thecapitol | Honesty, Could It Be the Trigger That Makes Us Answer All at Once? [Closed]

Entry tags:

Honesty, Could It Be the Trigger That Makes Us Answer All at Once? [Closed]

WHO| Jason and Swann
WHAT| Jason meets Swann's dad, part two: shotgun edition.
WHEN| After the crowning
WHERE| Ilar Honeymead's place
WARNINGS| General Capitolite awfulness.

This time, there won't be cake-throwing. Jason's confident about that, at least. The rest is a different story; he and Swann have been bickering plenty lately, and it seems a coin-flip whether they'll be wildly in love throughout the day or snapping at each other, unable to contain their pettiness and annoyance. He hopes today's one of the former, because if it's the latter then dinner with Ilar is going to be a sham at best and a complete disaster at worst.

They've said some things in the last few weeks that cut deeper than they should have, never for any reason that they could trace back. Jason will forget why they were fighting with each other and only the slammed doors and cruel words that ended the fight. They're a mystery him, and the resolution always tends to be the worst prize ever.

But the good times are still some of the best days he's had in years, and that makes the bickering all the more terrifying. He doesn't want to lose resting his face in her hair while she sleeps three nights a week, or taking their Sunday and having Eta pack them food and going to a lookout point, or gossiping about their Tributes and co-workers over lunch every day. He feels wired to self-destruct, as if he can't help but snipe and snap at her, by some uncontrollable impulse that he has to repair by returning to her over and over with gifts and apologies that are becoming, with each passing week, more verbalized.

It's in this state of disequilibrium that he picks her up tonight, and unlike the last time they drove to Ilar's now Jason looks more visibly nervous, pressing his lips together and exhaling through his nose far more than necessary. He holds off on smoking because he doesn't want to get the smell on him before Ilar meets him, but he keeps clicking his teeth, up until they start to drive up into Ilar's palatial driveway.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There will definitely not be cake-throwing, because Eta took care to only send cookies along with Swann to Honeymead Manor. Cookies are substantially less useful for throwing, as a general rule, and it's not exactly a secret that Swann has a penchant for throwing things, so.

Swann's mostly been tired, because their fighting and arguing and back-and-forth wears her out like nothing else seems to, and she's never been good with whiplash highs and lows anyway. But their highs are so high that it makes her forget the lows until they come back around, and it sends her into fits of sickness at least once a week.

She's doing all right this evening, though she's a little antsy herself, just because she always is before these dinners. Like she'd told Jason the last time around, there's a pretty set order to it all. She doesn't say very much, because she knows there's nothing she can say that will calm Jason down; there's never been anything that could calm any of her boyfriends down, because, she supposes, her father intimidates people by just existing and being as powerful as he is, a small, round man with the ability to ruin anyone and Snow's number on speed-dial.

Swann hates it.

"Okay," she says, as they pull up in front of the house, and she reaches for Jason's hand. "It's just Daddy. You know him, it's not even your first time meeting him."

"He's going to tell me how tall I've gotten, isn't he. Or how much weight I've lost. I think the last time I saw him was at Quentin's funeral." He gives her hand a squeeze, meeting her eyes less to give her strength and more to look for it and take it for himself.

He parks the car and gets out to open the door for her, then takes a step back so she can give him a last look over, straighten anything wrong with his tie or collar or lapels. Normally he wouldn't care. It's only for her that he does, only because he's determined to get tonight right even if she tries to mess it up, as he suspects she might, the same way he has to suspect she's at fault when he gets into a mood and takes it out on her. Whomever's fault it is, tonight he has to keep whatever angry impulses have so wreaked havoc upon their relationships at bay, tamped down.

He doesn't know if he can. Every day at work he already only just keeps himself from going off the rails, and that's far less high-stress than this.

"No, he knows what you look like. You pretty much look the same as back then, anyway." Or at least she doesn't think he'll say those things, because even though her father is prone to that kind of... fatherliness, it's not as though Jason had still been a fat, squash-nosed ten year old at the funeral. She smiles at him.

Swann can't imagine intentionally trying to fuck this up, the same way she hadn't done it the last time around. She wants nothing more than for her father to approve of Jason, or else she wouldn't be here, wouldn't be suppressing butterflies in her stomach.

It's just Daddy, she reminds herself at the same time she reminds Jason.

Instead of straightening anything, she takes his face in the hand that isn't holding a basket of cookies and raises up on her toes to kiss him before threading her fingers through his and walking to the enormous front door.

She doesn't knock and no one answers -- instead, she clearly says "Swann Honeymead and guest" out loud, then leans forward for a retinal scan. It's only then that the door swings open, a butler and an Avox waiting just inside the huge entryway, glowing warmly from a series of chandeliers.

"I do age well." That's not necessarily the truth - by Capitol standards, Jason looks his age, which means that he must have been neglecting exercise or proper eating or generally approved skin-treatments in favor of his vapor cigarettes - but it's a comforting lie. The most noticeable parts of him haven't changed since he was fifteen.

He kisses her, and it's almost comically chaste, as if they have been returned to their childhood in the presence of her father's house. To a childhood that didn't exist, because they hardly noticed each other in their real past. They behave like the teenagers they never were.

It's strange how alike it is to coming home it is for Jason, and how different. It's as if he's stepping into a past version of his house before it fell into depress, before the building itself seemed to mourn for the family's losses. He still remembers the procedure of entering a manor like this, but feels rusty.

"It looks how I remember it."

Well, Swann doesn't plan for Jason to take his shirt off in front of her father, so his lack of diet and exercise shouldn't come into play, not that they would with a man who probably tips the scales at at least 300 pounds. And Jason's features are sharp enough, attractive enough, to bear skin with minor wrinkles, without peels and scrubs and whatever else.

"It's looked the same since at least Grandpa Honeymead," she says with a snort. "Probably he didn't change it from great-grandpa, either." She hands the cookies off to the Avox and walks into the house, holding Jason's hand as the butler trails behind them.

"Daddy!" She calls it loudly, and there's definitely an echo. "Daddy, we're here!" Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she lowers her voice again. "Lebuinus, where's Daddy?"

Before Lebuinus the butler can answer, Ilar emerges from one of the doorways off to the side. "Swannie," he greets her warmly, and his voice doesn't really match the man it comes out of -- he's shorter than Jason, incredibly round, and bald, but his voice is rich and smooth like aged leather, deep and manly. He wears the trousers of a suit and a white dress shirt, though he's minus the blazer and tie, exposing his suspenders.

Swann releases Jason to wrap her arms around her father's neck (he's short enough that she doesn't even rise up on her toes), and then Ilar extends his hand, huge and soft except for a single callus on his finger, where one would hold a pen. "Jason Compson. It's been quite a while since I've seen you in the flesh."

"Wouldn't need to. It looks classic without being dated. It's an accomplishment." Jason watches as Swann darts forward to hug her father, and unbidden wonders when the last time it was that he hugged a family member.

Ilar really hasn't changed at all, as if time itself has frozen him twenty years in the past, only trimming a bit from his hairline and padding a few more pounds to his considerable gut. Even with Ilar in just his shirt and suit-slacks, Jason doesn't feel underdressed; Ilar has that sort of effect on him, to make him feel like he's in the presence of the actual old money, not the faded residue that makes up his own family name.

"Twenty years, I think." Jason doesn't mention the word 'funeral', doesn't put the date to it even the knowledge of the event hangs heavy in the air. He knows how to talk to aristocrats even though he usually neglects that skill; he grew up in the environment, and like swimming, it returns to him more easily. "Before you say anything else, I'll just remind you that you, of all people, should know how much of the tabloids are sensationalism."

"Well, I was just planning on saying that you look good, son, and that I hope your mother's doing all right, haven't seen her in a long time," Ilar answers with a chuckle, and his smile radiates the exact same kind of genuine nature that Swann's does, an air of being absolutely real in a city filled with the false. "But don't worry. If I spent my time reading some of the trash that gets printed, I wouldn't have any brain cells left to make sure the printers don't go down in flames. If Celebrus weren't such a cash cow, I'd'a killed it years ago."

"Daddy, that's not nice," Swann chides, her voice tinged with a laugh.

He leans over and kisses her cheek with another chuckle. "Just teasing, angel. Come on, y'all care for a drink before dinner?"

"She's alive and kicking. With her health, honestly, that's about the best news we can hope for." Everyone, deep down, knows that Caroline's illnesses are more concoctions of her need for attention than actual disease, but like hell is Jason going to undercut his own mother in front of Ilar. There are some thresholds you just don't cross. "She sends her regards."

That's a blatant lie; she doesn't know he's here at all.

"If that's the case, Panem Nightly must be making you millions." He gives Swann a look, like look, I'm behaving when Ilar asks him if he wants a drink. "Water, if you have any. I don't drink alcohol. Personal preference."

"You give her my best, now, and remind her that I'm always here if she needs anything." Ilar's smile is still wide, and he gently wraps his arm around Swann, ushering the both of them into a room that turns out to be a parlor, small because it's one of many, and cozy, with big, deep leather chairs in the center of the room, under another chandelier. There's a bar off to the side, and a screen discreetly tucked in a corner, ostensibly for meetings.

Ilar stops at the bar, and Swann pulls Jason gently to a chair before sitting in the one next to him. There's some clinking as Ilar prepares his own bourbon, and an Avox brings Jason a bottle of water and Swann a Roy Rogers in a tall glass. With some rustling and a few huffs, Ilar makes his way over and takes his seat across from them, in an identical chair that's twice as wide, and sets his tumbler on the side table.

"Tell me, son, how's the Escort business treating you? Swannie's got stories, but I've seen Seven's Tributes and she's got a bunch of kittens by comparison."

"I will. I think she still likes to think of herself as independent, though." As if Jason were a part of her, and not a support system external to her.

"Hardly. At least I don't have Joel." Jason cocks his head at Swann, wondering if Ilar's heard tell of Swann's trouble Tribute. "Although my problem is that mine are mostly pacifists, or, well, giant cereal marshmallows, by the look of them. It's been more difficult than it was back when I started out."

By which Jason could be saying that he's been barreling towards a meltdown for a while now, that he's completely unequipped to handle the demands of this job a second time around, but he's not that aware of himself. He pops the top off the water bottle and pours himself some.

Swann is mostly silent, except for a laugh over his description of Gritta. She does frown over Joel though, like she always does, and takes a long sip of her drink.

"We're giving that marshmallow a test run at the children's show, right? Thought I heard that from down the ladder, but I could be wrong." Ilar's hands rest on his knees, and he sighs. "The pacifists though, that's been a problem for more than just the Escorts. We have a lot of footage of them doing nothin' at all except sitting around and cuddlin' each other. It isn't like the old Games for sure."

He takes another drink from his glass, tapping his foot. "Y'all are taking on a lot of stress, for sure. And I've been hearing enough little birdies chirpin' to know that it's about to get worse. But Swannie said something about maybe taking a vacation, I can't see how that'd be bad for either of you."

"Uh-huh," Swann pipes up, nodding. "To the cabins in Seven, Daddy."

"If I can get her to cooperate, we are. She's more amiable than some of them, though. I talked to Regis, he wanted to put me in touch with merchandising about cotton candy Grittas and plushies." Jason moves two fingers around when he talks, like they really ought to be holding a cigarette and aren't. He's usually smoking when he's getting into a good bitch-session about his Tributes.

"Don't I know it. The problem I'm having is that they don't even want to cuddle within their own District. It's like they're putting up a big sign on their backs that says 'Mutt Me'."

He leans, half-consciously, towards Swann when Ilar suggests that things are going to get worse. He isn't sure how much more he can take before he unravels, or takes it out irreparably on Swann.

"That's what we're hoping for, at least. Maybe Swann can convince me that fresh mountain air won't actually kill me."

Taking another long sip from his glass, Ilar nods and pats his knees. "Never thought I'd see the day, am I right? And all the while, everyone in Panem is working themselves into the ground to support it all. I've got good people working all hours to keep the coverage running, missin' their families. God knows the construction crews are killing themselves to build an Arena every few months. Even the Gamemakers are goin' crazy coming up with ideas." He shakes his head, and the look that crosses his face is a vestige of a whole life spent involved with the Games, disappointment in the change, but then he smiles again, recovering in the lightswitch-like way that Swann always seems to.

"But as long as she's up for it, I don't see why we can't get Gritta as much spotlight as some of these others are gettin'. I have heard she's a sweet thing once you get past the appearance."

Lebuinus opens the door slightly, and with a bow of his head, announces that dinner is being served. Swann takes Jason's hand as Ilar heaves himself from his chair with a grunt, and they both leave their drinks to be cleaned up. Swann's attention is fixed on her father, and talking about the vacation makes her happy, lights up her eyes.

"It's going to be so nice, Daddy. I was thinking maybe next month, before things really amp up for the next Arena, and we can go for a week or so." She looks back and forth between her father and Jason. "I think that should work."

"You should try being around the Tributes. The entitlement is mindblowing. The way they go on, you'd think they were the only ones who ever had to do something they didn't want to. It's like they don't understand that none of us here are doing it for fun and giggles, but to keep the country running."

Jason links his fingers with Swann's as they walk. "Gritta's alright. My favorite in my crop is the Addams girl, and I have to say I'm a bit impressed with Vivi for making it as far as he did, given that I thought he'd just be dead weight when he first came in. I guess I can still be surprised, even after a decade at this."

Jason doesn't want to commit yet, especially in front of someone who has the power to really hold it to him. "I'll have to check my schedule and accounts. It's not just Arenas, you know, I have to make sure Mother and Ben are cared for when I'm gone."

They follow the butler to the dining room, which is enormous and cavernous with its high ceiling and giant windows and a table that can easily seat two dozen with room to spare. Tapestries and oil paintings decorate the walls, and small tables and pedestals hold heirlooms and other different pieces of art. There are four chandeliers above the table alone, and more lighting the rest of the room. The food is all clustered at one end of the table, and there are, of course, only three places set.

It's a ridiculous dining room by any standards, but for a man who lives alone, it's utterly insane.

Ilar takes his seat at the head of the table, and Swann sits to his right, beaming at him. The table settings look as effortless and antique as everything else, and the spread is generous, rich and hearty and a clear indication of how Ilar came to be the size he is. It's the style of food they eat in the southern Districts, rib-eye steaks with butter, brisket, huge baskets of cornbread, endless choices of sides. A new bourbon has been placed at the head seat, and Swann's place has a glass of sweet tea. Jason simply has water at his seat, though an Avox is lingering nearby, ready to fetch anything else desired.

"Well, looks like it's time to eat!" Ilar declares, jolly and pleased, and raises his glass for a toast. "To y'all."

For someone who wasn't raised in the Capitol, this spread of food might seem like the setup for a massive party, but Jason remembers when his family used to have this sort of meal every night, with so many sides and entrees that it would be impossible to healthily sample each one and with the Avoxes taking the leftovers to the kitchen and dumping them because Avoxes were only allowed to eat gruel and water. Jason hardly notices and doesn't feel it necessary to comment as he waits for Ilar to start in on the meal before he starts buttering his own biscuit.

The remnants of Jason's breeding appear, obvious in the way he can employ table manners when he actually wants to. He keeps glancing towards Swann, if only to get approval for how he's doing so far in front of Ilar.

"Thank you," he says, raising his glass of water. "And to your good health."

"Hear hear."

Swann only smiles at Jason, and if the table weren't so enormous, she'd reach across and squeeze his hand, but she's pleased so far. Ilar starts doling out food, obviously taking some masculine pride in serving, providing, rather than having the Avoxes do it in their cold, detached way. He knows his daughter's preferences better, of course, and starts with her, laying out a small cut of brisket on her plate before asking, "What sides you feel like, babydoll?"

"Mm, green beans and the macaroni and cornbread," she says, peering over the options, and he wastes no time in placing just the right amount of each side on her plate. Jason gets a steak in addition to his brisket and sides, and after finishing up, Ilar serves himself, and he seems to eat some of just about everything on the table.

Sitting back in his chair, Ilar turns to Jason as he eats. "So son, tell me more about yourself. I haven't even seen you in twenty years now, I sure hope you aren't still in high school."

Jason has a tendency to eat one section of a meal first, rather than picking around, and so he continues with the side. Swann's plate still looks like something for a child and not a grown woman, but at least it's a full meal.

For a moment, Jason pauses, a piece of cornbread still in his mouth that he can't help but swallow hard. He doesn't know what to say about the last twenty years. There doesn't seem to be anything worth bragging about in polite company in them. "No, no, that's a ways back. I got my diploma through correspondence and got certified as an Escort a few months after that. I've just been supporting the family, you know, and I saved up and took a few years when Quentin was a teenager so she could have someone on hand to keep a hold of her."

Swann never understands why Jason expects her to eat tons of food. Does he want her to throw up? It's a question for the ages, really.

"How many Victors did Ten put out while you were their Escort?" she prompts, glancing back and forth between the two of them, then takes a bite of well-buttered cornbread herself. "He's probably the best we have now, Daddy."

Ilar nods with approval as he takes another sip from his glass. "And a family man, I always respect that in this city. Too many people just give up on even tryin' to spend time at home, everyone's always got to be tryin' to get ahead of everyone else." It's an easy thing to say when you're as powerful as he is, but he seems to believe it firmly.

Jason? Controlling in spite of reason? Heaven forbid.

"Two. Which, given Ten's track record, wasn't bad at all." In fact, it's above-average output for a non-Career District over ten years. Jason will just pretend that Bucky wasn't a rebel sympathizer and didn't kill himself shortly after his victory - after all, Jason still got him to win, which looks good on him. "If I have my way Seven's going to have the lucky streak that Twelve just did."

Jason holds his tongue about how he doesn't actually want to spend time at home, that it's the same sort of base obligation towards survival for him that eating and sleeping are, only less enjoyable. "Well, I think my mother would lose her marbles a bit, with just Ben for company."

But still, how is it good for anyone if she starts throwing up? Basic human bodily functions, Jason!

Swann beams, proud when logically she doesn't have tons of reason to be, given that she hadn't been an Escort at the time and thus wasn't even there to witness it. Ilar nods again and points at Jason. "Now don't sell yourself short, son, that's damn impressive for Ten. Wasn't like they gave you a bunch of ringers from One and Two to work with. Seven's workin' it's way up there, isn't that little girl who took second place one of yours? That young, her first Arena, and the way she kills? She's gonna be Victor in record time, least she will if you keep her on track."

There's more back-and-forth looks from Swann, but Ilar finishes his drink and holds it out to be refilled by the nearby Avox. "That was so unfortunate, when it turned out your brother has the problems he does. Can't be helped, but we felt real bad for your family, all of us 'round the neighborhood. You were probably too young to remember all the Avoxes carryin' over food, I bet."

Because that is how Capitolites handle tragedies when a party can't be held -- they send casseroles and cakes by Avox.

"But you done real good by your family name, Jason, every bit as good as your granddaddy and great-granddaddy. Not many men in this country even try anymore, but here you are."

"Wednesday Addams. I was pretty surprised with her, but with a performance like that she's practically going to pay for herself next Arena. She'll get to the last week at least if I have to throttle someone to do it."

Jason doesn't remember. Ben's disabilities have always been something like air pollution to him, a nuisance that he can't remember the start of. He doesn't think of them having been 'discovered' often, seems to believe that they were obvious from birth because he was five, maybe six and it was all conversations behind hushed doors.

He feels a certain discomfort when Ilar speaks of the family name, of his feeble attempts to keep it from sinking entirely, the way a massage over an extremely tense and bruised muscle feels. It's a sensitive place, one that's always aching and hurting even when the balm is applied, even when this is what he wants to hear because it's what he needs to believe.

"Thank you, sir. Mother certainly thinks so, tells me so every day how lucky she is that I'm still around."

"Came outta nowhere, that little raven's a powerhouse of a kid. I'll be surprised if she don't have the highest odds next round."

Swann nods in agreement, swallowing a bite of her brisket. "She can only get better with Jason backing her. We get the two most dangerous Tributes out of there, and they're immediately replaced by a little girl who's just as bad." She sighs -- Joel doesn't stand a chance. He's such a sucker for kids.

Ilar doesn't seem to notice any reaction that Jason has, possibly because of how interested he is in eating. But it's such a standard compliment in the old families, telling people that they've done their name proud, that it never occurs to him that it might ever hurt to hear. "Well, given that she doesn't leave the house much, she must be pleased with you, takin' care of her. Swannie, you probably don't remember your grandmama's last few years, but I know you remember your granddaddy, when he was sick. It's the respectable thing, to care for your elders."

He gives a laugh and reaches to pat Swann's hand on the table. "Promise me you won't leave me out for the dogs when I'm done for, Swannie."

"I'm going to try and petition for her to be re-scored based on her performance. If I could add a score of seven or eight to my pitch for her it'd certainly help get her Sponsors, especially now that I've seen her in action and know what to ask for." Jason shakes his head and sighs. "Not that I expect anyone will take my petition seriously. I've been trying to get Nick back for four weeks now and they keep telling me he's been retired."

It's strange to Jason, to see this sort of affection between Ilar and Swann that doesn't seem to have some hidden catch to it, a threat of disappointment if she doesn't play along just so - the jocularity isn't a noose wrapping around Swann's neck but a warm blanket being put around her shoulders. "Well, better than my older siblings, I says. Anyway, give us another year and if Seven and Eight aren't alternating for the title every Arena, I'll eat one of Cassian's outfits."

"Daddy," she answers, light scolding in her tone and expression as she takes another bite. "I would never do that!"

Ilar chuckles and pats her hand again, then nods at Jason as he continues to eat. "She deserves it, but don't be surprised if the Gamemakers don't want to play nicey-nice with you. Makin' things hard is their favorite pastime, now inn't it? But don't curse yourself, son, no man in Panem can choke down that many feathers in one sitting. You'll choke on sequins."

Swann's finished her food and the Avox clears her place, leaving her to sip at her drink and watch the men eat, smirking. "Maybe Cassian will be into edible clothing by then. Just make sure he didn't wear them first."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject