thecapitol | The exit signs are flashing [closed]

Entry tags:

The exit signs are flashing [closed]

Who | Luke & the CR who'd like to visit him soon after his expose's run + ONE OPEN SLOT for anyone else who might want to talk to him.
What | That expose is out, painting Luke as a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad person. Who will believe it? What friendships will be tested? ~~Find out on the next exciting episode of Panemball Z~~
Where | Luke's room. If you'd like another scenario/prompt/location, just let me know!
When | Kind of a catch-all here... your character can swing by in periods of wakefulness during the Dream Event, or catch him after said event.
Warnings | References to drowning, probably reference to violence.

Secrets don't sleep forever and he had sensed, with a cold, creeping dread, that his hand would be forced someday. But not like this. Never like this.

The expose isn't just his life peeled back and laid bare. It's a twisted interpretation of it, the things he's said and seen and done gleefully sifted and cherry-picked through by shameless drama-mongerers. Chewed up and regurgitated. It's not their past to share but the Capitol has made it theirs, as much for entertainment as in a bid to shake trust in him and tear down the alliances he's tried to make. He's sure of it.

He’s been sitting on the edge of his bed for a while, his communicator forgotten on the nightstand. Too drained in that soul-deep way to make for the training centre but too wired to rest, his mind chasing its tail. As Tributes they've all grudgingly accepted the Capitol's intrusive, helicoptering presence in every aspect of their lives, but this new violation of privacy leaves him cold and shaken inside. They know more than he could have ever imagined and now there's nothing of the world he left behind – and the world that lives on inside him - left to hide.

There could've been some bitter sense of relief in all this, no longer burdened by secrets. But his heart's as heavy as it has ever been, and as the numb, buzzing fog around his mind begins to clear all he can feel is a furious powerlessness he can’t do anything about, the same he had felt while struggling to resist the injection. Not just anger at the Capitol for the slander but for Nick having to find out this way. It's a small, fucked up blessing that there're too few of his friends left here to upset.

Hard to remember that, though, when a knock jars him from his thoughts. His pulse jumps in his throat. A beat passes, the another, but he doesn't keep his would-be visitor waiting long. One rustling chain and a deadbolt later, he opens the door and finally shows his face.

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Rochelle didn't know a whole lot about Luke, truth be told. She'd looked into him a little once he caught her interest, browsed what empty gossip Celebrus had to say about him. But there isn't a lot of information on Luke, and in the end, all she can really know is based on how he acts. And, she thinks, that's good enough, in the end. Isn't it?

But then the Expose came out.

By this point in time, having written Celebrus articles of her own, it's a little easier for Rochelle to be able to read in between the lines, to sort out what might be fact and what might be fiction. Some of it, she doesn't need to try to sort. Making children fight? She wrinkled her nose at the paper, and had to resist crumpling it in her fist. Instead, she decides there's only one true way to try to figure out what's real and what's not. Luke could lie to her, she knows, but...she trusts him more than the Capitol. She has to, at this point, if she wants them to be...whatever they are.

So she knocks on the door, and waits.

When the door opens and she can see his face, she gives him a nervous smile. There's a lot going on here, a lot of emotions mixing in a way that she isn't sure how to handle. But maybe Luke will be able to help. At least, maybe he'll be able to sort some of it out. And she wants to help him in turn, because she couldn't imagine what it would be like, to be slandered like that, to be called a kind of person that she knew that he wasn't. To be accused of cruelties that Luke had already told her his disgust of.

So she's here to try to sort things out, for both of them.

"Hey...can I come in? I wanted to talk."

"Rochelle...?" He blinks, his eyebrows going up.

The last time he saw her had been after he had shot up in bed in the small hours of the morning, queasy with the fear of having carelessly infected her. It turned out she was fine, by the will of the Capitol or her own body's defenses. But it had taken a long and sleepless night's worth of waiting to figure that out. He feels a knife-twist of regret for having been so careless, good sense blunted by beer and the rare taste of something more meaningful. It makes it hard to look her in the eye.

"Yeah..." He answers distractedly. Unsmiling, though not for lack of trying. Her greeting is friendly enough even if she seems a little anxious; that makes the both of them. "Yeah, s'fine." The door opens wider and he steps aside. There's not much to his suite. It's barely lived-in, and with avoxes showing themselves in to straighten bed covers and dust dressers and tables when he's out it's much like a hotel room, not a home away from home but just a place to rest for a little while. But there are a few signs of life around the desk and the night-table that remain a constant, the latter being where he keeps his valuables: an origami dog and crane, a photo, and anything else he's been given.

"Sit wherever y'like." He says, closing the door behind her and leaving it unlocked. "You, uh, want a drink or somethin'?"

He's not happy, and she can't blame him. If she were in his situation, all her inner secrets taken and twisted and laid out for the world to see, she'd also be nervous about anyone that wanted to visit. But she isn't here to condemn him--She's here to ask questions, and give what comfort she can.

Before she says anything, she reaches for his door, and silently locks it.

Then she turns to face him. She'd joked about him looking like a kicked puppy, and even now, it applies. That sad, almost innocent look--Though she knows that he isn't innocent by any means. No one from their worlds are. Closing the gap between them, she reaches up, letting her fingers mix with his hair, running through it softly. The silence continues for a moment longer, with her just quietly looking at him. When she does speak, her voice is as soft as her touch.

"Luke, you are not a cruel man, you are not a power hungry tyrant. You are a good man, and you're a good leader. And anyone with two eyes can see that. If you were the man that expose said you were, your people wouldn't respect you the way that they do, and I wouldn't respect you the way that I do. I wouldn't have stayed longer than that night in the arena, I wouldn't have danced with you at the ball, and I wouldn't have gotten drinks with you. And I certainly wouldn't have kissed you."

Another pause, then she rises onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the chin.

"So don't let them beat you down, alright?"

Silence runs thick as she moves to the door, until the deadbolt clacks into place and sets his heart thumping furiously against his ribs. He pulls in a breath, looking on quietly. She might turn to him with an arched brow or with shades of disappointment in her eyes; he doesn't know. But he doesn't expect her to reach out and thread her fingers through his hair and tell him that it's alright, that he's alright. And that, even if actions in worlds like theirs are not measured by effort and good intentions but by failures, by consequences, what he did was worth something. Even if Pete and Nick and Alvin and Rebecca and Carlos and Sarah couldn't say the same.

His chest tightens fiercely and he just shakes his head, staring dully at the floor. Eyes closing a moment as she presses a kiss to his chin, reminding him of one more person who's on his side at a time when he's sure he can count them all on one hand and still have fingers left. His throat bobs uselessly in a false start before he finally has an answer to give her. "Thanks." He nods softly, his voice softer yet. "Thank you."

It's more reassuring than he can put into words, not just that someone knowing so little of his past could still have faith in the goodness of his character but that the Capitol can't take that away. He offers her a thin smile, the best he can do under the circumstances.

He looks relieved--That's good. That warms her heart, to know that she was able to give him any kind of comfort in this awful situation, this awful city, where your existence served as just another piece of entertainment for the rich kids who barely saw you as human. They were from bad situations and find themselves in another kind of one. It felt good to know that she could help him--And he helped her, too, in his one way.

Just being like this was helpful. Just having another person to touch affectionately, to be able to kiss and stroke his hair. It was a normalcy that she craved.

But once she was assured that he knew where she stood on the situation, she knew that she had questions that she had to ask. There were things said, and she wanted to know what was the truth and what was the lie. So she backed away, just slightly, slipping her hand into his, so that he'd know that she was still here, still with him. It was hard to explain, exactly, how she felt about him. Where she stood with their relationship. Drama tended to come when you got emotions running and relationships started--It was one of the reasons she'd never chanced anything with Nick. Relationships could make things messy.

And before Rochelle could take any chances, she had to know just how messy things could get with Luke.

"Luke. I know this is personal, but...I want to ask some questions about what they said. I know some things are a lie, but I don't know about others, and I want to. So..."

She squeezes his hand, flashes him a small smile. This isn't going to be awful, she hopes.

"...What's your relationship with Jane and Nick like. Like, are you and either of them..."

She wiggled her hand vaguely around. You know.

He blinks, feeling a trembly, electric flutter in his gut. It’s hard not to when he had prepared himself for and committed to the possibility of their visit to the park having been a happy accident, never intended as anything more than a fluke. But her fingers still lacing around his even as she steps away suggests otherwise. It tells him this is neither an interrogation or for shits and giggles. It tells him she's ever-pragmatic, gauging a leap of faith before she took it. He can't fault her for that. It means something, that he has been offered the luxury of explaining himself and clearing the air of any assumptions.

"No, I --" A pause. He tries again, simpler, surer. "No."

A beat passes.

“Nick an’ I’ve known each other for twenty years. He’s family." He continues, frowning, but there's no heat to his answer. She's not hunting for a reaction, only trying to understand. "An' Jane, well...”

Sighing softly. “We had a moment back home an’… things got complicated, for a li’l while.”

He never stopped believing that there was someone inside her, hidden away under a thick chrysalis of scar tissue. Someone who knows there’s more to life than scraping by and thinks herself worthy of it. She'd take that risk, when she were ready. And one day, someone else would see more than flickers of the parts of Jane untouched by pain and cynicism. He’s lost hope of being a part of that, in the way he had wanted to be. He can’t fix that pain. Can’t begin to change what isn’t ready and comfortable enough to change. But it doesn’t mean he’d stop caring. That’s not how it works.

“But me, I, I ain’t her type.” He rubs at the back of his neck. There isn't much more to be said of the present.

Nick had quickly learned disregard anything the Capitol says as far as gossip goes and has grown to shake off anything they say about him or his relationships. He knows the truth and as long as he stands by them, they can talk about whatever the hell they want. He hasn't paid much attention to the broadcasts of the personal lives of the other tributes, but he has glanced around enough to notice the level of detail the Capitol goes into with these segments. It was only a matter of time one of these segments were going to be about one of them and when Luke's portrait appeared on the screen, Nick couldn't bring himself to look away.

A few minutes later, he wished he did.

He had no illusions of being alive back home and this more or less confirmed it. But that isn't what eats at him the most.

Nick rushes to go to the door of Luke's suite, irrationally praying for just a second that Luke's still here and not under the waters like he had just seen. A visual like that can't easily be fabricated, can it? He takes a deep breath although it doesn't help because anger comes first. Anger comes easy. After their last talk, after making his case that Luke can tell him anything and hearing his friend reaffirming that...

He knocks a few times, realizing that tears that had welled up upon seeing Luke disappearing into the water have finally fallen. He stubbornly wipes them out with a sleeve and as soon as Luke opens the door, he is instantly pulled into a tight embrace. Not a single sound comes from Nick except for his hitched breathing.

They say it’s peaceful, drowning. It's always so poetic in the movies, sinking, unstruggling, into darkness. People don’t talk about the panic and crushing pressure in the chest before your body gives and water floods your throat, ripping through air-starved lungs. They don’t talk about being unable to scream or the loneliness of just fading away someplace far from everything you love, someplace your body may never be found.

There's a sick twist in his gut when he finds Nick at the door, his eyes glittering like broken glass. It's the moment he's been dreading for hours and he can only stare back helplessly, muscles locking, just waiting for something to happen. For Nick to snap at him, for Nick to deck him for being left in the dark again. Because anger always did come first -- and he can't begin to fault him for any of it, not now. Anything is better than nothing at all.

"I'm sorry--" He says into the silence, the words squeezing past the lump in his throat, his pulse racing as Nick reaches for him. But his body's unresisting when he's crushed into a desperate hug. He feels Nick's chest jerk against his - a shivery breath against his neck - and he clasps his arms around him, eyes squeezing shut as he holds on.

And Rochelle listens as he speaks, eyes focused on his face, trying to read expression as well as the words he spoke. Nick seemed simple enough, she had suspected that that was the situation--Both from what Nick had said himself, and the way that he had been suspiciously close to Ellis as of late. It wasn't the kind of action that she would pin on someone who still had some kind of romantic attachment to another. At least, it better not be, because if he broke Ellis' heart, she was going to have to beat his face in, and that would just stir up all kinds of unnecessary drama.

Jane was a different story. Jane was complicated, and it was hardly surprising that the situation was complicated. She has to resist telling Luke that this was why you didn't have 'moments' with teammats, with people that you needed to survive. Because complicated was bad, and it got you into trouble. But that's past now, and he doesn't need her to nag him for situations long gone.

Though...she can't help but note that his opinion on Jane isn't included in the explanation. He isn't her type.

But pettiness isn't like her. Rochelle would just have to have a little bit of faith. Believe that if he pursues anything with her, it's because he's interested in her, and any other feelings for any other people won't be...pursued instead.

Besides, all things considered, she didn't have a lot of room to talk. She knew that she wouldn't have much better answers if he was the one grilling her on her own personal affairs.

"So, there's nothing going on between you and anyone else, currently?" She was straddling the edge here, looking over it and hoping that if she took the leap, there would be someone--him. That he would be there for her. It's a test that she isn't entirely comfortable with. It's a risk, and Rochelle wasn't one for taking them. But sometimes, the possible prize at the end was worth it. So she looks up at him, and steps off that edge, words measured and careful. "What I'm trying to ask is...are you, ah. Available."

There are a few other things on the back of her mind. Those images of Luke floating down in the water, that expression of pure horror on his face. It chilled her as much as the icy water must have chilled him. But those questions could wait until she could rely on him to warm her up, just as much as she could for him.

"What m'tryin' to say is, Jane an' I--" He blinks, breaking off with a faint shake of his head. But the words don't leave a bitter taste in his mouth. It's not lost on him that he might've given Rochelle the wrong idea, suggesting he might still yearn for something that couldn't be -- but he doesn't get the chance to finish his thought. For a moment he just looks back at her, his heart juddering rabbit-fast against his ribs like he's in highschool all over again, asking the prettiest girl to the dance.

Except they've already hit the dance floor.

"Door's open." There's a soft, sheepish huff of laugh and he shifts his weight, his hand finding the back of his neck before long. It's one thing to guess at someone's intent but another to have it laid out with more than pride on the line. There's no hint or nudge, no coquettish edging around the truth, and he figures he owes it to her to be just as direct.

"S'been for a long time, if I'm bein' honest."

A detail he'd be inclined to omit otherwise, but she needs to know that she won't be in anyone's shadow, won't be their substitute.

"Well, I hate to point out the obvious, but I just closed the door." Rochelle replies, a teasing smile flitting across her face as she made the silly little joke, with its double meaning. "Locked it and everything." Then she takes that hand in hers, eyes locked on his. She tells herself that she shouldn't be nervous, that Luke would have given some kind of hint if he wasn't interested at this point. But she's put herself out there, and it's hard to not worry. With that in mind, she raised their hands up, so she can kiss his hand softly.

"Unless you don't want that," Her voice is careful, testing. She doesn't want to pressure him, doesn't want him to feel any obligations. If he wants this all to stay where it left off in the park, she wants him to be able to say so without feeling like she might react poorly. "If that's the case, you just need to tell me, and I'll unlock it, and go."

And if he did, she'd be fine, she tells herself. It'd sting, but she'd move on. She was a grown woman, she's been going through a lot of bullshit lately. Being politely refused for such an offer was far from the worst thing that she could go through, and she's survived everything else up to that point. So she'd just...move on. Go drown her sorrows a little, then keep going.

But she doesn't want that, and if she's going to be honest with herself, she has to admit that. She liked how his hand felt with hers, how his lips felt with hers. It was something relaxing, a reminder of a time before everything went terrible. And a way to feel a little bit better about everything that was going on. The world may be going to hell, but having someone there by her side at the end of the day...

Well, she had said her piece. It wasn't up to her any more.

If there's something Luke appreciates - and he can appreciate a number of things about her being here - it's the way she can take his words and put a humorous twist on them. He didn't expect a laugh to be dragged out of him and so soon with the expose fresh and raw like an open wound, but life has always been full of surprises. It's only that the pleasant ones are few and far between.

He watches as she kisses his knuckles the way he had other people once upon a time, her eyes on his through her lashes, lips soft and wet. A flush crawls up his neck. It's devastatingly suave, no doubt about it. But it's sweet, too, the way she treats his hand as something more than a tool roughened up from work around the farm and guitar-playing. Heat stirs in his belly and he nearly forgets his dull, gnawing dread at what trouble the expose might bring to his doorstep.

"If it's up to me," He flexes his hand slightly in hers, skin prickling for more. She's offering an out just as he had -- something he deeply appreciates even if it isn't one he'll take. "I'd like you much better on this side a' the door."

There's no uncertainty to it, even if his smile is pale and drained. Joy is a hard thing for a dead man to muster.

The parody of journalism that exists in Panem is at least easily recognisable for what it is. Truths twisted until they're barely discernible from the manufactured lies, propaganda to serve the agenda of a corrupt government. There are definite advantages to being dismissed at face value as nothing more than an 'ignorant backwoods redneck' — nobody expects Daryl to even grasp the political machinations at work in Panem, much less of devising ways to undermine them without getting caught. And yet he's been doing precisely that for several months since finding out about the Rebellion and D13, not serving their cause but still working toward similar goals.

Following what he can only assume was a farce of an exposé about Luke, it occurs to Daryl to lead him out to one of the known blind spots, in order to have a conversation without the perpetual surveillance of the Capitol inhibiting it. The main problem being, how does he start a conversation like that? And more importantly, would Luke even think it's any of his business and want to set the story straight? Far less likely, but concerning all the same, is the possibility of the exposé being absolutely true, which would make Luke one hell of an actor... among other things.

Ultimately, it's the indirect approach that wins out. After remaking stencils of Luke's designs and gathering together his tattooing supplies in a rucksack, he heads for the District 2 floor, figuring that since their bodies reset after each death, a redo might be appreciated. As before, they can talk while it's being done, and he'll be better able to gauge whether or not to bring up the exposé then. Who knows, could be a friend's just what Luke needs about now, and that's all but confirmed when he answers the door looking worse for wear. Shit, maybe he should've called first.

"You busy?" he asks by way of greeting, and holds up the pair of tattoo stencils — one with elegant lettering, one for Dixie — as explanation for his visit. "Been thinkin' it's past time for a redo, if you're interested."

Luke's pulse quickens.

This time it's Daryl who's visiting announced -- and Luke stands in the doorway, staring back at those carefully-prepared stencils long enough for it to be awkward until something clicks and he finally registers the invitation Daryl has put forward. A sick laugh bubbles up in his throat at the question, swallowed back with a struggle. Oh, his mind's busy, a big cat restlessly pacing its cage, but the rest of him isn't. The rest of him is aching and dully anxious and primed for attack against a government he can't fight. Not through brute force at least. But violence is never his method of choice, even if the expose might suggest otherwise.

There's a slow-burning anger in the set of his jaw, in the shallow rise and fall of his chest. But the heaviness to his eyes speaks of the sad futility of having struggled to protect Nick for so long. The game's up and now there's nothing left to hide. Their friends are dead and gone and he's run out of road.

At least there's some closure now.

"Yeah..." He blinks. "Yeah, that'd be good."

Frowning, he glances sideways into the hallway before stepping aside. He shuts the door behind Daryl before continuing.

"Sorry; if I knew you were comin' for sure I'd a' cleaned up first." A part of him is distantly aware of what this sounds like out of context and he lets out a wry chuckle despite himself. Somebody behind that trashy Celebrus magazine was probably typing away furiously right about now. It doesn't matter. "...You mind givin' me a couple minutes while you set up?"

He begins to unbutton his flannel shirt, gesturing to the desk with a nudge of his chin.

"There's a couple beers by the desk if you're thirsty."

Her body, her face relaxes when she finally got the confirmation she was waiting, hoping for. He wants her to stay. Whatever this thing is, he wants it to continue. That's good. Her smile reflects her relief, and she gives his hand a little squeeze. That particularly awkward moment of wonder was over, then.

There's more questions, there's more things pressing on her, but they can wait. None of them are really important, anyway. The way that Luke died...or almost died wasn't something she wanted to touch on right now. Instead, she takes that step forward again, and reaches up to cup his face. "I'm glad to hear that."

A quick tug of his shirt to pull him down to her level, and she's kissing him again. It was nice to know that the haze of alcohol hadn't made this act seem better than it was, because she enjoyed it as much as she had on that first night. With that knowledge, she stepped away, but kept that hold on his shirt, and his hand. Gently pulling him along as she took a few careful steps backwards--right for his bed.

"Well, then. I guess I'll stay on this side of the door for a while." She let the implication settle. Let him decide what to make of it.

Her hand trails down his cheek, his neck, to clutch a soft fistful of his shirt, guiding him where he's wanted, where he's needed. And they kiss. It's as warm and giddily breathless as he remembers, starbursts of light flashing behind his eyelids. Seems he's never too old for butterflies. Pulling back too soon, he considers her in silence, his gaze following her as she tugs him towards the bed. There's no explanation needed. His pulse quickens, an eager, anxious heat curling low in his belly.

He's been here before. Faced with a choice when life seemed at its bleakest, only for his selfishness to come at a terrible cost. But it's hard to think he can do any worse today after recognizing the sad futility of trying to protect Nick from the truth, only cutting him deeper than he ever could have had he confided in him from the start. Had he not left it to the Capitol to carelessly make a spectacle of his life and the lives of others who they had lost along the way.

The next deathmatch is just around the corner and he needs to encourage Nick to petition for his freedom, needs to keep at building his strength and endurance in the training centre. He needs to refresh his knowledge of traps and edible and toxic plant-life.

But he needs this more. The world can wait.

"We can stop anytime," He says, looking into her face. Squeezing her hand back as he follows, surrenders. "Jus' tell me if we need to. Last thing I want is to be somethin' you regret."

Edited 2015-08-24 00:46 (UTC)

Luke's reaction almost makes Daryl regret being indirect about this, but he knows only too well how out of his depth he is; trying to navigate his way through someone else's emotional crisis, when at the best of times he barely understands his own. That's more than enough to warrant some caution. During that chasm of silence opening up between them, he's able to fully take in Luke's features and posture without interruption, staring at him as he stares at the paper excuses. Probably isn't a good time for tattoos, after all, but Daryl accepts the invitation in.

The comment's met with raised eyebrows in lieu of a smile, but it has the same affect of lightening his expression into friendlier territory. There's unspoken concern there, too, in his subtle watchfulness, the way he's keeping Luke in his peripheral vision when not looking at him directly.

"Take your time. Got nowhere else I need to be."

He does go to the desk, though not for the beer. Setting the stencils and his rucksack there, he pulls out the chair and straddles it backwards, putting his back to the room — and to Luke. A message of trust coded in body language. Withdrawing the tattoo accoutrements one item at a time is mainly to keep his hands busy longer and lend some credibility to his visit, while leaving his mind free to focus on other matters.

There's a sort of sixth sense he's discovered when it comes to people he gives a damn about, one which allows him to, on occasion, fit himself to their needs. He can't guess how such a thing might play out in the here and now. Despite the complications and turmoil of the last arena, the more recent exposé, he'd like to think he knows Luke pretty well, or at least well enough. Maybe he hadn't needed an excuse to be there, but having one will probably make this easier for both of them.

There's a mutual trust in the way he slides out his shirt and tugs his tank top up over his head on the way to the bathroom and doesn't bother closing the door behind him. He hasn't much that warrants taking his time with, and while lathering up with shaving cream he listens distantly to Daryl rustling through his bag until the rush of water hitting the sink drowns it out for a moment. It's on the fourth short, careful stroke that he decides to cut to the chase, not unkindly, feeling a low clenching in his belly in anticipation. Focusing on the task at hand helps. He stares dully at the mirror.

"So I guess you probably have some things you wanna talk about," He says after rinsing the razor, his tone devoid of accusation, of anger. A thread of hollow tiredness runs through his words.

There's chance the timing of the visit could just be a coincidence. But he thinks it's more likely that Daryl would have contacted him in advance if that were that the case and had a look at broadcasts on his communicator while he was at it. Daryl was more abreast of Capitol matters than one might think. He had been the one to share information on blind spots in the Capitol, after all.

Luke rinses off and pats his chest dry, turning in the mirror to eye the marble-like bump over his ribs as he always does, in that same obsessive way one's tongue can't help poking the soft socket where a tooth had been. His body is a blank canvas all over again, ready to be inked in a tribute to friends and loved ones. Too bad starting fresh isn't possible in so many other aspects of life. The past is too relentless to outpace.

He cleans up and steps out with a quiet sigh, looking to the tools Daryl has laid out. Where do they start?

It takes the sound of the door shutting behind him for Nick to finally open his eyes. Luke's still here just like Nick would remind him every now and then that he is. He can feel his heart beat against his. He's still here. They both are.

Certain things Nick picked up on in the Capitol make more sense now - like Luke's familiarity towards Jane. It was only arriving here that he had gotten to know Jane but back home she had been just another survivor to him. It explains those little moments of Luke looking away or being vague about whatever goes on in his mind. He had been suspicious that Luke was hiding things from him - a trait that he's grown to use whether it be backed by evidence or just out of sheer paranoia.

He just wasn't expecting this. He knew that the expose's depiction of Luke had been far from the truth. But the footage? Even if he could make the guess that the images and audio were of the Capitol's doing...Luke's reaction confirmed that what happened at the lake was real.

The image becomes vivid for him again as he tightens his grip on Luke's shirt enough to make his knuckles turn white.

"You..." He murmurs as he bows his head so that his head would rest on Luke's shoulder. The tears have stained his shirt. This whole time he thought he had been nothing but a ghost to Luke. "...you didn't tell me because you couldn't."

It's not the matter of why, but he phrases it in the form of a question just to ask Luke if he was right with his assumption. This isn't among the one of many things that would fit under the "just do it" category that Luke would sometimes urge him to try.

Luke's distantly aware of the shoulder of his shirt soaking through, tears hot on his skin. Nick could have torn his shirt in his hands and it wouldn't make a difference. He's too distracted to care.

He knows what it must sound like, that he didn't think Nick could take many more devastating blows without falling apart and giving up on life. And Nick would be right to think so. Nick would be right to feel like he has been underestimated because it has been three arenas he has slogged through and he's still moving, he's still finding reasons to get out of bed every morning. Sometimes, that's the most anyone can do.

Luke's lips pinch, the muscles in his throat bobbing shallowly around things left unspoken and so much more left unresolved. His efforts to protect Nick - his good intentions - only made this gut-stab of bad news that much worse and he can only think of Carlos and Sarah, his chest tightening fiercely.

“...Yeah.” It’s a simple answer on the surface, but it's strained, thick with the pain he's fought to shove down and keep safely contained the past few years. He slides away, reluctantly, his arms hanging heavy and useless at his sides, an apology etched into his face. Aging him. There's not much left to say.

Everything feels cloudy right now with just that look from Luke staring back at him. Nick goes over to take a seat at the nearest chair, letting gravity take its toll on him as he drops onto it with his shoulders slouching. He finally wipes whatever wetness there is from his eyes, leaving a red streak that only dares to darken. He can't get the image of Luke slipping away into the waters out of his mind. "You didn't think I'd be able to handle it if you told me."

He's thinking out loud, for both of them, maybe. There's little bite to make his tone accusatory. Hopelessness eats at him enough for him to be convinced that he's what Luke pegged him as. "And you're probably fuckin' right. I wouldn't have been able to. I gave you all the reasons to believe that I couldn't, right?"

He wasn't even there but he feels at fault for not being able to have done much more. He looks down to see that he's been gripping at his jeans now. "Why did it have to turn out like that? Everyone..."

Luke lets him talk, hurt and resigned, his silence damning as he watches Nick sag bonelessly into the chair. Watches the hope drain from his face. He's never felt older. Neither of them have, he's sure.

"I don' know, Nick." He says, left standing awkwardly. It's not an answer, but it's the only one he has for a long time. And to no surprise it's not good enough.

It's hard to think of their deaths as terrible accidents, terrible twists of fate, when they feel more like the consequences of every one of his actions - and his inaction back at the deck. Maybe Pete could have saved them. He had been dependable from the start, the sort of man who could be compelling without resorting to force, never having to raise his voice to be heard, to command respect. More a leader than he had ever been.

"...It don't make any sense."

There's a slow shake of his head, his jaw winding tighter.

"We were there one minute, together in that cabin, an' then the next... gone. Jus' like that." He snorts, humourlessly, sickness filling his throat. "But, somehow, I ended up makin' it to that goddamn lake."

He drags his hand across his mouth, moving towards the counter. But he doesn't touch anything, his eyes staring blank and unseeing, his voice trembling.

"...I let what was left of us walk across it like we hadn't a choice."

He keeps checking, keeps making sure this is what she wants, and she appreciates that. But she knows that it is what she wants, what she needs to feel a little sliver of normalcy. To feel a connection with another person. She nods to his words, though, letting him know that she hears, and understands. But she doesn't stop backing up until her legs bump against the bed.

"I'll let you know," Rochelle promises, voice quiet. "But this isn't something I'm going to regret, Luke. This is something I want." She gives him a warm smile, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. She has always been careful, always cautious. She doesn't throw caution to the wind, and she takes everything in careful measure.

Even here and now, if there had been a chance it could prove truly dangerous, she might have second thoughts. But a few moments of peace were well deserved, for both of them, and this was hardly a dangerous environment. It was safe enough for them to take those moments of peace, and make them their own.

Once everything is arranged to his liking on the desk, he pulls on a new pair of sterile black gloves and begins sorting the cords running between the self-contained power supply and the tattoo gun. The Capitol-procured technology isn't remarkably different from what he's accustomed to using in their own world. More sleek and streamlined, with less of a human touch required, but the fundamentals are more or less the same.

Of course, there are options that negate a human user's involvement entirely — devices that will simply 'print' pre-determined tattoos onto skin in seconds — but for Daryl it would defeat the entire purpose. Tattoos aren't damned impersonal fashion accessories, to be changed on a whim. The process is part of the experience, and taking the authenticity out of that would render it as soulless as so many other pursuits in the Capitol seem to be.

At Luke's comment, he almost does smile then, but it never quite makes it there before his expression settles into something more somber. No coincidences happening here. But even if he is there under partially false pretenses (he'd have offered to redo the ink eventually, regardless), he sees little reason to lie if Luke's prepared to be having this discussion already.

"I'm good," he answers, looking back over his shoulder and watching Luke watching himself in the mirror. "Saw the bullshit broadcast about you, if that's what you're gettin' at."

This doesn't have to be weird, is what his tone says. They can talk about it or not. His expectations had been left at the door.

He turns around to sit properly, and uses the tattoo gun to gesture between the more plush chair that's available and the bed. "You wanna sit or recline this time?" The advantage of the latter position being how well it naturally keeps skin taut in the areas he'll be working on, while the former keeps everything within easier reach. But there's minimal difference for him; it's more a question of Luke's comfort and ability to be still right now. With that thought in mind, Daryl's back to watching him as he says, "Can just talk, if that's what you want."

Sarah was among the first Nick inquired Luke about when he first arrived in Panem. It's been that long already for the both of them. Luke had been keeping this shit to himself since. He should be mad. He wishes he was mad because at least getting mad is a definite answer, a temporary jolt of a pure emotion that'd just make sense to him in the heat of the moment.

Now though, after months of being here and dealing with one level of mind fucks after another, he's too numb to feel much else. Even just looking at Luke blaming himself for everything that happened tires him out more than spurring him into get angry. He always had thought Luke as the guy that would "make it", even before when the dead started walking. Yelling or even hitting him wouldn't change a god damn thing even if Nick had the energy to. They're both looking like they've been beaten down.

His grip on his jeans loosens, taking in Luke's words while applying it to the images the expose provided even though the images are the last things he wants to see again. There's nothing he can say to Luke that isn't just words of reassurance without it sounding weak at best. He knows even less than he does and he has never felt more helpless.

"You probably didn't," Nick manages to choke out. It's grasping in the dark but he needed to say something. "There probably wasn't any time."

It's Nick's turn to snort now, but it's void of anything remotely lighthearted as he speaks with a hallowed, defeated voice. "That's always the go-to reason behind decision making, ain't it? That 'there's no time' or 'we ain't got the time for this' before it bites us in the ass."

There's no time, gotta put the bitten ones down. There's no time, they could be right behind us. There's no time because they're fighting for the opportunity to have a breather that they will never get the chance to take.

The light in her smile kills what doubt is left in his mind as she continues to lead him, to offer him a distraction a world away from guilt-ridden thoughts. She pulls him closer, arms slung around his neck, the heat of her skin felt through his shirt. It's the sort of thing he's dreamt about those cold nights curled up in Carver's pen. Not just the mindless pleasure of sex and the instant gratification, but human company. Quiet acknowledgement of his existence with a lingering touch, a kiss.

There wouldn't always be a later and he won't sit and wait in the hopes that better days will come. This is what they have now, a chance to try and break the pattern of senseless loss and take back some measure of their lives for a moment. so he pushes the Capitol and his awareness of its ever watchful, ever looming presence into a far corner of his mind and gives in, kissing her with all the hunger and frustration and need he's been forced to pack down for the good of the group or for lack of a choice. He mouths her jaw, her neck, all tongue and teeth and hot breath, a hand curving to the small of her back to ease her down.

He runs a hand through his hair, sliding it down the back of his neck and keeping it there for a while as he looks at Daryl. "M'gonna go for lyin' down."

It might help take some tension out of his frame, which is among the last of things he needs more of while under the needle.

"We might as well get to the inkin' first, seein' as I'm all dolled up for it..." He moves to the bed and drops into it, sitting on the edge for a moment. The expose will be an easier subject to broach while they're both kept busy, the low to moderate-grade, near-constant hum of pain dumping endorphins and adrenaline into his system. He needs it, the bitterness and the sweetness. Needs it more than he can say.

That Daryl doesn't buy into the Capitol's tale of his dick-swinging panache and child-killing is unsurprising, but reassuring to know all the same. There's a world of difference between suspecting something and hearing it, confirming it, while his mind hives with the potential complications of the broadcast. He can't control what people will think and how they act; only the choices he will make. And that, at the end of the day, is what'll best define him.

His gaze falls on the stencils again. "So which tat're we goin' with first?"

Nearly every situation seems simpler, the right choice clearer, in hindsight, and it's easy to think he could've made it to the house across the lake by limping along the perimetre with the others, a dotted line of blood melting into the snow.

"We coulda gone around..." He says to the table, shaking his head hopelessly. "It'd a' taken longer, a few hours at the least, but, maybe..."

Could AJ have weathered out the cruel temperatures? Could any of them go another night without a proper shelter? It had been a desperate situation for all involved, starved and shaking in their threadbare clothes. He lets out another laugh, a sick, broken sound.

"I didn't--" He breaks off with a small noise in his throat, his jaw working in silence. He pinches his lips and nods faintly to himself, struggling to start over. "I guess I didn't know for sure. I mean... it'd a' taken a helluva miracle to get me outta there. But now... there ain't no doubt about what happened."

There's closure. More than some people ever found. "I don' know who made it... an' who might a' died tryin' to go after me. I, I couldn't--" The words crack like glass and he presses his fist stiffly against his mouth, his vision blurring over. Clem - her shimmery silhouette - had been the last thing he saw.

"Fuck--" He hisses under his breath, a vicious, knife-like edge to it. "Fuck!"

Pressing the matter is something Daryl rarely does, preferring instead to trust that others know their own minds enough to be straight with him on what they want, what they need. And he doesn't need to be told twice. Collecting the stencils, some paper towels, and the bottle of transfer solution in hand, he slides the desk chair over and places it facing the bedside.

"Already warmed up before I came over," he mentions as he takes a seat, knees bracketing Luke's. 'Warm up' being the octopus tattoo he'd redone on himself; he's grown fond of the design, in no small part because of what it represents. "So let's go with complicated first."

He indicates for Luke to stay sitting up as he is with a gesture, then tips the bottle onto his gloved fingers, letting a small amount of the liquid coat them before rubbing it onto the skin of Luke's chest that's going to be tattooed. The liquid itself is entirely clear and has the consistency of alcohol, with a clean, soap-like smell once lathered. When the skin's sufficiently wetted, he carefully positions the bigger of the two stencils and presses it down, using his fingertips to trace over each part of the design to ensure a solid transfer. Not that he can't freehand small sections perfectly well, if he has to — he just prefers to be thorough instead.

"Been thinkin' of any other tattoos?" he asks lightly without looking up. Once he's satisfied with the transfer, he peels back the paper, mindful to go slow enough that nothing smudges in the process. For lettering in particular he wants to have the cleanest lines possible. He leans back in the chair, wiping his hands on a paper towel as he nods at the stencil. "Position good?"

Best he can tell, it's as close to the original tattoo's placement as it's likely to get, but Luke's the one who'll be living with it (possibly indefinitely this time). The final judgement's left to him.

"Yeah."

He doesn't look up either, watching Daryl in a patient, absent way as if feeling the cool slick of solution and the press of a stencil to his skin and fingers edging its crisp outlines is a ritual they repeat every day. Like last time, he opts for the pattern to be close to the heart. Cliched, he supposes, but appropriate. There were so many they hadn't time and the chance to bury. So many he hopes will come to forgive that final indignity, so many that still live on in memories that play back, over and over, in an endless loop, something different and lost each time like nitrate film reels in slow decay. It's harder to remember the tones of voices and gestures sometimes, harder to bring into focus the times they had ever laughed or smiled.

He catches himself slouching and straightens slightly.

"Actually, y'mind addin' a couple extra birds?" The design features a flock of silhouettes sweeping across his chest, resembling dead leaves caught up in a breeze. More solemn and poetic than majestic. There's a sad pinch to his brows, his lips pressing thin a moment. "...I don' mind if you freehand it."

He looks up into Daryl's face. He has faith in the careful steadiness of Daryl's hands, in their skill.

Edited 2015-09-30 12:18 (UTC)

Cliché or not, Daryl's just about the last person to be judgmental of over-the-heart tattoos, for reasons he'd mentioned once before. Doesn't care to actually explain what his own is of, and of the very few people who've seen it, none know the meaning and have undoubtedly drawn their own mistaken conclusions, but still.

"I can do that," he agrees as he lightly pats the transferred design with a paper towel, ensuring it won't run during the next step. Additional silhouettes will be simple as anything, and though he has a solid guess as to whom they're meant to represent, the question is in his eyes when he briefly glances up to meet Luke's. But he isn't going to pry. "Last chance for a piss break," he says and pushes away from the bed to stand up. "Lie back when you're ready."

He sets the stenciling supplies aside and gathers the rest of what he needs, then returns to the chair, tattoo gun balanced across his lap, and starts picking at the plastic seal of a new, small jar of petroleum jelly. Damned difficult to find any purchase with gloves on, so it takes a good minute.

"Seen ya around at the museum." With a muttered oath under his breath, he finally works a corner of the seal up enough to peel the rest off. "Stopped by before to see if you wanted lunch, got told you were 'busy'." The sneer in his voice on the last word is an imitation of the censorious dismissal he'd received. "Reckon they didn't bother passin' the message along."

He'd even considered staying to play tourist for a bit, horrifying the well-to-do locals more with his filthy mechanic's coveralls and skin covered in streaks of motor oil, but in the end he'd submitted to his schedule, which doesn't permit lengthy lunch breaks.

There's quiet gratitude in his eyes, a look that lingers even as he offers a chuff of a laugh. It's unamused. "Well, shit. S'the first time I'm hearin' about it."

He swings his legs up over the edge of the bed and lies back, letting out a slow, careful breath as he settles. "Can't say I'm too surprised about the whole thing." A beat passes. With a pang of awareness of their ever-present audience, he adds: "I'm a pretty hard guy to catch these days. My schedule changes up a great deal so I grab lunch whenever I can get it."

It's funny -- a few years ago he'd have embraced the opportunity to put his major to good use, at long last. But he can't say there's any measure of pride in what he does now even if he feels at ease with delivering presentations to strangers. Who could? It's the kind of job that wears on you. That kills you on the inside piece by piece, a slow erosion. Big Brother is always watching, always listening -- so he hides for hours behind charisma and a thin Capitolite-like smile while directing tour groups from piece to piece, offering historical context ('who controls the past controls the future', he thinks) and repeating the same propaganda-heavy spiel about the Capitol's rise to glory from a barbaric, bloody past to anyone who cares to listen. It scares him sometimes, the way some kids look on with blank-faced eagerness, soaking up everything he has to give.

He never did think he'd find himself trapped in a police state, but no one ever does.

"So how's work treatin' you these days?"

The pay is one thing and, sure, he hopes it's enough to keep Daryl from just scraping by like their sort are used to, only that it's worse here with diddly-squat to hunt in the Capitol other than the ducks at the pond, if that. But whether or not his job's a soul-draining vampire is just as important as Luke sees it.

"...Rick doin' okay?"

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tw: drowning refs

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