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)
thecapitol2015-04-24 04:45 pm
whatisay) wrote in thecapitol2015-04-24 04:45 pm
Entry tags:
It's About Holding and Being Held [Closed]
WHO| Jason and Peggy Carter; Jason and Swann
WHAT| Jason is Peggy's support system, sad as that is; Swann gives Jason 'I'm sorry Leo called you crazy' cuddles
WHEN| After the Binding Plot and Jason's network post.
WHERE| D7 Suite; D8 Suite
WARNINGS| Shit might get deep in either thread. References to bidding, child abuse, alcoholism, suicide and mental illness may abound.
I. Peggy
Jason works late more often than most Escorts, not from any sort of work ethic so much as because he often prefers the workplace to home - since he's started regularly dating Swann and carpooling with her, the overnights have decreased some because he has a more pleasant third option. But sometimes he can still be found late at night, camped out in the District Seven Suite like an ill-tempered gargoyle, feet on the coffee table and suit jacket flung over the back of the couch. He's managed to secure a week of food for each of his Tributes come the next Arena, well before the theme is even announced, and that small victory has soothed his frazzled nerves.
It's about two in the morning, and given that he's imposed a strict schedule for all his Tributes that involves morning exercises and primping, it's dead quiet. Jason's decided it's not worth the hour's drive home just to get two hours of sleep and then come back, so he's drifting off on the couch, his notepad on his lap, his glasses fallen so far down his nose that he can't possibly looking through them, his head tilting back and then jerking forward again in a vain attempt to stave off sleep.
II. Swann
Jason expected pushback from his network post; he craved it, almost. He's not quite aware enough of his own behavior to realize that instigating fights is his way of shoring up his victimhood's fortress, of refilling his tank of martyrdom which gets him out of bed in the morning, but he did know he was looking to pick a fight. And he got a few of them - but also took some injury from one, from a comment which slipped past his defenses and lit up the inside of his head like dynamite. He finishes the conversation and shoves his communicator into his pants even before forgetting to turn it off (it will shut down automatically in thirty seconds).
He's so angry that for a moment he can't see, that even after his vision returns he feels uncoordinated, like his neurological impulses aren't moving muscles so much as setting off tiny explosions. After pacing around the Suite living room for a moment, he heads to the elevator, accidentally hits the button for the wrong floor before he manages to hit the right one, and resents that an elevator door can't slam. Instead he rests his forehead against the wall and waits to arrive at the District Eight floor.
He just hopes, for their sakes, that it's not Joel or Jack he runs into first, that he finds Swann almost immediately upon arriving.
WHAT| Jason is Peggy's support system, sad as that is; Swann gives Jason 'I'm sorry Leo called you crazy' cuddles
WHEN| After the Binding Plot and Jason's network post.
WHERE| D7 Suite; D8 Suite
WARNINGS| Shit might get deep in either thread. References to bidding, child abuse, alcoholism, suicide and mental illness may abound.
I. Peggy
Jason works late more often than most Escorts, not from any sort of work ethic so much as because he often prefers the workplace to home - since he's started regularly dating Swann and carpooling with her, the overnights have decreased some because he has a more pleasant third option. But sometimes he can still be found late at night, camped out in the District Seven Suite like an ill-tempered gargoyle, feet on the coffee table and suit jacket flung over the back of the couch. He's managed to secure a week of food for each of his Tributes come the next Arena, well before the theme is even announced, and that small victory has soothed his frazzled nerves.
It's about two in the morning, and given that he's imposed a strict schedule for all his Tributes that involves morning exercises and primping, it's dead quiet. Jason's decided it's not worth the hour's drive home just to get two hours of sleep and then come back, so he's drifting off on the couch, his notepad on his lap, his glasses fallen so far down his nose that he can't possibly looking through them, his head tilting back and then jerking forward again in a vain attempt to stave off sleep.
II. Swann
Jason expected pushback from his network post; he craved it, almost. He's not quite aware enough of his own behavior to realize that instigating fights is his way of shoring up his victimhood's fortress, of refilling his tank of martyrdom which gets him out of bed in the morning, but he did know he was looking to pick a fight. And he got a few of them - but also took some injury from one, from a comment which slipped past his defenses and lit up the inside of his head like dynamite. He finishes the conversation and shoves his communicator into his pants even before forgetting to turn it off (it will shut down automatically in thirty seconds).
He's so angry that for a moment he can't see, that even after his vision returns he feels uncoordinated, like his neurological impulses aren't moving muscles so much as setting off tiny explosions. After pacing around the Suite living room for a moment, he heads to the elevator, accidentally hits the button for the wrong floor before he manages to hit the right one, and resents that an elevator door can't slam. Instead he rests his forehead against the wall and waits to arrive at the District Eight floor.
He just hopes, for their sakes, that it's not Joel or Jack he runs into first, that he finds Swann almost immediately upon arriving.
no subject
He sits back down, rubbing at his shin. He's always been clumsy, always the first to hipcheck a table or catch a curb with his toe. His ankles and pelvis are usually peppered with healing brown and purple bruises.
"And of course they did. Are they demanding you call them 'your majesty' yet? Because when I had one of them flounce from the room when I refused to call him a god, that's when I knew I'd made it as an Escort." He actually grins here, because the idea is so ludicrous it's funny. It's not even that they're Tributes, but that they're offworlders, and so stubbornly wed to customs they couldn't even try to import.
"It's different than it was back when you and Barnes won. They don't appreciate any of it. They don't even die and here they are acting like they've suffered like no one else could imagine, as if they're the only ones who've ever been displaced or had to work." Granted, Jason would love to be displaced, to have an excuse to never see his sorry excuse for a family again.
no subject
"One wanted you to call them a god?" Now he's getting her to laugh, which is a sure sign that she's beginning to feel better. "And here I thought I had it bad. One tribute just kept accusing me of wanting to make him lose his mind and kill people. He didn't seem to understand that all my job is is to give him tools to win the Games, or at the very least get him to live to see the next arena. And that losing his mind isn't really good for getting him to win."
She gives a sigh and sips her tea. "You know me. I'll tolerate a little grumbling when there isn't training being done. But some of these people just sat and complained the entire time."
no subject
A waste of money, the greatest of sins in Jason's mind.
It's the one virtue he has, which even he doesn't recognize for the saving grace it is - his humor. Somehow it's a balm to the abrasions he makes on others, a survival mechanism from his misery, that sharp and bitter wit cracking through the day and beating it into something too absurd to kill him.
"You have more patience for them than I do. If I got paid for every time I got yelled at by them for something I didn't do or can't control, I could retire." If Jason were willing to put the effort into it, he'd make a guidebook of all the concerns it's useless to go to an Escort for, which covers most everything the new Tributes want. Passage home, their superpowers, private bathrooms, so on.
no subject
It's helpful, all this talking. It gives her a chance to gather up the shattered pieces of her composure and piece it all back together. She pulls at the scarf she had put in her pocket, fingering it in consideration. She doesn't put it back on just yet.
"Mmm. Makes me look positively easy, doesn't it?" She manages a small, sly smile as she glances at his face. She remembers what a horror she was, especially during the Reaping and on the way to the Capitol.
no subject
He's waking up a bit, too. He's sure he'll regret getting so little sleep tomorrow but at the moment he's alright.
He smiles back; there are some smiles only a few people see from him, ones that are genuinely fond even if Jason wouldn't acknowledge them as such. "I still haven't forgiven you for throwing that fruit punch on my suit in front of everyone."
It had been Jason's first real challenge in public relations and damage control, trying to regain control of the District Ten campaign.
no subject
It's moments like these that remind her why she puts up with all the awfulness that Jason can carelessly throw around. It's when he makes her smile and laugh when it feels like she might crack under all the pressure that life puts on her. There aren't many people... well, she doesn't suppose she knows anyone else who can do it who she can still talk to.
She lets out a little laugh at the memory, drawing herself up into the picture of propriety, though the illusion is shattered by the mischief in her smile and her completely inappropriate dressing. "And I still say you were asking for it." He had been able to handle the mess. And after she won the Hunger Games, she had sincerely thanked him for his help and apologized for being so uncooperative.
no subject
He sighs and, realizing that he's been stirring with his smoke, pulls it out and wipes it against a handkerchief he has at his disposal. "You're just lucky you got a nice Escort and not someone who would have really held it against you."
no subject
"Oh, aren't I though?" Her voice gets a dramatized quality, and her bloodshot eyes are bright with mischief as she starts to melodramatically wave her hand. "I got the nicest, most sugar-sweet Escort, don't you agree?"
no subject
He's laughing, and then it's like a switch is flipped, and a coldness settles over them like snow. Professionalism, distance. They can joke so far and then they have to dial it back, even just for each other. He takes a sip of tea.
"Well, don't lay it on too thick."
no subject
She feels his demeanor shift. It's a familiar one that just happens when they're joking and getting too comfortable. Sometimes she does it, sometimes he does it, but either way, they pull away from each other.
She straightens her back, still smiling, still comfortable, but some of the mischief and warmth disappearing. "Would I ever be disingenuous with you, Jason?" She gives him a wink before sipping her own tea. She's back together--even without makeup and her scarf and dress, her posture is perfect, her expression composed, and her armor is in place. The picture of a dignified Victor.
no subject
He can always tell when she's back together. It's partially her posture, but there's something else to it too, something more intangible than that. Maybe it's because as an Escort, he's had to hone his skills for predicting when someone's about to have some sort of fit of panic or anger or just plain stage fright. Maybe it's because they've known each other nearly a decade.
In a way he imagines her closing the curtains to the world, and Jason's one of the few people still allowed inside the house.
"Maybe you're so disingenuous I can't tell when you're being disingenuous." He winks back over his own tea.
no subject
He's one of the last people behind the curtains. Most of the rest who were ever allowed there are now dead or gone.
"Jason, you wound me." She blinks innocently as she presses one hand over her heart. "That is an awful accusation."
(And one that is more accurate than he knows.)
no subject
He doesn't suspect. Maybe she's a blind spot of his, when he usually holds so much of the world in paranoid contempt. He doesn't imagine her loyal to the Capitol, but he has no idea that she's already set the stage for betrayal.
"It might shock you to find out, but I have a reputation for saying awful things." He fakes a shrug.