I'm going to take you out, I don't feel like it's wrong

[cigne]

Who| Swann and open
What| Her worst nightmare: people are talking about her mom
Where| The lobby restaurant
When| Several nights before the Reaping
Warnings/Notes| nahhh

Swann's done her best to hide the fact that she's obviously overworked and hasn't been sleeping or eating properly; she never does when she's stressed out. But years of covering up the same behaviors have left her an expert in covering it with makeup, making herself look so flawless that you can barely even tell she's a real person, rather than a doll.

Not unless you get really close.

Hunger finally cracked her, though, and she decided to take a break from her work, heading downstairs to sit at the bar for dinner (it's... a side salad, and something pink with flowers floating in it as a drink). The bar stools are always high for her, their rungs an inch too low for her to reach with her feet, so they dangle idly as she eats, occasionally flicking through her phone to check for messages.

With all the Victor retrospectives and Tribute exposés, pretty much every station on television has gotten into doing "where are they now?"-style specials, highlighting everyone from politicians to models to famous animals.

It's been a while since the last Arena.

The screen nearest Swann at the bar is turned on one of the music-based stations, and the program keeps telling her that they're remembering Lost Divas!!!!. She's paying it little attention until she hears the familiar beginning of a song she's been hearing her whole life, and her blood runs cold as she looks up at the screen in horror to see someone who could be Swann herself, with a few minor tweaks in the face. The girl on screen is maybe five or six years younger, less curvy, and far taller than Swann, but otherwise, they could be fraternal twins.

"The bombshell known by the single name Viatrix had only one hit before her star faded too soon," the voiceover announces, "and now she only appears in public once in a blue moon. Let's trace her comet trail and find out more."

There's a freezeframe of Viatrix in the video, and it morphs into the last picture of her that Swann knows to have been taken in the Capitol, when she was home at Christmas. She'd only stayed for two days this time, left before it was even Christmas Eve.

The food sits forgotten on the bar.

Comments

[whittlingnickels]

Swann's instincts would be right on the money, because Sinclair opens his arms for her and lets her cuddle against him. Drunk or not, this tiny platinum haired woman wasn't going to be left out in the cold like some District whore. Speaking of...

"True, and she may be your coworker, but the woman's as smart an' alive as a mannequin," he added to the little barrage of insults directed at the woman who would be his temporary employee. All that nastiness would come in spades if Temple broke their deal. "But Mrs. Stevens needs to learn a lesson in gettin' back on this planet if you're gonna get any help. If there's one thing I absolutely despise, is people workin' on one of my projects that don't pull their weight. You're doing the lion's share from what it seems."

And that's totally not a Capitol bias here, nope.

[cigne]

She wraps her arms around him and nods, jerking for a moment as she hiccups uncomfortably. It's never been a problem for her to very neatly fit against the side of practically everyone she's ever known, and Sinclair is no exception -- if anything, there's extra room, with him being the tallest person she's curled up to in a while. Swann can feel her heart beating in her ribs from being drunk and upset, and she buries her face against his shoulder.

"At least mannequins do what you want them to," she mumbles, but everything else he says is nothing she can argue or demur from, because even an active Rebel would have to admit that Swann is doing more than her share of the work in District Eight. That she was doing all the world, because Temple considers giving the Tributes chocolate and alcohol to be 'doing her job', that even when she does part of the job (buttering up someone, probably on her back), she expects Swann to do the rest (talk to her father and his employees, figure out and put together TV spots and commercials).

"I'm just... so tired," she says slowly, sadly, and it's hard for Capitolites to admit that they're tired from work, actually tired rather than just making a show of it for peoples' attention and special treatment. They shouldn't be working hard enough to get tired, not unless you happened to be President Snow or the Gamemakers during an Arena (even in the Capitol, some things are inevitable), and throwing yourself into something that isn't partying, it's just not what's in their blood.

[whittlingnickels]

It's that admission that Augustus concedes and lets her rest wherever she needs to fall. Escort or not, Swann has been working to the point that even a workaholic like Gus is raising eyebrows. "Promise me one thing, sugar," he murmured, "Promise me you're gonna take a break come the next Arena. You're too young to be collapsin' like some overstimulated dog. Your name should not be in a rag magazine..."

And those rags would be destroyed if Ilar had his way.

[cigne]

Letting out a long breath, Swann nods a little and closes her eyes. It's harder and harder to sleep ever since Jason became obsessed with spending every night in his empty, withering house, and at this point, even just having another body close by is soothing enough to let her relax a little.

"It'll be better now," she sighs. "Jack and Rick are completely set, and the other three have a good pool between them. Plus I have you now. I don't have to spend every waking moment begging for more assi, I can actually sit and do what I need to. Try to sleep."

[whittlingnickels]

Gus lets out a chuckle, rich like a fine glass of bourbon before he whispers, "All you had to do was ask, sugar."

Swann is drunk and sleep-deprived and Jason? Nowhere to be found unless you went to the Compson manor. Great. It's with this exasperation that Sinclair believes the other Capitolite is either hung up on his past mommy issues or taking Honeymead for granted. There were plenty of ways to exploit that lack of affection Jason is giving off but even a venture capitolist like Sinclair wouldn't take THAT bait.

He'll be there in the good and the bad, in case the crash and burn happens.

"Let's get you back in the Tower for good measure. An' you're sleepin' in, sponsor's orders."

[cigne]

There's a moment where she hovers between being awake and asleep, but then she parses what he's said, and shakes her head, frowning. "I don't want to go to the Tower," she mutters. If she goes back to the Suite, it's just another night alone, where she'll wake up after an hour and then lie in the dark, crying probably. And besides, there's no one to explain things to at her place, no one to ask questions about her mother. "I want to go home, I want Eta."

She doesn't explain, and she's too tired and drunk to care whether Augustus is someone who's heard the closed-door rumors of her odd relationship to an Avox, that her father's enabled her whole life and protected her from the consequences of.

Swann does not move.

[whittlingnickels]

Sinclair doesn't question why Swann would want Eta, simply because he connects it to a child wanting a teddy bear, a comforting object that people grow out of eventually. The rumors are cute but he uses that as the same reason he keeps Delta close by, a loyal dog that should he turn rabid...well, there's always a gun in Gus's office.

"Let's getcha home then," he whispered into her ear as he gently picked up the tiny escort. "You wake up tomorrow, this never really happened. Just a bad dream brought on by stress." He can picture Ilar's reaction to everything that happened to his little porcelain princess.

[cigne]

He picks her up and she sighs, clutching at his jacket still around her, breathing in the smell of his shirt as her head rolls to rest on his arm. She already knows what's happening with her father, that there are network heads being called into Honeymead Manor from every other corner of the Capitol, so that Ilar can destroy them on his own turf, in one of his big, intimidating offices. Damage control will be delegated to the trusted and the capable, consequences doled out to the ones who let this happen. At least one of them won't be seen around the Capitol anymore.

He won't ever yell. He doesn't have to.

"Thank you, Gus." It slips out of her like a breath, almost lost in his shirt. Her feet dangle and bounce as they move, and she drifts between asleep and awake, never bothering to open her eyes.