thecapitol | Heartless Paradise Fools Me Every Time [Closed]

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Heartless Paradise Fools Me Every Time [Closed]

WHO| Jason and Emily
WHAT| Emily returns to the Suite after a traumatic incident and finds an unlikely ally.
WHERE| D7 Suite
WHEN| Last week of the Arena
WARNINGS| Lots of discussion of bidding and the aftermath.

This isn't the first time Jason's sat up late waiting for one of his Mentors to come back to the Suite, but every time he hopes it's the last. The bidding process tends to flush Jason's veins with that acidic, impotent fury, the kind that makes his jaw ache from grinding his teeth and his vision seem to constrict as if in anticipation of a headache.

But he isn't about to have a migraine, and so instead of scrambling to get work done, he's on the couch in the District Seven Suite at three in the morning, nursing a cup of tea and a cigarette in turn, not really watching the television so much as just training his eyes on a decent target. He went to Swann's to drop her off but then came back here, aware of the goings-on afoot. At some point he gets up and reads a magazine, and he tries to doze off on the couch for a while but he's too mad to even close his eyes for too long.

It isn't injustice, really, that makes Jason so angry. It's the sickness of it. It's well-off new money tramping around through the Training Center, thinking because they have more money and more power than anyone else that they can drag their disgusting miscegenistic rape fetishes into everyone else's business. It's that he and Emily and Cassian are all just trying to do their jobs, and then some pervert with a credit card slams in and upsets the dynamic and wreaks hell on his coworker just so they can get off with a purchased hillbilly. The bidding money doesn't even go to the District budget, but to the government, instead, the 'rightful owners' of the Mentors.

He's seen what they do to Peggy, the way they rip her up from the inside out and leave her with bruises and hollow eyes, and somehow the fact that Peggy's his friend, that Emily might be as well, adds a certain sourness to the concoction of hatred and indignity, as if friendship could never live in Jason except as a way to amplify anger, like anything else. He tells himself that he could protect any woman he called a friend and yet here it is, an ugly reminder of his own powerlessness.

Jason's always been a difficult Escort for bidders to work with, or rather, around. He actively discourages bidders if they mention it around him in their supposedly-subtle reconnoitering to find out prices, making it clear exactly what his opinion on Capitolites and Districters mingling intimately is. He's taken small, petty revenges on the bidders who broke the guidelines for renting out Peggy, who violated her without contraceptives or kept her after the allotted time, he's keyed cars and left angry voicemails and tripped people in the hallway in a futile attempt to let off enough steam for two people. It's an intrusion into his territory to meddle with the inner workings of the District Seven (formerly the District Ten) staff, and he doesn't take kindly to it.

But he's not about to flip over furniture or go write angry letters tonight. Now, he has his other job as an Escort, and that's making sure the Mentors are alright to work the next day. That's waiting for Emily with tea on the stove and a fresh set of pajamas and tissues if she needs them, all warm, soft things that stand in stark contrast to the way he's packed like a collection of razor blades over this all.

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It's so late it's early, not time enough to sleep properly, to shake off the evening and recharge before her work as a Mentor begins all over again. She's thankful that nights like this are few and far between - her closed off personality had made her more off putting than most Victors to the sort of Capitolites who regularly bid on them - though she wished that if they had to happen at all, they could at least happen between Arenas when she doesn't have Tributes out there fighting for their lives to worry about. At the very least she can slip quietly into the suite and take a long shower, try to scour the feel and scent of him from her skin, then take her carving to the rooftop garden and focus on the calming, repetitive task of chipping away at the wood, bring her mind back to a blank slate as the block took shape in her hands. Nights like this, it's tempting to let the chisel slip and tear through the flesh of her arms, but she wouldn't let the Capitol scar her physically as well as mentally. Besides, it had taken her long enough to get them to agree to let her have a chisel in the first place, even if they'd cared far more about the possibility of her attacking others than reflecting her own internal damage for all to see.

When she steps into the suite and sees Jason sat there, clearly waiting for her, she feels herself physically shrink into herself, ashamed at him seeing her in the state she's in and wishing a hole would open in the floor for her to disappear into. She adjusts her jacket so that the collar covers the bruises her client left her with - a ring of finger marks around her neck - not quite looking him in the eye as she continues forward, the soreness between her legs twinging every time she takes a step.

"I didn't think you'd be here," she says quietly, her tone apologetic for him having to see her like this.

"Are you alright?"

His tone isn't apologetic or accusatory, but factual, almost protective. He doesn't accept the apology in her own town because he doesn't even acknowledge it, just dismisses it as if he were batting away at a fly. He doesn't even bitch about how long he's been awake when they both have work tomorrow. That seems an afterthought that's extinguished long before it gets to the front of his mind.

He doesn't need to see the bruises to know she has them just from the way she's wearing her jacket, the same way Peggy covers her throat with her scarf. He snuffs his electronic cigarette and tucks it away and gets up off the couch.

"There's a fresh change of clothes on your bed and the kettle's hot. I had the Avoxes find some teas that help people relax, you look like you need it. And there's-" he pauses, looking her up and down again, "- a medical kit if you need it in the bathroom."

"I'm fine," she replies quietly, in a tone that suggests she isn't fine at all. She trudges forward slowly, the aches and bruises and lingering smells and touch everywhere, hating her own body for encasing her in a prison of flesh and making her submit to even the most depraved of the Capitol's desires. "I just need to--"

She stops short as she realises that Jason's not here to reprimand her, that as angry as he looks, it's not at her. She wonders how long he's been sat here, waiting, imagining the ordeal she's going through. She's never thought he was capable of caring about anyone apart from himself, let alone an insolent Districter. She's tried so hard not to cry the whole way back here, but knowing that she's not quite so alone in this for once, and that her pillar of support came from the most unlikely source, makes her well up.

"Thank you, Jason. I can't tell you how much that means."

"It's fine." He doesn't like the feeling that he's here to comfort her, although that is what he's doing; he's telling himself it's because someone's intruded on his workplace, made their fetishes and kinks part of his business by imposing them on the team of people he's supposed to manage, that this is all just being cheated at business.

But the truth is it does make him uncomfortable, the bidding process, because it sickens him on some level deeper than just the miscegenation, than the fact that it reminds him of his sister fucking a traitor. He's frequented prostitutes before - Lorraine certainly made a nice living off him in their early years - so it's not that, but it's the aftermath. He doesn't like it, what it does to the Mentors, the way it undeniably rattles them inside and out. The hollow eyes and closed body-language isn't the kind he sees in the brothels, and he's sure it's because the Mentors couldn't ever say no. His friends, loath as he is to admit it.

"Come on, change into fresh clothes, you'll feel better. We can burn the ones you're wearing if you want." He pours some hot water from the kitchen and puts tea bags in two mugs. "Did you get held up on the way back or did he keep you beyond the allotted time? If he did, I'll..."

There's that flash of anger, diffuse and not aimed at Emily at all, not even just at the bidder but at the whole universe, because enforcing the contracts for bidding, the minimal fucking rules about contraceptives and curfews and 'don't damage the property', shouldn't be such an ordeal, and Jason has barely any more power than Emily does when it comes to it. Jason huffs a bit as he stirs sugar into her tea. "Anyway. He won't break the contract again when I'm done with him."

Emily shakes her head rapidly, though stops when she realises how much doing so makes it pound. "No, no Jason, he-- he delivered me back right on the dot." In some ways she wished he had kept her longer, even if it had prolonged her ordeal, so that she could complain about a grievance related to this that the Capitol would view as legitimate. She feels a tremendous surge of gratitude toward Jason well up in her again, though her expression remains worried. "I don't want you to get in trouble on my behalf. It's enough that you've done all this. More than enough."

She picks up the pyjamas he's laid out for her and retreats to her room to change, emerging a few minutes later with her eyes red from crying, holding out the revealing clothes she'd worn for the evening out as though they were contaminated. "Can we really burn them? Mr Falxvale has rules about open flames."

"Get cleaned up. It's fine." Jason dismisses her, not with disdain but with a sort of evident discomfort at her discomposed state, something that borders on sympathy but stops just short of becoming genuine care for someone else. While she changes he tucks his cigarette between his teeth and sets the tea out on the coffee table between the ugly plaid couches in the District Seven living room. He also puts out a sleep aid. Sometimes Mentors need those.

"Quintus Falxvale can blow me," Jason mutters when she returns, taking the clothing from Emily and throwing it in the sink. He grabs a canister of canola oil and empties it onto the garments, then follows it with a lit match. The fire alarm would go off at the ensuing smoldering mess, but Jason disabled those ages ago so they would stop going off at his perpetual cigarette use. "It's not like he's doing a hell of a lot to protect the staff here, is he? Is he?"

By which he means Emily, at this moment, red-eyed and puffy-faced and degraded.

If there's one part of Emily that's a little destructive, it's that she likes fire. It's perhaps a little surprising, given that it was one of the biggest fears of the people of Seven, one blaze being able to ruin enough of the forest that they'd never be able to recover from it, but there's some part of her that finds it very calming to watch, obliterating everything, cleansing rather than leaving behind damaged remnants. It's soothing to watch the clothes blacken and reduce to nothing, to feel the warm glow of the flames on her face. It's with some reluctance she turns away.

"No, he's not," she agrees sadly. She wishes she hadn't struck up something of a friendship with him, as it stung even more that he wasn't here to stop the ordeal she'd had to go through, even though she knew it was out of his hands.

She leans forward to rinse the ashes out of the sink. "Well, I'm glad those are gone."

"Would that what's-his-face could have been in that sink too." Jason snorts and holds his hand out to Emily, to lead her to the couch. It's one of the few times he'll willingly touch a Districter, these moments. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes they want to know they can make contact without it being sexual, invasive, abusive.

"Come on. Take a seat, take some oblivion. It'll keep you from dreaming." There's nothing Capitolites are better at than coming up with ways to avoid their problems. "I'll clear your schedule for tomorrow morning if you need it. I'll just dump it all on Cassian. He thinks he's going to a spa tomorrow."

She's glad Jason said that rather than her, even though she agrees wholeheartedly with the sentiment. The cameras that were sure to be watching them could take it as a personal issue from him, rather than a bitter hatred against the system. While her stomach lurches as the image of him flares up in her mind at Jason's mention, there's something satisfying on a very primal level about thinking about him going up in flames too. It was the part of her that she'd refused to acknowledge all throughout her Arena, that she'd resented the media portraying her as for all these years. She hated how good it felt.

She holds Jason's hand tightly, clinging to the stability he's offering her, managing a weak smile. "I do feel I need it, but will Cassian really be all right drilling the Tributes in physical training?

"No, but I hate to say it, but none of them are going to become athletes over one session anyway. Best we can hope for for most of them is that they don't trip over their own feet at the Cornucopia."

He leads her to the couch and waits until she's settled down before he takes a seat and lets go of her hand. Then he sets the mug of tea in her hands.

"I'm here all night. You can knock yourself out if you need to. I just need to go home for about an hour and-" He doesn't even know what it is he's doing. Paying some kind of perverse Tribute to his mother, waiting around as if she'll be angry if he doesn't come home. "I won't be long. I'll be here to keep a handle on things most of the night."

She takes a long sip of her tea, feeling its warmth washing through her. On hearing he's going to be there all night, she finds herself hurriedly placing the cup on the end table and throwing her arms around him, with very little warning, not knowing that she was even going to do so herself until she finds herself embracing him. She knows she's probably overstepped her mark, that the last thing he wants is a filthy Districter all over him, but she's so overwhelmed by his show of support and so grateful toward him and so desperate for comfort that all of that seems almost irrelevant, and instead she presses her head against his chest and tries her hardest not to cry.

"Thank you, Jason. You don't know what this means, how much it--" She breaks off, embarrassed as she hears her voice crack. "I won't let anyone say anything bad about you ever again, I promise."

Jason stiffens when she touches him like that, almost throws her off with his elbow. But he doesn't. Instead he stays still and then takes a sip of his own tea. There are times to indulge his prejudices and then there are moments when this workplace is one of the only damn things he has, and trying to keep it together takes both hands and more patience than he even knew he had. He lets her keep her head right there, cling to him like a woman with a life buoy, and feel the steady heartbeat of at least one Capitolite who will never touch her like that, nor even look at her with that particular depravity.

"It's fine. It's fine. Don't promise me the moon when there's no way for you to reach it," he says, laughing slightly to himself. "And don't think I won't put in a request for overtime for being here until sunrise. If I don't get a raise in the next month I'm just going to start skimming the top off Cassian's salary. Drink your tea."

She doesn't quite look at him as she pulls away, expecting to see some expression of disgust at a Districter having embraced him like that and knowing it would shatter what reassurance she's built up here. She sips at her tea, her shoulders sagging as the warmth of the liquid spreads through her and she relaxes a little at last.

"I'm sorry you had to see me like this," she says finally, quietly.

There's no disgust on Jason's face. He doesn't even voice that vague discomfort at this entire situation, the way he feels like his abode here in the tower has been intruded upon by those with more money than decency, the uneasiness of camaraderie with a Districter, with actually giving a damn that she feels better before she sleeps tonight.

"I've seen worse. Believe me, compared to some of the other Mentors and Tributes I've sat up with, this is near pleasant." As pleasant as it can be, under the circumstances. At least she isn't wetting herself, didn't drink herself sick to numb the pain, isn't in that blind panicked state, completely catatonic. "Just remember, if one of them ever breaks the rules on curfew or contraception or whatever else, one word and I'll bury them. They'll wish they never heard your name."

It's all he can do to protect his domain, to sate his control freakery.

It would be so easy to set one of them up or to simply lie, even with the word of a Capitolite trumping hers she could still do enough to stage some sort of personal protest, and the thought of Jason laying into any of the men whose sweaty grip was burned into her memory was intensely tempting. It was probably the only form of retribution she would ever get.

"I don't want you to get into trouble on my behalf. But thank you. That means a lot."

"It's fine. If I get into any trouble it's just because I want this place run like a proper District, not like a brothel for degenerates." You know, as opposed to just a regular brothel, for people who purchase sex within their own social class. It's not that Jason doesn't know that that's hurtful to say, it's just that he doesn't care enough not to say it. There's being gentle with Emily and then there's keeping a lid on it, and he can do the former and cannot commit to the latter.

He kills his tea as well. "Alright. Get yourself to bed. I'll hold down the fort in case any of our charges start any trouble over night." He holds his hand out to help her up off the couch, then gestures down the hall. He doesn't wait to watch her go before going to refill his cup of tea.

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Heartless Paradise Fools Me Every Time [Closed]

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