thecapitol | Flecks of the Heavens' Spat Out Spit [OPEN]

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Flecks of the Heavens' Spat Out Spit [OPEN]

WHO| Jason Compson and Open; Jason and Swann; Jason, Rick and Daryl
WHAT| Jason gets a migraine and is helpless; Jason beats an Avox; Jason gives Swann a gift; Rick and Daryl get the shotguns.
WHEN| Week 6
WHERE| D7 Suites; Swann's place
WARNINGS/NOTES| Avox abuse, migraines, general Jason awfulness. If you're going to tag the second prompt, please PP or PM me first so we can figure out where it's going and how far to take it, because Jason won't hesitate to put someone in jail.

I. Open

He knew he was going to have one of his headaches from the beginning of the morning, when every light seemed to have a ring radiating off of it and everything seemed to smell like rainwater. The one upside to the curse of these migraines is that he usually gets a few hours head start on them, with the feeling of deadly premonition, and so he spends most of the day trying to finish up everything as quickly as he can and clock out early. The calls to Sponsors and thank you cards to donors becomes a race against time, one which he sees himself losing too late to actually prevent disaster.

First he can't see, and then he can't move. Even breathing seems to put too much strain on him, and the throbbing, tightening hammering in his head gets worse with every exhale. The inside of his body feels like a live wire, sparking away inside his skull at camera-shutter speed. Nausea roils inside his throat and stomach, furling and unfurling like the tide.

When he opens his eyes the light is too bright, speckled with floating spots and halos, and he feels like the universe itself is trying to cram itself through his eyesockets and that his bones have made the opening too small to fit. So he keeps them shut and rolls over on the District Seven couch until he's facedown in a pillow, sweating slightly, trying not to whimper.

He has no hope of driving himself home, and even the idea of getting up seems a cruel joke. He tries twice, and both times a surge of nausea and a thunderclap of pain force him back down. So he lies there, hoping to whatever powers that be that his Tributes stick to their schedules and don't come bother him.

II. Open (please read note)

What started off as a strong Arena quickly loses those good odds as the District Seven Tributes die in the field and the District Suite gets repopulated. The worse it looks, the worse Jason's temper gets, until he's liable to throw something at the slightest provocation, which the Games video updates seem eager to supply him with. At least twice this week he's broken a glass, and yesterday smacked a table so hard that he has a ring of bruising around his finger like a wedding band.

With only Nick left in the Arena, Jason and Emily's chances are getting desperate, and the worst blow comes to Jason's ego when he realizes that no amount of fawning and flattery and networking seems to be enough to get Nick more supplies in the Arena. It stings to feel powerlessness, and to make it worse the only person willing to spot Nick a fire-starting kit's funds will only do it on condition that Jason go drinking with him - no sobriety allowed. Jason turns it down, but doesn't leave with his head held high so much as rankled and humiliated, and every ungrateful glance from his Tributes reminds him of how his family used to practically own this damn country and yet here he is, exposing his belly to anyone with money, helpless and inept and so, so frustrated with his life. Dressed in a suit he got from someone else's charity and supporting a home full of ingrates and lonely and with a fury as endless as the sky.

Whatever it is that set Jason off this time, it isn't sated just by smashing a piece of kitchenware. This time he backhands the Avox who rushes in to try and clean up the coffee mug he throws against the floor, sending them into the couch.

III. Swann

For someone who usually agonizes over every half-assi that goes to a necessary cause, Jason doesn't seem to mind spending money on Swann. He complains about it, at times, but it's more to go through the motions of complaining than because it actually bothers him. He buys her coffee when he can and tells her to save her money when they get lunch, getting sulky and defensive when she insists on splitting the tab. Sometimes he buys her a pastry on his way to pick her up for carpooling, although he doesn't let her eat it in the vehicle, and he has yet to ask her to help pay for fuel.

Today he shows up at her place with a large carrier in the back of his car, covered by a blanket, with a towel underneath it to protect the seats. Something inside is making scratching sounds. Jason looks a little frazzled, and shows up a few minutes late from a different route than he usually takes. He presses a button inside the car and the door opens for Swann.

"You coming, Honeymead?"

IV. Daryl and Rick

The rumors spread quickly after the Crowning, and all of them rub Jason the wrong way. A few photographs of him and Beth at the Crowning, him whispering into her ear, have made the rounds on tabloids, some of them even frontpage for the publications hungry enough to fabricate a scandal for readership. Jason's certain that he wouldn't ever touch a Tribute like that, but the fact that people are so eager to believe it of him leaves his pride feeling excoriated.

For his part, Jason doesn't treat Beth any differently, except for being a bit more stiff and cranky with her than he might have been before. But whispers swarm around them like a plague of mosquitoes, making a to-do out of something as simple as him Escorting her to a photoshoot with horses (A PONY FOR A PRICE?, a headline questions; another goes even more outrageous and wonders if Beth will say 'neigh' to marriage). He can only imagine the explanations she's making to the passel of Southerners who seem so eager to protect her.

Right now he's in the District Seven kitchen, glasses parked precariously on the tip of his nose as he writes by hand some math for the District budget. He's taken to putting most of his notes on his phone lately; he used to be able to leave writing around, but that was when most Tributes were entirely illiterate. His suit jacket hangs over the back of a chair and his shirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. A cup of coffee, long-cooled, sits beside him, and he occasionally asks his phone to answer some percentages questions for him.

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"Okay, okay," she whines lightly, climbing back up front and sitting down. She buckles up and then takes his face in her hands, smiling against his mouth, so pleased that she can barely sit still. "Thank you, Jason."

"You're welcome, Swann." He says it quietly, with a sort of warmth that it seems he only reserves for her, although he's used it at times with Lorraine, too. "Now make sure it doesn't get hair all over the car."

He's smiling still, pleased with himself, when they reach the Tribute Center and pull into a parking spot with nearly ten minutes to spare. "You want to let it run around? Careful for its teeth."

"He's in the carrier!" she answers, still beaming, and watches over her shoulder as Pascal pushes his face up against the carrier wall and makes funny little squawking noises, incapable of really roaring.

Swann is overjoyed when she gets out of the car and opens the back door to take out the carrier. It takes both of her arms to hoist it up, but she gets it out and opens the door, holding the tiger back so that he doesn't just run out. She's reaching for the leash and harness, and glances over at Jason.

"Will you help hold him? I think I need both hands for this."

It's the most pathetic roar he's ever heard, and although he knows that the tiger will be perpetually miniature, he really does hope that the poor thing gets a real voice at some point. He feels embarrassed for it by association, as if somehow that little squawking sound reflects badly on his choice of pet for Swann.

"I- alright. Sure." Jason already got him into the carrier once, and thankfully he got the breed that's known for being allergen-free and thus less likely to shed. He crouches down and takes the tiger in his arms, artlessly holding its rump against the pavement so Swann can get the harness (white and gold) on. Pascal wriggles and swats at him with harmless paws for the indignity.

Swann, on the other hand, thinks that scratchy little roar is the cutest thing she's ever heard, doesn't want a big loud tiger voice screaming at her when she can have that baby one.

She finagles Pascal into the harness and clips on the leash, praising him for being such a good boy and so obedient and sweet. When he's all strapped in, Swann rises and reaches for Jason's hand with her free one while the tiger sniffs around and takes hesitant steps, exploring.

"I love him so much," she says, smiling up at Jason and squeezing his hand. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. I saw him and thought you might like him." And that's the truth; while it is a bid for control, it's more subconscious than it is conniving. There isn't a clear equivocation in his mind, just a vague sense that he needs to continue giving her things, surprising her, keeping her guessing, keeping her waiting for the next gift so she'll continue to stay with him.

"I wanted to surprise you." He takes a step away so that Pascal has a little more room. The cub sniffs the tires of the car and then Jason's shoes. Jason squeezes her hand back, holding that for a second longer than she did.

"He's just perfect."

She not only looks elated to have the creature, she looks contented. Her whole life, Swann has been given presents as a sign of love -- love from her father when he couldn't be there, love from paramours who hurt her (physically or otherwise), love from fans. For Jason, Pascal cements control, and for Swann, Pascal cements emotion.

She wishes they didn't have to work.

The tiger rubs against her leg, marks her with his face like a cat, then chuffs a little and keeps wandering as much as his leash will let him, wanting to explore anything outside of his carrier.

"Are you coming over tonight?"

"We'll see if you're still singing that tune when he starts scratching up your sofa."

Jason doesn't watch the cat so much as Swann's face, which holds far greater interest to him. He catalogs and analyzes the smiles, the warmth, the way her eyes recede a bit into her cheeks. It's that sort of dispassionate calculus that he looks at most of the world with, and yet he can never quite bring her to a sum he's satisfied with. There's always something more to her, or more to how he feels for her.

"Do you want me to?"

"He won't, I'll get him a big scratching post! Oh, I'll have to go to the pet store later, there are so many things I need now."

Like sparkly collars and fancy personalized bowls and a plush bed and also food. She seems terribly excited about the prospect of having a new pet to baby.

She looks over at Jason and then steps closer, until their sides are pressed together. "I always do."

For a split instant, Jason wonders how much she would pamper a real human baby, if she could maintain that sort of enthusiasm for another helpless organism knowing how an infant could wreck a family. That he thinks it at all sends a chill through him, a sense of disgust that he's thought that, that his mind even wandered into the forbidden territory of any woman of his with child.

He squeezes her hand again, taking it as a sign that his subconscious wants him to bring protection tonight. "Sure, then. I'll stay the night. My mother keeps asking where it is I go to, though."

He does a flawless impersonation of her voice. "I know it's not my place to ask you how you run your life, but it's a reproach to me that you're so secretive all the time. I'd be so much less sick if I weren't stressing myself over your whereabouts."

It's nothing they've ever talked about, of course, and Swann would never bring it up, particularly to Jason. In fact, she's never told anyone that she doesn't plan on children, that she wants to adopt a District orphan instead, help someone who's entirely helpless. It's just not the sort of thing that most Capitolites think of as worthwhile.

She rolls her eyes and snorts, leaning her head on his shoulder. "You can't keep her in the dark forever. She's got to find out at some point that you're daring to see me."

"Or I could wait for her to die." It sounds like a joke. Even Jason likely can't tell if it is, even while he laughs at it. "I was told you should take him over to a dirt patch so he doesn't mess his carrier."

He starts one of his morning camphor cigarettes - 'fortifying against Tributes' - staring at Pascal with vague amusement.

She's smart enough to know how to use humor to disarm people -- fans, Sponsors, people still angry at her for the show -- and it's not wasted in this opportunity.

"She's not that old," Swann says, squeezing his hand, then starts to lead Pascal out of the parking garage, to where there are decorative trees and bushes and spaces of grass lining the building.

"Well, if you take her word for it, she could die any day now and then I'll really miss her." He grins, almost knocking the cigarette from his own mouth and just catching it with his teeth. "And then the world will be out of Bascombs, at least, if Maury goes too. Boo hoo."

He follows, thinking that the little cat looks ridiculous on a collar, especially when it decides to just lie down and sun itself in the parking lot, leaving Swann to tug it.

"You'd still be around, unless you're planning on changing at least one of your many names," she says lightly, teasing. "But then your signature wouldn't be as impressive."

Swann sighs, gently cajoling the cub to at least come into the grass, her gentle pulls on the leash and coos of "come on, baby, come on, good boy" as ineffective as one would expect them to be. She finally gives up and goes to pick him up and manually place him on the grass. He takes both arms, unlike her little pocketbook dog, which may or may not have been the reasoning for the breed choice in the first place.

"I only have four names and a generational title. That's tame given some of the families we know."

He watches the little creature relieve itself and scratch at the sand, thinking that the beast has more manners than some of his Tributes. It then returns to sunning itself. "You're going to want to get it back in the carrier. We're going to be late and I hear they're going to start coming down on us if we don't clock in immediately."

"Oh, they act like it's the end of the world if we're not here at dawn to kiss up to Sponsors and wake up sleeping people," she answers, going to crouch down next to Pascal and scratch behind his ears. Her tone is light, though, and she's just pleased to have a new pet. "Maybe I'll take him up on the roof during lunch, I bet he'd like it up there."

"Isn't it a rush to know that half our job could be used by a working alarm clock and a little discipline?"

He flags down an Avox to tote the carrier up to the elevator for Swann. "I can bring something up for lunch. Noodles in sauce sound good?"

"Not too spicy," she says, nodding, then prods her tiger until he stands and follows her on the lead, requiring more tugging than she's used to, but being obedient enough for what he is. She heads for the elevator after the Avox, her hand outstretched for Jason's.

"Naturally." He's not terribly fond of spice himself. "I'll get you a small."

He takes her hand, punching in all the floors for her as hers are occupied between him and the new pet. Pascal crouches in a corner, nervous about another moving room and with ears flattened back. Once the elevator doors close, Jason wraps an arm around Swann's waist and kisses her, hard, getting her lipstick on his mouth. It's as much a kiss of passion as it is of sealing a promise that she won't back out of lunch.

She laughs against his mouth, one arm pulled back from holding Pascal's leash to allow him the space, and pulls back a little to wipe away some smears of red from Jason's lips with her thumb.

"You made a mess." She really just seems amused by it, though, looking up at him warmly and thoroughly expecting him to kiss her again.

"Oh no." He grins back at her and obliges, kissing her again, not forgetting that the reason she's been wearing high-necked frilly outfits lately is because over the last few weeks he's left a battleground of hickies on her. "What will you do about it?"

The elevator counts down to when he has to get off and start the drudgery of Escorting behind him.

Which is a good reminder of the fact that she needs to buy more scarves. She'll take Pascal, they can have matching scarves. Scarf shopping! It's the sixth best kind of shopping.

She holds his chin until he pulls back again, and kisses his bottom lip briefly before answering. "Well, I can always fix my lipstick. You're the one who's going to have a red mouth all day."

Let's be real, that tiger would look cute with a little ascot.

"I can wash it off." The seventh floor bell dings, and he gives her a last kiss before the door slides open. He and Swann have not really been bothering to hide their relationship so much as just not announce it. Anyone keeping an eye on either of them will put two and two together. "I'll see you for lunch."

"You're still going to have stains," she says, a little smugly, and puts her hand on his chest as the doors open. "I'll text you later."

He leaves and she goes one more floor up, gently pulling Pascal from the elevator, which does relax him some. He wanders the kitchen, sniffing around, as she fixes her makeup in a compact mirror, humming.

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Flecks of the Heavens' Spat Out Spit [OPEN]

don't worry about it, i'm definitely not going to put you in a cage

are you going to use my skin to make a lamp

no i need it for my jacket

the most fashionable jacket

it has eyeball buttons

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