thecapitol | Well I've Got Thick Skin and an Elastic Heart [Closed]

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Well I've Got Thick Skin and an Elastic Heart [Closed]

Who Linden Lockhearst and Stephen Reagan
What| Two long-time District 6 veterans finally get a chance to catch up after not seeing each other for awhile.
Where| District 6's tower suite
When| After the mini-arena, today
Warnings/Notes| Likely talk of drug use, drinking, bidding, killing kids, murder, etc, and the PTSD of a couple people who've had to witness the Games from up close every year. Will update with certainties as they expose themselves!

With a District 6 victory courtesy of Punchy, Linden's been congratulated a few times. Technically, it is a triumph, a pretty good thing to come back to from such a long stint in rehab, but he's uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had relatively little to do with the kid's win. He's still getting the hang of these new Games anyway, because he was gone for such a long time.

It was necessary, of course. He can't dispute that. The series of events that had led up to his longest forced rehabilitation is a scattered and confusing one, but the important parts stand out.

"Snow? What about Snow? I'll need another champagne before I can talk at length about that..."

Uncomfortable laughter. A cautious suggestion that maybe he'd already had enough. The bracing, resentful defiance that came with such a suggestion, until his tantrum prevailed and another flute was slipped into his hand. Just a sip and the world was spinning, and it was starting to be all right again, strong stuff, all the rage in the Capitol...

"Like I was saying..." words slurring, vision dimming, very strange even for the strong stuff. Was it just champagne? The person who had given it to him was gone, slipped away through the cluster of fascinated, horrified listeners. "President Snow crossed a line at the Winter Bidding. People like that didn't even used to be eligible to bid, there USED to be a screening process, and YES I'm angry about it. So, to make up for it, President Snow can get down on his knees and suck a..."

The floor had rushed up at that point, and his memory was a blank void until he'd woken under bright lights with his chest in crushing pain.

(I'm so sorry, Mr. Lockhearst. You won't be feeling yourself for some time, we had to break some ribs to restart your heart. Let's talk about your substance abuse... obviously, you'll need to remain here until you are well enough to face the public again...)

Now, after months of therapy, coloring books, withdrawal and preparation, he is back in the public eye and back to his old duties, to the best of his ability, anyway. There's no longer the shared background with the District 6 Tributes, and while he's glad that he's not sending off children he knows personally to be slaughtered by Careers, he's also off-kilter, out of his element, and already relapsing. The familiarity of the Tower and some of the other Mentors helps nothing; if anything, the juxtaposition with the unfamiliar Tributes, the sheer number of them flooding through, the oddness of it all, just makes the familiar elements seem bizarre.

Linden has never been good at making new friends, making the ones who already know him that much more precious. They're few and far between, though, scattered at parties and helping their respective Tributes (because of course, most of what counts as "friends" to Linden are other Victors.) Midday, in District 6's suite, Linden is alone with the symbols of his vices and his own troubled thoughts, and it's one of the rare occasions where he wishes he wasn't.

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For the past few days, Stephen has barely even seen Linden. Maybe glimpsed him once or twice, across the room, on his way from busy to busier, but there has never been time even to say hello.

And honestly? There is a part of him, a guilty part that he'd never actually admit out loud to anyone (besides a close friend or two) that felt a surge of apprehension when he'd heard Linden was out of rehab and in his hands again. Linden has always been a handful; there is no denying that, and Stephen's hands have been full indeed what with rebellious Tributes staging jailbreaks and committing vandalism during blackouts and being Kevin, oh god Kevin, is Kevin not enough?

But Linden is more than just a headache. Linden is an old coworker, an old partner, an odd duck who could be sharp as a tack when he wanted to and downright endearing when he didn't. Linden and his string of messes had been part of District 6 since Stephen got the job, and he has a pretty good idea of how to work around Linden, how to tolerate the minor neuroses and avoid triggering the big ones, when to use a firm hand and when to cover for him.

Stephen has never been a particularly prescient person, and Linden is the picture of unpredictable. Just about the only thing Stephen can predict is that things would be definitely interesting with Linden around.

But again, between the Mini-Arena and his newly regained right to attend Capitol parties, Stephen has been unforgivably busy since Linden's arrival, and it is only when he walks into the D6 rooms after a long conversation with their stylist, harried and tired, running a hand through his hair and shrugging out of his glittering violet suit jacket, that he finds both Linden and the time to speak with him.

He flashes Linden a tired grin. "Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," he says by way of greeting. "It's been a while."

With the suit jacket off, the ugly metal cuff around his wrist is impossible to miss: he has the sleeve of his shirt rolled up just enough to display it, accepting the punishment rather than trying to hide it. It clashes horribly with the shimmering eyeliner, the actual diamonds on his other shirt cuff and his ears, and the perfectly tailored suit. It clashes with everything.

When Stephen arrives, Linden is almost dozing, eyes half-closed with his shaggy head thrown back against the cushions of the couch he's draped across. All it takes is hearing the voice of the escort to restore him to full alertness, however; he's on his feet faster than he looks capable of, face breaking into a tense, pale smile at the sight of that glittery, glittery man. Stephen and Linden have little in common, but they're different in all the right ways, something Linden had learned early on. Games, Victory Tours, parties... all of them had been survivable because of Stephen's presence and patience. When he could help, Stephen did, and when he couldn't... he was always there to pick up the pieces, for Tributes and Victors alike.

He crosses the room in several long strides, wrapping Stephen in a tight embrace that is probably more than a little uncomfortable for the other man. Linden is all sharp angles and protruding bones. His clothes are meant to fit closely, but hang on his gaunt frame; his stylists can't keep up with his frequently-changing dimensions and as a result, what he's wearing usually has a lot of empty space. Today, at least some of that space is occupied by several clinking glass vials in one of his pockets, casually lifted from a Tribute's hospital room.

"It's so good to see you again."

His hand deftly falls on the cuff as he pulls away, drawing it to his eye level.

"I almost didn't see you again... what happened, Stephen?"

Forget how uncomfortable it is: nothing could possibly be worse than the hugs Kevin gives. Stephen wraps his arms around Linden's spindly shoulders and returns the hug warmly, and just like that the apprehension melts away -- at least for now. When Linden pulls away, the smile on Stephen's face is easier, relaxed.

He lets Linden manhandle his arm; he's used to Linden's complete disregard for personal space, and honestly it doesn't surprise him that the first thing Linden picks up on is the cuff.

"Yeah, I heard," he says brightly. "That must have been one hell of a party." Stephen knows it wasn't, knows that the past few months must have been extremely hard, but pretending for the sake of politeness and not dragging up bad memories is easier. "What, this?" he asks -- as though Linden could have meant anything else -- looking from him to the cuff. "Actually, it's kind of embarrassing," Stephen admits with a half-laugh. "There was this whole kerfuffle with the Tributes and the Peacekeepers, and the short version is, one of the Tributes tricked me into doing something that looked really bad." His tone is bemused, longsuffering, like why would they do that to me, I don't get it.

It is a complete fabrication.

"So I got saddled with this, which is bad, and three months of being blacklisted from official Games parties, which was worse." He's clearly expecting sympathy, or at least for Linden to acknowledge how hard it is to be banned from parties. "Three months!"

This is also an act.

Well, being banned from the parties had been terrible. And it had made his job as an Escort much, much harder. But Stephen is deliberately playing up the petty distress over his slap on the wrist, drawing attention away from the actual offense, and making himself look like every other Capitol airhead with absolutely no Tribute sympathies and no ability to see past the end of his nose. It's a pretty convincing act. After all, he has a lot of experience being that person.

Linden doesn't comment on the party quip, seeming absorbed with the wristband's color and sheen as he turns Stephen's wrist over, back and and forth, flipping it several times.

"Embarrassing," he repeats, sounding doubtful; in the time he's known Stephen, the man's been both professional and discreet. What he's describing doesn't sound in-character, even on a wild night; it's more in line for the self-destructive former Mentor, actually, which might be why he finds it so strikingly odd despite being presented in such a nice package.

"I know how much you love parties. That must have been hard," he says, noting the way that Stephen seems to be fishing for that sympathy and delivering it in due course. He bites his lower lip. "But it isn't like you. I have a really hard time tricking you, so... I don't really think a Tribute could, you know? Call it a matter of personal pride."

Edited 2014-11-14 05:25 (UTC)

It wasn't all that out of character. Stephen Reagan, while he can be very perceptive about people who he considers his responsibility, and is not technically stupid, is a man who has spent the majority of his life with his critical thinking skills switched firmly off. His older brother can be blamed for this: Cyrus Reagan, five years Stephen's senior, stifled any urge Stephen might have had to question the Capitol's doings and fostered unhealthy, codependent trust -- in both himself and the wisdom of the Capitol. The depth of that codependency, Stephen still has not realized, even if he's grown aware of the fact that Cyrus sheltered him in a very dishonest way.

"That's because you've never faked a Peacekeeper communication," replies Stephen briskly, still easily tolerating the examination of his wrist. "Look, here's what happened. A few months ago, Hsiang Jiao was assassinated." The name would be familiar to Linden: Hsiang was a head Peacekeeper, second in command to Cruentus herself, in charge of interrogations and torture. She was not held to any kind of accountability, because one, she got results, and two, her subordinates were too terrified by her actual literal insane sadism to do anything about it. "The Peacekeepers rounded up the suspects in the middle of the night and dragged them off to prison. Over half of them were Tributes, which upset a bunch of the other Tributes," he says with an eyeroll, "and they put together a harebrained, half-baked scheme to try to break out their friends." His tone here is over-casual, like he's talking about an ill-advised but harmless prank. "They were all caught, of course--" of course, the Capitol is omnipotent -- "but some of them were out of custody for a few days."

Here, he pauses for breath.

A flicker of recognition ignites Linden's dark, lacquered eyes when he hears the name. Stephen's not wrong; he's very familiar with the it, as well as its owner. He's also familiar with the lack of accountability she had been held to, and a shadow falls over his gaunt features.

"So... it looked like you were helping the Tributes," he says slowly, trying to piece things together. "Which... is what we're supposed to do, right? Escorts, Mentors... we have to do our job, for Panem today, tomorrow, whatever. It's our duty, so that bracelet doesn't look half bad, if you ask me."

He lets go of Stephen's wrist, as if it's grown too heavy in his grasp, slinking back to the couch and reaching for the glass bottle tucked between the cushions. "I don't understand these Tributes very well. They're not all scared kids. They're not all even human. You really couldn't have come back at a better time..."

"I'm not supposed to help them break the law," complains Stephen, following Linden to the couches and dropping into an armchair. "And the bracelet doesn't go with anything."

It's a good act. It deflects attention from Linden's nearly treasonous statement about the cuff, and it is just shallow enough to echo Stephen in earlier years: he is the picture of a tricked, insulted, and completely obtuse Capitol citizen. The difference is, Stephen doesn't believe what he's saying. It's a subtle difference, difficult to detect, but it is there.

"But you're right about the new Tributes," he says, seizing the opportunity to change the subject -- and recognizing that this will be a useful thing to discuss with Linden. "In a lot of ways, they're harder to work with. They have old lives, whole histories, and they're used to places that are very different from this. They're used to being citizens." They're used to being free, is what he means -- but of course, he can't say that. Participating in the Hunger Games was an honor, wasn't it? That was the party line? Stephen had believed it for a long time, even as it got harder and harder each year to send children into the Arena. "But I can give you a rundown of everyone in Six right now."

Linden mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like "It's only breaking the law if you get caught." To him, this is absolutely true, and even then, the rules are much laxer for Victors, with some exceptions, of course. Treason is such an exception, and Linden knows it... but, again, only if one is caught.

He plays along with the act, dropping the subject of the bracelet, willing to indulge Stephen's attempt to keep the conversation as innocent as possible, at least the appearance of innocent.

He nods at Stephen's assessment, agreeing, fully, that the new Tributes have their particular difficulties. Those little icebreakers he's used to reaching for with District 6 kids are no longer an option. Inside jokes, town references, traces of culture that Linden has remained aware of despite cutting himself off from most people were the only really reliable way to put petrified Tributes at ease... none of them are available to him anymore.

"I've met a few of them," Linden replies, skeletal fingers unscrewing the cap of the bottle in his hands. It isn't the sweet liquor that's everywhere in the Capitol; it's acrid stuff, distilled in District 6, on par with moonshine for crudity and strength. Out of respect for Stephen more than any desire to stay sober, he approaches his swallows with relative moderation.

Stephen tolerates it. Alcohol is the least of Linden's addictions; it's fine as long as the Mentor behaves himself. Linden can drink until he gets unruly. Then, he's getting cut off. But luckily, it looks like Linden is taking it fairly slow.

"Who do you know about so far?" he asks. "And what do you think of them?"

Stephen decides to ask this while Linden is still sober. Because when Linden is sober, he's got really, really good thoughts.

It's not a stressful night, not horribly so. There have been worse ones in their history working together up to and including accidental drunkenness and purposely trying to convince bidders that he was a violent lunatic so they'd leave early. There's no bad experience that Linden can't make worse; in a lot of ways, he's absolutely like the fox who will gnaw off its own foot to escape a trap.

"I know about... Clementine, and Karkat. Punchy, as well. I think that I like Clementine, Karkat's got his interesting points, and Punchy's really... really obnoxious, I don't like what he calls music. Especially in the mornings."

When Linden says "morning" he does mean early to mid afternoon. Stephen likely is well aware of this.

Stephen winces in sympathy, but it's more than half a smile. "Punchy's very lively," he agrees. "But he's also brilliant at getting into computers. He's gotten himself into more than a little trouble trying to get into Capitol systems. Look out for that."

It's not the full story. Punchy had gotten into systems, and then been temporarily Avoxed for it. But Punchy didn't like to talk about his time as an Avox, and Stephen respected that -- he wouldn't bring it up unless he had to. But he will let Linden know that Punchy is a troublemaker. It's a good thing to know.

"Probably the first person you need to be aware of is Kevin. He's the only other Victor in Dee-Six right now, so I'm sure you'll meet eventually. He's..." Here, Stephen trails off, and the wince is sincere. He didn't like talking badly about Kevin. It was like talking badly about a dog. A dog that had been trained to tear human beings to shreds and then eat their meat. It was exactly like that, actually. "He's from a place that is very different from here. It's called Desert Bluffs, and from what I've figured out, it was run like a very religious corporation, with a side helping of microchip brainwashing."

He runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry -- I'm probably not making any sense. Let me try again: Kevin has a microchip in the back of his neck that keeps him manically happy. It also makes him think about absolutely everything in terms of business. He thinks of being a Victor as a promotion. That's how his mind works."

L's eyebrows raise when Stephen warns him to look out for Punchy's computer skills. He doesn't immediately see how something like that could be useful in the arena, and especially if he's been Avoxed for using those skills, he can in fact see how the Gamemakers would ensure he couldn't. But Linden doesn't know yet about the Avoxing, so he's glad to switch gears from the rather grating individual to the new, and enigmatic, Kevin.

At first, it really doesn't make much sense. Stephen's rephrasing helps. He frowns, his pale features momentarily interrupted by a shadow; leave it to the Capitol to make sure the other Mentor is someone like that.

"Don't most citizens think of it as a promotion?" He asks. "I mean... riches, romance, respect, isn't it everything most people want?"

He takes another drink, deeper than the last. Of all people, he is jealous of anyone who is happy constantly, whether they want to be or not.

"But I mean much more literally." Stephen shifts, leaning forward in his chair. "Everything he says is framed in terms of business. His Crowning speech sounded like someone who'd just been made a board member. When he won, he said he was excited to be in a management position. He's insane."

Stephen shakes his head and wrings his hands for a moment.

"Be polite to him and he'll be polite to you. He knows no one here really likes him, but the chip keeps him from being too upset about that. He's starting to shake off its control, though, so I have no idea how well that will end. It is what it is."

Linden blinks twice, tipping the bottle back and drinking deeply, to the point where it makes him cough at the harshness of the liquor.

"Victors aren't supposed to be insane," he replies softly. "Not when they win, at least. You remember Titus... the avalanche..."

He gives it some thought, then tips the bottle back again.

"If being insane is anything like being drunk... or high... I think maybe I'd like it. I'm going to talk to Kevin at the first opportunity."

A beat of silence, of did you seriously just say that silence.

"Please don't," he quips, meaning the trying-insanity bit rather than the talking-to-Kevin. "My job is difficult enough as it is."

One Kevin and one Linden are tricky enough the way they are.

"You're right. Victors aren't supposed to be insane or cannibals. But Kevin is both, and that's what we have to deal with. If you have any trouble with his behavior, tell him he's acting unprofessional, and he'll cooperate."

Linden unfortunately tends toward that, saying things that make jaws drop even if they aren't blatantly treasonous. He has the absolute minimum amount of required shame and restraint, especially when it comes to Stephen, with whom he feels like he can speak more freely. Maybe that's a mistake, but if he didn't have such an outlet, it wasn't a reach to say that he would probably have gone much crazier a long time ago.

The mention of Titus had been intended to make a point, but it seems like Linden has accidentally made more of one than he'd expected. His brows shoot toward his hairline when he hears that Kevin is insane and a cannibal, and that clinches it; he is irreversibly fascinated with this bizarre Victor from another world.

"I must ask him what humans taste like," he notes, thoroughly amused with the fact that, by crowning him a Victor, the Capitol has made a mockery of some of its prior rules. Clearly, Linden doesn't have many concerns with "unprofessional" behavior from Kevin; if anything, his new goal is to draw it out.

Stephen closes his eyes and leans back with a resigned sigh.

"I'm sure he'd be delighted to tell you." He opens his eyes and props himself up on an elbow. "Anyway, about the other Tributes. Be careful of Molotov Cocktease. She's incredibly willful and a little bit scary, and doesn't seem afraid of anything. But she plays to win and has taken control of her own marketing contracts, so she's the one I'd bet on to be our next winner. Skye is another hacking genius. Sarcastic, guarded, pretty. I like her. Belle is sweet. She's a very kind person -- a dream to work with." Unsaid is, I'm really sorry she's here. "Bro Strider is..."

Here, Stephen breaks off.

"Bro Strider does puppet pornography. If you've seen those long-nosed, naked puppets around the Capitol, they're his. The story we have going for him is that he did it to help support his little brother, who is the only one he has a soft spot for."

Linden knows that sigh; it's Stephen's way of letting him feel like he's won, even though they both know who's right. Most escorts are pretty good at handling egos with kid gloves, especially incendiary burnout celebrity egos.

"I've been warned about Molotov, heard of Skye, spoken with Belle, and..." he shakes his head, blinking in something like disbelief when he hears about Bro Strider's apparent calling.

"I'd wondered whose those were. Is his brother here? If he is, the odds are slim they both ended up in 6, aren't they?"

"Dave Strider's in 9," says Stephen matter-of-factly. "So not technically our problem." His manner is brisk and breezy. "But the story's worked well, and smuppet sales have taken off -- they're selling faster than Bro can make them."

A beat.

"I don't understand the appeal."

He doesn't mention the time Bro pranked him by burying him in a pile of smuppets, or the time he'd had an ill-advised one night stand with both Bro Strider and Tres Jolie and had looked up at one point to find one looking at him. Better not to overshare. But it's clear Stephen finds them at least a little creepy.

Linden nods; his head both looks and feels heavier than it was, and with as seriously as he's been throwing back alcohol, there's certainly some truth to it.

"I understand the appeal," he says, words taking on the beginning touch of a slur. Stephen's probably very familiar with this point, the starting falters that eventually result in a very slippery and messy slope for the catastrophic Mentor. "They're puppets, and they're puppets for sex, and it's appropriate at best and ironic at worst. Or... ironic at best, and appropriate at worst? Either way, it's appropriately inappropriate, and just as expected as if they all did have strings tied to their hands and feet."

He raises the bottle again. It's starting to feel heavy, too, despite containing far less than it did at the beginning of the conversation.

Oh yes, Stephen knows the signs. Internally, he braces himself: this is not a part of the job he missed, but it is one he is capable of doing.

"Honestly, I don't think any of them thought about it quite that hard," says Stephen lightly. "Certainly not as hard as you."

Stephen is good at his job, ever balancing professional behavior with supportive friendliness. He's one of the few who can reign in Linden's out-of-control behavior and keep him something like content with the more maddening aspects of his job.

"I don't think hard anymore," Linden murmurs, his words running together. "I don't have a reason to. Good thing for them. If I had one... they'd have to look out."

"I'm sure," says Stephen brightly, pretending he doesn't understand what Linden is saying. He's smiling and nodding because smiling and nodding and playing dumb is the safest thing to do here. With any luck, Linden will give up on getting through to him, sigh heavily, and not say anything else.

Meanwhile, he's gauging what his chances of getting that bottle away from Linden are. They're at point A, and point B is bed. Stephen just has to figure out how to get there.

Stephen's demeanor has shallowed out significantly, and Linden is still present enough to realize it. And truly, he resents it a little; the loneliness of being a Mentor is amplified at times like this, when others are doing their best to humor him but anxious for him to simply roll over, dead to the world by his own self-loathing hand.

He clings to that bottle a little more tightly, recognizing it as his lifeline even though bottles like it have done him nothing but harm for the last 10 odd years.

"You're just saying that," he chuckles. "And why wouldn't you? It's the correct response."

Stephen feels a twinge of nervousness behind the easy smile. Linden's good at reading people. Has Linden figured out, yet, that what Stephen is saying is an act?

So here, he does something a little out of character: instead of denying it, confused and clueless, he changes the subject.

"What're you drinking tonight?" he asks.

Linden's definitely better than he tends to let on, and he's known Stephen for years, which doesn't help the escort evade his keen eye and sensitive ear for traitorous nuances.

"Motor oil," he drawls, turning the bottle in his hands. "Brewed in my District. Coarser than anything you'll find here, but a lot more potent, in ways. I suppose you want to try some," he suggests sweetly, fixing his gaze on Stephen, challenging him to admit his intention to get the bottle away from him.

Hell no, he's not going to admit it. Actually, Stephen laughs -- like Linden's just told a really funny joke.

"Oh, please," he says, "I bet it's practically milk. I bet," he says, toying with the metal cuff around his wrist, "I bet I could drink it without flinching."

"As an escort, I thought you weren't allowed to bet," he points out, quirking a brow at Stephen. "Either way, I don't mind sharing. I'm not that far gone, I still prefer to drink socially."

He makes like he's holding out the bottle, only to pull it back the second Stephen looks like he's going to succeed in taking it.

"Go get a glass, then."

They both know it's a game, they both know what's really happening here, so Stephen doesn't feel bad about the half-laugh that escapes him when Linden yanks the bottle away.

He goes and gets the glass, and sits back down, and then looks like he's hesitating.

"You'd better let me pour it," he says. "After all, I'm the sober one. If you try, it's going to end up all over the floor."

Your move.

Linden rolls his eyes. When he does this, it tends to last, a lengthy proclamation of having better notions to entertain than whatever has been suggested to him.

"I never spill alcohol. That would mean wasting it," he points out. "I'm sharing, which is incidentally not the same thing."

He points to the coffee table in front of him.

"Set it down. Even if it looks like I'm pouring two glasses instead of one, I have got this."

"That," Stephen says, referring to Linden's admission of seeing two glasses, "does absolutely nothing to help your case." The longer Linden talks, the less alcohol is being drunk. He dangles the glass between thumb and forefinger, idly. "And it's also bullshit. It's just that if you're drunk enough to spill, you're also too drunk to remember," he challenges.

Linden makes a grab for the cup, which is really more of a slow snatching motion, but his hand comes up tragically short. He's clearly beyond an adequate grasp of spacial awareness by this point, but he's still too stubborn to acknowledge what's staring them both in the face.

"You think I drink to remember? Wait, how long have you been an escort for District 6?" he asks sarcastically.

"That right there is exactly what I'm talking about," Stephen says with gravity, easily holding the cup out of Linden's reach. "You're too drunk to even remember how long I've been working here. Linden, friends don't let friends spill booze all over the floor because they're too drunk to pour it themselves."

"Guilty until proven innocent, is what that sounds like," he mutters reproachfully. "One more drink, and then you can have it. Deal?"

He starts to tip it back after a breath that is childishly deep, that communicates that he's going to attempt to finish the bottle with this "last" drink.

Oh no you don't.

Enough is enough. When Linden starts to tip the bottle back, Stephen lunges forward, counting on Linden to be too drunk to dodge. He reaches out, intending to deftly snap the bottle up and out of Linden's grasp.

Linden's too drunk to dodge, recover or even remain upright. He clings to the bottle, and even though he tries to square his shoulders and turn his back to Stephen in an attempt to give himself more leverage, he's simply not that strong or that heavy, and he tilts back fully, uncurling his body and staring dazedly at the ceiling.

"I'm on my back," he reports, fingers still in the general shape of a bottleneck even after it's been removed from his grasp. "Hey, Stephen... isn't it your job to get me out of that situation? I feel like I've been betrayed."

Ouch. Well, if anyone has the right to joke about that kind of thing, it's Linden.

"I promise you," he says, in a tone that is patient but also very dry, "you are completely safe from me."

There are few enough in the Capitol that Stephen wouldn't at least be amiable to sleeping with, especially after a few drinks, but Linden is one of them. Stephen is far too conscious of the power-dynamics and of the traumas Linden has in that particular area to fool himself into thinking that it would be anything but cruel. Linden isn't tempting.

He'll leave Linden staring at the ceiling for a moment -- he's going to put that bottle away and come back with a tall glass of water.

"Yeah, I know..." is the bleary reply, as Linden rubs at his eyes, starts to sit up, then thinks better of it and remains lying back. "Not really in my prime anymore, can't exactly miss that. Bidders've fallen off, except for the really freaky ones, they haven't missed it either. Do you know..."

He manages to sit up, calling after Stephen while the other man's getting the water.

"They ask if I think they look like him. I like saying they have too much skin..." jittery laughter. "Too much blood, too much life, and then I ask them what they're going to do to fix it. They never know what to say."

"Good God." He's appropriately disgusted. "Are you sure you want to be telling me about this? Don't tell me anything you wouldn't sober, Linden -- here, drink this."

He pushes the (plastic, unbreakable, not full enough to risk spilling) cup into Linden's hands.

If Stephen is appropriately disgusted, that makes precisely one of them.

"That's the thing... I'm not really sober all that much, anymore? It's hard to remember what it's like, and I have absolutely no reason to want to..."

He takes the water, sipping at it and grimacing.

"It tastes so empty. I can't believe people drink this when they don't have to."

"You were for a while there," Stephen says, dropping to the couch next to Linden, keeping an eye on him -- making sure all that water went where it was supposed to. "You're fresh out of rehab. You can't tell me there's nothing you wouldn't want me to know sober."

"A short while," he says, gagging slightly as he takes a swallow of water. "I hated every second of it. And maybe that is what I don't want you to know: that there's something I wouldn't want you to know."

He shudders, setting aside the glass.

"But that couldn't be it. You know pretty much everything about me. That's your privilege as an escort."

"That's only got so much to do with it," Stephen argues back, picking the glass up and putting it back in Linden's hand. "I've also known you forever. If I know everything about you, it's because you get drunk and tell me."

"Who else am I going to tell?" Linden challenges. "Some of it's really heavy, and like I said, I'm a long ways past my prime. I'm just not strong enough to carry it by myself. If you don't want me to be crazy, the least you can do is listen to a few drunk confessions. Or pretend to listen... honestly, at a certain point, I can't even tell and it's just as good."

He presses the heels of his hands against his bruised-looking, closed eyelids. Stephen is bound to recognize almost everything about this scenario as the point where Linden has officially tired himself out and needs to be shepherded off to bed.

Yep, he knows the signs. The worst is over, and Linden will go to bed, and if he's lucky, sleep until the afternoon.

Stephen puts an arm around Linden's shoulder. "Of course I listen," he says, gently. "Come on, that's enough for tonight. Let's get you to bed."

He does listen. He's good at listening, and if he didn't listen, he'd be less well-equipped to handle the day-to-day crises of living with Linden Lockhearst.

Linden is shockingly easy to drape and lift, probably more so than the last time he and Stephen were in this situation. Even after all that alcohol sitting heavily in his stomach and weighing him down, he's almost completely skin and bones, and he places a lolling nod against Stephen's side as he's hoisted to his feet and starts the slow shuffle toward his rich, ornate Capitol room.

Not that he can appreciate it in this state, but at least it's a place to lay his head where he won't be disturbed.

With one of Linden's arms around his shoulder and his hand gripping Linden's belt, the nerd-waif can be maneuvered easily enough. Stephen's not particularly strong -- any working out he's ever done has been for completely cosmetic reasons -- but Linden's lost weight.

That's not good.

But now isn't the time to pick a fight over it. Stephen will get Linden to his room, get him out on the bed, make sure his shoes are off, move a trash bin to the side of the bed because who knew if the worst was actually over, and get a blanket over him.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Well I've Got Thick Skin and an Elastic Heart [Closed]

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I don't remember who'd dropped at this point or who hadn't, so I'm going to list everyone he's met

Haha perfect

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