thecapitol | Keep telling us we're to have fun [Closed]

Entry tags:

Keep telling us we're to have fun [Closed]

Who| Luke and Rochelle, Black Tom and Rochelle
What| Rochelle asked Luke for drinks before the arena. Now they're finally getting to it. In other places, Rochelle makes a deal with the devil.
Where| Some random bar, then the D10 suites
When| Before the crowning
Warnings/Notes| Drinking, death talk? Will update as needed

Luke

The bar is a lot like the ones Rochelle would go to on occasion--Hardly the fanciest that the Capitol had to offer, but it was clean, respectable. She wasn't sure there was even a dive bar to be found if she had looked. It was the Capitol, after all. But dive bars or no, Rochelle found herself seated at the bar next to Luke, a few drinks in, and feeling that now-familiar buzzed pleasantness. She'd enjoyed getting to drink again when she was originally pulled here. And after the events of the arena, and finding out that Nick hadn't come back?

Rochelle has spent a lot of time in that feels-good buzzed stage of intoxication.

Mostly she does it alone, though. Either at the lobby bar, or in her room. It's nice to have company, someone who can take her mind off the things that have been leading her to drinking so regularly.

She props her head on a fist as she stares out over the bar, taking a slow sip of a drink that was just refilled. "You know, Luke. You would think I would get tired of thinking, 'I missed this', and 'I missed that' about things. Showers, fresh food. Frappucinos. But...it continues to dawn on me. Like. Just what I missed. Every single new thing that isn't shooting at zombies, popping mouthfuls of pills, and getting my ass beat by a Charger." She leaned in conspiratorially, whispering to Luke.

"Did you have Chargers? They're--Well. They look like, um." Saying rednecks suddenly sounded rude, when Rochelle seemed to be surrounded by them lately. "Well, they're like normal zombies, but they got one massive arm. Huge arm. And they rush you. If you're near a ledge, they'll try to knock you off--Nearly killed me doing that on a bridge. If they get a hold of you, they lift you up..." She made a fist, and hit the bar--Gently enough not to disturb the drinks, or bother the other customers, but enough to give him an idea, and continued to hit the bar as she spoke. "They slam you into the ground, over and over. Until someone else kills them. It's not fun."

Black Tom

Rochelle has a mission in mind. It's a long term goal, and she knows that it won't be easy. And to make it more complicated, she can't speak to Ellis, or most of her other friends. Ellis was too kind hearted, and she was pretty sure anyone else would try to discourage her from pursuing this particular goal. And they would have good points, and they might actually succeed in talking her out of it, because this was petty, and very unlike her. But she didn't want to be talked out of it.

There is one person, however, who might not only be willing to help, but actually able to.

Rochelle was polite, of course. She sent a message first, requesting a meeting, and telling him that she was looking for advice. Well, it's not like she has a mentor. Or an escort. Or much of anyone really there to give her a hand. Black Tom, however, would be able to provide a lot of advice on things that she would need to know, for both getting herself out of the arena...

And for getting revenge.

She's nervous, but she goes over the details in her head. Practically speaking, it's a solid idea. He has the Capitol knowhow, he isn't foundered by emotional connections to either party, and he doesn't mind getting his hands dirty. And in her opinion, after she had spent a lot of time asking people their opinion, he could use another ally. She would have to convince him that she was useful, and that she could give him something in exchange.

But that was okay with her. She would rather have a deal of this nature be with someone she's paying, rather than depending on the good will of.

This firmly in mind, she knocks on the mentor's door, a polite, professional smile in place. She's not quite as dressed up as she had been for the interview, but still firmly in business casual. You don't go making arrangements like this without some air of professionalism.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Luke wasn't feeling right, when he stepped into the bar. But he hasn't in several years. Clem's disappearance brings with it a fresh pain like a broken bone, felt with every movement, every breath he takes. One that won't heal right, just like all the others, and that'll keep aching whenever life slows down - when he slows down and lets it catch up - and he doesn't have the strength to pretend he's doing okay.

A little self-anesthetization never hurt anyone and they've been due for a drink. So here they are, each with something they're looking to forget. A couple of beers in and he's feeling something else - a slow unwinding of muscles and a heavy heat pooling his chest. And somewhere in his steady drift into a warm buzz, he remembers again what it's like to smile and relax and enjoy himself. His cautious, tired mask peels away, little by little, and when she leans towards him he does the same, an elbow on the counter, ducking his head slightly to better hear her over the others. Her breath's warm, laced with booze. He doesn't mind.

"Jesus..." His brow furrows as he listens. "Ours ain't like that... they're pretty slow an' predictable, at least the ones I've seen. Heard somethin' 'bout some out there runnin' or havin' the brain to pick things up an' use 'em, but I don' know for sure. Seen 'em try to climb their way up, though."

He wets his lips thoughtfully, his gaze falling to the counter for a long moment.

"Well, I'm jus glad y'made it."

She's feeling pretty good herself. Good enough to talk about zombies without her own frown. They feel distant now--Most of the scars have rehealed by this point, leaving a handful of pale marks across her arms, and some on the rest of her body. When he talks, she wonders if she should feel jealous or not. She decides against it. For all his zombies being much duller in comparison, all it took was one misstep for them to die. Well--That's how it was for most people. She was just one of the lucky ones, with some kind of immunity against the disease.

"Ours ran if they found you. Sprinted, really. But none of them ever...used things. Couldn't even get a door open." She paused for a moment, drumming manicured nails on the bar. "It's so easy to think that it's all a bad dream. Just some fever dream from watching too many movies." But it's not. She can get manicures and spa treatments and put on beautiful dresses, but the person that she was before the Green Flu and the person she is now are very different people. One of them had to learn to survive. To do whatever necessary to survive. And those lessons, and that willingness can't die.

"If we stop talking about zombies, will you stop frowning?" She asks, reaching up to move a piece of his hair out of his eyes. "You were just smiling a minute ago. C'mon, Luke. You got such a nice smile. I'll let you decide what we talk about." She certainly didn't care about the topic. Anything to keep up the good feeling, to avoid thinking about all the problems that they had.

"Though...I'm glad I made it, too. And I'm glad you made it. Sounds like you had a hard time of it, too. Had to watch out all the time. Not bein' immune." And becoming a zombie when you died, anyway. Still carrying that virus inside of you. Not that it had affected Rochelle--She'd stayed dead when she'd died, which was mighty fortunate, because she would have hated to watch herself shuffle around after she died. Unless the virus that was carried inside them just hadn't been able to be passed with just living in close quarters.

A thought occurs, and she glances at Luke again, considering. But she'll let it stay to the side for now. After all, she'd promised that she'd let him change the subject, if it got him to smile.

She's glad he made it too.

His eyes haze over, throat bobbing shallowly around things unsettled and unsaid, things better left under the rug he had swept them under. "...Yeah." He says, barely above a whisper. Nodding dimly. Then his gaze clears and a smile lights up his face, such a small little thing that almost crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"Sorry," He says, with breathless laugh, but he means it. More and more these days he finds himself slipping, losing himself to the pull of the past. Needing something, someone to bring him back and it seems like it falls on her too often to try. He doesn't want to be that burden.

His skin tingles, nerves humming like live wires at her touch, and it's awake again, the loneliness and the want that wrings his insides and makes him ache to his bones. Ache so badly that all he can do is watch her for a long time in that same quiet, all-consuming way as if they're meeting after years of hardship and separation. He's at loss for where to begin, for what to say, his eyes seeking.

"Y'know, I, I never really thanked you for helpin' us. For helpin' Jane an' Clem..." Clementine's name sticks like a fishbone in his throat and he swallows past it, feeling cold and unbalanced. He recovers after a beat. But not before his silence has given away the loud thumpitty-thump of his fool heart on his sleeve.

"If you hadn't shown up when y'did... I don' know what woulda happened." He does. But he suddenly shakes his head. "Fuck -- m'sorry. I didn'--" A sigh. "I didn't mean to dump that shit on you."

Edited 2015-07-23 02:49 (UTC)

She gives a dry laugh of her own, one without much humor. Then she turns her head to the bar, staring down at the wood, because that's preferable to looking at Luke and remembering how he looked when she pressed that knife to his head--

"That's--I tell you that you ought to pick a more cheerful topic, and that's what you go with?" Her voice sounds breathless, and she wants to shove him out of the bar stool for bringing it up, reminding her the blood on her hands. The way that he says Clem's name doesn't help, and she has to remember that the child didn't revive after Rochelle killed her. After Rochelle took that knife to her.

They should all hate her.

She wants to snap at him, tell him to never thank her again for that. That it wasn't some kind of gift she gave them. But she knows that for them, it was. It was an act of mercy, taking that burden on herself. And she would be grateful too, in their position. That didn't make it any better.

"But...you're welcome. That's--That's what I do, right? Kill zombies." She gives a quiet little laugh, and like the one before it, there was no humor to be found. "It feels like that's what my life revolves around now. Even now that I'm here, I'm not just myself anymore. I'm a zombie apocalypse survivor. And that's something that will never change. It'll...always color me." She pressed her lips into a thin line, then looked up at him.

"...But I'm glad there are others here, at least. It's nice, being able to talk to you about it. If that doesn't sound messed up."

Her mirthless laugh hangs in the air. He looks away, too.

Everyone's luck runs out someday and it's only a matter of when and how death'll come. But he hadn't been ready to go even when his body had wanted otherwise, when it had seemed so easy, swollen with venom and shaking and all but screaming through his teeth. There's more to life, here and home, than these brutal, senseless cycles of pain and death. And even if it's becoming harder and harder to believe it, he wants to. Needs to. It's why he's here, so much of why he pushes on and never sleeps away the coming days even when it seems he can't do any better while awake. Some things are worth getting up for -- and he owes it to those who haven't had the luxury of a second chance at life to keep breathing, to keep finding the will and the way to move forward, one limping step at a time.

"It gets the best of us. Everybody needs someone to talk to, dun matter how tough they are."

Pausing, he considers how the world has changed him for the better and for the worse. All the callouses and scar tissue he's grown, all the pieces of him gouged out and left behind,

"You're more than that. More than jus'... a victim a' somethin' you never shoulda had to go through." He turns his head, regarding her intently. "You're strong. You keep fightin' when it's easier not to, an' that's all you. That's somethin' you had in you from the start." his voice cracks softly. "Somethin's s'been tempered by hardship. An' if that don' count, then I don' know what does."

She wants to argue with him, tell him the only reason she's alive is because she's an Immune--If she were in his position, she'd probably be dead by now, years down the road and scared senseless that the next time any one zombie touched it, it could be her last moments on earth. At least, as a lucid person. But she doesn't. It'd be an insult to him, an insult to the rest of her team.

It's odd, being complimented like that. And he's so intense about it, she can't help but look at him, face softening despite herself. Strong. That's what she wanted to think she was. It was better to be strong, than to just be a survivor, someone lucky enough to not die. She wanted to be more than just what her world had become.

She reached out, and touched his hair again. It wasn't in the way anymore, but she moved it aside anyway.

"You're a good man, Luke." She told him, voice soft. "I can see why you're the leader. You're strong too, and you're kind. You care about other people, and you don't judge people on anything but who they are. Our leader, Coach...He's like that too. He's...a good man." She glanced aside briefly, still smiling softly. "I think he'd like you."

His lips press thin, the corners twisting into a rueful sort of smile at her praises, at the softening of her features. If she had known what became of his people before he had been sucked into Panem, he doesn't think they'd be having the same conversation. Pete had been better fit to lead with his grounding presence, his bullshit detector, and experience -- but someone had had to attempt assuming responsibility after they had lost him.

Luke feels a dull, familiar ache in his chest and looks to his glass, drinking deeply.

As they had gathered their things and fled from the cabin he had promised them all that he would do what he could to lead them to safety, and they had trusted him with their lives. That's on him now. And that guilt is something he'll carry in his bones for the rest of his life. But maybe it's the way it should be.

"...Yeah?" He licks his lips, tilting his head up as she ticklishly combs a few strands of hair away. "Well, he sounds like a solid guy. Someone I could get behind."

It's left hanging in the air for a while as he searches her face for something he isn't sure yet, booze and nerves and restless need buzzing through him, pulsing through his fingers as he reaches past his glass for her. Slow and gentle, like he's afraid of startling her, like he's patiently coaxing her out from behind layers of pain and guardedness. His touch ghosts her arm for just a moment, trailing thoughtfully to her wrist. Nothing planned. Nothing on the tired mask of his face but a look too achingly honest for his own good.

"He is," She replies, firmly sticking to the present tense. He's not here, and maybe that's for the best, but until she knows that he's dead, she has to believe he's somewhere else out there. Somewhere safe. What would he think of this whole mess, anyway? She almost laughed at the idea. "I'd like you to meet him, some day. In better circumstances, hopefully." If better circumstances could even exist here.

She looks down at Luke's hand, watching him touch her skin. Her nerves flare up at the touch, gentle and caring and something that she hasn't felt in what feels like years. There's an urge there, a desire inside her for something that he could give her. Something that she hasn't had in a long time, that she'd thought she might never have again. She has connections, she has friends, but there's a desire for something beyond that. And if she's been reading Luke right, it's something that they share.

At least, she hopes it's mutual.

She looks up at him, and she wants to put down those guards, all the careful barriers of pragmatism that keeps her alive and safe. Trust isn't something that's easy to give, but Luke's proved time and again that he's worthy of it. So she takes the risk. Because she can't help but think that the reward, if it comes, is worth putting herself in this position.

So she leans forward just a little more, tilting her head at him. Carefully looking him over, until she's sure that what she's about to do is what she really wants.

"So, if all that gets is a wrist touch...what am I going to have to say to you to get you to kiss me?"

Some say hope’s the stuff of fairy tales. That it belongs to the naive, the people who have yet to open their eyes and look around them. But naive or not he's made it this far, his spirit battered but not broken. And though his head's not held as high as it used to be, he's still searching the horizon for a better future that seems to be pulling further away all the time.

A part of him expects her hand to draw back or to shove against his chest less playfully than at the ball. But it doesn't. She just looks at him and he looks back, his fingers sliding to rest against wood, and for the first time in what feels like longer than he can remember - even when it's only been since Nick's birthday -, there's something other than guilt and frustrated powerlessness and grief swelling in his chest. He doesn't know what to do with it.

She makes a suggestion, though - and suddenly he feels more sober than he has the entire night.

Aware again of people in their midst, he blinks and turns his head, his eyebrows lifting slightly when he glances back to her. His mouth opens uselessly and shuts and he cocks his head, needing a moment to process her offer. If it actually is an offer. If she's just kidding, well, she sure got him good.

"...y'mean right here?" A trill of adrenaline races down his spine, his pulse quickening.

Her eyes follow his as he glances around. There were people here, and if they did anything, there was sure to be gossip about it later on. But Rochelle had gotten used to her romantic life being gossiped about without any solid evidence, maybe it'd be nice to actually give them something to talk about. Something that was real, not conceived of people reading too much into things that they should leave alone.

She moves the hand that he touched to brush against his hand on the bar. Things like this, physical affection. Even when the world was normal, she hadn't been much for this, finding time for little gestures. But it was nice. She let her hand rest right next to his, and continued talking, eyes on their hands.

"Where else would it be? Unless I have to say something different at a different place? You need to tell me my options, here."

Then she glanced up at him, giving him a careful smile. There's a gentle teasing in her eyes, but not about the kissing in general. She wouldn't be quite that rude with her teasing, anyway.

There is a slight bit of concern on her face, though, as she scans his. She could have read him wrong, after all. Maybe he was just teasing her, maybe he was just joking around. Worry over sincerity had been one of the problems she'd had with Nick. She worries about putting herself out there, worries about being made a fool by wrongly guessing the interest of the other person.

There are a lot of dark things in the world. They were in her world, they're in this world, Luke's world, and in every single other world that is inhabited by people. But there are good things, too. You just got to know where to look, and you have to be willing to risk it. And Rochelle allows herself that slimmer of hope, to put herself out there and take the risk, if that means a chance at one of those good things.

Besides, it's just a kiss, right? Don't have to mean anything more than that.

His gaze lingers on her face, eyes shifting, reading the faint traces of worry that he suspects have everything to do with his hesitation. And he's sorry for that as much as he's sorry for spoiling the spontaneity of the moment. Here's to hoping it wasn't a one-shot offer. "I don' know... I jus' thought, maybe, somewhere a li'l less--" Pausing, he fishes for the best word, brow furrowed. "--busy."

Not that a room in the Tribute tower promised much more than the illusion of privacy when they both knew there was no peace to be had. But it's something. The giddy anxiety at the possibility of being watched or caught used to fuel him back when dry spells were rare, surveillance never half as intrusive, and life was bright with promise. But his hunger for fun that had led to mischief under restaurant tables and in cramped dressing rooms stalls is not gone on the best of days -- only dampened under layers of caution and responsibility. A reshuffling of priorities.

"Well, we, uh... could go back to my place?" There's a hot twist in his belly as he makes the suggestion and he lets out a breathy chuckle, his smile boyish, guileless. "...or yours. Or... the park? If you don' mind the wait."

How're those for options?

"You want me to go to your room?" At that, the worry on her face shifts to amusement, and she smirks at him, raising an eyebrow. While she knew what he meant, and he did have a point, she felt like starting this in a bedroom might lead to...other things. At the very least, the Capitol would certainly think that something along those lines had happened. If she's going to be gossiped about, she wants it to at least be true.

And it's not like she hasn't thought about it. She's thought about it plenty.

But she wants to be careful with this. It's something different than what she's used to--Or at least, she wants it to be different. Not something with no strings attached, something you just pick up and move on from. That desire itself had been unexpected at first, but the more she lingered on it, the more that she thinks that it might be right.

So, maybe she wants to attach a few strings to this. Make it into something worth keeping.

"Let's go to the park. There'll probably be less people around, anyway. Maybe even less cameras." She decides, after a moment. Then she finished off her drink in one gulp, and stands up. Not the best of ideas, but she leans against the barstool for a moment while her balance rights itself.

Then she holds her hand out for Luke.

It's her turn to lead him somewhere else and he can't help but smile, a part of him unsure if this moment is real or imagined even as his hand slides from his glass and touches hers, skin warm against his.

It’s funny.

The Capitol hasn’t changed a bit in the space of time between stepping in and out of the bar, but the night seems different, feels different, humming and alive as he falls into step beside her, thumbs hitched into his jeans pockets. They make for the park, drifting off the path and through a thin patch of trees to the pond he and Clem had sat by so long ago, their breaths misting in the chill. He skims his fingers absently across the backrest of the bench for a moment, watching the still, glassy surface.

Nick or Jane could be gone tomorrow, just like Clem and Beth. So could Rochelle. So could he, for good. Time's never on their side, life full of should-haves and could-haves and if-onlys. But this wouldn't be like other times. This wouldn't be another missed opportunity. He blinks away the past, turning towards Rochelle.

“So..." Moving closer, their bodies almost touching. That small, hopeful smile curling his lips as his touch feathers up and down her arm. It has been so long since he's touched someone like this, since he could. "...where were we?"

When you're just walking like this, you can forget just how shitty the Capitol is. It's a beautiful place without the people who taint it, and when your company is pleasant, it feels even more so. There's no chill in the air now, there's a heat that hangs in the air--Not unpleasant, and she's sure that the Capitol would never let it get to that point. Everything here was controlled. She wondered if the stars were even real.

But there was someone real next to her, something real and unplanned.

She lets the easy silence rest in the warm, still air, until he speaks. Rochelle glances over at him, leaning into the touch. "Look, I knew I'd get you to smile. You really ought to do that more often, you know." She tells him quietly, a smile of her own slipping onto her face. He always looked so haggard, so tired, burdened with worries and responsibility. And she wanted to alleviate that, as much as she could.

"I was wondering just what I'd have to say to get you to kiss me." She replied, voice carrying a hint of teasing to it as she shot him a grin, hand slipping over to brush against his. "I'd love any tips you could give me."

"Guess we're jus' gon' have to meet up for drinks more often," He suggests without a missing a beat, rubbing at the nape of his neck in a reflex he shares with Nick. It's hard to know who had picked it up from who.

But the flicker of self-consciousness comes and goes and he goes quiet, absorbed and still, basking in the warmth of gentler human touch. How much of all this is the booze and loneliness and quiet desperation - a hunger for something meaningful - jumbled together, he can't say. It's hard to think with the hive-like thrumming in his belly. Hard to focus as some tight-wound coils of muscle in his body begin to loosen and others flex. His pulse spikes subtly in his throat. Some things are not meant to be overthought.

"Well, you coulda jus' asked..." Though pitched low his voice cheerily playful as he curls a hand around her shoulder; he's not so sure things would've gone as smoothly if she had been so direct. Whether it would have or wouldn't doesn't matter now, though, as his gaze flits to her lips, lingering. Thumb stroking her shoulder.

Edited 2015-07-26 16:32 (UTC)

"I wouldn't mind that." She took a cautious glance around the park, trying to see if there was anyone else. Or anyone that looked like they were spying. Surely a park would be safe, wouldn't it? "Kinda wish we could have a little more privacy, though. Dunno how I feel about a picture of us winding up on the gossip column." Maybe they'd be lucky and something more interesting than them will score a place there.

She leans back against the bench. There's not much use fretting over it. Not when it's something you can't change.

She takes his hand that's not on her shoulder, and looks up at him, quietly bringing the hand up to her lips. People want affection, especially people who have been deprived of it for so long. From their home worlds to this place, they've been hopping from one stressful situation to another. And god, she wants this. She wants to feel this gentle affection he has to offer, the desire curling in her stomach.

"Well," She starts, pulling his hand a few inches from her lips. Worry snuck into her features as she spoke--Surely, he would have said something before now, if he had not wanted this as well. But there's always the offchance, maybe she had misinterpreted, or maybe he was afraid to admit disinterest. Maybe that was why he had wanted her out of the bar, away from the crowd. But she could secondguess herself all day.

"Will you?"

There's a note of uncertainty in her voice that gives him pause, his gaze following hers as she looks left and right. He has waited for longer than this, been starved for touch and kept wide awake in his idler moments by that restless, brutal ache for longer than this. A little longer wouldn't kill him.

He pulls in a slow breath, his mind scrambling to catch up with the rest of him.

"We could still go somewhere else," He offers, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. But then she's taking his hand from his side and guiding it gently, purposefully, quietly commanding his attention. Bringing the tingling tips of his fingers to her lips as he looks on, looks at her with eyes that shouldn't be as unguarded as they are, not after he’s seen what people under duress are capable of, not after what he's seen of his lawless world.

He drags his thumb lightly over her lower lip, tucking his fingers under her chin. It feels right, here and now. Feels as it should be. And maybe that's enough. Maybe he doesn’t need to have things all figured out.

"I'd like that," He breathes, leaning in. Anything he else he meant to say fades as he closes the distance and presses his mouth to hers, warm and soft and unsure, charged with barely-there restraint.

Where else could they go, though? Where would have any more or any less privacy than where they were already at, right here and right now. And she didn't want to move, she wanted to stay here, with him. So she doesn't comment on it.

His eyes are one of his best features, she thinks. They show emotions so easily, and so honestly. So often, what they show is worry, sadness. Emotions that he's certainly entitled to, considering their situation. But she loves watching them switch to something happier, something warm and soft. She loves that despite what he's been through, there's still warmth and softness to be found.

In his eyes, and in his kisses.

She returns the kiss, feeling that warmth sliding from him and into her, spreading out from her core. How long has it been--Not just kissing, but a kiss that meant a damn thing, a kiss that wasn't two people sharing a single goal for a single night. She presses against his body, seeking more of that warmth. Hands slip up his shoulders, to hang loosely around his neck.

When they finally do part, she feels breathless.

"That was nice." She manages to whisper to him, before pressing her lips to his again.

He makes a noise low in his throat, a miserable little moan as she slings her arms around him and pulls herself closer and he feels the heat of her through her clothes, feels her against him, chest to chest and her mouth hot and soft on his. He takes everything he has to give, everything she pours into him like someone fighting for life, greedy. And for a moment he almost feels whole again. Almost feels like the man he used to be, full of laughter and light and big plans for the future he'd furiously type up and research and tell Nick all about into the small hours of the morning.

It's like waking from a dream, when the moment breaks. The park and the heat and the night creep back into awareness and he blinks back at her just as dizzied before he cracks a smile, huffing a humbled sort of laugh. But she doesn't leave him to try and fumble for words before he's found them yet. Wouldn't be the first time she's shown him mercy.

He meets her halfway, fingers cradling her jaw. The kiss deeper and searching but painfully controlled, needing to be until she knows what she wants and where she wants to be. It might just be an accident, this, while they float through a half-drunk haze. But if it is, it's the best he's seen in a long time.

This time he's the first to draw back, panting. Needing a moment as it all washes over him. "Well..." He lets out a breath, unable to keep a note of amused surprise out of his voice. "...that jus' happened."

He rakes a hand through his hair, letting it settle at the back of his neck again. "Y'know, they, uh, they say the third time's a charm..." A guilty-grin quirks his lips. "Wouldn't mind testin' that theory."

She shoots him a sheepish smile as they pull away again, face flushed, and pulse beating fast. She had her own desires that she was plenty aware of, and for a few moments, she let herself give in to them. Being practical kept her alive, but taking this risk made her feel alive in a way she had nearly forgotten how to feel.

It's no accident, and when they pull apart, she stays close to him. The kiss was certainly on purpose, but anything further than that...? She wasn't sure. It was enough that he had kissed her, and what could lay beyond that was a beast that she was hesitant to tackle just yet. It's not as though she's opposed, and she's certainly had her fun with hook ups at bars before.

But Luke is more than a stranger with a single common aspect of shared desire, and she's not sure if she's ready to face what that might mean beyond kissing.

Even so, she can't help the amused smile on her lips as he speaks. "Awfully scientific, aren't you?" She moves her hand to play with his hair a few moments, smile slipping from amused to teasing. But she doesn't leave him hanging for long. "Well, if it's for science." And her arm slips back around him, and she leans up against him again, pressing her lips to his.

Making up for lost time, she thinks to herself, and has to stop from laughing into the kiss.

Who's he to argue with science?

Luke's lazy smile lingers as she teases his hair and threads her fingers through it, these little affections belonging to a world of touch that's existed only in memory for the longest of time. He squeezes her shoulder, sliding back into the next kiss like he can't remember life without the taste of her on his lips. Nothing about it planned in the way few things get to be these days. It makes it that harder to draw back when he does, fighting the animal need that hooks its claws in deep and tears at him. But he has to, his head spinning, the low throb in his gut sharper, more focused. A flush crawls up his neck.

"...so..." His voice is as cautious and curious as his hands are while he tries to read the intent between the lines etched into her face. They're softer now, and he thinks she looks more relaxed than he's ever seen her. "Whaddya wanna do now? 'cause I could keep goin', but... well, I don' want this to be somethin' you regret."

Rochelle doesn't respond right away. Instead, her eyes go over his face, the cautious smile on his lips. If she notices any hints of other thoughts or desires on his mind, she tactfully doesn't mention it. Instead, she reaches for his hand, lacing her fingers with his. For a few moments, all she does is look at their hands combined. There's a lot of things to be thought here, and she's not sure she's sober enough for the task.

"I'd like to continue walking around the park a little," She says, cautiously looking up at him. "And then, I'd like to go back to the tower, and go to sleep. And I might like to kiss you again. Because that is definitely something I won't be regretting." She smiles at him with that, standing up. He won't mind, right? No, if he were the type of guy who couldn't respect that choice, she would've known about it by now. He wasn't some neanderthal.

"I would also like it if...we went out like this again at some point."

Their hands are both lightly pocked with scars, his roughened largely by farmwork and guitar-plucking. And he remembers, with a wry huff of a laugh, how he had softened them up for a few girls back when he had had the time and had thought it might make a world of difference. Might keep them longer. But he's older and smarter and Rochelle doesn't seem to mind. She doesn't seem to mind, either, that his nose is a touch too big for his face or that he can't grow anything resembling a proper beard. The people worth keeping around don't, maybe.

He squeezes her hand, giving her a long, searching look, nodding. Sure, there's a tinge of disappointment at leaving things be -- he'd be lying if he claimed otherwise while lizard-brained lust pulses white-hot through his body and wakes him. But her smile and her trust and her respect mean more - and last longer, he'd think - than sex would. It's better to be left wanting more than wanting less.

He pulls in a breath and lets it out just as slowly, hoping to walk some of the adrenaline jitters out of his system. The rest he'd figure out back at his room.

"M'sure we can figure somethin' out." He stands with her, the corners of his lips curling upwards. "Mind if I walk you home?"

Tom's been recuperating, mostly in privacy. He hates to admit it, but the Arena took a toll on him, and any public appearance run the risk of exposing that weakness to his many enemies in the city. Not that he has much to fear from his enemies, given the difference in power between them now, but he's a proud man who never quite came to terms with the limp he acquired three decades ago, much less the current aches and pains that come from his recently reconstructed body. He even hides it from Molotov as best he can, the hobbling, the painkillers he needs to sleep with a wound on his chest from a lightningstrike and missing fingertips and other injuries.

He knows he'll recover, that in a few weeks he'll be as strong and battle-ready as he was before. He just hates the waiting. For the moment he's in his Mentor's room, sitting next to the windowsill with orchids and lilies blooming in little pots, reading a book with reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and a blanket in his lap (he never has quite adjusted to not being able to regulate his body temperature with his superpowers). He looks positively elderly and bucolic, much older than his fifty-odd years.

"Come in, gloriosa." He turns a page in the book.

She's startled, when she sees him. For a moment, she feels like she's entered some kind of nursing home to visit an aging relative. She can't help but wonder if maybe she should have done this later, or picked another person. Tom doesn't seem up for much at the moment, certainly. But she's here, and he's here, and he's ready to listen to her.

And he's still the best bet for her.

So she sits down, crosses her legs, and rests her hands on her lap, like a professional ready to discuss business. "First of all--Congratulations on the win. It was only a matter of time, in my opinion. I've seen some of the clips of you in the arena, and I have to say, I'm glad that I didn't run into you. And that it won't be a risk anymore." She gives him a smile, only slightly rueful. Hell, Tom might've been a better death than what she got that arena, bleeding out after mercy killing the rest of her team. Of course, three kills ended up putting her in the higher echelon of kills than most people in the arena.

She would've taken a quick death.

After a few moments of thought, she segues into why she came there. Tom knew it wasn't a social visit, and she wasn't going to bore him with pretending it was. "I'm here, because I have two problems. And I think you're one of the most experienced people here with both of the problems." She hesitated again, letting that sink in.

"The first problem is--I want out of the arena. There's no way that anyone from District 3 is going to win. Ever. Even managing without mentors, without any competent help, and with people being hesitant to sponsor us, I'm not sure if we'd even be...allowed to win." She's careful here, knowing they could well still be monitored, and chose her words very carefully. "Did you see our costumes for the arena? I'm not putting my hopes in politics. So I'm getting out. I've already gotten myself sponsors, I've gotten a job at Celebrus, I'm building my network. But I think that you would know, better than anyone else, what else would be involved in that."

"Ah, I thought it was Molotov." Tom looks a bit sheepish to be found in such a state, and his posture instantly straightens some, shoulders pulled back with the sort of dignity that betrays no weakness, and plucks the reading glasses from off his nose. Were this one of many of the other Tributes he knows, he might be concerned that they came to try and 'rematch' from the Arena, now that there are no powers, and his hand would be traveling to his cane and both feet would be on the ground to hold his ground, but Rochelle's never shown him any harmful intent, and what's more, he believes they have a certain pragmatism in common.

So instead of preparing to come to blows, after a quick 'thank you' for her congratulations and a satisfied smile at her praise (Tom's always had such a weakness for compliments), he twines his fingers and rests his elbows on the arm rests of the chair, listening to her proposal.

And he finds that he sees that pragmatism all the more.

"You've come to the right place. You know, a good deed earns its own kind in my world." Favors are always preferable to honor, because there's a certain currency that's harder to tarnish with the former. There's less to be lost in breaking a favor than a code of morality, more flexibility with where to apply them. "I've no hand in the petitions currently being processed, but I'm sure I could put in a good word or two for you, lass."

He narrows his eyes slightly. "But what's your second problem?"

"Oh--Sorry. I can send a note up next time, if you'd like?" It would have been wise to have scheduled a meeting, or something--But she'd wanted to appear informal. And she didn't want to attract too much attention. Sending him a message to schedule, doing anything more than dropping by, would definitely net attention from the people watching them. As it was, she knew they could be doing it anyway, but she hoped that simply dropping in like this would make them turn their attention to more interesting things.

Still, it was kind of rude.

"Ah, if you could do that...That would be great. I'd be happy to return the good deed, wherever it may be applied." Favors for favors made sense, and they would stay as they were, no matter how things turned. Just doing something because it was good was great, but as soon as relationships turned sour, how would that end? It was better to buy than to beg. It felt better, too. Felt like she earned it. "I'd appreciate any advice you could give me, as well. Without a competent escort, I'm more or less on my own with this."

She shifted when he brought up the second topic, eyes glancing around furtively, as though trying to pick out where the security cameras may lay. But there was nothing for it, but to try to look relaxed and hope. "You're working security, right? I was wondering if you could look into a matter for me. A matter regarding one of my teammates. Do you remember me mentioning Nick...? He didn't come back last arena." Her mouth is set, jaw clenched. The expression of a woman trying to hold back her feelings. Which hinted that, though her voice was forcibly casual, this had some effect on her.

"Nick was one of the best damn tributes in the arena, no offense. He was ridiculously popular, ruthless, always spoke highly of the Capitol. He was an ideal tribute for the Capitol. I find it...just. Suspicious. That he wouldn't be brought back, somehow." Her voice was lowered at this, though she still made the efforts of casual conversation. "If you could look into it, see if you can find anything out about what happened there...I'd appreciate it. Nothing that'll get you in trouble, obviously. Just sniff around."

She pauses, and rubs the bridge of her nose, a small smile on her lips. But the smile wasn't friendly, it was cold and calculating. "And if anything happens, and you need a tribute to blame it on...Rick and Daryl have been asking about their friend, Beth. She hasn't come back either."

Call it petty if you wanted, but when Rochelle was crossed, she kept it close to her heart.

"No, it's fine. I shouldn't be getting lax anyway. Resting on my laurels will have me dancing with the devil soon enough, with how many people wouldn't stop short of cutting my throat the second after clearing my doorway." He waves a hand, dismissing the suggestion entirely. Appointments can be left for his office work with the Peacekeepers. Here, he's more spontaneous.

He steeples his fingers as he listens, sucking at the inside of his lower lip slightly as he considers the angles he could use to his advantage with this. Nothing in life ever comes for free, or at least ever stays for it, and so Tom doesn't project value onto things so much as assess that which already exists.

He could try to rib Rochelle a bit about whether she has a relationship with Nick, exactly what the nature of her 'teammates' are, but he has nothing to gain from rustling her feathers. Let him be one of the few to not worry about gossip, but to take things on their own terms. God knows there are few enough who bear that in mind in the Capitol.

"Aye, Beth, that little she-devil," he says with a huff. "She put a knife in me two Arenas back. I should have figured that someone out there would take it upon themselves to protect those that hardly need it."

He folds his hands. "I had a lot of respect for your Nick. He had the right idea about these Games. I'll do my best, lass."

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