Everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger

[molotov]

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.

Comments

[pimpcanes]

It could almost seem like a coincidence that Tom has a few details to his outfit that match Molotov's animal print, if to a subtler extent, but it's actually calculated. Before he dressed today, he looked up a a paparazzi livestream that spoiled him on her attire as soon as the first photograph of her was snapped. He made some strategic choices with Ms. Day and then went about selecting from his wardrobe before showing up exactly on time. It wouldn't do to keep a woman waiting, and he isn't stupid enough to make some sort of petty power play with Molotov about punctuality.

Knowing what she's wearing doesn't mean that she isn't still breathtakingly attractive when he sees her. Surprise is only one of the many ways she can speed up someone's heart.

"Good evening, my dear." He takes her hand and kisses the back of it before sitting down across from her. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."

[molotov]

Molotov beams when he's finally in sight, elated, and clutches tightly at his hand for the moment he holds it to kiss it. The odd little booth, hanging from the trees, bobs and sways under Tom's additional weight, the wine in the glasses on the table gently rocking but never spilling.

"I just wanted away from the vultures," she says, shaking her head. "I've only been here for a few minutes. Was your day all right? Those idiots aren't bothering you about the arena, are they?"

[pimpcanes]

"Bothering?" Tom's expression, so brightened by Molotov's presence, darkens for a moment, and he tugs at the collar of his shirt to reveal a dark purple bruise going down his neck. "The tin man threw me to the ground and tried to choke me, and that oaf Thor smashed me in the head, but that didn't leave a mark, thankfully."

He sighs heavily. "I swear, they're all animals and hypocrites here. Thankfully neither robots nor Norse gods were enough to keep me from making this dinner date." He picks up one of the wine glasses, sitting next to her in their arboreal booth. "Have you tried the wine yet, or were you waiting for my company?"

[molotov]

She gasps, genuinely surprised that anyone dared be so violent outside of the arena, with the Peacekeepers on such high alert, so ready to attack. How could it be worth it? She gently reaches out for Tom, curled at his side, and tenderly runs her fingertips along the nasty mark on his skin.

"No no, my darling," she murmurs, still touching his neck as if she could heal it. "Absolutely awful. I can't believe it, my poor Tom." She glances at the wine, her own glass half empty, and gives him a coquettish shrug. "Don't hold it against me that I took a few sips before you got here."

[pimpcanes]

It's been a while since he's had someone express that sort of concern over him. He didn't realize how much he had missed it, someone who saw his wounds as worth tending to after a scrape. He's spent too much of the last few years alone.

"For all their bleating about how I've transgressed some unspoken rule of decency, they're far too eager to break into violence the instant they see me." He wraps his arm around her, so they're cuddling here, in their haven in the trees. "And I can hardly blame you. What sort of red is it?"

As is fitting, it's one of those lovely restaurants that doesn't list prices. If you have to ask, you shouldn't be here. Tom has faith that his substantial sum of blood money will cover this meal and plenty more.

"Have you decided on what you want, dear?"

[molotov]

She still looks worried, green eye occasionally flicking back to his injury even as he changes the conversation. Leaning into him, she sighs, trying not to think about it. But with the way things have been going, the way people were talking when they thought no one was listening -- were the holier-than-thou Tributes about to start seeking vengeance on those who were just trying to play the game? That was worrying, on several levels.

"A pinot noir," she says, reaching to hold his knee, squeezing it lightly. "Their wine descriptions are beyond me, though, no place I've ever heard of is mentioned. The chef is sending us several courses, they told me he was excited to have us."

[pimpcanes]

He's worried, too, but only vaguely. He's quite used to being widely-hated and thankfully, security is crawling all over this city. He'll just have to stay in the line of sight of all the many cameras and police officers.

He doesn't particularly like law enforcement, given all the times he's been arrested or chased down, but they're useful enough in their own simple way. And here they don't even have any crimes on him that they don't condone.

"Ah, excellent." He settles his arm around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head. "And your day? How was it? No one's been giving you a hard time either, have they?"

[molotov]

Molotov practically melts into his side, reaching for her glass to take another sip of her wine. She feels so comfortable with him, content in a way she hasn't felt in a really long time. Since she first began seeing Monstroso, she thinks. Maybe before that.

"No," she says, shaking her head just a little. "But then I'm rarely around to give them the opportunity. Well... there's the French girl, but she's insane, and harmless. She's had it out for me ever since I told her to stop shedding her crocodile tears for the boy that was killed. The arena didn't help, I suppose."

There's a pause as she snuggles into his side, and the waiter drops off a bread course with several kinds of butters.

"And just so you know, the one you strangled with my underwear? He's in my District. So that's awkward. He keeps hissing things about having crabs, like I meant for you to show my panties to an entire country."

She has to pinch his side, hard, just for that.

[pimpcanes]

"She came by while I was gardening earlier, saying all sorts of awful things about you. I tried to talk sense into her but after a while decided that you wouldn't be bothered by the buzzing of flies, anyway."

He leaves a kiss on the part in her hair, and then she decides to tease him, and he spitefully, playfully pulls the basket of bread out of her reach.

"I'm sorry for using what was closest at hand, but he should know full well that there wasn't a single crab or louse or anything like that on them. He certainly got a chance to examine them well enough."

[molotov]

"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."

[pimpcanes]

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."

[molotov]

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."

[pimpcanes]

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.

[molotov]

"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."

[pimpcanes]

"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."

[molotov]

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."

[pimpcanes]

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."

[molotov]

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."

[pimpcanes]

"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.

[molotov]

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."

[pimpcanes]

"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."

[molotov]

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?"

[pimpcanes]

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."

[molotov]

"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."

[pimpcanes]

"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."