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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

"Heirlooms, vermin, what's the American phrase? 'Tomato, tomahto'?" He rests his cheek against the top of her head, his hand almost subconsciously stroking the crook of her waist.

"It's as if you're reading me a storybook where I know I like the ending." He drinks from his wine, too. "Will we be return to my District Suite tonight?"

Her fingers slide a bit up his leg to mimic the movements of his hand at her side. She snorts, though, casting him a joking glance.

"Are you counting yourself among my accomplishments?" she asks, teasing again. "My Suite is a shorter elevator ride."

"I would like to, but I wouldn't want to be presumptuous." He wishes his clothing were thinner, to better feel her hand. He wants her fingerprints all over him.

Molotov's fingers dance just high enough to graze the line between appropriate for public and inappropriate, then she smooths his trousers down as she returns to his knee.

"No, but you are being a bit egotistical again."

They've finished their soup. Tom rests one elbow on the back of the seat and keeps his other arm around Molotov, perfectly content to wait however long for the entrees.

"Is it unwarranted egotism, though?" He bats his eyes at her.

There's a slight lull between the courses, for conversation and digestion, and Molotov is terribly pleased to spend it cuddled up to him, moving her hand to lie on his stomach now.

"I can't say I know yet," she jokes, closing her eye for a moment as she soaks up the warmth of his body against her, the mild rocking of their booth in the breeze. A waiter sweeps by soon enough to clear the soup and bread, and present the second course -- fettuccine in a cream sauce with lobster tail meat and roe. It still steams slightly, hot in the cool of night, and Molotov sits up excitedly upon seeing it, leaning forward.

"Oh, caviar is my favorite."

"I'm hoping you come to a conclusion soon." And with that he rubs her side a bit with his knuckle, gentle, sensuous.

"Oh, very nice." Tom's a snob when it comes to ~~most things~~ pasta. He rolls up a ribbon of fettuccine on his fork and holds it out to her. "And your feelings on the noodles?"

All she does is smile when he moves his hand, her own fingers curling just slightly.

Molotov takes the bite, one hand to her mouth to catch any sauce that might drip, and nods appreciatively as she chews it. "Delicious," she answers, reaching for her own fork to spear some of the lobster meat and caviar on her next bite. "I'll be shocked if anything here isn't magnificent."

There's almost something disappointing about how wonderful everything here is. What's the point of being versed in earthly pleasure if not to remark on how most things don't live up?

"I would be too. You know, as vapid as the people here are-" and they don't seem the type to be terribly insulted by that truth- "they do know how to indulge."

Well, it's a fine restaurant -- Molotov is more than sure that there are other places that wouldn't match Tom's standards. She's pretty sure she heard about a Viking restaurant somewhere in the city.

"Their most worthwhile characteristic." She smiles through her next bite, and can't help but to quickly dab her fingertip in some of the roe to savor it on its own.

He dabs his fingertip too, and then holds it out for her to take a taste from him. To feel her mouth on him, even if just on his finger, those cherry lips with the upturn that seems set into her cheeks regardless of her expressions.

"Maybe we'll let them live, once we're out of this situation." He's teasing - he says it lightly enough that it could easily be a harmless joke - but he really does want out of here. Less immediately than his fellows, maybe, but the Capitol took something from him and he doesn't appreciate that.

The upturn is more concrete now, entertained and nearly spilling over with ideas that could reduce him to a puddle in public, leave her the clearly dominant force between them. But she isn't sure she wants that yet, and instead, she leans down to only gently lick away the caviar before sucking on just the very end of his finger.

"We'll need cooks, after all." Her tone mimics his, though perhaps it's a bit more light, knowing as she does that someone is probably listening in for soundbites to sell to Celebrus or PNN. Every word is risk in this city, every expression an opportunity for someone to find something you don't want them to.

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