"No, you know I don't take those. If you have some ginger ale or even water or something for my stomach, though, I'd appreciate that." He groans again and buries his face totally in his arms. He's already been sick enough this afternoon that he doubts he will be again, but he's still painfully queasy in addition to the throbbing in his head.

He's been on this route to Peggy's place often enough that he can just about predict when she takes the turn to her place and, squinting even behind his dark glasses, he looks up to see her complex. He can't understand Mentors that choose to live in the Tower; the nights he does are often punctuated by screaming Tributes or tending to Mentors with nightmares, and it seems the opposite of a calming place. Then again, Jason often feels that he's rushing between one stressful locale to another, from his rotting, wail-filled house to the overstimulating and harried Tribute Center, so maybe he has no room to judge anyone else for not carving out a space of the world for themself.

"Thank you, Peggy." It's rare that he touches her, as if it's not proximity but skin contact that is a dirty blurring of social castes, and he never does without telegraphing his actions so she doesn't startle. He reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze after she stops the car. "You can head back if you need to, I'm just going to lie still and not move for a few hours."

Although he wouldn't mind company.