thecapitol | [closed] i'm good at carnage and poetic language

Entry tags:

[closed] i'm good at carnage and poetic language

Who| Porrim + Clint / Porrim + Chuck
What| Meetings and talks.
Where| The Tower
When| Idk sometime in the last week or so?? SPECIFICS
Warnings/Notes| Probably none, will update!

1. Clint

After her talk with Sam over the hack post, Porrim has quite a lot weighing on her mind. Least of all, worrying about whether or not she's safe until Sam can figure out a way to get her to District 13. She's figured out by now that the execution of Tony Stark wasn't publicly broadcast, which means someone knows. Someone's figured out her affiliation, and it makes her uneasy. Makes her skin itch. And without too many people left in the Capitol she knows for sure she can trust, it's hard to know whether or not she can confide in anyone.

The other matter has to do with Clint Barton. Sam had asked her to look out for him--mainly in the Arenas, but he'd also mentioned making sure Clint was safe, and knew he wasn't alone. And while the smart thing to do would be to wait until she can send Sponsor gifts with notes "from" Sam, she also has a burning curiosity to meet Clint in person, to see what he's like. She knows that the relationship between him and Sam is purportedly fabricated for the Capitol, but she also has to wonder if that's all there is to it. And, well, it seems only right that they meet in person. They have someone very important in common.

She finds him by chance, in the lobby of the Tribute center, passing through on her way into work one morning. She's dressed casually since it's Friday, with black polka-dot tights and sky-high heeled boots that place her at well over six feet when combined with her naturally willowy height. As such, she only has to take a couple of long strides to find herself at Clint's side, and she taps him on the shoulder with a clink of expensive gold jewelry.

"Excuse me...Clint?" She offers him a smile. "Hi."

2. Chuck

With the Arena looming close and personal tensions running high, Porrim has decided that a little goodwill is in order. She's no Swann Honeymead, but she puts together a mean gift basket nonetheless, so she decides it might be a good idea to put together a few to give out to each District's staffers. She knows how hard everyone is working, herself included, and a little inter-district cooperation never hurt anyone.

Spacing out her deliveries so as not to get overwhelmed also seems like a good idea, so one afternoon, Porrim heads down to Four armed with a large wicker basket under her arm, stuffed with all manner goodies--gourmet sweets, popcorn balls, wine and cheese, artisanal summer sausage, solid silver engraved flasks--one with a 'D.S.', one with a 'C.H.' and one with a 'K.M.'--miniature bottles of expensive liquor, and so on and so forth. Part of her is hoping to run into Kurloz and maybe have a nice little banter, but she doesn't mind when it turns out that one of the Mentors happens to be in instead.

She pokes her head into the doorway of the suite, long black ponytail swinging into view, and spies Chuck. "Knock, knock!"

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The past week has been filled with ups and downs. For a while now he's been caught, left behind in the wake of Sam and Bucky leaving for 13, and that's sucked. Clint misses his partner, misses his friends, but he's worked through that before. He can keep going. Hearing from both of them was a blessing, relief in his veins, but it couldn't last long. He knew it, he prepared for it.

But nothing could have prepared him to watch his friend get executed on live tv.

Clint knew this could be an outcome one day, knew one of them might be up on those screens. Steve, with rebellion stitched in his veins. Sam, with all the secrets he's compiling and the allies he's making. Bucky, Tony, Aang, himself; there's only so long they could all keep it secret. But now, now he knows the eyes of the Capitol will be upon him as the last Avenger. He's got to play it careful.

So someone catches up with him while he's walking through the lobby, and Clint's -- on guard but carefully hiding it. He hears the strike of her heels, feels the tap of fingertips and clink of jewelry. Turns, curious to see who it is, and looks up into one Porrim Maryam. He knows her face, her name, even if they've never officially met, and Clint meets Porrim's smile with a small bemused one all his own.

"Hey?" Confused, kind of, as to why she's stopping him right now.

She shouldn't be surprised any longer to realize that people are actually shorter than her, but now that she's standing next to Clint she has the realization once more. It makes her smirk to see him looking up at her; it never stops being amusing, now that she's not an awkward teenager who's self-conscious about being taller than everyone else she encounters.

Porrim laughs at his response. "Hi. Sorry to catch you like this. But I thought I'd introduce myself." She squares herself so she's facing him, all six-plus feet of her with tattoos as far as the eye can see. "After all, we do have friends in common."

It's the most subtle way she can think of to say that she figured it was high time they met considering they share a paramour, real or not.

Clint never had any illusions of being tall -- but being of average height works for him. He's a spy, he's an assassin, he's a slip of an acrobat. If he'd been built like Thor, or Steve, hell, his job would have been a whole lot harder. Besides, he's had thirty years, give or take, to get used to this facet of life. so Porrim squares herself and faces him down, and Clint shifts to meet her head on. His head tips, easy confidence in the lines of his body.

Only, his eyes spark with amusement as she laughs, at the hidden meaning behind her words. Clint's mouth ticks up in a truer smile, seemingly easy for someone deep in mourning.

"A couple or so." He agrees, offering a hand to her, playing along if only to see where this goes. "Clint. Pleasure to meet you officially."

"Pleasure's all mine," Porrim replies amiably, liking that his smile's become a little more genuine, and she takes his hand to shake. He'll notice that her knuckles on this hand spell out TOUGH--the other hand says BITCH. "I've heard so much about you." After a pause: "All good things, of course." Whether or not she's referring to Panem Nightly and Celebrus is ambiguous, but it's certainly not what she's referring to.

She gestures before them. "Walk with me?"

He likes her already, truth be told. Clint's a cautious guy, paranoid after a life that didn't allow him anything but, and so he's careful. But you can be cautious and still be friendly, still offer a bit of yourself up to make it truer. But yeah, he notices the ink across her knuckles, he doesn't miss much.

"Ah, well that's no fun." He murmurs, mischief in the blue of his gaze. "Gotta have a little bit of bad in there, make things interesting."

And yeah, he's teasing. Hell, he's drawing on Sam a bit. Testing her, wondering and curious to see how she'll react. He wants to know why she's here, why she called out to him. But yeah, he walks with her, easily.

"Well," Porrim counters with a little smirk, "I'll make sure to keep an extra ear out for the bad stuff next time." It's all she can do to keep herself from winking--be cool, Porrim, damn.

Still, he doesn't seem averse to taking a little walk, so she falls into stride easily, deliberately keeping her strides shorter so she won't end up miles ahead of him. "Now. I know you're not in my district, but I recently had an anonymous Sponsor approach me with some funds. This sponsor of mine wants me to use them on you in the Arena. Seems he's taken a shine to you."

"You do that," Clint all but purrs, mouth curling with a sly little grin. He's -- he's having fun.

But yeah, he's good with this. A little walk with a beautiful woman isn't trouble at all. He head tilts, listening to her, keeping up easily even as she shortens her stride. This isn't really what he expected, even though maybe he should have. Clint's brows lift, faint surprise, before smoothing out.

"How generous of him." A dip of his head, to hide the way something fond fills his features, because Clint's so sure of who she's talking about. "I'll do my best to meet expectations."

It's strange what happens when you let yourself relax a little. She's having similar feelings--maybe the best way to blow off steam isn't constant casual sex, but a little witty banter with, yeah, a good-looking guy. She can handle that.

"Yes," she agrees, "he's incredibly generous. It seems he has an excess for credits, and, well--" Here, she eyes him up and down rather pointedly in that frank way of hers. "Excellent taste, if you don't mind my saying so."

In all honesty, the Arena looming closer is one of the few things dragging Chuck back down from the angry spiral he fell into after the latest Celebrus issue. He's still seething just a tad, but he's always done better when focusing his rage onto something else. Kaiju, trainees, paperwork and sponsorships.

So by the time Porrim heads down and pokes her head in the doorway, Chuck's at one of the couches, going over his Tributes' strengths and weaknesses, figuring out carefully who and what to capitalize on, what sponsors are in the bag and which he can try to garner during the Arena. Things always shake up, of course, but with only three Tributes, there's not as much to split.

Still, he looks up, brow raised, teeth at the end of his pen. The wicker basket gets a cursory look over, but, well, it's admittedly as good an excuse to visit as could be.

"Mite early for a birthday present, Maryam."

Short, but not necessarily angry all told.

Chuck looks busy as hell, but that doesn't stop Porrim from smiling, taking his greeting as an invitation to let the rest of her body follow. "I know," she laughs, "but I can't help myself." Coming forth on long legs, she moves to set the basket down on the table in front of Chuck, angling it enticingly toward him to display its contents.

"Actually, though, it's just a few goodies to get you guys through the next few weeks," she explains. "May I?" Gesturing to the seat opposite him. "I know it's been crazy for me, I can't imagine what it's like for you Mentors."

He welcomes the interruption, really. This is his least favorite part of the job, and he's maybe put it off a bit already, but whatever. Maybe later he can bribe Derek into doing it, if he's really lucky. Because this is an invitation, enough that when she sets the gift down he does curiously examine it, picking it apart with his gaze. There's a hum, and he looks back, nods her towards the chair she'd chosen.

The paperwork gets set aside, pen tucked idly behind one ear, as he leans back in his chair. Crosses one leg over the other, unconcerned.

"Thoughtful." It's appreciated, but he doesn't really buy that it's simply an act of goodwill. It never is, in his experience. "You givin' all of us a bit of a pick me up?"

Porrim follows suit, settling in, crossing her legs at the knees. Making herself comfortable. "Pretty much. I don't imagine you boys have much time to treat yourselves. In my experience, it's the little things like this that help you feel a little more human when you're pulling twelve-hour workdays."

The little things, like liquor and chocolate. She nods toward his paperwork. "Things going well? I'm sure it's a nice boost, coming off a victory last round."

He leans back as she does, comfortable in the plush chairs, content to kick back for a moment. That's funny though, twelve-hour workdays. Most of the time Chuck feels like some kind of hall monitor, constantly on duty, trying to herd his Tributes.

There's only three of them left, he's not sure how this happened.

"Well, it doesn't hurt." He drawls, brows raised in amusement. And it really does help, the new support for D4 drawn from that victory and the revival of it's once Careers, even if only for a brief moment. Hell, even whatever the fuck is going on between him and Derek has helped their numbers, if only because it's some of that drama the Capitol always loves. But -- small talk, yeah, he can do that. "Yours keepin' you busy too, yeah?"

"Of course," she replies, with a little shake of her head. "Of course, they've been dropping like flies lately." Not that she doesn't know exactly why they're all disappearing--it seems a good chunk of her Tributes have been smuggled away to Thirteen. And the fact of the matter is, she's more than eager to join them. To get the fuck out of here.

She gestures around her. "But I'm sure you know the feeling--your numbers are rather small these days, aren't they? Now that the Princess is a Victor, I mean."

Safety is an illusion, he knows it well enough. But the Capitol is all he's known, and the Capitol has power beyond compare. As far as Chuck is concerned, this is the best place for him and Derek. The Rebellion, that was no secret to him -- Four had more than enough whispers, more than enough anger in their saltwater blood.

But Chuck is in the Capitol, and he has more than himself to worry about.

"Ain't so different than what it used to be." He drawls, though that's a fucking lie and they both know it. Ellis and Aang and Roland are complete opposites when compared to the Career kids Chuck once had to wrangle. There's a little slice of a smile though, curling at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," he breathes, rubbing at the nape of his neck. "Better havin' one Victor than four Tributes, though."

"I suppose it isn't. I've grown so used to having a crowd, I've nearly forgotten the days when it was just two a year." In a way, that was better, wasn't it? Less children dying, less constant fuss. But to say anything about this could be good, or fine, or better, is a lie. Laughable. It's all shit, in a way she never ever thought she could admit to.

But she can't say any of that aloud, of course. So instead she leans forward, plucks a tiny bottle of vodka that cost almost as much as the diamonds in her ears, a throwaway sum that she didn't bat an eyelash at spending on something so small, and cracks it open. Taking one doesn't make a dent in the pile of treats in the basket, anyway. She tilts it toward him.

Being a dirty rebel is hard, thirsty work. Drinking midday isn't a terrible solution. "To more Victors, then."

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[closed] i'm good at carnage and poetic language

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