Jason Compson IV (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whatisay) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-02-12 03:41 am
whatisay) wrote in thecapitol2015-02-12 03:41 am
Entry tags:
Came Upon Me Like a Hypnic Jerk When I Was Just About Settled [Closed]
WHO| Jason Compson and Swann Honeymead
WHAT| Jason sort-of apologizes for implying Swann's a whore.
WHERE| Tribute Center, Escort's parking spaces
WHEN| After their IC inbox fight.
WARNINGS| Just JC4 being JC4.
He gets the sugar cookies that are baked into circles and stars, not hearts. It's not that he doesn't think Swann would appreciate hearts - in fact, he thinks they'll fold themselves into her chosen fashion quite nicely - but he doesn't want to give the wrong impression. This whole damn situation seems to be a parade of wrong impressions and he needn't add to them.
The selection of cookies that aren't shaped like hearts are, given the time of year, limited, but they still have sprinkles and pink icing and he figures that's good enough. He gets them wrapped in pink-tinted plastic with a bow on top, not because he orders them that way but because that's how this shop likes to dispense them.
The bakery isn't far from the Tribute Center, but the walk back still feel as if it takes too long, because time to himself is limited these last few weeks. With one more Tribute down and a fresh one put straight into the Arena, Jason's overtime has scarcely let up. The dark circles under his eyes haven't disappeared in days and the product in his hair is at least as old as yesterday morning. Until he can get a full night's sleep he's trying to avoid any in-person interaction with Sponsors so they don't see that he looks harried, but he still has to be around to babysit his Tributes, and so he's slept on the couch in the District Seven Suite nearly as many nights as he's gone home. The migraine hasn't come yet, but he can feel it brewing like a storm, ready to unleash its torrential paroxysms any day now.
He's still angry, naturally, but that's the thing with women, you can't win a cold feud with them. Every time his phone rings - and it's often, given the nature of his job - he feels a fresh surge of impotent anger, wondering again what part of Swann Honeymead's business it is how he and his mother conduct their affairs. Wondering, again, why it is that Swann expects an apology when he's done nothing but explain how it is in the Compson household, only to have her accuse him of immaturity and other things that, accurate or not, are not her place to be treading.
But the truth is his allies in the Tribute Center, and in the world in general, are scarce on the ground, and what's worse, those stupid text messages have probably been his favorite part of the last few weeks. He misses his companion, flickering about the edges of his day like a candle or a bauble catching the light. It's almost mercenary to want to repair things between them just to have back the good. He's stubborn, but he also has a mind for business.
He parked next to her this morning, although he can't remember if it was out of serendipity or intentionally, since that was hours ago and exhaustion has made the days bleed together. He knows she'll be leaving soon enough this evening, and so he sets the stack of cookies on the front of her car and leans against his own, smoking his vaporizer.
WHAT| Jason sort-of apologizes for implying Swann's a whore.
WHERE| Tribute Center, Escort's parking spaces
WHEN| After their IC inbox fight.
WARNINGS| Just JC4 being JC4.
He gets the sugar cookies that are baked into circles and stars, not hearts. It's not that he doesn't think Swann would appreciate hearts - in fact, he thinks they'll fold themselves into her chosen fashion quite nicely - but he doesn't want to give the wrong impression. This whole damn situation seems to be a parade of wrong impressions and he needn't add to them.
The selection of cookies that aren't shaped like hearts are, given the time of year, limited, but they still have sprinkles and pink icing and he figures that's good enough. He gets them wrapped in pink-tinted plastic with a bow on top, not because he orders them that way but because that's how this shop likes to dispense them.
The bakery isn't far from the Tribute Center, but the walk back still feel as if it takes too long, because time to himself is limited these last few weeks. With one more Tribute down and a fresh one put straight into the Arena, Jason's overtime has scarcely let up. The dark circles under his eyes haven't disappeared in days and the product in his hair is at least as old as yesterday morning. Until he can get a full night's sleep he's trying to avoid any in-person interaction with Sponsors so they don't see that he looks harried, but he still has to be around to babysit his Tributes, and so he's slept on the couch in the District Seven Suite nearly as many nights as he's gone home. The migraine hasn't come yet, but he can feel it brewing like a storm, ready to unleash its torrential paroxysms any day now.
He's still angry, naturally, but that's the thing with women, you can't win a cold feud with them. Every time his phone rings - and it's often, given the nature of his job - he feels a fresh surge of impotent anger, wondering again what part of Swann Honeymead's business it is how he and his mother conduct their affairs. Wondering, again, why it is that Swann expects an apology when he's done nothing but explain how it is in the Compson household, only to have her accuse him of immaturity and other things that, accurate or not, are not her place to be treading.
But the truth is his allies in the Tribute Center, and in the world in general, are scarce on the ground, and what's worse, those stupid text messages have probably been his favorite part of the last few weeks. He misses his companion, flickering about the edges of his day like a candle or a bauble catching the light. It's almost mercenary to want to repair things between them just to have back the good. He's stubborn, but he also has a mind for business.
He parked next to her this morning, although he can't remember if it was out of serendipity or intentionally, since that was hours ago and exhaustion has made the days bleed together. He knows she'll be leaving soon enough this evening, and so he sets the stack of cookies on the front of her car and leans against his own, smoking his vaporizer.
no subject
"Do you have coffee or anything? The drive home's still about a half hour."
no subject
Her smile is gentle, and she pushes some hair behind her ear, standing up (although she's really not much taller than she was sitting) and tidying up the table a little, stacking plates and glasses to make things easier for Eta.
"Oh, of course. Here, you go sit down in the living room, I'll make coffee while Eta cleans up in here. She'll make sure you have some cake to take home."
But seriously, pretty much this whole spread is leaving with Jason. Eat up, Compsons.
no subject
"I can make it my..." But hey, she's offering, and so he lets that slide. He gets up, contentedly full and yet feeling wrung out as an old rag from the last few days at work, and ventures into the sugarpuff den that is her living room. The couch is soft enough to sink into, as if it were some fluffy organ and not made of cushion and wood.
He doesn't intend to fall asleep. It just happens that one moment he's watching lights sparkle off the rose quartz chandelier and the next his eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open as he breathes heavily through it. His natural sprawl spreads a little, one arm over the back of the couch, knees wide.
no subject
"Oh," she says quietly, upon finding Jason, and sets the tray down on the table, careful not to make any noise and wake him.
She considers this for a moment, then figures it would be mean to wake him up when he's obviously tired, even if she only wants to take his shoes off and make him lie down properly. But since that doesn't seem to be an option, she takes a blanket from the back of a chair, one that's obscenely soft and fluffy, just as ivory as everything else in the room, and gently drapes it over him.
"Good night, Jason," she whispers, flicking out the light, then heads for her bedroom.