching draws a chuckle from him, and he places the bread basket back down.

"I would have found some alternative if I knew everyone here was so petty. It's as though they forget we're in death games."

It's more annoying than anything else, that this demented girl has chosen Molotov as her hated person du jour. Yes, it had been an overdramatic murder, but really, was that any reason to keep running her mouth around town?

With a pleased noise, Molotov takes a piece of bread and slathers it in honey butter before resting back against Tom, her head tucked under his arm as she takes a bite. It's delicious, warm enough to still be steaming. She offers it to him once she's tasted it, eyebrow arched in approval.

"I guess even old hats like us can learn something," she says. "We've learned that these people hold it against you if you actually try to win. So we'll just have to kill them more viciously, so they learn that we like to play the game."

He lets her pop the piece of bread into his mouth as if they were feeding each other strawberries. Her eyebrow is matched with a smile. "That's delicious."

Content to have Molotov settled against his chest, he takes a piece of bread, breaks it in half and frosts it with one of the other butters before handing a morsel to Molotov. He takes a bite of his own and chews thoughtfully, delicately patting a crumb from his mustache. "Ginger butter. Interesting choice. I'm looking forward to trying the rum butter next."

He nods. "It's not really fair to the Capitol if they put all this effort into the Games and end up with a Kumbaya circle instead."

As if he cares what's fair to the Games, but he's sure they're being monitored even now.

"Well, it's not really fair to anyone," she says, pausing to take the bread from him and chew. She shakes her head as she swallows. "The Capitolites have no entertainment, the Capitol wastes its resources, and people who deserve to win -- or at least try -- wind up as victims for actually doing their jobs here. Being a Tribute is supposed to be an honor, not some kind of insane burden like these hippies make it out to be."

Some of it is lip service, for the paparazzi that she's sure the restaurant is letting monitor them. Some of it is true.

Molotov obliges his desire for the rum butter, breaking a piece of bread in half for it, then shrugs. "But I didn't dress up and come all the way out here to talk about people I don't like, darling."

"Mindless, inconsiderate idealists, all of them." He sighs and sets that thought away. Enough of discussing their competition (their roommates, unfortunately). Enough of bemoaning the state of the world.

"Was that an invitation to talk about me, or even better, talk about yourself?" The rum butter's the best, and his contented sigh communicates that well. "Because I'm happy to learn everything about you. I'm waiting with bated breath."

She smiles when he sighs, reaches up to stroke his cheek, and takes another sip of her wine.

"What else do you want to know? I am hardly so complicated as people make me out to be," she says demurely, reaching for his hand. "But for you, I am an open book."

Everything. He wants to know what her favorite book was growing up, how she likes her coffee, what she thinks about when she looks at a sunset, what murder was most satisfying, whether she likes to sleep with socks on or not.

But these things may all come with time.

"Tell me what your happiest memory is."

There's a moment where she pauses, looking genuinely thoughtful. She has plenty of happy memories, but the happiest? Well, that's a pretty big order.

"My happiest memory." She smiles nostalgically. "Probably the first time Papa saw me bull's-eye a target. I was thirteen. He was so proud, he smiled and told everyone how smart I was. My father was... not the most affectionate man, very hard to impress. I had just lost the Olympics the year before, he'd been so disappointed. So to make him that happy was very special."

"That sounds wonderful." That was the age he and Theresa started drifting apart, when she was thirteen. He'd tried to have it both, his criminal lifestyle and her custody, and had made the foolish decision to send her to boarding school. It's one of the largest on his short list of regrets.

"My own parents weren't around enough for me to care about their approval. I was practically raised by a nanny, with my imbecile of a cousin." There's so much vitriol in his voice right then.

She places a hand on his chest, seeking to calm him, take all the anger out of his voice, and nods. "I'm sorry," is all she can think to say. "My father was opposite, very overprotective, possessive. He was a spy, I don't know that he knew any other way to be. Both ways are hard, I think."

Molotov takes another slice of bread, slathers it in the rum butter, then holds it up to him. "Your turn, you have to share now."

"It's not as if I have any Freudian issues about it, although I'm sure done pop psychologist could contribute my chosen career path to not getting hugged enough as a child." He shrugs. He hates his cousin, not his parents. He's only sometimes surprised by the depths of his ambivalence towards their memories.

"Mine will make me sound like a sentimental parent. I was teaching my child how to become a thief, and she was remarkably good at it. She, my partner in crime and I were heading towards New York City for her first big heist, and we truly believed it would go off without a hitch."

His memory is met with a genuine smile, wide across her face. Sure, he may have said that his daughter is estranged now, but to Molotov, he sounds like a wonderful parent, even despite the mistakes he surely made, as all parents do.

"I like it," she murmurs. "Did she make a rookie mistake?"

He waves a hand. "Hardly! She performed magnificently. You would hardly be able to tell she was a novice."

And, as he takes a bit more bread and the waiter brings by soup for them both, he sighs. "We just had an unanticipated encounter with a superhero we didn't know existed."

"Oh god." It's groaned sympathetically, though Molotov tends to deal more with government forces than proper superheroes. She just thinks superheroes are stupid as hell, that's all.

"Your poor girl, so unfortunate to have such a special moment ruined."

"I was livid. But I like to preserve the memory before it went sour." Before Theresa was taken away from him. He only saw her once more since then, in person. A shadow crosses his face and heart, and he decides to move on to happier topics as he tries the soup. It's as impressive as the bread.

"I would eradicate superheroes if I could, honestly. They're nothing but trouble."

She idly strokes his knee, feeling a little bad to have talked about something that clearly upsets him. She tries her soup as well, humming appreciatively, and nods.

"I can't say I really understand their perspective. Who cares so much about strangers that they feel the need to interfere in jewel heists or what have you?"

"Especially because the act of vigilanteism is illegal in its own right. The hypocrisy is so thick you could choke on it." Not that Tom actually cares about that; being a caped crusader could be totally legal and Tom would still pout over it. Superheroes: literally the worst.

"My partner's step-brother had a whole gaggle of heroes that he sent out to die on his behalf. Someone should have taken them down for conspiracy."

"It's interesting that it seems to be so common where you come from, heroes and villains. For me, they exist at home, sure, but most people just have regular jobs." She shrugs and eats another spoonful of soup, looking at him. It is a little hard for her to comprehend, a world where heroes and villains run around willy-nilly, without the Guild or OSI to keep them in check. Red tape may be a hassle, and the organizations stupid, but that's what they exist for, to keep the twits in check while the truly dangerous escape notice.

"Oh, plenty of people have regular jobs. It's only a small percentage of elite people who can make it their life." And Tom's quite proud of that, thank you. He takes some of the soup, which is as delicious as the bread, and wraps his arm around Molotov's waist.

She nestles into his side with a soft breath, combining the bread and soup by dipping the former into the latter. She's far more used to that anyway, that's how you eat soup.

"Now who has a big head, Mr. Elite?" she teases, looking at him as she takes a bite of her bread. "Between your villainous antics and your leprechauns, I don't know how you have time for anything else."

"I normally leave the leprechauns to their own matters, really. I only terrorize them when I'm at the peak of my boredom."

He grins that wily, slightly-dangerous grin and takes her lead on sopping soup with the bread. He prefers it buttered, but he may as well try her habits.

"I'm allowed to have an ego. I've earned it."

Molotov snorts and pokes his side a little, swallowing her bread before answering.

"And yet you make fun of me. I may not have leprechauns, but I've earned just as much as you, mister," she jokes, nudging him with her knee. "Maybe even a little more."

"Technically, I didn't earn the leprechauns. They came with the castle." He lost the castle, but that's bitching for another time. He nudges her knee back, and then rests his thigh next to hers, so that they are as one.

"Oh? Regale me with tales about your net worth, dear."

"Ah, of course, the Cassidy family leprechauns." It's said with a laugh. "They're heirlooms."

She rests her head against him, chewing another mouthful of soup and bread before launching into it. "Let's see. I went freelance after the Dissolution, so I was... mm, twenty-two? Twenty-three? Within five years, I was among the most sought-after mercenaries in the world. Two years ago, I launched my own company, an all female mercenary group I called my Black Hearts. We were the most in-demand mercenaries in the western hemisphere. The group was only dissolved due to my need to go on the run... well, and an unfortunate accident happening to my girls."

Pausing for a sip of wine, Molotov smirks, perhaps smugly. "And that was all after qualifying for the Olympics before puberty, so."

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