thecapitol | tried counting sheep

Entry tags:

tried counting sheep

Who| Sam Wilson and YOU! All of you!
What| Sleep issues and trying to settle post-arena
Where| Various spots in the Tribute Tower/over the Capitol
When| After the end of the arena and through the first week after, mostly before Panem Nightly
Warnings/Notes| Prompts for specific locations under the cut! Nightmare and PTSD-talk likely, probably mentions of violence and death

Late Nights in District 5
It’s probably not a secret that Sam hasn’t slept much since getting back from the arena, the same way that he can pick up the signs that he’s not the only one with sleeping problems in District Five. Some nights, he doesn’t even try - he either doesn’t return back to the floor at all, or when he does, he heads straight for the couch or the kitchen.

The nights he is there, he can be found in the common areas at all hours of the night, watching bad Capitol TV with the volume on low, in the kitchen making snacks, or even occasionally catching a few minutes of sleep on the couch before he jerks awake again.

In the Training Center
He’d been in the training room a lot before the arena, sure, but it’s even worse now. Whenever he has downtime that he can’t fill up by something else, Sam ends up here, going through a workout, practicing with whatever weapons are available, or just attacking the punching bags.

When he’s alone, he goes all out, sets up a playlist full of fast-paced, heavy workout songs and just loses himself in them.

When there’s other people there, though, he goes slower, reduces the pace so he can maintain a conversation, if they’re the type that will put up with him when he attempts to strike up one.

Out and About in the Capitol
Now that the curfew’s gone, most mornings he goes outside for his run. He hasn’t found a path he likes enough yet to make it a regular one, so he alternates routes through the parks and on the sidewalks.

When he’s done, sometimes he lingers in the Capitol, going shopping or just wandering around to get a better feel for the city, keeping an eye out for anyone he knows. Or anyone who looks like they might be a Tribute, instead of another… interestingly dressed Capitol citizen.

For Close CR
Some nights, he just can’t stand the thought of being alone. All right, a lot of nights, and he’s not too proud to seek out company when he needs someone else’s presence to pull him out of the thoughts that get stuck in his head.

Even if he does feel a little guilty at the late hour, but he figures they could tell him to get lost if they actually are sleeping, and don’t want to be disturbed.

So he when he can’t sleep, he makes his way to rooms that aren’t his, knocks quiet but firm on the doors of the people he considers himself lucky to call his friends.

(Starter prompts for specific threads in the comments!)

Threaded | Flat

He's well on his way through the common area on Jet's floor and to Jet's room before he's hit with second thoughts. Jet and Albert are newlyweds, still, and especially after that arena, maybe it's not the best idea to show up at one of their rooms at odd hours of the night.

It's enough to make him hesitate, despite how much he'd wanted to check in with Jet and how it probably won't leave his head for awhile, unless he does. Thanks to that, it's not quite enough to make him leave, and he ends up just kind of awkwardly standing right by Jet's room, reconsidering.

It hasn’t been too long since Sam got back after the arena that he realizes he hasn’t seen Nick at all, not even in passing - but it’s been long enough that that’s definitely unusual. They hadn’t interacted much before the arena, yeah, but Sam’d still seen him.

It might just be more noticeable now, now that Nick is someone he’d want to check up on, but whatever, it still concerns him a little.

Enough that he finds himself heading over to Nick’s room, rapping sharply on the door. “Nick, you in there, man? It’s Sam.”

It'd been a bad night. Sam'd actually tried for sleep, earlier, thought maybe he was tired enough that he'd be able to go for it, actually get in a full night.

Which obviously, hadn't worked out so well. He kind of feels like he's more tired than when he went to sleep, which is awesome on top of lingering nerves from the nightmare itself and shit from the arena.

It's also why he ends up outside Albert's room at way too early in the morning, knocking on his door.

There's a part of Sam that's still having kind of a hard time, accepting that Steve's really not gone. Maybe it'd be different if he hadn't seen Steve die, or if Sam hadn't spent years trying to do exactly the opposite of what he's doing now - years telling himself that someone was really gone when it felt like they were still there.

It's not a big part of him, yeah, and it doesn't come out much, especially during the day, when he can hang around and bug Steve just as much as he'd done before the arena. But at night, well, it's a lot harder, especially on top of a resurgence of his old nightmares, some of them with fascinating new twists, thanks to the arena.

He hates feeling like he's putting a burden on any of his friends. Especially Steve, who's got so much of his own shit, and all Sam'd ever wanted to do was try to help him lessen the load a little, not add more to it. But it'd be a crappy friendship if he was willing to take all the bad without putting any of his own out there, and that's pretty much exactly what he's trying to get Steve not to do, so.

There he is late in the night, knocking on Steve's door and hoping he isn't actually disturbing Steve - and, let's be honest, probably Bucky. "Steve, man, you awake?"

Tony has never really been one for sleep, not in the normal definition of the word anyway. So the night Sam decides to seek him out he's wide awake and reading from a tablet, not that he's really paying attention to what he's reading most of the interesting stuff that's on offer Tony's already read by now and is just left with the daily gossip blogs talking about nothing he hasn't heard of before in his own world really. So when Sam comes out of the elevator to his level, Tony merely glances up from the couch in the middle of the common room with a curious eyebrow.

He's been out in the open of the suite for hours and knows everyone here is either still out or long off to dreamland.

"Didn't take you long to come looking for our fresh meat."

Tony smirks before returning to his 'reading'. He knows enough about Sam to know that he isn't actually Tony when he was younger, but the fact that his floor have been until this point either male or a children, he was hardly about to let the opportunity pass.

Cassandra had partaken in no arena yet, but the vast majority of each day since she had arrived was taken up in the training area. All the other representatives of the Inquisition present were notably better at social maneuvering than her, and she was content to allow them to play to their strengths. She did her own information gathering and scouting of the city from time to time but, for the health of them all, only did so following a long exercise with sword and shield. Forceful interrogation of the staff and any citizen foolish enough to approach her was easier to resist that way.

She notes someone different is already in the area as she arrives today and pauses, not yet speaking, at the edge of his training section to observe before her scheduled trip to the weaponry racks.

It wasn't often that Dorian came down here due to his own will rather than being told to by Cassandra or Cullen, but as he was currently avoiding them, this time he was alone.

He was wearing only his breeches, his shirt tied around his waist, right below a very large, ugly bruise that took up half his side. He was working with a spear, running it through endless, flashy rotations - almost a sort of physical meditation, perhaps, when he was so furious he very might well run a man through with it instead. He was well built but he was not made for combat - the toned muscles from spinning a staff and wielding flame than anything more direct. He had to learn fast, however.

He paused when he finally wore himself out - the fury having kept him going far longer than he might have otherwise, and it was only when he stopped to breathe and wipe his brow that he noticed he was no longer alone.

"Ah. Excuse me. If I'd realised I had company I would not have taken up half so much space," He said as he shifted over.

He liked the training hall, he'd decided. As strange as some of it was - the enemies of light that appeared and disappeared, the screens that flashed pictures meant for him to match - it still made sense. Blood and effort, strain and success.

Sweat smelled like sweat, however highly polished the floors were.

He'd been told there might not be a bow in the as of yet unseen arena, so he was making a concentrated effort to get to know some of the others. He had used swords before, and daggers, but it had never been as ready. Never as smooth.

He would spare with his fellows were they available, but as they weren't today, he waited for a break in the action and approached the stranger.

"Do you think they'd object if I cut in?" he asked, nodding his head toward the dummy the man was pummeling. "I could use an active partner, if you have a mind."

So, not only is Sam a friend of Steve and Tony's, he is also an attractive friend of Steve and Tony's. Somehow, Jolie had wormed her way into being friends with the two of them, so she doesn't feel too creepy knowing enough about Sam to know that he's a fun guy worth saying hello to when she sees him passing.

Everything about her screams Capitol, but she's approaching Sam like she's spotted an old friend in the crowd. She waves to get his attention, stepping up toward him with a bright smile.

"Heya." She winks one of those heavy eyelashed eyes. "Sam, isn't it? You're friends with Steve and Tony, right?" She asks, then pauses to consider how he might take that. "I'm not a crazy fan, f-y-i. I work in the tower." She jerks a thumb vaguely toward it, like he doesn't know where it is.

It was late, later then Azula would have liked.

But there was one sponsor...one particularly irritatingly specific sponsor who loved to keep her late into the night blathering on with stories of his own day to day adventures. And while normally she would consider herself above such annoying people...District Five could use the help.

She was a professional after all. And at the moment she was a slightly drunk professional. Thankfully she had made it home.

Slipping into the suite around one she wanted nothing more then to take to her nice warm bed but someone else was still awake.

"Sam?" It wasn't as if she had enforced any sort of healthy sleeping schedule on her tributes but she didn't expect any of them to stay up this late.

Julian knows he should be asleep right now, but it’s hard with the unpleasant thoughts running around his head, an unfamiliar bed, and no way to curl up as a cat for comfort. Instead he goes on a late night prowl for food, going to the different floors to see which fridges have the best choices.

He walks into District Five’s kitchen likes he owns the place, but who he sees already there makes him pause. It looks like the person who fed him as a cat, the person who saved him later on. For a few moments Julian just stares at Sam as he makes his snacks, trying to to be certain it’s the right person, but there really isn’t much doubt. Julian’s night vision had allowed him to get a good look at his face.

Julian makes his way closer, lifts himself up so he’s sitting on the kitchen counter, and then says, “You’re the one who saved me.”

Loki is only at the training center because this is the first time in what feels like ages where he has his full movement again. After the children's arena, his broken ribs kept him hospitalized until just before the arena. Then, he had go to another arena without training. He had done well there, but not his best.

He feels like he should stretch his limbs and maybe attempt to train. Perhaps also use this time to people watch and get a glimpse of other tributes. He needed to know who he was competing against, after all. New people had appeared recently, so he would make a point of keeping his eyes open for them.

Even without his powers, Loki's still fast and strong. He is running around the edge of everything - keeping his pace quick, not shy about showing some of what he has to offer, but careful not to give away too much. He stops when he sees someone going at a punching bag.

This guy is familiar, though. He goes through a mental list of tributes. Sam - he thinks. He takes a few steps towards him, and lifts his hand up in a sign of greeting. He's always cautious when approaching people.

It’s hard not to think about the life he could have lead as he wanders the halls of the Capitol’s art museum, eying the displays and reading blurbs beneath them that could stand to be a little less blatantly biased in tone. Once upon a time, before the world went to shit, he had had aspirations as a bright-eyed art historian. Never quite had made his mind about what he meant to do from there, but he had tossed around the idea of working towards becoming the most charismatic museum curator he could be. And, of course, had tolerated being the butt of hundreds of jokes from everyone who knew until he realized that the not-so-lively job market did in fact mean that he had more or less majored in working in a coffee shop. At least for a while.

Kenny had been right about that. He could laugh about it now.

It’s quiet here. An escape from the walls of his bedroom and the nightmarish images that flash through his mind when he’s idle, waiting for him in the darkness behind his lids. But he knows he can’t escape familiar faces and emotion-laden conversations forever. He can’t escape his well-intentioned friends telling him they’re so sorry and asking him if he’s okay and him fighting that much harder each time to convince himself that he can keep it together a little while longer.

Dawn is just breaking when he steps back out into the cold with his hands jammed deep into his jacket-pockets, and it's while he's making for the nearest café that he catches a glimpse of Sam window-shopping. He feels a dull pang in his chest, the guilt reaching his eyes. He had viewed the footage not because he had wanted to, but because he had needed to. And had been more sickened at watching himself bite into Sam’s ankle than he had felt seeing himself rip hungry mouthfuls out of the blood-slimed, writhing thing that had punched its way out of his ribcage.

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know where to start. It occurs to him that the man might regard him as a threat in light of what happened - so he remains cautious while approaching the café’s doors.

Nat is trying to sleep only because she knows her body needs it, no matter what the Capitol might have done to her in-between the moment the spaceport blew up and waking up in her own bed. She won't admit it, but she hates that. Hated waiting around for her inevitable death. Hates fighting an enemy she can't see and doesn't know how to best. She is just seconds away from being honest with herself and admitting that she's not getting to sleep any time soon.

There are thoughts that creep back into her mind, unbidden. The panicked, trapped feeling of being stuck in the helicarrier with the Hulk. Being so powerless to do anything about it.

And more acutely, the idea that her entire life's work means nothing now that SHIELD is HYDRA after all. That she will never atone for any of the terrible things she'd done.

No, she isn't sleeping. And honestly, Sam's knock is almost like a gift at this moment. She opens the door for him, and for a second he might glimpse something resembling vulnerability in her. All of the makeup her stylists forcibly put on her is gone. Her hair is a messy red halo around her head. And more than anything, she looks tired.

But she flashes him an attempt at a glib smile. "Have you tried counting sheep? A warm glass of milk? I hear that helps."

It's Porrim's job to keep tabs on her charges. To make sure they're happy and healthy and, you know, eating. Important stuff like that. As such, she's noticed changes in one Sam Wilson since he returned from his first Arena, and they have her a bit worried.

It had been an especially brutal Arena, most notably when compared to the previous one. That had been a cake walk compared to the space station. So she's especially vigilant of changes in behavior, and Sam's late-night habits don't go unnoticed.

She keeps her distance, however, beyond their usual banter, until one night when she enters the lounge and sees him watching television--a channel that's gone quiet for the night. Porrim smiles in amusement, figuring he must have nodded off, and approaches the sofa from behind, putting her head right down next to his.

"Anything good on?"

To be completely honest?

It's the music that draws him. It is strange music, but he knows it as music -- it could be nothing else. He steps into the Training Center in his jeans and his hoodie, and is no longer surprised when he does not see the singer. He is growing used to technology and what it can do -- but he is slightly disappointed to learn it's a recording.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to interrupt."

Don't mind Diana. She's just coming out of her room to get a midnight snack.

Well, more of a midnight meal.

She shuffles into the kitchen without much acknowledgement to Sam and there's the distinct sound of the electric kettle heating up.

A few minutes later she emerges from the doorway, holding a plastic cup of instant noodles, steam seeping softly from a gap of the folded down lid.

It's now that she takes notice of Sam and the silent TV. "Do you just make up your own dialogue in your head?"

Here was someone grateful for the fact that the curfew was no longer in place. It had reminded her too much of the quarantine zone back in Boston. And it had left her feeling too restless in her own suite, unable to venture out into the Capitol for a late-night walk or jog, anything to release whatever was stressing her out.

After she'd gone out on her own little run around the nearest park for the past hour, Tess had found herself paused in front of a particular store. She was currently on a bit of a cool down, arms crossed over her chest as she watched the puppies roll around and play roughly together in their pen.

"If only it were that easy," she mutters and shakes her head, still watching them.

Edited (I'm still confused how my Clementine tag starter ended up in your log when I REMEMBER writing out yours :'() 2015-01-25 04:41 (UTC)

Threaded | Flat

For Jet

For Nick

For Albert

For Steve and Bucky

no subject

Training Center

Training Center

One more for the training room

In the Capitol