thecapitol | Such Convenience in Regret After the Fact [Closed]

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Such Convenience in Regret After the Fact [Closed]

WHO| Jason and Sinclair, then Swann; Jason and Wednesday; Jason and Emily
WHAT| Jason takes Wednesday to a photoshoot, and gets caught doing shady business.
WHEN| Week 6, except Wednesday, which is pre-Arena
WHERE| Sinclair's lobby, the Tribute Center, a shi-shi photoshoot, the D7 Suite
WARNINGS| Typical Jason warnings: bigotry, abusive dynamics, general asshattery.

I. Sinclair, then Swann

There's something about courting Sponsors that always makes Jason feel like a dog begging for scraps at the table. Whether or not it's part of the job description, it's degrading, and Jason spends most of the time wishing whatever establishment he's in would catch fire or that his business partners would suddenly find their drinks full of poison.

It's all the worse this time for being across from a man who last saw him behind glass in a cell.

He strides up to the front of the bank lobby and waves down the receptionist. "Jason Compson, here to see Augustus Sinclair? I tried to get an appointment in but I don't know if it stuck or not."

II. Wednesday

As a general rule, Tributes aren't allowed in Jason's car. Wednesday's one of the few he'll give leeway to, although Virgil has to stay in a carrier. Jacques, in a kennel in the back seat, keeps chattering at the scent of the spider and grasping at the thin metal bars. The drive isn't long, and it's even pleasant, Jason speculating on

Today, it's a photoshoot at the reptile house. Jason has to check Jacques at the door, and then Wednesday's taken to the styling area. Lights, makeup, costumes, and bustle that disturbs the poor animals kept in aquariums not even ten feet away. Jason barks orders between checking on his other Tributes' schedules on his phone.

"Alright. I want a bit of her input on the clothing. And minimize the makeup, we're going for creepy child, not jailbait. She's ten." He smacks away an Avox who he deems is brushing Wednesday's hair too slowly, taking over the way he used to run through his mother's hair about a decade ago. "I have half a mind to send the mute half of you to reprogramming and fire the rest of you. This should already be dollars in the bank."

III. Emily

Things have almost returned to a normal pace in the District Seven Suite, monkey aside, with a few Tributes still with a chance in the Arena and Cassian with such limited say in the wardrobes that his only work as a Stylist seems to be procuring fabric. Jason's control over the budget has become somewhat tyrannical, but other than that there have been fewer outbursts from anyone, fewer bruised Avoxes and broken mugs. Jason's waited up night when Emily's been bid on and now, with her Citizenship, only stays late when he has more work than usual.

"Emily, did you run these expenditures past me?" He looks up at her when she walks in in the morning. The monkey is sitting on the coffee table, chewing on a still-wrapped bon-bon. "I expect Cassian to have his hands in the cookie jar, but not you."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's the sort of office Caroline always told Jason he should have, and for a moment Jason sees the entire world as plastic men and people, Sinclair posed at the top of a cake he could be knocked down from in a spray of frosting and sugar, as ephemeral and pointless and indulgent.

"You'd be right. Can't stand the smell of it."

Jason can immediately tell that something's off, and it has nothing to do with Sinclair's mute bodyguard - most Capitol officials who can afford them have those. It's all in the folders on the table, which Jason glances at out of nosy habit, always wanting to know a little more about the next person than they do about him. It's a vain hope this time.

"I wasn't aware that we had more than Wednesday Addams and Alain Johns to talk about." He settles into the chair and allows himself to be served water with a lemon wedge.

"Oh, there's plenty to talk about, Mr. Compson," the formality would have been unnecessary had this been a regular sponsor appointment or making sure Swann is all right. There is a vicious nature to the words, as if Sinclair wasn't just blaming Jason but the entire Compson family for this. He cut right to the chase as he leaned back on his chair, eyes locked onto his target.

"Did you really think I wouldn't catch onto your scheme?" he asked point-blank. "If you did, you're a bigger fool than I thought."

This ploy was a chance for Jason to confess to the crimes he's committed. Not out of good will of course, Gus thought the man was at home when he was in prison. In fact, it was Cassian's assault left the door right open for Sinclair to investigate the strange transactions happening in his back.

"I'm mighty disappointed in you, Compson. I wouldn't try lyin' to me right now, wouldn't look good in a court of law."

Jason takes his drink of water before he answers, and when he sits back there's a stiffness to his shoulders, not pride but stubbornness, a natural inclination to resist where pressure presents itself.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

For as many nights as Jason's spent tossing and turning, wondering if he's about to be caught using Ben's funds inappropriately, forging his uncle's checks, shuffling around the appraisals of the Compson home to pay a lower tax rate, he hasn't actually planned for what he'd do if it happened. He's only feared, coughing up paranoia without expectorant.

And now, backed into a corner, he does exactly what Sinclair advised him against.

"Mind sharing what it is you're accusing me of?" He palms his pocket. "Can I smoke, by the way? If you're going to hold me here, that is."

In this case, Jason had one option left: all of the above, though the home appraisal took a fair bit of digging since that wasn't happening in one of the Solutions' many branches. And worse: Augustus would have found out later had Jason not sucker-punched Cassian and be sent to jail.

"Go ahead," he shrugged it off and merely opened the folders for Compson to see the paper trail he's left behind.

"You're lookin' at least five counts of fraud, misappropriating restricted funds for the care of a disabled Capitolite, check forgery, asset value manipulation, check kiting an' that's just from my banks," he calmly explained, but emphasized those last few words, as if to point out the stupidity of hiding this. Panem Northern was one of Sinclair's biggest ventures, of course he'd take care of it like an always-hungry beast, devouring the world around it. "I've already had people from the other banks start checking for your other accounts. Wanna try again?"

Gus is not making this easy but why would he? The only thing saving Jason from being escorted by a Peacekeeper is that Swann has enough on her plate.

"Well. That's all of it. You didn't even miss the checks, I thought I had Maury's signature perfected." Jason shrugs and lights his vaporizer and takes a deep drag, keeping any fear to just a roll in his stomach. He exhales the smoke through his nose.

"I'm guessing the reason you haven't called the Peacekeepers on me already is because you don't know if I have accomplices or not."

Jason keeps a calm demeanor, one that only a Capitolite can really manage, growing up as a child who was always monitored and spied on, whose only sense of privacy started and stopped at the bone of his skull. He wonders if he could get Sinclair to drop it entirely if he admitted it was Swann's idea.

But he wouldn't do that. Not to her, at least. This is as far as he'll go, reminding Sinclair that Jason's contacts will all be investigated - and Swann's inheritance is large enough that that would be several months of a fragile woman being audited and scrutinized.

"Jason, you don't have that many friends or even allies. And that is exactly why I haven't investigated further an' brought in the likes of Reagan into the mix. I'm offerin' you the chance to pay back the amount stolen and everythin' is swept under the rug."

Sinclair wasn't about to let it go and they both knew that much. This was one of his creations and to see it used for fraud (at least fraud he didn't already know about) was just plain rude. Plus it's Compson, a man so driven by bitterness that not many Capitolites would defend him.

"Or we can settle this in court. You decide."

To say there isn't some delight in all this would be a lie that even Gus can't hide. Because he sincerely hoped Jason wouldn't stoop so low as to involve Swann to save his own hide.

"Sure. I'll pay it back with all the nothing sitting in my accounts right now." He isn't going to throw Swann under the bus, but she lingers in their conversation, an inescapable hue tinting the interaction. "If you want to take this to court, there will be an investigation, not just of me but of anyone who's ever comingled assets with me."

He feels ill, thinking that he could probably go to Swann and just ask her to make this all go away, to dump money in his account for the repayment or even worse, just ask Sinclair nicely. It might work. Jason feels like he couldn't be more emasculated by either if he were castrated on live television.

"I can pay it back in installments, maybe. But funerals are expensive, Sinclair. You know well as I do that I'm not sitting on a mountain of your stolen money."

Now, if there is anything that can get under Sinclair's skin faster than aiding rebels in any way possible, its the possibility of his money going anywhere near Caroline Compson's carcass. Worse, that Swann had been involved in this mess and Jason would use her like a credit card. A weaker man would have taken this as an insult and gone full throttle with the arrest. But Augustus Sinclair is not such a man, and all Jason got to see of that rage is the seething disdain in his eyes.

"There's no maybe here, Mr. Compson," he stated in a cool drawl as Nina came back with their drinks. "You know the law." And we both exploit it to the ends of Panem "Besides, we both know your mother's estate couldn't cover the funeral expenses. Your associates were very generous."

As if it were any secret that the Honeymeads covered some of that. Sinclair knows somewhat of Swann's involvement. Man up, Compson.

Jason can hide fear, but he can't hide the way a flush of anger and shame turn his cheeks red. He puffs out some vapor and brings his hand down to the armrest of the chair, gripping it so tight his knuckles start to shine.

Asking Swann to pay for some of the expenses was the lowest point of a long downhill slide that started when Jason's niece robbed him and only steepened when he took back the Escort job. It's as if the last part of himself that knew who he was, that took any value in that, crumbled inside him.

"Maybe it's because my associate wanted to keep me on my feet because she's my girlfriend." As in, not yours, Sinclair. "She offered. I didn't ask. I don't go expecting things from her, unlike certain other people in the room. Don't think I haven't seen the way you look at her."

Well that was that, and now Jason has earned the wrath of a very pissed off investment banker. Sinclair faced the Capitol every day, officials coming to his door demanding answers and he did it all with a natural smile.

"I won't even honor that comment so let's stick to the verifiable facts of the matter: you stole money from my bank and now I expect it back. If you're going to fling mud at this enterprise, you might as well have the cash on hand. Or you could ask for a pardon given your economic circumstances."

You want to feel like you're a victim of the system? I will gladly oblige, Jason. Because no one uses Augustus Sinclair's heart against him and he regretted showing that extra bit of attention towards Swann Honeymead. It made him vulnerable to the likes of Compson, who think they can push him around out of some pathetic need to feel miserable and justified in their existence.

Now Jason had the chance to walk away from his mistakes with one caveat: he had to beg for it.

"Are you asking me to beg?"

Of course Sinclair is, and were the situations reversed, Jason would do the same. Jason would put his foot to the man's back and hold him down and take his money and then turn him in anyway, for nothing but the petty, fleeting satisfaction of it.

He blows a smoke ring at the ceiling and transmutes all those nerves into anger. The alchemy comes so easily to him. It has since adolescence, turning anything that hurts into something that moves outwards.

"Alright. Cuff me right now." Jason holds his wrists out. "Ruin Swann's life. Since your feelings for her aren't a 'verifiable fact'."

"A kind word goes a long way, Jason," Sinclair doesn't let this little act and Swann's mention get to him because he's seen that sort of entitlement before. Mostly himself if he's honest but like hell he'd compare himself to a Compson out loud.

"You're free to go but know this: I can always talk to Ilar about this mishap. I don't have to do anything, you've been diggin' your own hole, I just hold the rope to get you out." Or the shovel to help Jason bury himself. The escort doesn't deserve his full wrath, he's not a target for Sinclair Solutions to destroy.

"You won't."

Jason doesn't know Sinclair won't - after all, Ilar's disapproval (much less wrath) might be the only thing at this point to drive him and Swann apart - but he bluffs well. He trusts, hopes, that Sinclair doesn't want to see his paramour miserable, although he wouldn't put it past Sinclair to prefer a girl suicidal and single than happy and taken.

"I know full well any rope a snake like you hands me is meant to be tied into a noose. Don't think I'm stupid just because you finally caught wise." He blows a stream of smoke at the ceiling. "So what, I can just walk out of here?"

"You may leave but do keep in mind this, Mr. Compson: You were warned and you definitely do not know me."

There are no idle threats left in Sinclair's voice: Jason's arrogance and desire to be miserable would have far-reaching consequences. Or at least in doing business with Gus's known associates. What's more, the remaining Compson played dirty first in Augustus' mind, his rules of war stopped applying the moment Jason brought up his one weakness.

If Swann had to suffer for her bad life choices and getting involved with a man who'd steal from his disabled brother and uncle, then so be it. If she were to bring it up, Gus would simply say I offered him an out, he chose not to take it.

Edited (typo!) 2015-12-05 02:47 (UTC)

Look, Gus, if you knew Maury Bascomb you'd rob him too.

Jason finishes his water and gets up, letting his cigarette dangle from his lips. He takes his eyes from Sinclair, not because he's not wanting to watch him but out of a sort of dismissive insolence. See how little he sees you as a threat, Gus.

"Can't say I feel like I'm missing out on that second part." He straightens his suit jacket. "I guess the Sponsorship deals for Seven are off. Good thing I wasn't banking on them anyway."

And he walks out, feeling that fear he tamped down trying to crawl up his throat like a wild animal towards air. He doesn't let it out. He just gets in his car and starts driving to Swann's.

Swann is blissfully unaware of anything being amiss, at least any more than usual. The holidays already have her starting to wind up with happy stress, and she's puttering around in her kitchen, making lists and sitting at the big marble island, working on what's going to be a huge turkey made of fruits and leaves and flowers.

She looks up when Jason comes in, smiling and holding a squash nearly as big as her head. "Hi baby, how are you?"

"Alright." That's not the case, obviously, but Jason tends to make his bad moods clear through manners other than just answering direct questions. He hangs up his coat and goes to give her a kiss, wavering between that fear, that desire to unload at least some of it onto her (knowing, deep down, that to share fear is to double instead of halve the burden) and to try and ease her with gifts, to preemptively apologize.

"Do you have plans to go to your father's for Christmas?"

Her eyebrow arches, but she doesn't pry, just kisses him back with her palms on his cheeks and her fingers spread away (they have glitter on them). Any number of things could provoke Jason into a bad mood, and she doesn't want to exacerbate if it was only something like traffic or loud teenagers on the sidewalk.

"Not really," she says, vaguely surprised he's asking so far in advance. "I don't know if Viatrix is coming into town yet, I suppose it depends on the state of things closer to the time. Why, did you want to come if I do?"

"No, I-" He sighs and brushes some of that glitter out of his hair. It really just gets on his fingers and cheeks. "I booked tickets for us to go out to District Seven. Just for a weekend."

That's all that was affordable, and Jason's finally keened on to the fact that Swann's not all that wowed by him continuing to buy fancy toys for her pets.

"It'll be Christmas and the day after, if you wanted to schedule Christmas Eve with your father."

That's not the only place there's glitter on him, not for long, because she immediately throws herself at him, leaps up with her arms wrapped around his neck and kisses all over his face.

"Jason! Thank you, thank you thank you thank you!" She doesn't remember having been so excited in a long time, doesn't remember the last time she remembers her whole body being filled up with energetic butterflies like this. "You remembered, oh, it's exactly like I wanted!"

He was expecting her to be happy, but somehow he wasn't expecting it to be that emphatically so. He catches her, holding her whole weight and leaning back so he doesn't tip over.

"Alright, alright." He's grinning, though. Her kisses tend to bring that out, when nothing else will. His life has been punctuated with smiles that were only fleeting or that had cruelty in his eyes, but very rarely with this genuine sort of warmth. "Do you want to look at the brochures or do you want to be surprised?"

Jason, have you ever actually met your own girlfriend? It doesn't take much to get her excited. Of course such a show of generosity (on the Jason scale, at least) would make her ecstatic.

She only stops bombarding him with kisses so that she can enthusiastically demand brochures, because of course she wants to see them -- if he lets her be surprised, she might tackle him while he's driving them up to the cabin and kill them both. "I want to see!" she squeals, and she's making so much fuss that Marcel (wearing a pair of doggy pajamas and four tiny doggy slippers) skids to a stop in the doorway and yips at them both, hopping up and down a little bit.

He carries her with him over to the coatrack, where he digs the pamphlet out of his jacket pocket. It's got all the trappings of Capitolite tourism, but honestly Jason doubts that either of them are mourning the authenticity of overcooked rabbit or burlap blankets - it's a plush wooden cabin alongside a lake, with multiple fireplaces, a hot tub, a personal ice rink, a stone firepit on the balcony just for marshmallows and fondues. Everything screams ~~Jason's broke now~~ indulgence, from the fur-lined duvets to the glass wall through which they can watch the aurora borealis.

There are opportunities to ski and snowboard, too, but given Swann's aversion to cold and Jason's inability to even walk in a straight line without tripping on something, they're probably going to avoid those.

"They say you can see every star out there, you know. I read we haven't even seen a third of them with the light pollution out here."

She only climbs down when he gives her the pamphlet, leaving a trail of glitter in her wake, and she excitedly thumbs through the pages, starry-eyed and suitably impressed. "Oh, Jason... it's just like on TV, it's just as beautiful," she murmurs, stopping on a picture taken at night, thousands of tiny stars in the purplish sky above the mountain range, and she can hardly imagine what it's like to get to live with that view every night.

"Maybe we can find constellations, like astrology. I've only ever seen pictures before."

"Right, right, we can do that." He smiles weakly at all her enthusiasm, muscles weighed down by Sinclair's ghost around his pocketbook. He watches her face as she goes through the pamphlet.

"So you're sure you can come? Because there's probably another twenty-four hours when I can move the reservations, and after that they keep me deposit."

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