Nick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
streetsmarts) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2015-03-23 01:17 am
streetsmarts) wrote in thecapitol2015-03-23 01:17 am
Entry tags:
Some, some, some I, some I murder. [open]
Who| Nick and oooopen
What| When you try your best but you don't succeed.
Where| D7, lobby bar.
When| Post-Arena, pre-Crowning
Warnings/Notes| Nick being a douche. Nbd.
Hell hath no fury like Nick when he wakes up in the Training Room. To get that close and lose by inches, inches of knife in you, it's soul crushing. The frustration takes some working through, but his methods have never let him down. Booze. Sex. More booze. Denial. If there's one thing he's willing to do, it's to absorb absolutely all of the luxury of the Capitol while he can. He thinks he deserves that much, but he's also pretty sure other people have different ideas.
He's a frequent at the Lobby Bar lately. He's perpetually rolling in, ordering rounds and glowering at the replays when he can. He can at least boast quite the featured face in the highlight reel, but it's a pretty miserable runner-up prize in his opinion. He can be found ranting at the bartender and denizens of the bar as well as trying to make bets with them long into the night.
Sometime in the night, he drags his sorry ass up to the District 7 suites. He can't rightly remember which bedroom is his, and he's not willing to chance it. He finds himself on the same couch he'd planted on when he'd first arrived here, and it's good enough for him. He sleeps the whole night there, half-heartedly smothering his face with a pillow as he snores into the morning. If nobody wakes him up, he'll wake himself up with a snort of disdain at the sun and a clumsy stalk into the kitchen to make coffee.
He'll stand there, looking incredibly disheveled, with a hand on the counter and a cup of coffee in his hand like he's an efficiently early riser and not red in the eye and dead in the soul. "Morning sunshine." He'll croak at anyone who happens by him, still just drunk enough to think his cover is foolproof.
What| When you try your best but you don't succeed.
Where| D7, lobby bar.
When| Post-Arena, pre-Crowning
Warnings/Notes| Nick being a douche. Nbd.
Hell hath no fury like Nick when he wakes up in the Training Room. To get that close and lose by inches, inches of knife in you, it's soul crushing. The frustration takes some working through, but his methods have never let him down. Booze. Sex. More booze. Denial. If there's one thing he's willing to do, it's to absorb absolutely all of the luxury of the Capitol while he can. He thinks he deserves that much, but he's also pretty sure other people have different ideas.
He's a frequent at the Lobby Bar lately. He's perpetually rolling in, ordering rounds and glowering at the replays when he can. He can at least boast quite the featured face in the highlight reel, but it's a pretty miserable runner-up prize in his opinion. He can be found ranting at the bartender and denizens of the bar as well as trying to make bets with them long into the night.
Sometime in the night, he drags his sorry ass up to the District 7 suites. He can't rightly remember which bedroom is his, and he's not willing to chance it. He finds himself on the same couch he'd planted on when he'd first arrived here, and it's good enough for him. He sleeps the whole night there, half-heartedly smothering his face with a pillow as he snores into the morning. If nobody wakes him up, he'll wake himself up with a snort of disdain at the sun and a clumsy stalk into the kitchen to make coffee.
He'll stand there, looking incredibly disheveled, with a hand on the counter and a cup of coffee in his hand like he's an efficiently early riser and not red in the eye and dead in the soul. "Morning sunshine." He'll croak at anyone who happens by him, still just drunk enough to think his cover is foolproof.
no subject
He peers up at him with vague interest, and most of that is faked to avoid further lambasting. He could be mad over what Jason says, and he is, but he doesn't give him the power of taking it personally. He already has enough over his head, he doesn't need to fuel that fire.
"I ran out of bullets because someone didn't send me more." His tone is bitter as he levels a flat look on Jason, eyes scanning his face before they zero in on what he assumes to be a bandage of some sort. "Woah, woah, woah. Hold the show there, Jase." He pulls himself up to sit more enthusiastically, amusement lighting his once dull expression. "Did someone hit you? On the face? Oh shit." And I missed it he thinks, but he doesn't say. "Who was it? Are they dead? Did you kill them? Did you kill them instead of sending me bullets?"
no subject
"A Mentor slashes my face with a piece of glass. A glass I broke out of frustration because I'd been working overtime trying to get you your damn bullets and Emily spent some of your nest egg on that liquor you drank."
It might have been that glass. Jason doesn't remember; the Avoxes have done tidy work making sure that the pieces of mugs and holes in the walls and overturned tables are all in their right place and repaired, and Jason didn't bother to keep track of all his own outbursts. The only mark the mutes didn't erase is the ring of bruising and sliced knuckles on Jason's right hand.
"Unfortunately, he's not dead, because there isn't any damn order to this country any more. He spent time in jail, that's it. I chose not to press charges."
no subject
He clears his throat, mouth unpleasantly dry. His tongue tastes bad and he feels groggy, but he can't stand to pull away for coffee when he's in the middle of story time.
"Everybody knows the real criminals don't do time in jail, it's a rite of passage." There's a knowing tone to his voice, as well as a smug air that he isn't drawing too much attention to. "There's gotta be more to it than that. What'd he do it for? Sabotage?" He raises a brow, a small smile finding his lips. "Tell Emily she's a peach, by the way."
no subject
"You can tell her yourself next time you see her. She hasn't gone anywhere, and I'm not your errand boy." Jason brings his hand up to his stitches, touching them roughly. "A Mentor had a post-traumatic dissociative episode. I think that's the term for it. I was unfortunate enough to be in the way. There, are you done asking me questions about my medical history? Because I'd rather go over yours, what with your recent death."
no subject
"Point taken." Nick's eyes follow Jason's hand, observing the motion for a moment before he casts a longing sort of look at the kitchen. Eventually he opts to mime a drinking motion at an Avox, mouthing coffee at it before his attention returns to Jason.
"I'd say medically I'm a miracle, but our fucked up voodoo magic ain't exactly on par with the necromancy you guys use on a daily basis." His voice is hoarse, so he eagerly reaches for the coffee when the Avox returns with it. "I've had all my shots, I dunno what else you want to hear."
no subject
He doesn't wait for the coffee before starting his lecture.
"Pretty much I want to hear your plan for not getting beaten by a drunk next time. Look," Jason leans in, at least as much as he can while keeping his feet on the coffee table, which, given that he's as inflexible physically as he is mentally, isn't far, "I'll give credit where it's due. Good job on taking out that kid, because God knows you're the only one in this District who would have done that instead of trying to ferry them to the end. Now, you want to take a wild guess on whom you shouldn't have shot?"
no subject
"I had a feeling you of all people would appreciate that." Truth be told he doesn't really like the fact that he's gaining approval for it. There's something profoundly exhausting about resenting both the praise and the hatred you've earned from an action. It's only been a little while and he's already so ready to stop thinking about it.
So. He can just focus on that question. "Gee, I don't know, Jase. That's a real head scratcher." He pauses that train of thought to sip his coffee, as an expression of how little he cares. "She wasn't going anywhere fast. She would have killed herself to let one of the damn kids win. Don't act like you don't know that."
no subject
Far as Jason's concerned, the squeamishness about killing children in the Hunger Games seems to be like not liking meat in your hamburgers. Every time someone brings it up to him, it's all he can do to keep from sighing so hard his spirit exits his mouth and transcends this mortal plane.
"There might not have even been any kids left by the time she had a chance to do that." Jason gestures at Nick with his cigarette, like he's poking at him form afar. "Anyway, what I say is you don't try and screw my chances when I've been kind enough to send you bullets and warm clothes in that frozen hellhole. You knew she wasn't going to be up and killing you, so throw me a bone and don't hamstring me next time."
no subject
"See, that's the thing. I don't like the sound of that might. There might not be kids left and she might not get a crazy idea and knife me for killing one of her stupid friends." He throws a hand up, just to emphasize his point, then he brings it down so he can roll his eyes.
"Alright, alright. Christ. I'll try, just sound less like you gave birth to me, would you?" He's having very vivid memories of an old Italian lady chasing him with a rolling pin and telling him he won't be allowed back in the house if he comes home smelling of smoke again. He always did, and he always got let back in, but the tone is no less annoying.
[cw: passing reference to bidding]
"So. How do you feel?" Jason uses the end of his cigarette to gesture to Nick. "Aside from the hangover."
There's an unusual sensitivity to the way Jason asks that, something not necessarily kind but considerate, something he learned from dealing with Victors for years and years. It's the dovetailing of mutual interests, where his and Nick's come together and braid at the end. Jason isn't incapable of tact so much as he usually finds no use for it, but there's a reason he's good at buttering up Sponsors and that he can manage along with traumatized Mentors, take care of them when they scream at night and wet the bed, shield them from bidders.
no subject
He spares Jason a momentary skeptical look when he's presented with the question, but he doesn't read too much into it. For all Jason is insufferable, he's probably smart enough to know that broken down Tributes don't get the job done.
"I've felt worse." He answers curtly, but it's unusual for him to pass up a chance to bitch. So. "I've felt better, too. That is some weird stuff. Dying and waking up again. Feels like I oughta be in hospital with the defibrillator on hand." He runs a lazy hand through his hair, shaking it out as he does. "How long until I have to do it again?"
no subject
Hey, at least he and Nick share a proclivity for whining.
"Two months, give or take. I'll let you know as soon as I can if it's sooner but as you're aware, they like to spring surprises on us and no offense, I don't like you enough to risk my job." There's an implied I hardly like you at all in there. His dark, scrutinizing eyes are still trying to make sense of Nick, what he saw in the Arena, what he knows from the file, what he's learned from talking.
"Alright." He gets up from the couch, taking a final lengthy drag from his cigarette before turning it off and tucking it away, then rubbing his temple as if trying to divine through his fingertips whether the headache he's got going on now is going to turn into something worse.
"I'm putting you on a diet. Before-" he raises a finger- "-before you complain about it, it's heavy on nutrition, since your health records came back a little low on that. It's not weight-loss, you're fine there. Unlike some of the other idiots here, you look like you were under enough stress before you got here, so for the most part the next two months are going to be about taking it easy and getting you to peak health and physical condition. Vitamins, spa treatments, massages, and a little more hand-to-hand training."
He raises an eyebrow. "Feel free to flaunt it, by the way. If the other Tribs ask you why you're reclining in a steam room while they're running laps, tell them it's because you managed to follow some of my orders why they were busy tripping over themselves and crying about morals."