He represses the urge to grimace when she casually throws out the pirate word, but doesn't bother to argue the point; he's realized it doesn't mean much in Panem -- in fact, the Capitol seemed to essentially fawn over the idea of one being in their midst -- but the fleeting reaction is more instinctual and deeply ingrained in him than anything else.

As she preens, Jack merely rubs a thumb across his mouth to wipe away any faint trace of lipstick left from her. "I'n'it obvious? Gatherin' supplies to make for a better night." He reaches to twist open the nearby bottle, taking a hearty swig from it, then lifts it. "And makin' up for three weeks of lost time." Being drunk or buzzed was his preferred baseline for dealing with the world, and so it'd been total hell to be stuck between an approximation of that and total sobriety within the Arena.

His fingers curl tighter around the bottle's neck, and eventually Jack sidles back in closer to her personal space. "And I had a thought, luv. As it stands to be, I'd be all by me lonesome with all these drinks for meself and none to share it with. But if you were inclined for the company, and, o' course, your fair claim in drinks, there's room enough for two back in my suite." It's said with a flash of a grin.