thecapitol | When you own the world, you're always home.

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When you own the world, you're always home.

Who| Nick and OPEN
What| Fresh in from the zombie apocalypse.
Where| D7 suits, Commons bar, through the halls.
When| 11/01, ish.
Warnings| Sexual stuff in some of the threads.

It was over. Done. Done like dinner. After a goddamn marathon of bullshit, after continuous strife and disappointment, their asses were safe. That doesn't mean Nick isn't in a mild state of panic when he arrives. You spend a while attached at the hip with some mouthy assholes, you kind of notice the silence when they're gone. The fact that they'd come so far to be separated isn't as much of a relief as he'd thought it would be. He could use Rochelle to tell him to snap out of it right now, but instead he has weird looking guards devoid of emotional response regardless of his questions.

If they think he's bad, they should meet Ellis.

It becomes abundantly clear that this isn't some quarantine facility. This isn't the Thunderdome of the apocalypse, and somehow that makes it weirder. His chest is still tight with uncertainty and fear, but he hasn't really processed all of the information he's been spoon fed just yet.

D7 suites: It's hard to be angry when he's lead to the lavish suites and left the fuck alone. His grubby suit doesn't suit the fine decor, and that becomes abundantly clear as he catches his reflection in the reflective surface of a window. He visibly crinkles his nose, and he can't be looking anything but himself at this point.

"Rough.." He mutters, brushing off his front like it'll do him any good at this rate. Whatever. He's bone tired and the couch looks all too appealing, so he's sinking back onto it with his dirty shoes propped on the arm of it. He's already lounging around like he owns the place, but he couldn't care less about what anyone thinks. Hell, he hasn't seen anyone to be dismissive of yet. Not anyone who seems to care what he thinks, at least.

Lobby Bar: After lounging, Nick finds something to change into. He almost wants to keep his suit on for how little he wants to be caught dead in jeans and a button up, but the stink of months of fighting zombies is far more notable when you're removed from the situation.

He's had a shower, he's clean and he's ready to scope out what the Capitol has to offer. He's headed out to the streets when the bar catches the corner of his eye and well, one drink couldn't hurt, right? He makes his way to the bar and orders, and his desperation probably obvious from the way he slams the drink down. One drink becomes a couple and he's starting to become curious, he eyes people nearby and decides to approach them every so often.

"If you've been here longer than an hour, you could really put my mind at ease here." He says smoothly, trying to come off as someone in need of sympathy without compromising himself too much. "I'm having some technical difficulties here." He taps his head to demonstrate this. "Is it meant to come off like some weird fever dream? 'Cause I can't be sick. I use hand sanitizer religiously."

Through the halls: Now that he's had a few drinks, he figures he might leave wandering the Capitol for some other time. Instead, he'll work from the ground up. He pokes around the floors of the towers, but it's getting to be night and it's getting to be quiet. He's in his own head, mulling over how impossible all of this crap here, wondering where the other assholes got to and pretty much any sudden noise could have him lurching to the side. He reaches for a gun that isn't there before he forces himself to calm down, shoulders slumping a little when he does.

"I'm never gonna grow out of that." He groans mournfully, his heart still racing in his chest. He's going to be thinking about the Infected for a long, long time.

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Well, he doesn't doubt that she's had to defend herself. In a place like this, he's sure people lech something fierce. He isn't exactly virtuous in that regard, either, but he would precisely be surprised if he got punched in the face.

The reality is that he's done some shit, some nasty shit. Punching someone for skeeving is one thing, beating the life out of someone because your boss said so and it's fun is another thing entirely.

But he'd rather not think on it, so he lets her quip pass with little more than a wry look and a raised brow. He seems surprised when she offers her hand, but he doesn't waste much time taking it, the gang symbol on his ring more than apparent. He doesn't bother being delicate or gentlemanly, it's a firm shake and then his hand is back to himself.

"Nice." It's said coolly. "Is that a local name or something?" He asks pointedly, needling her for not answering his question.

Porrim takes her hand back and rests it on the bar, though that ring of his does catch her eye. She doesn't know what it means, of course, but it's certainly interesting. She has to keep herself from snorting at his question. Oh, he has no idea how not local it is. None whatsoever. But she keeps her composure, that little bit of a smile returning to her face.

"More of a...family name," she concludes. "My parents were very traditional when it came to names. Myself, not so much." No, she's never been much of a traditionalist. "What about Nick? Is that some sort of...zombie-guy name?" Nobody around here is named Nick, okay. It sounds as foreign to her as a name like Finnick Odair would likely sound to him.

The return of her smile is a sure sign that he isn't pissing her off and he doesn't need to expect a drink coming at his face any time soon. He eases up himself, sitting back in his chair a little more.

"Right, so it's traditional to here, then." He states, just a little terse about it even if he's still smirking along with the conversation. "If it is, I dunno. Seen about five dudes in the past month or so, so I guess statistically there's a lot of people called Nick where I'm from."

"Something like that," she can't help but snort, going back to her mimosa for a moment. The bubbles rush over her tongue, soothing her raised hackles back into place. Poor guy just got here, after all. He's probably a tad disoriented.

"Not many ladies, then, I assume? Sounds like a rough gig for a ladykiller like you." Is it sarcasm? It might be sarcasm. It's sarcasm.

The vague answers are both horribly annoying and intriguing, but he decides not to push the issue any more than he already has. He'll figure it out sooner or later.

"Two." He answers gruffly, then levels an almost exasperated look on her. "Guess so." He runs his tongue over his teeth idly, mulling the truth of it over for a moment before he smirks. "Don't matter much now though, does it?"

"No," she murmurs, almost contemplatively. "I don't suppose it does. What District did they assign you to, anyway?" Her look turns wry, teasing.

"I certainly hope they didn't put you in mine. Then you'd be stuck with me."

"Seven. Apparently I have someone named Jason to look forward to." He can only assume she does the same thing he does, which means he probably isn't in her District. He can't decide if it's a disappointment or not, he's not sure he wants to be in that dynamic with someone he'd rather be a different kind of acquainted with.

"Shame for you, maybe. I'm in for a world of pain, by the sounds of it." He says that dryly, like he doesn't really care all that much. "Gonna suck for you when I win it."

"Jason." Porrim lets out a laugh like a bark. Ha. "Oh, he's a regular ball of sunshine. Enjoy that."

His statement has her cocking an eyebrow at him in the mirror, glancing over at him sidelong. "It's gonna suck for me, huh? And why is that?"

"So I've been told." He says dryly, a grin flitting across his lips. "Don't worry about me, sugar, I can take care of myself." Now he's just seeing how much he can get away with.

"Ain't it a good thing when your wards win Arenas? You get a bonus or something?" He shrugs. "Maybe you won't mind having me around all the time."

Sugar. My, what a card. He's cheesy, yes, but in rather an appealing way, she has to admit. Maybe it's the whole rugged-masculine thing he's got going on. Even for a woman with as varied tastes as Porrim, it has its merits.

"A very good thing," she chuckles. "But don't get cocky just yet." Whether she's referring to his confidence concerning any impending victory, or his assertion that she might like having him around, isn't quite clear. Possibly both.

There are many more vaguely patronizing terms of endearment where that came from, Porrim. Nick is almost stereotypical in his condescending ways, but at least he's sincerely sweet talking her and not intentionally down talking as he is wont to do.

"Confidence is damn near the only thing I've got going for me here." He points out, and it's hard to say whether he's referring to the pursuit of her or just victories in the Arena. "That and experience." The addition of that doesn't really draw any light on what he means specifically.

Would he like to sleep with her? Yes. Does he think he has a chance? Well. He does have confidence, it's true, but he also has baggage. He'd almost forgotten how nice it is to just talk without an ever present threat of being jumped right on the spot. He isn't safe by any means, but he feels something close to that.

Oh, Nick. Show her all your misogynistic pet names. She loves a man who knows she'll kick his ass and still dares to pull that shit with her. It show that he has balls. She's into that.

"Fair enough," she muses. "I think you'll find that those two things will carry you pretty far. The rest is luck...and how much people like you." This whole conversation is ambiguous as hell and she's clearly enjoying that aspect of it.

"I got luck in spades, baby. You don't just survive an apocalypse without the fates aligning a little." That's both an egotistical and a humble thing to say. It's one thing to think fate cares enough about him to keep him around, it's another to think that he survived by being that capable.

"Guess I don't have anything to worry about, then." He's definitely lucky, also smug enough to think he's likeable, but he'd be pushing it if he thought this was a done deal. "So, at the risk of falling on a cliche- you come here often?" Because if she does, he knows where he needs to be more often. "The escort deal must be something else if you need to be nursing those mimosas."

Porrim snorts, draining the rest of her mimosa--but she doesn't call for another. She's had three, that's more than plenty for how early in the day it is. She really just needs to nap it off, not have more and make stupid decisions. She stretches a little, posture straightening, arms leaning across the bartop. "Perhaps not," she agrees mildly.

And then he asks whether or not she comes here often, and her brows lift incredulously. Wow. He really hasn't done this in awhile, has he. "Often enough," she offers with a shrug. "But not so often that anyone thinks I'm an alcoholic." She considers his last point. "But it's astounding I'm not one. It's certainly not an easy job."

"Often enough that I might catch you around again, or should I nip this in the bud and suggest taking off someplace else while I'm lucky enough to have your attention?" Confident as he is, there's no harm flattering her. He raises his drink invitingly and raises a brow at her.

"I could take your mind off it." He adds. It's a little bold, pretty presumptuous too. They've been dancing around this long enough, it's about time he put all his cards on the table here. If she turns him down? He'll just stay here and get wasted and tomorrow will be another day. God, he hopes she says yes. He could use the company and the proof that the apocalypse didn't ruin him.

Edited 2015-02-08 01:10 (UTC)

She's about to reply that he can likely count on seeing her here again--that she might even make it a point to come here often, just to see how thinks pan out--has her mouth open and everything, when he says that last bit. And, oh. He's serious, isn't he? He's not just making a casual pass, he's actually propositioning her.

He could take her mind off things. It's true. And she's got enough champagne in her that that's an appealing idea. So she looks at him silently for a moment, and just when the point comes where he probably is expecting flat-out rejection, she just laughs a little. "Fuck it." Reaching into her purse, she fishes out her credit card, waving it at the bartender, who settles her tab. She's almost definitely going to regret doing this later on, but for now she's just. Pretty into the idea of having a one-off. So she leans over while she stuffs her card back into her purse, like she's kissing him on the cheek.

"Men's room. Five minutes."

All he gets after that is a wink as she hops off her stool and crosses the nearly-empty bar to the restrooms. There's nobody around to see her using the wrong one, even. It's perfect.

There's something about the few seconds after a bold move that makes everything else so inconsequential. Nick has experienced all kinds of fear and adrenaline, but this is a slow lurch. It's like rounding a corner in the dark, he has no idea what might pop out at him. She could be prepping the tongue lashing of a lifetime, she could be getting ready to laugh. He doesn't know what she even means when she says fuck it, but he doesn't care when she starts to lean in.

He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding in the form of a low chuckle, though he does his best to keep his expression reserved. His smirk is pretty lopsided when she pulls away, and he can't help letting his line of vision follow her as she walks away.

In an effort not to look too eager, he uses those five minutes to their full effect and finishes his drink in the meantime. By the time six minutes have rolled around, he's flashing his own card (something he was very glad to learn about) at the bartender and sauntering off casually. There's isn't a shadow of doubt as to whether she'll be there when he pushes open the door, so he isn't remotely disappointed when he steps into the room to find her perched on the counter.

"I had a feeling I'd run into you again." He murmurs, taking an easy step toward her.

She's pleasantly surprised when he manages not to follow after her immediately like a puppy. That's good. It means he's not too desperate for this to work. So when he shows up after an astounding six minutes, she's almost impressed. She sits there between the sinks, legs swaying slightly, bare under her miniskirt and above the black platform boots on her feet.

"Cute," she murmurs. "Lock the door." It's not like she really needs a widely-publicized Tribute sex scandal at this point, after all. She'd like this to happen with zero interruptions.

He's pretty desperate, but he's desperate enough to go to great lengths not to seem desperate. He's trying not to over think it, really, it has the potential to get a little too existential. He doesn't want that, he just wants to indulge like he would have before the Infected, like he hasn't just been kidnapped for whatever reason.

"I try." He retorts, reaching back to flick the lock before letting his hand drop back to his side. He draws closer, eyes locked on her as he moves in. He could keep a relaxed stance back, but he decides to go for it. He steps in, bracing a hand on the mirror behind her and ducking his head just a little closer. "So, how 'bout it?" God, that was awful. Here's hoping the delivery is charming enough that she won't pull away when he moves in to kiss her.

She doesn't even so much as flinch at the sudden closeness; it's easier than a slow approach, it leaves less room for awkwardness. But the door is locked, and he's very close, with that little puppy-dog look on his face right before he leans in closer. Why not, she finds herself thinking, leaning in just enough to meet his lips with hers. He tastes of whiskey, a nice, warm little tingle that spreads to her mouth as she deepens the kiss.

Boldly, without a trace of hesitation, she moves her hands to his shoulder and his neck, pulling him closer--a silent approval of his initial approach. Cheesy, certainly, but in a good way. Porrim scoots a bit closer to the edge of the counter, letting her legs wrap around the back of his. It's clear she isn't wasting any time with this.

That is, currently, Nick's play. Dive in, just do it, don't leave time to flounder. He's not nervous, or at least, it's not what he'd call it. It's a sort of educated wariness really. The more he focuses on the moment, the less he thinks about what could go wrong and allows himself to be encompassed by what's going right.

He can taste the champagne on her lips, and it seems fitting for a classy broad like her. Her lips are soft and enticing and it's just too damn easy to let their mouths press together like they've known each other longer than a hot minute.

When in doubt, go for the classic, right? So far, even his dated approach isn't weighing on the situation. Porrim is pretty in tune with what he likes and that bodes well for both of them. If she doesn't want to waste time, he won't. His free hand moves to her thigh, rough palm grazing up smooth skin as he allows it to travel up past her skirt. In the meantime, he flicks his tongue over her bottom lip before nipping it for permission to kick this up another notch.

Porrim, for her part, isn't bothered by the sudden intimacy. She's been known to lead what's referred to as a promiscuous lifestyle, more so in her youth than now, but she still isn't some blushing maiden that conflates lust with something more. So both the hand pushing up under her skirt and his tongue and teeth on her lip are more than welcome; the Escort lets out a little "Mm" of approval, lips parting. The good news is, all that lipstick isn't budging by an inch, so he won't have to worry about walking out of here looking like a clown got to him.

And those palms? Rough. Perfectly so. Her legs widen a bit, pulling him closer with a strength that belies the fact that she could crush his head between her thighs, if she wanted.

Really the only downside to abrupt hook ups is the fact that it's hard to be simpatico at the drop of a hat. Once he realises that she isn't about a slow play, it pushes down just about the last little hurdle they have here. The hum of approval and part of her lips is ample permission for him to slip his tongue past her bottom lip to tease at her tongue.

A grunt escapes him as he's pulled in closer, half out of surprise and half out of amusement. It's nothing he objects to, that's for sure, and the way she's spreading her legs is making his blood course faster. His hand slips under the lace of her panties, grabbing at it to start dragging it downward with less and less regard for the subtle approach. He moves his lips from hers, kissing the corner of her lips before he starts to press kisses down her neck.

Well, thus far, this has all the makings of a rather nice bar bathroom hookup, and Porrim's pleased to find that he's responding to all her cues quite nicely. He knows his way around a woman--that's good. Very good. Accommodating as always, Porrim lifts her ass enough for him to get her panties down, gasping lightly and wishing those hands wouldn't stray so far from the juncture of her thighs.

She angles her neck upward for his lips, laughing a little breathlessly as her head thunks against the mirror, and then--

"Fuck." A tinny little beeping fills the room just then, a vibration coming from her purse where it's tossed so carelessly atop the counter. "That's, mm--my pager," she informs him, wishing with every fiber of her being that the damn thing would just stop.

Evidently, this is a little like riding a bike. Nick came into the zombie apocalypse with lipstick on his collar, so it hasn't been a devastating dry streak for no good reason. He is efficient in his work and it comes back to him effortlessly. It helps that Porrim doesn't play games, not when it boils down to it.

The lift of her ass makes it easier to drag her panties down past her thighs, and knowing that they've dropped past her knees is making him crave a little more friction. He's getting bold ideas about switching the positions a little when the beeping starts to rouse him from his thoughts. He acknowledges it and her enough to let out a disinterested and dismissive hum.

His hand is tracing back up her thigh, fingers spanning over it so his thumb can rub circles against her inner thigh. His other hand moves from it's brace on the mirror so it can move brazenly up her midriff, under her top and over her bra for a moment before he decides life is just too short for that shit. His hand slips under her bra, cupping her breast as he adjusts his leg, not so discreetly shifting so her knee can rub against him as he dips his hand further down her thigh.

When you own the world, you're always home.

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