thecapitol | a last hurrah [OPEN]

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a last hurrah [OPEN]

Who| Stephen Reagan and anyone in D6
What| Stephen's been keeping food in the D6 rooms. It doesn't look like he's doing it on purpose -- it looks like leftovers he just forgot about -- but it's deliberate.
Where| Six's rooms
When| The weeks between the freezing of Tribute credit lines and Altair's attack just before the 4th wall event
Warnings/Notes| None yet!

Food just keeps showing up.

The Tributes of Six haven't seen their Escort nearly as often as they're used to. Cyrus Reagan can be thanked for that -- when Stephen is around, it's in pressed suits with understated, tasteful amounts of shine and sparkle, suits too fancy to wear every day around Six. Unless there's an event he's supposed to take one of his Tributes to, he's been rushing out or stumbling in -- not because he's drunk, but because he's tired.

But boxes with labels from Capitol restaurants keep appearing in the D6 fridge. The food in there looks anywhere from half eaten to barely touched, never messy, never gross. It's usually healthy, almost never just dessert. He never seems to notice if it disappears. After all, the roommate code clearly states that if it's not got someone's name on it, it's fair game, right? Stephen's probably just forgetting that he has it. That's perfectly normal.

About one or two nights a week, food is delivered to Six. Those evenings, Stephen is around at least for a little while to poke at what he ordered, before he invariably decides to abandon it in favor of sleep. For purposes of the log, he's still sitting at the table, looking thoughtfully at the hearty meal in front of him that's too big for one person to finish.

It smells amazing.

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Linden's post-op and he's learned of something horrifying, but life has to go on, and the Mentor is determined to be less swept away by it and more... dominant, with his hands around its throat and squeezing in the future. What he can't help needs to be icily abandoned, and what he can requires every trace of his cunning and his wit.

He probably shouldn't be up and around right now, or anywhere but in his bed, but he's in the kitchen, sober and alert without even an Advil to take the edge off the lingering pain of having been cut open. Though his meals are still watery and insubstantial and mild for the sake of his recovering body, Stephen's meal draws his attention.

"I'd... ask why you're eating out so much, but you're not. You always have leftovers and just leave them, and this isn't typical for you. I'd know. Are you trying to feed up this District's representatives, or...?"

There were two tactics Stephen could have taken with this operation. He could have made it clear that he was deliberately trying to feed his own District to give them the advantage in the Arena. It would have been simpler and more honest, but it also would have been more likely to get him into trouble.

Better to pretend it's carelessness and disgusting Capitol excess.

"Ugh, yeah," Stephen says, cutting off Linden mid-sentence. "I know. I think it's stress. I thought I'd be able to unwind some after the Crowning, but Cyrus is all, 'Go here! Go there! Wear this! Don't be late!' All the time. I'm so hungry while it's happening, but then when I actually get the food in front of me, it's like my entire appetite goes up in smoke. I don't know."

It's said carelessly, and if it weren't an act, it would be a disgusting example of Capitol excess and their ignorance of how privileged they are.

"Sorry if I'm cluttering up the fridge. I know I kind of forgot about it a few times this week."

(He's worried about Linden being up and about, and he'll get to that as soon as it looks natural, but for now, he wants to establish for the Peacekeepers watching that he's not feeding his District because he cares or anything.)

Linden stares, hearing the words without fully understanding them. It takes him a second to catch up and reconcile what he knows of Stephen (and his obligation to wear a certain face when certain individuals might be listening), and words that are inherently repugnant and offensive to any Districter who grew up never getting quite enough to eat. Linden still doesn't out of habit, despite having been a Mentor for well over a decade.

That doesn't sound like you, Stephen.

Then again, how often has Stephen sounded like himself lately since Cyrus got his claws so deeply embedded in his younger brother?

He swallows the kneejerk anger that threatens to bubble up at the flippancy of the sentiment, deciding for the moment to give Stephen the benefit of the doubt. Linden has the privilege of knowing who he's working for, or at least who he's fairly sure he's still working for. For all he knows right now, Cyrus could have gotten to him on that, too. He leans the heel of his hand against the counter, a subtle little bid to support himself when he's just not 100% back on his feet yet.

"It's not a problem..." He thinks briefly of the Avoxes that will clear out what's gone bad, but the words stick in his throat and he finds he's actually too tired to mention it. "I know how that is. Being stressed, having no appetite. I guess Cyrus is doing that to you, isn't he?"

He brought it up first; should be all right to broach this.

Edited 2015-08-01 21:14 (UTC)

Claws, nothing. The more time Stephen spends letting his brother usher him around, the more frustrated Stephen becomes with the way he's treated. Cyrus loves him; Stephen knows that. However, Cyrus also thinks Stephen is gullible, easily distracted, and unbelievably stupid. More than anything, Stephen has felt like a doll, dressed up and shown off.

"Yeah, he -- hey, wait a second, what are you doing out of bed?" Stephen stands up, food forgotten (it would have been sooner or later anyway). "My god, Linden, are you trying to tear yourself back open?"

As a Victor, Linden is a long-time veteran of being paraded around as property of the Capitol just as much as a symbol of his District. He recognizes some of the hallmarks in the way Stephen has been on the increasingly rarer occasions he's seen the man, to the point where he can't see Stephen's concern as more than a diversion tactic to take attention off of the fact that Cyrus has his hand so far up his ass he might as well be a literal puppet.

"He what?" Linden says, trying to strong-arm the convesation back to the topic that interests him. "Don't change the topic, Stephen."

Unless it really is that unsafe to talk here.

"I'm restless. I have knots in my back from lying down so much. I need to move or I'm going to lose my mind. We could walk," he suggests with a meaningful look, thinking of the nearest blind spots and how he's sure he can make it there and back without tearing his stitches.

Stephen frowns, looking Linden up and down. He doesn't trust that Linden's stitches will stay in place and he doesn't trust that Linden is telling the truth about his back, but he also doesn't trust that Linden won't go wandering off on his own. If he goes for a walk with Linden now, he thinks, at least there will be someone nearby to call for help if Linden does suddenly collapse.

"I shouldn't be letting you go for a walk," Stephen groans, pulling himself up out of his seat in the slouching way that says I've given up trying to stop you. "I should talk you into more rest."

To be fair, anyone looking at Linden on a good day probably can't find many reassuring things about him.

"Whether or not you let me, it'll happen," he confirms stubbornly, seeing an opportunity. "And you can try to talk me into whatever you want, but not here."

He stares at the man a beat longer than he would ordinarily before blinking.

"If you're so worried, put your money where your mouth is and come with me."

"Ugh. This isn't how the job is supposed to go," Stephen complains, climbing to his feet and slipping the shoes that he had kicked off under the table back on. "I'm supposed to tell you where to go, not the other way around."

In a few seconds, he'll have his shoes on, his jacket straightened, and be ready to walk out the door and not notice that the food he left on the table will be gone by the time he gets back.

"Job? Please, it's a lifestyle," Linden argues. "That goes for any and all staff, doesn't it? Especially with the neverending Quell in full swing."

It's small talk, intentional and shallow, while he watches Stephen's shoes go on.

"If you bristle under being told what to do, consider it a request from an old friend instead," he says, stepping through the door and into the hall. "Surely you can see your way clear to humoring that, at least."

"They're all phrased like requests," Stephen complains as he heads for the elevator. "And the ones that aren't are assumptions, which is worse. 'Stephen, there's a gala tonight. Eight o'clock. Don't wear red.' 'Stephen, I need you to oversee our lot at the auction Saturday.' 'Stephen, it's a closed guest list, so no plus-ones, okay?' God, it makes me wish I could turn my phone off for a day."

"You're not talking about us anymore," Linden points out flatly, waiting for Stephen to pass him before following. "I never had a brother, but I know for a fact that your relationship with Cyrus isn't normal at this point. It must be some kind of incest for him to have his hand so far up your ass."

Stephen feels a full-body cringe. Ugh. That was an idea he could have gone the rest of his life without thinking about.

"That's disgusting, Linden," he says, like he does when Linden occasionally says something gross. "I know it's not normal, but he probably just doesn't trust I won't screw it up again, like I did a few months back. I figure he'll back off once he knows I'm not about to show up to a party in a nude-illusion three-piece or wake up hung over and married to Candi."

Man, it was a shame he couldn't see Candi anymore. Stephen had liked her, genuinely.

"You know what I mean," Linden presses; when he knows he's right, he is unshakable and staunch in his conviction. "And if he doesn't trust you, he shouldn't be working with you. It's why I kicked the last Escort they tried to stick this District with," he admits, letting that implication hang like a wreath arranged just to broadcast how he feels about their partnership. Simultaneously, it broadcasts how much he resents Cyrus' interference in a dynamic he's come to rely on.

"Those things can't possibly still be in doubt. You haven't even seen Candi in weeks. Months? At least weeks." So much has been happening that Linden's perception of time is a little skewed and not nearly as precise as it typically is.

Stephen remembers that. There are many reasons he's grateful that his personality and Linden's have been as compatible as they are; not being on the business end of Linden's feet is one of them.

"He's got no choice but to work with me," Stephen explains to Linden with a longsuffering tone. "That's part of being family. You can't fire family, or kick them until they quit. What he does affects me, and what I do affects him, so he has to make sure I understand what to do. I've had to do a lot of catching up. Until now, I've been dead weight at best and dragged him down at worst." He doesn't have to repeat what's been said about him: he is the Reagan with no ambition, the playboy, the partier, the one who should be too old for this by now.

He's arguing Cyrus's side for the cameras.

It's rare to find a combination that clicks with a personality as famously finicky and difficult as Linden's; they have to strike a ridiculously delicate balance between being gentle and being firm, and even if Stephen has the reputation of a partying playboy lacking ambition and maturity, he's got a gift for that kind of balance. Linden not only likes him, he respects him, and lately, with the kind of delicate information-gathering and passing they're both doing, that kind of rapport is key.

"I wouldn't know," he answers dryly, as an orphaned Districter might when faced with one of the luxuries Capitolites take for granted. "But you haven't been dead weight. If he can't see the good you've done for 6, he's dumber than he looks."

The banter is in-character; what would be suspicious on-camera would be Linden simply agreeing that Cyrus' role in Stephen's life was a necessary and beneficial one. Though their relationship has always been strictly platonic (and maybe even strangely, considering Stephen's willingness to engage seemingly anything that moves), Linden has been known to behave jealously sometimes. And why wouldn't he? Stephen represents an element of much-needed stability in the very volatile life of a Victor.

Stephen has only come to realize this relatively recently, but the kind of respect he gets from Linden is like air. It is important, extremely important, he's realized, for him to feel trusted and respected as well as being liked.

"Yes, but Six doesn't matter to him," Stephen explains carefully, keeping almost but not all the exasperation from his voice. "Nothing about the Hunger Games matters to him except whether or not they're serving their purpose. Half the Districts could be screaming messes and he wouldn't give a damn as long as Panem stayed stable. Trust me -- by Capitol standards, I've done pretty much nothing with my life."

Well -- by Capitol upper-crust standards.

Linden offers him a sidelong glance before rolling his eyes. His contempt might not be loud, but he wears it colorfully at times, and while that's dangerous, Linden's always had a hard time with authority. This has only gotten worse as he's gotten older and more wraith-like every year, as if the Capitol is grinding down his soul and only leaving a bitter skeleton behind.

"Standards, huh?" he asks dryly, sounding unimpressed. "If half of the Districts were screaming messes and it didn't matter to someone, I can't much say that that person matters much to me. But, he's your brother, and I guess that deserves some kind of 'respect'."

A practiced ear knows the difference between respect and "respect", in Linden-speak.

"By District 6 standards, which do matter to me, you've done an outstanding job. I've said it before, but I still mean it when I say that I'm pretty sure we'd fall apart without you."

He turns a corner. He's gotten good at finding blind spots, and knows that there isn't one too far away. Stephen might very well be informed of the same one.

Stephen lets out a long sigh, letting some of the tension fall away from his shoulders.

"Thanks," he says, sounding both calmer and wearier. "It's good to hear that, Linden. It really is." That, cameras or no, is the honest truth. Stephen thrives on feeling effective, like what he is doing is making a difference, and well-earned compliments matter to him.

He keeps walking toward the blind spot. Stephen doesn't know about this one, but he trusts Linden to know them. He'll follow.

"You're welcome."

The words are soft and earnest, every bit safe and palatable for the cameras and the microphones. The second they're in a spot that's free of them just near an Avox elevator, though, Linden's expression turns solemn.

"It's safe here. To speak freely. Shit's about to go pear-shaped, isn't it?"

Phil smiled as he found yet another take-out box from one of those fancy Capitol restaurants Stephen frequented. It hadn't been long since the announcement that the credit line (as Gray suspected since Signless' Crowning) would be cut off and the Tributes would have to look for jobs. This? This made Panem feel more like home than before and Phil didn't mind earning his keep...as long as it didn't involve kills in the Arena. So yes, he's walking around with work ads under his arm when he walked into the room.

It had been a while since the Phone Guy found the Escort in the District Suites and it's with this occasion that he serves two mugs of coffee. "I dunno how you like it but you look like you need it just as badly as I do," he offered with a smile.

Stephen, as he takes the hot mug into his hands, feels a genuine and deep surge of gratitude.

"You're a saint," he says, getting up to put some kind of fancy flavored creamer in it. "I'm sorry I've been so hands-off lately. It's like I've got two jobs: Dee-Six's Escort and Cyrus's show pony. You were looking into advertising jobs, weren't you? What have you got so far?" Stephen's looking at what's under Phil's arm with interest.

"I'm sure your brother has the best intentions at heart," Gray assured Stephen, though he knows the saying about the road to hell, "Though you sound like you're dire need of a vacation."

At the question, Phil shakes his head slowly, "Other than a few ads for suits, that new network service provider, and providing some voicework, nothing's panned out to make it last. But at least I got enough food for me and Foxtrot, got some good clothes and I can survive. I don't mind going back to waiting tables, any of these restaurants hiring?" He laid out the many work ads and dishearteningly, there were plenty of x marks.

"You're working your butt off for the District, you're the saint here."

Waiting tables?

Stephen can't quite cover up the look of dismay that flashes across his face. Tributes, waiting tables? It feels fundamentally wrong to his blue-blooded Reagan-raised self. But he nods a moment later, understanding.

"If you're willing to do it," Stephen says slowly, "I can see if I can get one of them to give you an interview. One of the ones with five stars where the patrons run up hundred-Assi checks."

"Hundred a-a pop?!" That look isn't missed by Gray and it earns a goodnatured laugh, "Stephen, you look like I sprouted a new head. Waiting tables is how I got started, and then I became a manager before I transferred to being a guard. I wasn't born into celebrity and money, I was just another kid who grew up in a one-trick town and got a job as soon as he was eighteen."

He paused and took a sip, "Granted, that trick was well-loved and will be cherished forever in the hearts of kids everywhere. I was a nameless worker..." Even with the infamy of a murder ground, "I guess I'm not ready to be the celebrity the Capitol thinks I should be, but I can try and get Sponsor deals. I can adapt!"

Edited 2015-08-06 01:08 (UTC)

"It's hard to imagine you as anything else," Stephen says, with a smile and a shake of his head. "I know all of the Tributes here had lives before coming to the Capitol, but I guess it's still difficult to wrap my head around you all being anything but celebrities." You know, leading ordinary lives full of drudgery, Stephen has too much tact to say.

If Phil's stay in the Capitol has proven one thing, is that he doesn't mind people being blunt around him. He doles it out, if laced with some word play. He moved some of the food before he dug in, if a little too eagerly. He didn't want to be rude but this is amazing and their next meal isn't always guaranteed in the grand scope of things.

"If it's any comfort, I think you're more of a celebrity than I am," Gray spoke between bites, "Tributes come and go, but your family's forever, right? With your brother and all your work."

Edited 2015-08-12 22:05 (UTC)

Stephen, though highly trained in both the explicit and unspoken rules of politeness, doesn't give a single damn about how fast or slow Phil eats. The important thing is that he's getting food.

He laughs at the idea. "It's a different kind of celebrity," he says, and his tone turns playful. "You're in the news all the time. I'm only in the news when I'm a disaster."

"Good Lord, I can't get used to that and the speculations of who I slept with," Phil blurted out, "Somehow I managed to be in a threesome with Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon in some of the rags." See what Stephen did? He made Phone Guy turn redder than the tomatoes he's eating. "Wanna trade fame types? I don't mind being known for my messes, I already am back home."

Though there's one moment in the Arena that made it all worth it and yet cut him deeper than any stab or gun shot. The moment Gray saw it on a replay, he realized just how deeply entrenched living in Panem has been.

"I have you to thank though...thanks for being here."

Stephen breaks into a laugh -- among the reasons for it is the fact that the speculation of who he's slept with is rarely stranger than the truth. But he swallows his reply when Phil gives him that moment of sincerity.

It touches him. That kind of appreciation is something Stephen has come to understand that he cannot expect from his tributes -- indeed, that he should not expect it at all. It happens only rarely, and when it does, it cuts him to his heart. It tells Stephen that what he's doing here is making a difference, and though that difference might be small as far as Panem is concerned, it is enough to make this person in front of him now want to thank him.

The smile he gives PG is warm. His words are light and casual, but the tone he says them in carries more.

"I've said it before. I couldn't stand being anywhere else."

Phil Gray was blue-collar, unused to the luxuries but he appreciates the sacrifices people make to eke out a living, or in Stephen's case, make sure there is a life to enjoy and fight for. He doesn't know how thankless a job as an Escort is, but he can tell that this younger Reagan was sincere. As he stands up, and helps with clearing his dishes, Gray gives his friend one last smile,

"You know, it's fellas like you that make this place like home."

It's not the excesses of the Capitol life that make it comfortable, it's having a human connection willing to talk to their Tributes and help them along. Because as small as the District 6 Tributes are, they respect Stephen for his work.

"See ya on the flipside, all right?"

"Absolutely."

Wasn't he supposed to be the one making the Tributes feel better? Why is it the other way around today?

Stephen cares a great deal about having a good relationship with the people around him, and maintaining a good relationship with someone when he is an Escort and they are a Tribute is a difficult thing indeed. It is incredibly gratifying, he feels, when he manages to form a real friendship anyway.

The thing about food showing up in unmarked containers, no one claiming it, is that Karkat is definitely going to take advantage. Not at first, no - he doesn't want to be the ass who just takes shit that doesn't belong to him - but when it keeps happening? He's not stupid. He takes a box now and then and makes good of it. Others he leaves, and others grab them. It all works out.

It's just that he hasn't run into Stephen outright eating some of it fresh until now. There's an awful lot he has, and it makes sense why he would leave some behind those other times. Moreover, it smells fucking delicious, even to his alien nose.

He was about to head out for something himself, but this stops him for a debate obvious in his features. He's staring at the meal, not his Escort, until he finally looks up to ask the obvious. "You going to eat all that?"

Stephen is the picture of put-upon misery, the embodiment of #capitoliteproblems. He's slumped in his chair, his suit is wrinkled, and he's staring at a ton of food he wanted but can't eat. If this were genuine and not a ploy to make sure his tributes get a square meal at least once a day, it'd be absolutely disgusting. He needs this to be believable, after all.

He waves a hand at the spread, all grains and meats and superfood greens -- the kind of stuff you crave if you're hungry, or if all you've had for a week is sugar.

"Help yourself."

Oh, his life is so hard.

Karkat lifts an eyebrow at his put-upon demeanor, but he slides into a seat just the same. It looks as good as it smells, but looks are almost always assured in the Capitol when it's something from a professional establishment. After surveying the offerings, he grabs a container and tugs it over to start picking at.

"You look ragged," he says between things. Then pointing, "Your suit's a mess. What's up? The arena's been over for a while now."

For his part, he's been doing alright with the adjustment. It's not fun, but all his courting of sponsorships during the stretch of the arena has helped in the meanwhile, even if he's having to work on them a different way than expected. Stores have their Karkat products, others have merchandise in the works, and he snagged a reviewing deal with a romance novel publisher. Still, Stephen's kindness is one less burden, and he could use that when he's got school and training on top of the rest.

"The Arena is over," Stephen says from his puddle of suit-wrinkles, "but my grand re-introduction to society is not. I don't know how Cyrus does it. How does he have time to micromanage everything from my schedule to my clothes and draft laws?"

He hesitates, then stares at Karkat for a moment, wide-eyed.

"Is this what it's like?"

He keeps eating in the meanwhile, like the food might disappear from under him if he doesn't take the change to enjoy it, and shrugs meanwhile to the comments. He knows who Cyrus is by now and could point him out; there was the speech he gave in school back in June, but he's never spoken to him personally.

It's the question that has him pausing. He swallows his mouthful beneath a starting squint, then asks, "What what's like? Trolls don't have siblings, and the only micromanaging I get on clothes is from Trish."

"I know it's not the same, since I'm not trying to get Sponsors in a life-or-death situation," Stephen explains with a wave of his hand. "But is it this frustrating to have someone else managing your time?"

Oh, that. Recognition sparks across his face, and he sets his fork down to better put his attention to the conversation.

"Are you kidding me? It's a headache and a half, and after all the literal running around I have to do for training, school, sponsor junk, stylist shit, my hooves are ground down to bony stubs." He pauses, then amends, "Feet. I mean feet. Please don't take that literally; it's a troll term."

His fingers come up and rub along the bridge of his nose. "I feel like I have to sleep now or else I'll collapse from exhaustion. I used to go a week at a time without it if I felt like it, you know?" Felt like it being more or less code for too intimidated by the threat of traumatic nightmares. "And even then I don't get enough every night."

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a last hurrah [OPEN]

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call it closed here-ish?

Yep!

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