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
"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."